Placeholders, page 15
Aaron fetches another box from the basement and brings it to the car. He hasn’t asked his father about the contents of these boxes or why there is a sudden urgency to remove them immediately and all at once. As he sets the box into the trunk, the flap comes up, revealing baseball cards in plastic tubs. Aaron folds the cardboard edge back down and closes the trunk. There are three more boxes to load. They have to be stacked on the back row of seats. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket. A message from Jake.
how u settlin in? rudy’s after work soon?
Aaron feels his face go hot. He hasn’t spoken to Jake since he moved out. He scrolls up their messaging thread; there have been seven unanswered messages so far. It’s unclear to Aaron what exactly is preventing him from responding but there’s something. It feels like he’s left that world behind. He archives the entire thread. He won’t be notified of any new messages Jake sends.
‘We’d better hurry,’ his father says as he limps down the back steps of the house. ‘It’s nearly ten already.’ He huffs as he comes around to the driver’s side of the car and opens the door. He positions himself before letting his body fall backwards onto the seat with a grunt.
Aaron interlocks his fingers and breathes into the space beneath his palms, then rubs his hands together. His father starts the car.
‘Do you need me to use GPS on my phone or anything?’
‘We’re only going to temple, Aaron,’ his father says, then scoffs. ‘GPS.’
‘I’m only asking.’
‘I had a stroke, not a lobotomy.’
The sign for the synagogue features a prominent Jewish star. A second sign hanging below the first reads Song of the Sea. Aaron’s father stops the car to indicate left and points at it.
‘Someone stuck stickers of Palestinian flags on there last month,’ he says. ‘They still don’t know who did it.’
‘I’d say high schoolers,’ Aaron offers.
His father’s eye goes wide. ‘You really think so?’ He shakes his head. ‘Antisemitism is on the rise.’
‘I’m not sure that quite qualifies,’ Aaron says to the window.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
The car turns left and they descend towards the imposing brick structure covered in ivy. They drive around to the back of the building, to the parking lot, and Aaron’s father chooses a space near the back door.
‘All right,’ he says, huffing. ‘Okay, let’s hurry up now.’ There is a frenetic quality to his movements. He pushes the red button of his seat belt buckle and reaches for the door handle before the seat belt is free, getting tangled up in it and swearing at himself until he’s outside the car, red-faced, pointing at the trunk. ‘Let’s hurry up now, go get the boxes.’
His father clears his throat before he knocks on the metal door. There’s a moment of suburban silence while they wait for someone to answer, the sound of rustling branches, the smell of frigid air. Then the door opens. There stands a short bookish man with thick-framed glasses and an untidy beard. He’s wearing a tan sports coat and a pale red tie. He smiles, first at Aaron and then at his father.
‘Good morning,’ his father says. ‘Aaron, this is the rabbi. Rabbi, this is my son.’
‘A genuine pleasure to meet you,’ the rabbi says, holding out his hand. He hasn’t stopped smiling.
Aaron shifts the heavy box onto his hip and removes one hand to give a quick handshake, shooting it back under the box before it topples.
‘Right this way, gentlemen.’
Aaron’s father walks beside the rabbi and Aaron follows behind. They’ve entered through the back of the sanctuary, by the ark. Aaron hasn’t been here in over five years. The room is unfamiliar but holds a dreamlike recognition. To the left of the bimah stands an American flag. To its right, an Israeli one. They walk down the aisle between the rows of benches and through a door at the back, navigating suddenly cramped hallways until they arrive at a nondescript door.
‘Here we are,’ the rabbi says, and pushes it open.
The office is warm and smells of cinnamon. There’s a record player in the corner, playing something crooning and sweet. The blinds are closed and the fabric glows with the gentle light of the outside world.
‘Anywhere, really,’ the rabbi says, nodding at Aaron’s box and gesturing at the floor.
Aaron sees now that the office is full of cardboard boxes identical to the one in his arms. He bends his knees as he sets it on the floor carefully, next to a pile that is four boxes high.
‘These aren’t all from our house, are they?’ Aaron asks his father.
The rabbi laughs. ‘No, no, don’t worry. We haven’t pilfered your family heirlooms. The community has come together to aid the congregation. To great effect, I might add. This is the result of quite a few households emptying out the rooms within their homes which were in need of emptying. Tzedakah; you know this word?’
Aaron rubs the back of his neck and nods.
The rabbi smiles insistently. ‘You know it, yes?’
‘Yes,’ Aaron says. ‘Tzedakah. Charity.’
‘I don’t blame you; this is the translation we teach our children. You’re imagining a little wooden box with Hebrew lettering painted on the front and a slot in the top for spare coins and the occasional bill, I’m guessing. Am I right?’
There was a box exactly like that at home once, one that Aaron and Moe fought over as children to see who had contributed more. Aaron nods.
