A Town of Empty Rooms (30 page)

The rabbi was here. He stood, arms crossed, at the front of the auditorium, looking at the assembling crowd. He had decided to wear his white suit, the nicer one. He wore a tie covered with smiling silver dreidels that had big cartoon eyes. Had he seen any of the irate, impassioned email messages going on about him? If he did, he did not show it.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Are you ready?”

He leaned toward her. “Ready! This is my version of heaven,” he whispered. His face had a menthol scent, not his usual swampy cologne.

“Why?”

“They don't think they want to listen to me,” he said. “And they will.”

“Tell me how.”

“Easy. They want what you want. They love what you love. Trust me. We're here to make friends.” He paused. “I need my hat,” he said, and he dashed off to his car. She made her way to a row near the front. She was sitting near two mothers she recognized from the school — Mary Jo and Felicia, mothers of two boys in her son's class.

“Clayton pulled two sticks yesterday for badness,” said Felicia. “For what? Not being able to sit for the whole story time? When they give them just twenty minutes of recess?”

“School isn't made for boys,” said Mary Jo, knitting a tinsel-threaded baby's cap.

“It's not human,” said Felicia.

“I wish they had more recess,” said Serena.

“I wish they had more
play,
” said Felicia. “Kids should be kids.”

“Why'd you come out for this?” asked Serena.

“Fun,” said Mary Jo, rather grimly. “Fun and joy.”

“The children need more of it,” said Felicia.

“Bring on Santa!” said Mary Jo. “Bring on caroling! It's the joy of December!”

“Right,” said Felicia. “I am chock full of ideas.” She looked at Serena wistfully. “I have so much
energy,”
she said. “Pipe cleaner nativity baskets. Aluminum foil stars. What do you do with a five-, three-, and one-year-old? I ask you. I don't want to pay someone to care for them while I work. I couldn't earn enough that way, anyway. Can you tell me who can?”

“It's frustrating,” said Serena, nodding. The energy of the underemployed mother was forceful and sobering; what were they supposed to do with their unused exuberance and talent?

The rabbi returned, clutching a large fuzzy menorah hat. It was a flat-brim hat with a menorah made of antlers sticking out the top like an enormous fork. At the tip of each antler was a little electric bulb; he pressed a button on a clicker in his hand, and the tips of the antlers lit up.

“Good god,” said Serena.

Mary Jo laughed when she saw it. “What a costume!” she said.

“Sho' is,” he said, grinning at her. Serena wanted to clap her hand over his mouth. She was horrified by the suddenly acquired Southern accent, for she knew he was making fun of them, but he had mastered it so wholly and subtly the women didn't notice.

He leaned toward Serena. “This wins everyone over every time,” he murmured. “They love it. They love menorahs. The living, the dying. Everyone, for some reason, loves hats.”

“This is your main argument?” she asked, concerned.

“One,” he said. “What are you going to say?” he asked.

She had not thought about this.

Forrest Sanders walked up to the stage. He was wearing not his Scouts uniform now but the gray blazer he put on for church. He looked out at everyone and beamed. This was not a tribute to Christmas, or whatever he was selling, Serena thought — he believed this was a tribute to him. It was, she thought, the misperception that was undoing all of them. He bent toward the microphone. “Welcome, all,” he said. “To everyone who believes in Christmas!” There was a great, loose cheer and show of hands. “I've had a busy week,” he said. “I'm Forrest Sanders. I ran the local Pinewood Derby for our terrific young men who are our Boy Scouts.” There was applause. He held up his
hands against it. “No. I love it. It is my privilege to lead these youngsters. And it is my honor to stand up for Christmas and all it signifies when I heard it was being stolen from the schools.” More applause. “Now, listen. Christmas is love,” he said. “No one is taking it from us!” Rabbi Golden tapped his fingers rapidly against his seat, the rest of his body still as a rock as he watched Forrest.

“Welcome to our organizational meeting to bring Christmas back to the schools,” he said. “I would like to thank Chick-fil-A for providing refreshments. Check out the chicken nugget tray near the back! I'm a big fan of the barbecue dipping sauce, myself. Chick-fil-A now offers retreats where folks can work on their marriages. They also have retreats where you can help truth and values move from your head to your heart. They have generously left some brochures in the back.”

He took to being a corporate spokesperson almost as fluidly as he took to being an organizer for political action. He sighed deeply and stared at the audience. “My wife almost died a few weeks ago,” he said. “And it got me to thinking what's important in life. I am not a wealthy man, folks, nor one who is known in many circles. I will admit that five of my business ventures failed during my life, and
not due to my own shortcomings.”
His face was getting pink with the exertion of these admissions; he looked like he had wanted to let them out, in a formal setting, for a long time. “I'm a hard worker, like many of you. I had to support five children. I tried. When my grandson came home from school and told me that he was not allowed to create a nativity scene in his second-grade classroom, I was mad. What are the values taught in our school system? What's important is this:
love.
” Applause. “Love for each other, love for Jesus. What's wrong with spreading that love this time of year, I ask you?” He opened his arms.

“Nothing!” called Mary Jo, who stamped her feet.

“Some may call our cause silly, but it is important to me. I see it is important to many of you.” He shielded one hand over his eyes and gazed out at the audience. “I ask anyone to come up to say what they think our schools should offer in this area. We start with honoring Christmas. We can bring back prayer. We can design our schools in the image it was designed to have. Line up to the right. You can sign a petition in the back.” He walked to the front row and sat down.

