Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (12 page)

Mordechai avoided my eyes. “Good morning, Dr. Dinwall. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“
It’ll be a slow recovery.” I pulled two chairs from another table. “Regards from your father. We spoke earlier. A most pleasant chat.”

He looked at me, uncertain.

“
We’re all set for tonight,” I said. “Rabbi Mintzberg can’t make it, so your father invited Schlumper.”

“
Schlumacher,” he corrected me. “Rabbi Doctor Yosef Schlumacher.”

“
That’s the one.” I beckoned the waiter. “So how was your first night together?”

“
Yeah, tell us!” Aaron rubbed his hands. “We want to know all the details!”

“
Leave them alone,” Rebecca said.

Having recovered their composure, the three women surrounded the young couple like mother hens, and the conversation turned to last night’s extravaganza, how great it was, and who was who among the relatives and friends in attendance.

I stepped aside, Aaron joined me, and we watched them for a few moments.

“
You’re a good friend,” I said.

He patted my shoulder. “
Et tu
, Christian.”

Go Tell It On The Mountain

The rewards of private practice, as contrasted with my VA hospital career, were in evidence as soon as we arrived at the Levinsons’ front steps. This wasn’t the Brooklyn of Mayor Ed Koch, of public housing, rent control, and record-breaking murder rates. It was the Brooklyn version of Westchester County, with grand houses set back from tree-lined streets, expansive lawns accented by designer shrubs, and three-car garages matched with foreign-made SUVs. And an Orthodox synagogue within walking distance.

A maid took our coats and hats, and Mrs. Levinson greeted us with hugs for the women and touch-free greetings for the men. “Please, come in,” she said. “My husband and the others are in evening prayer. They’ll be back shortly.”

While the rest of the group entered, I lingered behind, pretending to inspect the intricate brickwork that formed an arch over the entrance.

“
Dr. Dinwall,” she said to me, “I hear you’re feeling better, thank God.”

“
It’s good to be here.” I smiled politely and wondered whether her husband had told her the truth about what had happened. If he had, then she would know that I couldn’t be feeling any better, that the wedding expulsion had left me with an injury that felt as real as a broken arm or an infected tooth. And now, back in Brooklyn, standing outside their home, I hesitated. Could this evening end with a repetition of last night, with another humiliation, another stab to the heart?
President schmesident! He’s a shaygetz!

“Mordechai called a few minutes ago.” She held the door open, leaving me no choice. “They’ll be a little late.”

“
Kids,” I said. “They’re still kids.”

“
May God protect them from the evil eye,” she said.

“
Amen.” Taking a deep breath, I entered the house. Dr. Levinson had made it clear that no conditions were imposed. I had to trust him, if not for me, then for Debra. By showing her an example of my tolerance of the Levinsons’ observant lifestyle, of my respect for the Orthodox version of Jewish worship, I would earn the right to expect her and Mordechai to show similar flexibility in Scottsdale. And as Debra’s infatuation cooled off and the routine of married life took over, she would recover her Reform ideals of progress and modernity and let go of her temporary adherence to rules meant for the challenges of an ancient world and traditions created by rabbis who had not seen running water, refrigeration, motorized transportation, or a telephone.

The living room was a spacious display of Louis XIV furniture, Persian rugs, and original oils. The opulence was topped by the Bechstein grand piano, occupying its own bay-windowed section, which made my fingers itch with a sudden urge to play. I turned away and passed through a pair of tall wooden doors that led to an even bigger dining room, where a long table reminded me of historic movies depicting the royal feasts of European monarchs. The white tablecloth was laden with soft drinks, wine bottles, and Saran-wrapped dishes of salads and cold appetizers.

Rebecca, Miriam, and Judy marveled at the Rosenthal china, Gorham crystal, and Wallace silverware. Meanwhile, I pulled over Aaron and Cantor Bentov to show them the books lining the built-in shelves, including Hebrew originals, English translations of Talmudic texts, and volumes of philosophy and history. A whole shelf was dedicated to Nachmanides, a thirteenth-century rabbi whose writings covered both Jewish scholarship and medicine.

