Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (21 page)

“
The demand for a name change,” Rabbi Rachel declared, her voice rising, “is an ominous sign! It implies the donor’s insistence that, in exchange for the money, we discard everything that the King Solomon Synagogue has stood for, everything that we identify with as a community.”

“
Then call my brother,” Mat said, “and tell him how you feel about the name change. Explain to him how Torah treats genuine charity. Maybe he’ll give up the name change, or agree to some kind of a compromise—”

Larry must have knocked on the phone in his office, which on our end sounded like gunshots. “Are you people drunk? A guy wants to give us ten million dollars, and all he’s asking is that we put a different name on the place? I wish he wanted to rename the VA hospital for Golda and Leo—tell me where to sign!”

“
My parents were good people,” Mat said.

“
Of course,” Rabbi Rachel said, her tone calmer, conciliatory. “We all loved your parents and are happy to acknowledge their memory. But I think Rusty should talk to Jonathan about keeping King Solomon, which is the name everyone associates with our congregation.” She smiled to soften the hard-sell. “After all, King Solomon was a pillar of wisdom and culture in our national history, a figure of historic greatness.”

“
And lots of wives,” Aaron said.

“
Exactly,” the rabbi said. “And we can commemorate Golda and Leo in a more modest way.” She looked at me. “Will you talk to Jonathan?”

“
Excuse me,” Judy said, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I wanted to hug her.

“
Just think about it,” Judy said. “How could Jonathan say no to him?”

“
That’s the whole point,” Rabbi Rachel said. “It’s important to set boundaries for such a donor, or he’ll think that we will cave in to his every demand, cater to his every whim, and accommodate his every capricious idea forever. And if Rusty calls him, our chances are good that he won’t refuse.”

“
He won’t say no,” Judy persisted. “He’ll just find an excuse to scrap the whole thing, and a month later we’ll hear that the Silicon Valley Museum of Computer Chips and Salsa will be renamed the Golda and Leo Warnick Museum.”

Cantor Bentov, who had not spoken yet, raised his hand. “Beggars can’t be choosers—or bargainers. We need this money.”

“
The name change,” Aaron said, “is unfortunate. But it creates a long-term commitment, because he won’t allow the place to fall apart while his parents’ names are on it. He’ll put in more money later on if it’s needed.”

“
Good point.” I breathed in relief. The wind was blowing in the right direction.

“
My opinion is unchanged,” the rabbi said, “I think Rusty should try to pressure him to give up the name change, not only because a spiritual community shouldn’t be up for sale, but because this is who we are, the King Solomon Synagogue. If Jonathan really wants to help his late parents’ congregation and do them honor, he should support us rather than force us to change who we are.”

“
Then you better not cry later,” Larry said, “because I’m telling you now that Judy’s right. He’ll politely withdraw the offer and give the money elsewhere.”

“
That’s a valid concern,” I said, “which is why it won’t be me calling him. But if one of you wants to reach out to Jonathan and try to negotiate a concession on the name change, please go ahead. We’ll need to vote, though, to give you the authority to speak for the board. Anyone?”

No one volunteered. It was clear that such a call would put the whole donation at risk. Everyone in the room understood it, except for the rabbi. Or did she also understand the risk yet for some reason wanted to take it?

Rabbi Rachel had a piece of paper in her hand. She folded it and put it away.

“
Okay,” Judy said, “I’m making a motion to vote on the offer.”

“
I second the motion,” the cantor announced.

“
Wait a minute!” The rabbi stood. “We are a Jewish congregation, not some business corporation where money talks louder than anything else. With all due respect to your assistance as volunteer trustees and lay leaders, I am the rabbi! I am the spiritual leader of the King Solomon Synagogue! I am the final authority on all matters of Judaism and worship, and I’ve made it clear to you that I object to the name change. I therefore object to the acceptance of the offer. Haven’t I made it clear?”

“
Excuse me,” Judy said, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Rabbi, but under the by-laws, once a vote has been called and seconded, the board must vote.”

I was impressed with Judy’s wise choice to make a mild technical argument rather than try to explain to Rabbi Rachel that her spiritual leadership role did not change the fact that she was an employee of the synagogue and that the board had the ultimate authority to make all decisions about synagogue business, including the rabbi’s own employment. It was an unpleasant conflict, but she was wrong to throw her weight around or try to block the board from voting, especially in this case, when every business-minded person would know that we had no choice but to accept the offer.

The rabbi sat down.

No one spoke.

Judy broke the silence. “Everyone in favor of accepting the offer as is, including the name change, raise your hand.”

Everyone did, except for Rabbi Rachel. On the phone, Larry said, “My hand is up.”

“
Those opposing, raise your hand,” Judy said.

The rabbi raised her hand.

“
The Warnick offer is accepted by majority. So voted.”

There was a long silence while Judy scribbled on her pad.

“
As president of the board,” I said, “I want to thank you all, especially Rabbi Rachel for leading a thorough discussion of this critical decision in the life of the synagogue. Our disagreement is regrettable, but I know that we all share a dedication to do what’s best for the congregation.”

The rabbi looked away.

Judy finished recording the vote as if nothing unusual had happened and announced that the meeting was adjourned.

To deflect the tension, Judy invited us to her studio. The space used to be an open balcony, perched on the mountainside with open views of the northeast valley. Windows had been installed around, but otherwise it was maintained as an outdoor space, with a floor of rough wooden planks and whitewashed walls. The lighting was very bright. Half-finished projects, mainly wood carvings and metal sculptures, filled the space. She led us to the end and tugged at a stained cloth sheet, exposing a large, convoluted maze of steel and wood.

