Authors: Wayne Hoffman

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #General, #Jewish Men, #Male Friendship, #Rabbis, #Jewish, #Religion, #Jewish Gay Men, #Judaism

Sweet Like Sugar (30 page)

“So where'd you get those?” I asked, pointing at her feet.

“They're Sophie's,” she answered. “He never cleaned out her closet.”

I grimaced.

“Oh, come on,” she said. “They fit me fine and she's not using them.”

She sat down on my couch, boots dangling, dripping onto my floor.

“I brought you something,” she said, reaching into her inside coat pocket and pulling out an envelope with my name on it. The block letters were deliberate but sloppy, like a child's.

I opened the envelope and found a brief note written in a neater cursive hand:

Benji:

Hillel also said: Do not judge your fellow man until you are in his place. These are words both of us should heed. You and I have much to learn, and much to teach. Please visit. You are always welcome.

Jacob Zuckerman

“Is this your handwriting?” I asked Irene.

“I took dictation,” she said. “The words are his.”

I wondered if Irene had put words in his mouth or if the rabbi really had said these words of his own volition. But it didn't matter.

I also wondered how long it had taken the rabbi to get a few sentences out.

“Isn't this what you wanted?” she asked.

“Yes. It's just that I never thought he'd do it.”

“Don't underestimate the man,” said Irene.

“Did you put him up to this?”

“Do you really think I could make him do something he didn't want to do?” she asked.

“I guess you're right,” I said.

I looked at her sitting in my office. Not even five feet tall, but a dynamo of energy and wisdom.

“Look, Benji,” she said. “You think the rabbi has his head up his
tuches
when it comes to gay issues.”

I did, although I'd never put it so colorfully.

“Well, I agree with you,” she said. “I lived in Miami long enough to know a few gay people. And you know what else? One of my granddaughters is a lesbian.”

“You never told me that,” I said.

“You never asked,” she countered. “I don't carry a big sign with me, telling the whole world, but I know firsthand what a wonderful young woman she is. And I've been telling Zisel for the past week that he's wrong about gay people, no matter what the Torah says, and that if he thinks you're an abomination, then he thinks my own granddaughter is an abomination, and if he really feels that way, then he should say that to my face and see what I do.”

She made a fistâtiny and bony, but still intimidating.

“He's not a hateful man, Benji,” she continued. “He just doesn't know any better. He only knows what they taught him in yeshiva. But he can still learn new things.”

“How?”

“You, Benji,” she said. “You're going to help him get over his ignorance. But first you have to go and visit him.”

I stood for a few seconds, mulling it over. But I quickly realized that Irene was right and staying away wasn't going to help anybody.

“You win. Let's go see him,” I said, standing up and grabbing my car keys off the desk. “Let's go to the bakery first. I don't want to visit empty-handed.”

In only a couple of weeks, Irene had brought the rabbi's house to life.

Splashes of color dotted the previously drab living room: a vase filled with purple irises on the end table, a red afghan draped over the back of the sofa, a mound of green and orange sourballs in the candy dish on the coffee table. The mustiness was gone, replaced by the scent of clean laundry and fresh lemons. The drapes were open, the fading light of a winter afternoon filtering through the leafless trees outside.

“You've done wonders here,” I said.

“A woman's touch, dear,” she said. “Have a seat and I'll make you some hot tea.”

I sat in my usual chair and noticed that the sofa now had two indentations: the rabbi's spot under the reading lamp and a second, smaller one on the next cushion. I imagined them sitting side by side in their stocking feet, the red afghan spread across their laps.

Irene put the cup of tea on the coffee table. “He should be finishing up with his speech therapist,” she said. “I'll go check on him.”

While she was upstairs, I picked up my teacup and walked around the house. The kitchen bore signs of recent cookingâa cutting board left on the counter, a roasting pan soaking in the sink. The dining room, too, showed signs of use, but not what I might have expected. The long table was covered in books, stacked high in a half dozen piles. The bookshelves in this room were mostly empty. Was the rabbi getting rid of his books or merely rearranging them? Or was this a project of Irene's?

The speech therapist came downstairs, carrying a notebook under her arm, and walked out the front door without noticing me. The rabbi followed behind her, taking each step at half her speed. He wore his usual clothesânavy slacks, white oxfordâbut they hung loose on his frame, and he wore bedroom slippers instead of hard-soled shoes. His hands gripped both banisters and he took each step with great deliberation, careful to steady himself on each stair before attempting the next. If a man in his eighties can look bad for his age, here he was.

Only one thing about him looked younger: He was clean-shaven for the first time since I'd known him.

I stood in the dining room, observing him for a few seconds, before he saw me.

“Benji,” he said. No hug, no handshake.

“You shaved,” I said, rubbing my own face.