‘Tzedakah is related to two words in Hebrew, the first being tzedeq – meaning something like righteousness, fairness, justice, this kind of thing – and the second being tzadik – a similar word that means righteous but as an adjective, not as in the thing itself. And so tzedakah means righteousness but we often understand it to mean charity, as you pointed out. The problem with the word charity, as such, is that its American interpretation is something spontaneous and noble. If someone writes a cheque for a food bank or gives a dollar to someone who needs it, we think of these as acts of sudden, fortuitous goodwill. For us Jews, tzedakah is not a notable occurrence. It doesn’t come from generosity but instead from obligation. To give and be applauded for giving is to transact, you understand? The giving becomes an exchange for praise. But Jews, we give because we give. You see?’ He smiles.
Aaron’s father shifts from one foot to the other. He points at a small folding chair propped against a wall. ‘Do you mind if I sit, rabbi?’ he asks.
The rabbi points to the large leather chair behind his desk. ‘Take mine, it’s much more comfortable than that one.’
‘Where would you sit?’
‘I’ll stand,’ the rabbi says.
‘Well, if you don’t mind standing, I don’t mind standing,’ Aaron’s father says.
They go back and forth like this for a while, the rabbi insisting his father sit, his father insisting he’d prefer to stand, as if the interaction hadn’t started with him asking for a place to sit. Eventually the rabbi wins, or else Aaron’s father allows him to win, and he takes a seat in the leather chair with a sigh of relief.
‘So,’ the rabbi says, turning to face Aaron. He claps his hands together. ‘The boxes.’
The second box is heavier than the first. Aaron sets it down on the concrete and looks through the crowded keychain his father gave him for a fob to the car. He presses the lock button twice and the car beeps in confirmation. A cold wind blows through the parking lot, cutting through his jacket and singeing the tips of his ears until they ring. The top flap of the cardboard box whips open. It’s the box with the baseball cards. Aaron feels something jar loose inside of himself and he remembers that Moe used to play baseball. The Red Sox headshots hanging in his bedroom from the Boston Globe were for Moe, not Aaron. Those races to the front door to get the newspaper were because Aaron kept stealing them away, not their father. There is sudden sadness in the thought that something so significant could be forgotten, confused. Aaron opens the cardboard box completely now and pokes around its contents. He finds three large plastic tubs full of baseball cards. There’s a David Ortiz figurine still in its plastic. At the bottom is a leather baseball glove. Aaron removes it from the box and holds it. He tries to squeeze his hand inside but it won’t fit. The glove is meant for a child. There, in permanent marker on the inside label, reads, Moe, Homeroom 204. Aaron rubs his thumb over the carefree handwriting of his brother. He unlocks the car and tucks the glove under the passenger seat.
The back door to the synagogue is locked.
‘Fuck,’ Aaron says to himself.
He considers knocking, getting as far as placing the box by his feet and raising his arm, but he’s struck with a sudden self-consciousness that won’t allow his hand to hit the door. He lifts the box and walks it around to the front of the synagogue, through the entrance doors, past the lobby, in and out of the sanctuary and finally back into the office.
There’s a whiskey bottle and two glasses on the desk between the men. Both look up like children caught mid-sentence in a dirty joke they shouldn’t be telling.
‘What’d you do, stop for coffee?’ his father says.
‘Locked myself out.’
The rabbi starts to speak and his voice catches. He coughs into his fist and motions towards the glass, eliciting a half-smile from Aaron’s father. ‘That was my fault,’ the rabbi says. ‘Here, set down that box and I’ll prop the door open for you.’
Somewhere between the office and the back door, the rabbi puts a hand on Aaron’s shoulder.
‘If you ever want to talk, you know, my door is always open to you.’
‘Uh, thanks,’ Aaron says.
‘Really. If there’s ever anything.’
‘Yeah, no. That’s very kind.’ Aaron stares at his shoes and keeps walking.
‘I have a more progressive outlook on things than my digs might suggest,’ the rabbi says. ‘I found myself leafing through the American Jewish Year Book the other day. Do you know what that is?’
‘No,’ Aaron says.
‘It’s… Well, it’s exactly what it sounds like, I suppose. It’s a survey of the state of American Judaism. I find it fascinating. American Jews are, according to this census of sorts, growing on par with the rest of the American population. There’s a supposition within the Conservative community – one you’re undoubtedly familiar with, I suspect – a supposition that American Judaism is eroding before our very eyes due to things like interfaith marriages. It’s repeated to the point of being taken as fact. Everywhere I go, no matter the circle in which I swim, I encounter this supposed fact. Imagine my surprise, then, to discover that it isn’t a fact at all, just a stubborn myth. Fascinating.’
They reach the back door. The rabbi pushes the bar in its centre and it swings open, cold air flooding in.
‘Hold that, would you?’
Aaron holds the door open while the rabbi fiddles with a metal latch at the top. It seems to Aaron that it would make more sense for the rabbi to hold the door while he secured the latch, seeing as there’s a good few inches of height between them. But it’s too late now and it’s unclear to Aaron how he could go about suggesting they swap roles without offending him. Aaron holds the door and shivers in the incoming wind.