The cantor gazed at it. “What in the world is this?”

“
The basic structure is a cross.” I gestured at the two pieces of railway tracks, which Judy had welded to form a cross taller than any NBA player. “The rest seems to be a bent-up candelabra.” I traced the seven branches, one pointing up, tied with barbed wire to the upper part of the cross, three bent sideways, tied to the left arm of the cross, and three to the right. I crouched to look closely at the base of the candelabra, which was carved as a human face, its mouth agape in a silent scream. It was bound to the bottom beam of the cross with several rounds of barbed wire that formed a thorny crown on the forehead.

“
It’s not a candelabra.” Still crouching, I turned to look at Judy. “You crucified a menorah?”

“
Correct,” she said. “Menorah is the national symbol of Israel, and I feel that the world is continuing to crucify the Jewish people for our one sin—bringing light to the world.”

“
There was a painter,” Cantor Bentov said, “who did something similar.”

“
A fictional painter,” Aaron said. “Asher Lev, the main character in a Chaim Potok novel.”

“
But unlike Judy,” I said, “Asher Lev depicted the crucifixion of his mother.”

Silent Night

Aaron and Cantor Bentov asked me to have a drink after the board meeting, and we gorged on iced tea and lemon slices at Houston’s while discussing all the things we could do for the synagogue with the money.

I didn’t realize how late it was until I saw the rental Malibu cooling its tires in my driveway. It was after 11 p.m.

With access to the garage blocked off, I parked at the curb, turned off the engine, and sat there, looking at the bright windows, especially the living room. I should have been home earlier to reconcile with Rebecca and greet Debra and Mordechai when they arrived. And I should have stood by my Christmas tree and delivered a speech about love and memories and respect for different traditions. But I was late, and now my daughter and her husband must be confused and upset, while Rebecca was delivering her own speech, which could not be very complimentary of me.

Drawing my Blackberry from its holster, I checked for new e-mails. Nothing. I opened Jonathan’s note from yesterday, which had communicated his offer, and typed a reply:

Despite the late hour, he responded within seconds with one word:
Great!

With this final task out of the way, I considered driving off. It was a tempting option—I wouldn’t have to deal with the accusations and tears that awaited me inside. On the other hand, dodging a confrontation would imply guilt, and even though a contentious family row was unappealing, it was the only opportunity I would ever have to shock Debra out of her enamored state of mind, breach the fortifications of rigid Halacha, and reach my daughter’s true self. And even if Debra was too far down the path of observant lifestyle, I had to bring her to my side so that we could find a modus of co-existence with Mordechai’s Orthodox universe, a begrudging acceptance that would enable Rebecca and me to remain active participants in Debra’s life and the family she was starting.

At the front door, my heart beat harder against my chest at the prospect of unpleasantness, yet I was struck by hearing nothing but the chirping of a nearby cricket. The night was completely calm, none of the acrimonious voices I had expected to hear from inside.

I turned the knob and walked in.

“
Daddy’s home!” Debra ran to me and threw her arms around my neck in a tight hug. “We’ve been waiting for you!”

“
Board meetings,” I said, “you remember how long they can go.”

“
Do I!” She had her hair in a ponytail, thankfully not covered by a cap or a wig. I took it as a positive sign.

Mordechai appeared, holding a paper plate with a piece of cake. “Hello, Dr. Dinwall.” He balanced the plate in one hand and shook mine with the other. “We heard the news about the big donation. Congratulations!”

“
Thank you.” I glanced at the doorway leading into the living room. “Great to have you here, kids.”

Rebecca yelled from the kitchen, “How did it go?”

“
Pretty well,” I said. “We’ve accepted the offer, but the rabbi is not happy.”

“
Why not?”

“
I’m not sure. The name change upsets her and she’s worried that other conditions will follow. It’s odd, like this influx of cash scares her for some reason. I bet she’ll change her mind when the money comes in and we can do good things with it.”

Rebecca came into the foyer wearing her cooking apron and a big smile as if all was well. “Are they paying you a commission?”

“
The reward of a mitzvah,” Mordechai said, “is the mitzvah itself, as Talmud tells us, because every good deed is counted by God toward our salvation.”

I took advantage of this opening. “You believe God will reward me for saving a Reform synagogue?”

He grinned as if had I caught him with his fork in a piece of bacon. “Who knows what God will do? But Rabbi Mintzberg says that God judges us by our intentions, not by the results of our actions.”

“
That’s comforting,” I said. “Shall we sit in the living room?”

“
Why not?” Rebecca raised her eyebrows in a mocking expression and led the way.

Following her, I expected to see the tree gone, the fireplace mantle cleared off. Had she stuffed it all in the garage or thrown it away altogether? And how could I say anything now, with these two having just arrived for their honeymoon?

“
Dad, you’re such a comedian,” Debra said as we entered the living room. “Won’t they be insulted by this?”

“
Insulted?” I paused, looking at my tree, its blue-and-white lights blinking, its decorations undisturbed, looking exactly as I had arranged them earlier. “Who’s going to be insulted?”

“
I told Debra,” Rebecca said, toughing one of the branches, “that you wanted to do something for the hospital staff.”

“
Do something?”

“
Since we couldn’t invite them to the wedding or the Sheva Brachot dinner.”

“
Yes?”

“
Did you forget the brunch on Sunday?” Rebecca spoke in a tone of a wife mothering her absentminded husband. “Bagels, lox, and hot cider to toast their Christmas.”

“
Ah.” I looked at her in disbelief. “How nice.”

“
I spoke with Nina,” Rebecca said, “told her you’ve already decorated the living room all by yourself. She was so impressed!”