“Irene's idea. It was time,” he said with no further explanation. Then he hooked his hand under my arm and said, “Let's sit down.”

I led him slowly to the couch and sat him down. In the time it took to complete this maneuver, Irene came downstairs, went into the kitchen, and brought out two plates with slices of the honey cake I'd bought at the bakery.

“Look what Benji brought,” she said, putting the plates on the coffee table, along with a cup of tea for the rabbi. Then Irene excused herself, “to get dinner started.”

“I am happy she is here,” the rabbi said, the effort of making a complete sentence still apparent. “Thank you.”

“She's an amazing woman,” I said.

“And happy
you
are here,” he said, gesturing in my direction.

“So am I,” I said. This was true. It didn't seem possible that only a month had passed since the rabbi had screamed at me in this very room. The fragile man before me required all his strength to utter a simple sentence; how could he ever have shouted such poison?

“How are you?” he asked.

Was he making chitchat? Or was he trying to get me to talk so he could relax for a moment?

I told him all about the music website I'd been working on the last time we'd spokenâwhich was now up and running; he nodded along. I told him about Michelle getting married.

“And the apartment?” he asked.

“I guess I'll have to find a new roommate,” I said.

I remembered how he had disapproved when I first told him about my living arrangements. This time, he didn't say anything derogatory at all. Maybe he was mellowing. Or perhaps his perspective had changed, now that he, too, had a female roommate who wasn't his wife.

Our small talk was pleasant enough, but by the time we finished our honey cake, we were done with the niceties.

He put his plate down and cleared his throat.

“Our argument,” he said.

I wasn't sure he had the energy to speak in paragraphs and I didn't want to raise his stress level again, so I said it wasn't necessary to discuss all that now.

“Yes,” he insisted. “I'll show you something.”

He picked up a book from the end table and put on his reading glasses.

“Pirkei Avot,”
he said. “Wisdom of the Fathers.”

I had a vague memory from Hebrew school of reading some of
Pirkei Avot
âa collection of aphorisms from ancient Hebrew sages that is used as a guide for ethical living. But nothing specific.

He opened the book and pointed to one page, then turned the book around for me to see.

“Hillel, hereâsee?” he said. And there was the proverb that Sophie had used for her needlepoint.

He turned the book back to himself and flipped a few pages.

“You mentioned Hillel. In the hospital,” he said, speaking in short sentences and catching his breath in between. “I came home. I read
Pirkei Avot
again. I found more wisdom.”

He pointed to another passage and handed me the book. I remembered what he'd written in his note to me that afternoonâalso Hillel. I thought that's what he was going to point out. But I was wrong.

“Read,” he said.

I started to read to myself.

“Out loud,” he said. “Please.”

“Rabbi Tarfon?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Rabbi Tarfon said: It is not your duty to complete the work. But neither are you free to desist from it.”

The rabbi looked at me expectantly, waiting for my reaction.

“I don't understand,” I said. “What work is he talking about?”

“Being a good Jew,” he said.

“I still don't understand.”

He took a deep breath and summoned his strength.

“I said you had sinned,” he said.

“Abomination,” I said. “You called it an abomination.”

“That is Torah,” he said. “That is God's word. I cannot change it. You cannot change it. It is truth.”

I wasn't liking this.

“But you were right,” he continued. “A man who sins can still be a good Jew. You do mitzvot, good deeds. You are a good man. This is also truth. If sinners can never be good men, why do mitzvot? Why atone on Yom Kippur?”

“Exactly,” I said. I wasn't happy about being called a sinnerâagainâbut the rabbi did say I was right. That was something.

“However, here, I am also right,” he said, pointing to the book. “Rabbi Tarfon. âIt is not your duty to complete the task.' You cannot learn
all
of Torah. Obey every law every day. Study and pray every minute of every day. Be a perfect Jew. You can never be perfect. But you are not free to stop trying. So you cannot do everything the Torah asks? This does not mean you may therefore do
nothing
the Torah asks. Sin is not an excuse.”

I looked at him and thought for a moment.

“So what are you saying?” I asked.

“I am not perfect,” he said, motioning toward the kitchen. He must have known that Irene had told me her whole story. “But I cannot give up my faith because of my failures. Neither can you. We are human. We fall short. But because we fall short, we need our faith even more.”

I realized then that the rabbi had, in fact, dictated that note to Irene. Those were his words, not hers.

“If you're telling me to go to synagogue or observe Shabbat or keep kosher, we've been through this before,” I said.

“No,” he said. “I am saying: Do not walk away from your Judaism. No matter who tries to push you away. A synagogue. A rabbi. A foolish old man. Someone will always try to take your faith away from you. Or take you away from your faith. Do not let them win. Hold on to your faith. As much as you can. However you can.”

Irene was standing in the doorway, listening silently.

“Take the book,” he said.

“I can't,” I said.

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