Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (34 page)

A group of officers in blue trotted into the Gathering Hall. I walked over, introduced myself, and asked, “Did you arrest them?”

“
Must have been some kids,” one of the officers said. “There’s no one outside. Area is secure.”

“
We’ll be done in a few minutes.” I said. “We still have one more blessing to complete.”

“
God has punished us!” The rabbi had gotten hold of the microphone and was yelling into it. “As the leader of this congregation, I plead with the Almighty: Forgive us, Adonai, for the sin of arrogance!”

Groaning, I headed in her direction.

“
The police,” she yelled, “are here to escort you out!”

“
Rabbi Rachel,” I protested, “what are you doing?”

“
Leave before the next attack! In the name of God, run out to your cars immediately! Run! Run!”

“
Stop it!” My voice was lost in the noise as people ran for the doors. I tried to stop them. “Please! Don’t leave yet!”

It was no use. The bottleneck at the doors slowed them down only briefly, and within moments the Gathering Hall was almost empty.

I looked around in disbelief. It was over, and we hadn’t finished the seven blessings. Would God still bestow a happy and fruitful life upon my daughter and her husband? They had remained seated with Rebecca, all three looking dazed. I assumed that the God I believed in didn’t count blessings the way some humans counted pennies. But still, it was a bad omen, which I knew would fester in me forever. Debra deserved all seven blessings, even if her father had screwed up so royally. Could we still do it?

Other than Rabbi Rachel and Cantor Bentov, only Aaron, Judy, and Mat stayed behind. I gestured at the empty hall. “At least my board of trustees didn’t run away. Except for Larry. Where is he?”

No one responded.

“
Maybe he’ll call in,” Aaron said.

Outside, car engines revved and tires screeched as the guests sped away.

The hall began to spin like a merry-go-round, the air too thick to breathe even as I tried to expand my lungs, to force it in. I grasped the side of the podium, shut my eyes, and forced my mind to focus on inhaling.

“
What’s wrong?” It was Rebecca, her arm around me, guiding me into a chair. “Are you feeling sick?”

I took shallow, slow, methodical breaths. “It’ll pass…in a moment.”

She wiped my moist forehead with a napkin.

Gradually the awful feeling passed. I straightened up carefully, flexing my aching shoulders and arms.

Bringing a glass of ice water to my lips, Rebecca helped me take a few sips. “Are you in pain? Tell me what’s wrong!”

“
It’s nothing.” I drank a little more. “Didn’t sleep…last night. Probably a bit dehydrated also.”

“
Let’s go home,” she said, helping me stand up.

“
Not yet.” I was lightheaded, my knees were weak and my balance tenuous, but this wasn’t the time to give up. I knew what I had to do. Rather than asking Cantor Bentov, I went back to the podium. With the full glass of wine in one hand and the open prayer book in the other, I recited the seventh blessing, which I especially liked because it concluded with a reference to “…
boys celebrating with their music.
”

“
Amen,” Aaron declared, and the others mumbled after him, “Amen.”

Mordechai helped Debra up, and they headed for the door. I put my arm around Rebecca’s shoulder and leaned close to her ear. “I have to stay here and deal with this catastrophe.”

She looked at me, clearly preferring that I went home with them.

“
It’s my responsibility.” I dropped my car keys into her hand and gestured at Debra. “Watch her closely. If she exhibits dizziness or shortness of breath, take her to the ER right away and call me.”

Rebecca nodded and hugged me, not in a perfunctory way, but tightly, with her ear pressed to my chest and her arms locked around me, saying without words that she still loved me and was determined to do what it took for us to climb together out of the emotional and social hole we had found ourselves in and find a way to save our relationship with Debra and Mordechai. I kissed her forehead.

As they reached the door, Jose appeared with a broom and a plastic trash can. He bowed politely and stepped aside to let them pass. His respectfulness was so exaggerated that it seemed to proximate fear.

When my family was gone, Jose hurried to the corner, where the floor was covered with broken glass.

