Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (6 page)

The question got their attention.

“
First, the facts. Synagogue membership has grown by a net gain of six families, which brings our community to a total of two hundred and seventeen families.”

A few applauses. They must have sensed that the good news ended here.

“
However, due to the poor economy and other factors, our income from membership fees and fundraising has dropped for the third year in a row, while expenses increased due to necessary maintenance, insurance costs, and Sunday school staffing. In other words, we are operating at a deficit. As a result, I agreed to take a ten-percent pay cut.”

They clapped. Everyone knew it was a voluntary position. Not only wasn’t I getting paid as president of the synagogue, but this lay leadership role often kept me awake at night, worrying about the next set of bills.

“
Our Sunday school is growing nicely,” I continued. “As a matter of policy, we don’t turn away Jewish children who seek to attend. It’s your dollars that support our educational programs.” I paused, seeking words that would communicate the urgent need for donations without sounding desperate or heavy handed. “Our holiday prayers include the following words:
Repentance, prayer, and charity shall reverse a guilty verdict.
I can’t help you with repentance and prayer, which are up to you alone, but the third one—”

They laughed.

“
That’s right,” I said. “This is my first pitch of the year. Each one of you must remember that your charity will not only win points with the Almighty, but will also enable our congregation’s mission.” I paused, looking at a hall full of faces. What I really wanted to say was:
If you don’t write some checks, we’ll have to cut into the flesh—reduce services and slash our educational programs. And manage without air-conditioning!

But I couldn’t say that. Instead I smiled and asked, “What is our mission? Torah is our mission—to inspire, to teach, and to provide an open and hospitable place of worship. But our mission requires time and money. As the Torah says:
God knows the secrets of the heart.
So please give with an open heart, without conditions or reservations. Between now and Yom Kippur, I will call each one of you, and if you don’t pick up the phone, I’ll show up at your doorstep with the tool I use at the hospital to touch people’s hearts—my electric rotary saw!”

This threat generated a few catcalls and fearful pantomime.

“
Seriously,” I said, “let’s come together and support our communal mission, each to the extent of his or her ability. May God accept our prayers, show us His mercy, and seal our verdict for another year of life, happiness, good health, and pleasure in our children and loved ones. Happy New Year!”

While the Sunday school choir assembled on the steps of the dais, I walked over, sat at the piano, and rested my fingers on the faux ivory keys. Rabbi Rachel approached the podium, and Cantor Bentov signaled the choir, which broke into the Hebrew song that always opened our Rosh Hashanah prayers: “
Hineh mah tov u’mah naim…How good and pleasant, sitting together as brothers…
”

Part Two

Sunday, December 20

Winter Wonderland

The three months since Debra’s engagement had gone by quickly. My fundraising efforts during the high holidays had generated enough cash for the synagogue to get through the end of the calendar year, but not much more. Jonathan Warnick had not responded to the message I had left with his assistant at the headquarters of VetBestMate.com in Silicon Valley, California. It was the moment of truth in our synagogue’s finances. I prepared a list of drastic austerity measures for the agenda of the annual meeting of the board of trustees, scheduled for the Wednesday after Debra’s wedding. The prospect of downsizing vital aspects of our communal life saddened me, but there was no alternative.

Besides my volunteer duties, work had been all consuming. My plan to take off the last ten days of December had required moving up all the surgeries scheduled for that period. In addition, October and November had brought in the usual crop of emergency bypass operations on elderly snowbirds, who came down to Arizona for golf and sunshine only to find their hearts incapable of handling all that fun. Meanwhile Rebecca had handled all the wedding preparations, providing me with daily updates. I trusted her to do everything in a way that would make Debra happy. And judging by the dollar amounts we were spending, happy she would be.

Rebecca had left for New York a week ago to deal with the final arrangements. I continued to work every waking hour and took the red-eye flight on Saturday night, December 19. I was out cold before takeoff and barely managed to rise five hours later as we pulled up to the gate at JFK.

A few minutes of waiting in the taxi line sufficed to freeze up my extremities and cause the rest of me to shiver uncontrollably inside the inadequate windbreaker I was wearing. The years in Arizona must have thinned my blood.

But the cab was overheated, and the ride into Manhattan tossed me around hard enough to clear off any remnants of sleep. The roads were slushy with a mix of melted ice and soaked-up grains of salt, and the sights of urban decay jostling with constant gentrification was familiar, almost heartwarming.

I walked into the lobby of the Muse Hotel in time for the continental breakfast. Rebecca and Debra were sharing a corner sofa, looking more like sisters than mother and daughter. It was warm inside the hotel, but while Rebecca was wearing a short-sleeved blouse, Debra’s sleeves reached her wrists and her skirt went down to her ankles. A plain white bow kept her thick, coal-dark locks out of her clear face, giving her a sweet, girlish look.

“
Excuse me,” I said, “are you ladies free for breakfast?”

“
Finally!” Rebecca jumped up and kissed me. “I checked your flight on the Internet—it showed that you landed two hours ago!”

“
Sounds about right,” I said, turning to my daughter. “Tunnel traffic was light, thank God.”

Debra stood, almost a foot taller than her mom, and gave me a big smile. “Now I can get married.”

I held her to me tightly and whispered in her ear, “Did Debbie do doodie for Daddy?”

“
Dad!
”

We laughed, sitting down. The phrase came from her terrible twos, when she had engaged in a war of attrition against her stressed-out, inexperienced parents. Her weapon of choice was bowel retention, and we fought back with mineral oil, milk of magnesia, and outright bribery. Every night when I came home, I picked up our dark-haired treasure and posed the same question: “Did Debbie do doodie for Daddy?”

At first she would proudly declare, “No doodie for Daddy!” But gradually our tactics worked, and my question turned into a sort of habitual greeting that made her laugh pretty much through high school—unless she had a friend over, and then she’d push me away before I had a chance to embarrass her.