While browsing Nachmanides, I was assailed by an aroma that nagged me like a voice from the past. It was familiar and pleasurable, yet completely inappropriate. I tried to ignore it, but gave in and approached the wide granite counter that separated the dining room from the kitchen. There, the smell became dominant, threading through my nostrils like a vaporous hook, reeling me in until I leaned on the counter, stuck my head into the kitchen, and sniffed like a dog on a trail of heat.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Levinson wiped sweat from her forehead and rearranged the bangs of her wig. “You lost something?”

“I know this smell!”

The cook, a voluptuous black woman in a white apron and a chef’s hat, was standing over a stovetop, which had ten burners, all of them occupied by pots of various sizes. The pots were colored blood-red, which I guessed was intended to mark them as meat rather than dairy. She pointed a giant red spoon at me. “Is this the Scottish boy?”

“
That’s him,” Mrs. Levinson said. “Dr. Dinwall, please meet Jeanie, our food magician.”

“
Hi, Jeanie.” I licked my lips, swallowed, and went around the counter into the kitchen. “I’m being seduced by an aroma, but it’s impossible!”

“Everything is possible.” The black cook lifted a cover off a squat pot and revealed its bubbling content. “
Voilà!
”

“I don’t believe it!” Bending over the pot, I buried my face in the steam and breathed through my nose until my lungs were filled to capacity. “Oh, Mama!”

Mrs. Levinson clapped, and everyone came in from the dining room, congregating around me.

The plump cook asked, “What do you call this, boy?”

My hand pressed against my heart. “Scottish Pork Apricot à la Crème. But how did you know?”

Rebecca raised her hand. “I told them.”

I looked at Mrs. Levinson, and she waved a dismissive hand. “No big deal. We wanted to make something special for you, since you missed most of the fun yesterday. Before we went home last night, your wife told me this was your favorite childhood dish, but you haven’t had it since—”

“I became a Jew?”

She nodded. “This is only a token, to show how grateful we are for the wonderful wedding and the beautiful daughter you gave us.”

“You’re welcome.” Again I smelled my fill, shaking my head in amazement. “But how did you make it?” I looked around the kitchen, which was divided in half for dairy and meat, all color coded blue and red. “I don’t understand.”

“The recipe,” Mrs. Levinson said, “was hard to find, even with Google.”

Sniffing again, I shook my head. “Incredible!”

“Aha,” Jeanie hollered, “I got it right, didn’t I?”

“You did.” I wiped my lips, afraid I’d start drooling. “But—”

“Don’t worry, boy.” She stirred the pot with the red spoon. “It’s perfectly kosher.”

“
Glatt
kosher,” Mrs. Levinson declared. “Even Rabbi Mintzberg would eat it.”

“No, he wouldn’t!” I made like I was protecting the pot. “I’m going to gobble it all up. But still, tell me, how?”

“Goat meat, from this part.” Jeanie pounded on her bulging buttocks. “Almost like pork, same texture. I sliced it thin and fried it in schmaltz.”

“Ooh!” Judy twisted her face. “You used chicken fat?”

“Beef. Real schmaltz. Thick, lots of flavor, best for frying, much better than oil. I fried the meat with onion, added non-dairy butter, mushrooms, bay leaves, and red wine.” The cook leaned closer to me and said conspiratorially, “and chopped-up fake bacon, you know?”

“Here, come see the packaging.” Mrs. Levinson led Rebecca, Judy, and Miriam to a huge refrigerator. “They make it from tofu, but it tastes and smells just like bacon.”

“Then you let it simmer,” I said, remembering my role as my mother’s helper, “and when the meat is tender, you add canned apricot, orange peel, and—”

“Double cream!” Mrs. Levinson held up an empty jar.

“
They make non-dairy cream?” Rebecca took the jar and looked at it. “I’ve never thought of trying to make it for him. I mean, it’s a pork dish, right?”

“
Not anymore,” Mrs. Levinson said.

“Here, boy.” Jeanie spooned up a bit and reached up to bring it to my mouth. “You be the judge.”