“
Go back out,” the rabbi told him, “and turn off those damn Christmas lights!” She was still using the mike, and her voice echoed from the walls. “Shut them down, every last one of them!”

“
No,” I said. “Leave the lights on.”

“
Turn them off!” The loudspeakers amplified her angry tone. “Now!”

Jose started for the door.

“
We shouldn’t give in to violence.” I walked over and plucked the mike from her hand. “And stop yelling. This is still a house of worship.”

She glared up at me, then turned the wheelchair toward Jose. “I told you—”

“
He works for me tonight!” I pointed at the glass shards. “Please clean it up before someone gets hurt.”

“
I am asking you for the last time,” Rabbi Rachel said, “to turn those lights off. This situation has already caused injury and damage. Isn’t it enough already?”

“
As president of the synagogue,” I said, “it’s my decision whether to turn lights on or off, because I’m the one who has to beg people for money to pay the electrical bills. And your salary!”

“
This is too painful.” The rabbi’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve tried my best to serve God in this community for two and a half decades. I’ve been through all your happy and sad days, doing my best to give comfort and share the gift of Torah to each and every member of this congregation. After all these years, do I really deserve this treatment?”

“
Nice show,” I said.

“
A show?” She pressed a fist to her chest. “All the years I’ve given to this congregation were a show? All my work, a show? All the holidays, the sermons, the funerals and celebrations, a show? This is my synagogue! This is my life! I have nothing else but this!”

Shaking my head, I said, “You should be on Broadway.”

“
Rusty, please!” Aaron took my arm. “Let me take you home. It’s not worth it.”

“
It’s not?”

He shook his head.

“
Then what would be worth it?” I turned to the rabbi. “Your behavior has been unacceptable tonight. An embarrassment to the God you’re supposed to serve. I expect you to apologize to the congregation again, as you’ve already had to do today over that vicious e-mail. Otherwise the board of trustees will have to place you under probation.”

“
Actually,” the rabbi said, “I would like to call an emergency board meeting right now to discuss the president’s behavior, especially his turning this synagogue into a Christmas parody, insulting our neighbors, and causing a violent attack on the congregation.”

“
You need two members to call a special meeting,” I said.

“
I join the call,” Cantor Bentov said. “We should sit and talk about all the issues.”

This was unexpected. It had been my initiative to invite both of them into the board as equal trustees after I had read an article a couple of years ago about improving synergy between the clergy staff and the lay leadership. And this was my reward!

“
You can meet,” I said, “and talk all you want. But I will not attend.”

“
So be it.” The rabbi signaled the cantor to wheel her to the meeting room. Judy and Mat followed, but Aaron hesitated.

“
Go,” I said. “You can speak for me in there.”

“
Then come in and speak for yourself. They might push for your resignation.”

“
A favor, if there ever was one.”

“
Then resign now,” he said. “Go home and patch things up with Rebecca.”

“
And cause the synagogue to lose ten million dollars?” I dropped into a chair by a table with half-eaten desserts. “I’ve had enough arguing for one day. You know what has to be done.”

Their meeting dragged on, as did my physical discomfort. Everything hurt, my body protesting the abuse I had put it through. I got up and paced up and down the Gathering Hall, rotating my left arm, trying to relieve the pain. Had I torn a ligament? It could be a real problem. There was a long list of patients waiting for surgeries after the New Year.

I noticed the rock that had hit Debra. It rested on a table next to the note with the Swastika. I turned over the paper and looked at the words:
The Jews are stealing Christmas!

The police officer had dismissed the incident as the handiwork of kids. But the writing was too orderly, the cursive letters too mature, and the grammar too accurate to be the scribble of a hostile kid. It was even a bit…familiar.

I walked over to the foyer. The rabbi’s office was down the hallway. The door wasn’t locked, and the lights were on. I searched the pile of papers on her desk, finding a condolence card she had written but hadn’t yet mailed. Placing the paper from the rock next to the card, I groaned. There was no mistake. The same hand had written both!