Rebecca brought me a plate of pastries, scrambled eggs, and a slice of honeydew. For herself she got a bowl of oatmeal, and for Debra an apple on a paper napkin and a plastic knife.

“
That’s all?” I caressed Debra’s cheek. “You ate already?”

She shook her head while cutting a slice off the apple. “I can’t eat here. It’s not kosher.”

“
What’s not kosher?” I looked down at my plate. “Eggs and fruit?”

“
The restaurant isn’t kosher. They use the same pots and kitchenware for dairy and meat.” She slipped the apple slice into her mouth. “They even serve bacon here,” she added as if that fact made the food practically poisonous.

“
You don’t have to eat the pork,” I said. “Anyway, since when have you become so strict?”

“
Keeping kosher isn’t strict. It’s the basic tradition of Jewish life over many centuries. I feel really good about it, like…it’s the right thing to do.”

“
I understand the charm of tradition, but modern life—”

“
It’s just food,” Rebecca said, giving me a sharp look. “Let’s talk about the wedding.”

I saluted. “Yes, dear.”

Debra and I chewed our different fares while Rebecca reported on the final preparations, such as table linen and dinnerware, seat assignments and chuppah pallbearers. Every small detail had been discussed, analyzed, and decided in perfect harmony with Mordechai’s mother—an incredibly capable woman, according to Rebecca. Beside setting the stage for this elaborate event, which would give my daughter a
ba’al
—a Hebrew word that meant both “husband” and “owner”—Rebecca had also helped Debra prepare the studio apartment that the couple had rented, stocking it with furniture, knickknacks, and separate sets of dishes for dairy and meat. “It will be a lovely first home,” Rebecca said. “And it’s only two blocks away from their favorite synagogue.”

Favorite synagogue?
I glanced at Debra, and she nodded as if this was normal criteria in choosing a place to live. “We love it,” she said. “It’s a wonderful congregation, mostly Columbia college and grad students and young couples who work in Manhattan. We fit right in!”

“
Me too,” Rebecca said. “It’s a lively group, very religious, but modern and sophisticated. I joined them for Sabbath services yesterday morning, and we were invited for a kiddush lunch at the apartment of a friend of Mordechai. It was so…cozy, familiar, like I was back home.”

I understood.
Back home
meant the home in the Bronx, the home of her parents, the home of Orthodox life where the Sabbath was observed strictly, not the home in Arizona and the life we’d built together over the past decades. It was odd to hear Rebecca say it, maybe even painful to see the cloud of longing that passed over her face.

“
On your next visit,” Debra said, “you’ll join us for services. You’ll see. It’s very New York.”

“
When in Rome,” I said. “Anyway, everyone at King Solomon is looking forward to seeing you and meeting Mordechai. Rabbi Rachel sends her love and best wishes.”

Because only few of our Arizona friends were able to make it to tonight’s wedding, we had planned a party on Thursday night at the synagogue back in Scottsdale. The newlyweds would be the guests of honor, and Rabbi Rachel would preside over the
Sheva Brachot
, the “Seven Blessings” recited daily over dinner during the week following a Jewish wedding.

“
You lost weight.” I hadn’t seen our daughter since last summer. “All bones.”

“
Thanks, Dad!”

“
It wasn’t a compliment. You have to eat well—”

“—
to stay well,” she ended the sentence for me, laughing in that special way that melted my heart.

I looked around the lobby. “Where is Mordechai?”

“
He’s forbidden from seeing me. We’ve been apart for a week!”

“
Builds up the tension.” Rebecca poured orange juice for the two of us. “I should be the one losing weight.”

“
Start keeping kosher again,” Debra said. “Seriously, it makes you think twice before eating anything. I’ve been kosher for a year now and I really don’t miss any—”

“
A year?” I felt Rebecca’s knee bang against mine, but ignored it. “I thought you only met Mordechai in July.”

Debra looked at me as if my question made no sense.

“
I like kosher food,” Rebecca said in a discussion-ending tone.

“
You also like shrimp.” I shifted aside to get away from another knee collision. “And lobster.”

“
I grew up without shrimp and lobster, and it didn’t kill me.” She unfolded a sheet of paper. “Here’s the plan. The bride and I have a busy day ahead, with a few shopping stops and most of the afternoon at the beauty salon. From there, we’ll go straight to the wedding hall in Brooklyn. I need to check on the caterers, table settings, and so on. Debra’s friends will be there to keep her company and help her get ready. Then, a half-hour before seven, we’ll prepare to receive the guests—Debra in the big chair, and the two of us with Mordechai’s parents at the door.”

“
Anything you want me to do between now and tonight?” When she shook her head, I asked, “Maybe I can meet with Mordechai? He looks fine on Skype, but I’d like to see him in the flesh once before the deed is done, you know?”

“
He’s in seclusion,” Debra said. “Under the rules of Halacha, a groom is required to spend his wedding day fasting and studying Talmud.”

“
That’s too bad.” I glanced at my watch. “So what am I going to do for a whole day?”

“
Rest.” Rebecca kissed me. “You look exhausted. I really wish you came a day or two earlier.”

Looking at Debra, I said, “There was no way I could have taken more time off. But starting today, I’m free for ten days. Mom and I will fly home on Tuesday morning to get ready for your arrival on Wednesday. Mordechai has never been to Arizona, right?”

She nodded.

“
We’ll make sure he loves it. We’ll go hiking at Pinnacle Peak on Thursday morning, then the party at the synagogue in the evening. Friday happens to be Christmas Day, so everything will be closed, which makes it perfect for sightseeing. We can drive to Sedona—”

“
We’ll have to be home early,” Debra said. “Sabbath begins at sunset.”