My tongue cradled the juicy morsel. The initial tang spread inside my mouth, down my palate, and radiated throughout my whole body. The taste was as genuine as the smell. I leaned down and kissed her shining black cheek. “You really are a magician, Jeanie.”

“Oh, Lord,” the cook laughed, “boy’s in love!”

Unable to resist, I gripped her hand with the spoon and scooped up some more, making sure to catch bits of apricot and onion with the thin strip of pork-like goat. I chewed slowly, savoring it, letting the food linger until the juices soaked my taste buds and saturated my brain’s gustatory center.

They all looked at me, but I didn’t mind. I closed my eyes and thought of those rare occasions when my mother had splurged on fresh meat and spent the night in the kitchen producing her magical Pork Apricot à la Crème, which we carried in a toweled pot to relatives’ homes on Easter, Christmas, or a funeral wake.

Dr. Levinson returned from the synagogue with a small group of men in black suits and black hats. They remained close to each other, talking in hushed voices. None of them brought wives or daughters, and the only female presence beside our little group was Mordechai’s mother and his two younger sisters.

At the head of the long dining table, Dr. Levinson knocked on his wineglass with a knife. “I want to welcome everyone to our home, especially the important guests from Arizona.” He gestured at us. “First and foremost, my new in-laws, Rebecca and Dr. Dinwall, the best cardio thoracic surgeon in Phoenix.”

“
That would be him.” I pointed at Aaron.

“
Okay,” Dr. Levinson conceded, “we have the two best heart surgeons in the southwestern United States, Dr. Dinwall and Dr. Brutsky!”

Aaron bowed and his yarmulke fell off.

“
Dr. Brutsky’s wife,” Mordechai’s father stumbled, having forgotten her name.

“
Miriam,” she said while picking up Aaron’s yarmulke and pressing it down on his bald head. “I’m his better half.”

“
More than half,” Aaron said, and made like he was dodging a punch.

“
And I’m Judy Levy,” our forthright friend said, not waiting to see if Dr. Levinson remembered her name. “And since this is a post-wedding Sheva Brachot, I should mention my own search for an eligible man with a keen interest in desert life and the arts. My two grown kids are financially independent, and I love to cook. Kosher optional!”

Everyone clapped, and Cantor Bentov started singing “
Here comes the bride,
” which broke whatever ice was still in the room.

I was seated next to Rabbi Doctor Yosef Schlumacher, who had arrived later than the others and seemed more like a lawyer or a banker than a rabbi—clean shaven, full head of salt-and-pepper hair, a Brooks Brothers suit over a blue shirt and a cherry tie. He placed his Blackberry by his fork and extended his hand, which had the long fingers of a pianist. “It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Dinwall.”

“
Please,” I said, “call me Christian.”

“
And you can call me Joe.” He didn’t let go of my hand. “You know, in my opinion, being a physician is second only to Hashem, because when God wants to spare a sick man’s life, who does He rely on to do the actual saving?”

Before I had a chance to respond to this lofty compliment, Debra and Mordechai arrived from the city, and the room erupted with singing, “Mazal Tov and Siman Tov,” which literally meant “
Good luck and a good omen,
” but with the clapping and the repetition attained an inspiring effect much greater than the simple words themselves. The men got up and began to advance around the table in slow, step-after-step dance. Debra and Mordechai sat at the head of the table, smiling. When the trotting dance brought me near her, I bent over Debra and kissed the red wool cap she was wearing. She looked up and gave me a beautiful smile.

We washed our hands, and after the blessing over the bread, the meal commenced. The maid and the cook went back and forth to the kitchen, clearing plates and delivering loaded dishes under the supervision of Mrs. Levinson, who stayed on her feet and pointed here and there with her finger like a conductor of a gastronomical orchestra.

My new friend Joe was charming. We nibbled at the appetizers while discussing mental injuries that continued to inflict veterans even decades after combat. He surprised me with his up-to-date knowledge of the VA system’s shortcomings in mental healthcare. When the main dishes arrived, he was eager to taste my Pork Apricot à la Crème, spooning it off my plate with easy familiarity. He had never eaten pork and was curious to know whether the taste was authentic, which I assured him it was.