‘There’s also a statistic in this year’s edition concerning children raised in homes with at least one Jewish adult. If I’m remembering it correctly, families with at least one Jewish parent are five times more likely to raise their children with no religion than to bring them up any way other than Jewish. I suppose that’s a comfort, in some ways, that interfaith families are preferring the absence of religion to an alternative religion. But these children are twelve times more likely to be brought up Jewish than not, which is a fact I am proud of. Now, for the sake of academic transparency, it’s worth mentioning that this figure is pretty heavily distorted by non-interfaith families – when it refers to homes with one Jewish adult, the study doesn’t seem to make a distinction between one- and two-parent Jewish households, but I find it fascinating nonetheless.’
‘Right,’ Aaron says. He’s actively shivering now, his free hand tucked into his armpit.
‘My point is just that… I don’t know,’ the rabbi says, sighing. ‘My point is that I’m here if you ever want to talk. And that all are welcome here.’
When the rest of the boxes are delivered and they’re back in the car, Aaron asks his father why he’s decided to give away all of Moe’s old stuff. His father looks at him blankly, confused, and then asks him to repeat himself.
‘I saw the baseball cards,’ Aaron says.
His father shakes his head. ‘And did you see the room we were removing those boxes from?’
‘You don’t even care that these are his memories, do you?’ Aaron says.
His father turns to him. ‘You haven’t been home in five years, Aaron. You don’t get a say in what we’re allowed to do with your brother’s things. Yes, I donated his baseball cards, a tiny fraction of the binders upon binders that I kept. It is just like you to see the things that are gone and not the things that are left.’
‘Still,’ Aaron says. ‘Why couldn’t we have left them? What’s so important about the basement you need it empty?’
‘Son,’ his father says, suddenly calm. ‘I need you to tell me something and I need you to be honest about it. Can you do that for me?’
Aaron nods.
‘Think about it before you agree. I’m going to ask you something and, when you answer, I want it to be the truth. That’s all I’m asking for, the truth.’
‘Okay.’
His father clears his throat. ‘Is this real?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘This… girl. This whole mishegoss. Is it real between you two?’
‘Dad,’ Aaron says. ‘How can you–’
‘You cut us out of your life and show up on our doorstep with some Irish shiksa as if we’ve been sitting in the dark for the better part of a decade. Your mother and I have our own lives. We are willing to help you because you are our son. She would set herself on fire if it kept you warm. But me, I need to know for her sake, before she lights the match, is this real?’
Aaron stares at his shoes. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears.
‘Look at me,’ his father says. ‘Good. Now, is this real?’
Aaron nods. ‘Yes, Dad, it’s real.’
‘Then you’ll need a nursery, don’t you think?’
‘What?’
‘The basement. The boxes. As if you and the girl and an infant are going to share your bedroom and a twin-sized mattress.’ His father starts the car. He puts a hand on the shoulder of Aaron’s seat and turns to look behind himself as he backs out of the parking space.
‘Oh,’ Aaron says.
‘Yeah, that’s right, “oh”. Pisher.’
They drive back to the house without speaking. His father brings the car to a stop in the driveway and removes the key from the ignition. He reaches for the door handle and then stops, turning back to face his son.
‘Róisín.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Róisín, like that?’
Aaron nods, confused. ‘Yeah.’
‘I pronounced it right, I mean?’
Aaron nods again. ‘Yeah, Dad, you pronounced it right.’
‘Hm,’ his father says and opens the door. ‘I had to look it up on the internet to be sure.’
He heaves himself out of the car and slams the door behind him. Aaron watches his father limp up the back steps and unlock the door to the house, disappearing inside, leaving it open behind him for his son to follow through.
18
Róisín pinches the corner of the duvet between her thumb and index finger and turns it over, then over again. Aaron is roughly drying his hair with a towel. The room is cold. Steam lifts off his skin, backlit by the bathroom light. He’s looking at her with a quizzical expression as he tilts his head upright and wraps the towel around his waist.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Nothing,’ she says.
‘Are you mad at me about something?’
She holds the corner of the duvet still. ‘No,’ she says.
‘He started it, you know he started it,’ Aaron says, walking into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
An argument broke out over dinner. This wasn’t unusual. The meal would start in silence, then Aaron would say something provocative that could be taken one of two ways and his father would respond to the worse of the two. They’d go at it like that, each saying things without saying them, the back-and-forth amplifying like feedback until the speaker blew and one of them – usually Aaron – would stand up and storm out.
Tonight, Aaron’s father asked Róisín a fairly innocent question about the difference between Irish and American politics. Specifically, he understood the word ‘republican’ to have a completely different meaning in the two countries and wanted to better understand the difference. Róisín’s response included the phrase ‘British occupation’. After she said it, there was a beat of silence in which everyone chewed. Then Aaron opened his mouth.
‘They essentially came in and just decided it was their land, didn’t they?’ Aaron asked her.
‘Basically,’ Róisín said. She looked from Aaron’s mother to his father, both of whom were looking squarely at the food on their plates. This might have been the wrong answer. ‘I suppose it depends who you ask,’ she offered.
‘Most people in Northern Ireland would agree, though, wouldn’t you say? They’d want their land back from the occupying forces, right?’
‘I haven’t seen the census results,’ Róisín said.