Refusing to believe my eyes, I rummaged through her papers, finding a half-written letter. Again, the writing was identical to the sheet in my shaking hand.
The Jews are stealing Christmas!

With the three pieces of writing in my clenched fist, I left the rabbi’s office.

Jose was dragging the trash bin across the foyer. I held up the creased paper, the Swastika facing him. He recognized it, stepped back, and started to shake his head in denial of the accusation I was yet to utter.

I stepped forward, took the broom from him, and held it next to the paper. “Do you know,” I said, pronouncing each word with care, “what are finger prints?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the glass doors of the synagogue, which let in the rolling lights of a police car that had remained to guard us. His reaction was as good as an explicit confession.

“
Did she make you do it?” I controlled my voice for fear that he would bolt. “Did the rabbi threaten you?”

He nodded, and in his moist brown eyes was all the sorrow of Arizona’s Latino laborers, making hourly pay, feeding large families, living in fear of Sheriff Arpaio’s raids and his parched tent cities. Jose didn’t need to explain why he had taken the rock from Rabbi Rachel, why he had agreed to throw it at the window, or why he had thrown a second one, albeit more carefully, after she sent him back outside, yelling,
“Don’t you have work to do? Go! Out! Do your job!”
And he didn’t need to explain to me why he was now trembling uncontrollably.

“
Don’t do it again.” I handed him the broom and went back to the Gathering Hall, my legs heavy as logs, my mind fogged up from an overload of conflicting emotions.

I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas

Raised voices came through the door. Their meeting should end soon, and the outcome would not be a happy one for Rabbi Rachel. Should I have realized the depth of her fears about her job? How could I, when it had seemed impossible to feel anything but excitement at the huge donation and relief at solving the synagogue’s chronic deficit?

I had to admit that the rabbi’s fears were not completely irrational, but her behavior was selfish and damaging to the congregation. She should have understood this and expressed her personal concerns openly to the board, perhaps even ask us for a written commitment to keep her as our rabbi even after the money came in. But now it was too late. Her actions today could not be justified even by the deepest desperation. She had sabotaged her standing in the congregation, possibly also her ability to ever serve as a rabbi anywhere else. Even under the influence of powerful painkillers, the dread of losing her job could not justify sending Jose to throw rocks at the synagogue!

And what about Cantor Bentov? Had he been present when she had told Jose to do it? Hard to believe. The cantor would not go along with such an extreme action, which I would not believe about the rabbi either, if not for the irrefutable evidence. But when had she found a moment to write the note and instruct Jose? I recalled that she had left the hall at one point, before my discussion with the cantor and the recital of the first two blessings. Surely she hadn’t intended for anyone to get hurt, only to discredit me by demonstrating how my Christmas Nosh was achieving the opposite result, rather than the peace and brotherhood I had so naively hoped for. But her deed had crossed the line from legitimate to criminal.

I was determined to protect Jose, whom she had coerced into it, but I had to share the information with the other trustees. Considering her long and loyal service, we should offer Rabbi Rachel psychological counseling and the opportunity to resume her career somewhere else, assuming she expressed regret and demonstrated a full recovery. With the Warnick donation coming in, we had too much work ahead and no time to waste on bickering.

I looked around the Gathering Hall. Even this formerly grand room was showing the poor state of our congregation. The walls had not been painted in years, the crooked ceiling tiles were discolored, and the bulky loudspeakers were outdated, having gone up in the corners during an era when music had been played on cassette tapes. The tip of my shoe dug into the fraying carpet. Properly refurbished, we could rent out the Gathering Hall for substantial fees, turning it into a profit center for the synagogue. Same with the Sunday school facilities, which needed modern teaching aids, audio and video equipment, and competent administrators and teachers. And the building’s appearance, from its dated exterior to the dark foyer and the outmoded Prayer Hall, could use a facelift. A facility that projected modernity and sophistication would attract new members and higher dues. And, come to think about it, a new rabbi would be the best draw for young families as well as those who had left the congregation in the past few years. It would be a fresh start! There was so much we could do once the money arrived!