The support for Christmas reached across racial lines, across economic divides. First on the stage was a trim black woman in her sixties who identified herself as Mrs. Dolores Jackson. “My grandson is a student in the first grade,” she said. “He is tested, tested, tested. He does not like those tests! And I see no reason why he should not have the opportunity to pay tribute to Jesus during this holiday season. I have read studies through my church that children who can express their love for Jesus in a school setting perform better on standardized tests. I would also like to add this: Why should he be
denied
the opportunity to declare his love? Jesus is a star! Jesus is our beacon!” She sat down to much applause.

“Amen,” said Mary Jo.

Next was a tall white-haired man, a Clayton Pembroke, who began, “I love Walmart.” Much applause. “Do you know why? It is not just the good prices. It is not that I can buy pizza and bug repellant and socks in one stop. It is because they are not afraid to say ‘Merry Christmas.'” He paused. “I walk into the Gap. ‘Happy holidays.' Folks, it's just not the same. I want to hear those words, ‘Merry Christmas!' I am boycotting Gap, folks. I want to be able to say ‘Merry Christmas' whenever I want, whenever I want it. I want to shout it from the rooftops! Happy holidays, bah, humbug!” He sat down to a standing ovation.

It went on and on. Serena felt the skin on her arms prickle. There were loose interpretations of the Constitution: “I tell you. One nation under God. We all know which God they were talking about!”

There were calls for prayer in the schools: “I ask for a moment of prayer to our Lord Jesus Christ in the morning. Just one moment, heads bowed. Won't that help them get through their day?”

And there was the mother who wanted creationism taught in the schools. “I wasn't here two million years ago,” she said. “If evolution is so slow, why don't we see anything evolving right now?” Hearty applause. “If they can teach that theory, they can teach our truth.”

A woman stood up and announced, “Some of you may have come from monkeys, but I certainly did not!”

There was significant applause for this statement. It was, Serena thought, the end of reason. She wanted to run. The heat seemed to have been cranked up in the auditorium. She eyed the rabbi, who was
sitting, one leg crossed over the other, watching everyone who came up. He seemed focused on them, almost bemused, as though he were trying himself to figure out how to love them. There was a lot of talk about love. She wanted to love, too, and in fact, sitting beside the rabbi, his presence here, she was beating down a different, ridiculous sort of gratitude that floated through her, despite her. He, who saw her goodness. The restlessness of being human would end. And if they could see into her mind, see this peculiar love, see what she was thinking right now, they would all go after her. There would be no debate in this. That would be it.

The love described by the audience seemed too easy, too suspect, too uncomplicated; she did not trust it. Yet they all seemed so happy. They all wanted to bring Jesus into the school. They wanted prayers to start school board meetings, as long as it was a Christian prayer. “If it was a Buddhist monk or something leading a prayer,” said one man, “
I'd walk out.”
There was cheerfulness to their certainty, to their idea that this was the right thing to do, that this was the point of the public school system.

There was a pause in the stream of people speaking at the podium. The rabbi turned to her.

“Go ahead,” he said.

She stared at him. He had to be kidding. “No,” she whispered. “Listen to them. I don't know what to say.”

“Sho', you do.” He winked.

“I can't.”

He squeezed her forearm; her pulse jumped. “Go ahead.”

She climbed up the stairs to the podium. She looked out at them. Dolores Jackson was delicately removing a Life Saver from its roll; Clayton Pembroke was texting on his cell phone; Mary Jo had almost finished knitting her hat.

“Hello, everyone,” she said. Her throat was dry. “How are all of you today?” she asked. Her voice shook. “I'm Serena Hirsch. My son is a kindergarten student at Oakdale.” She felt her voice, a cool pressure, rising through her chest. Her mind went blank, but her voice kept going without her. “He loves it here.” Not exactly true. Should
she bring up the penny incident? But perhaps that would not really help their case. He didn't exactly love the school, but he would love it a lot less if Forrest and his minions took over. “He walks into school and he feels part of it. He wants to belong.” He was not even the issue — frankly, he barely cared; it was her. “We actually don't celebrate Christmas. We celebrate Chanukah.” This felt like an absurd declaration — so what? She did not look at their expressions; she kept going. This was what being Jewish was; it was the difference, the other view. It was that small, significant action: opening one's eyes. The first Jew they had ever met. Not an ambassadorship she had wanted. She wished suddenly that she was taller, better-looking, anything to serve as better promotional material. “Christmas is a wonderful time,” she said, pandering. “I am a believer in public schools. I hope that the public schools, which are for everyone, can remain, um, for everyone. School can be a place where everyone can belong.”

She stopped. That was it. She was a speechwriter, and this was where she should stop. She nodded at the audience and stepped down. There was no applause, which felt unfair. Maybe that was part of the point of praising Jesus — a sure audience pleaser. You loved him, people would love you. The audience was frozen. However, they were schooled in a kind of politeness; she noted that nobody booed.

She went down the stairs, hearing her footsteps ring against the old, shellacked wood. The rabbi was beaming at her in a manner both delighted and condescending, as though she had just finished her Bat Mitzvah. “Thanks,” he murmured. “They're thinking. I'll close the deal.”

He leapt up, clutching his menorah hat, and hurried up the stairs. She felt protective of him, the way she felt about her children when she released them into the world. He had worn white, she thought, because he understood it would glow in this American institutional fluorescent light, the gray luminescence of schools and post offices and army barracks and jails.

“Friends,” he said. “Let me say hey. I am Rabbi Golden from Temple Shalom. We're the Jewish congregation in town.” Instantly, she could see how he differed from the other speakers; he was a pro. He
stood back from the podium, relaxed. His arms swung by his sides loosely, confident as a game show host's. His white jacket fell, watery, around him. He leaned forward into the microphone and gazed out at the group.

“First, I want to say merry Christmas,” he said. “I don't mind saying it. I'll say it again, merry Christmas! I think you folks should be able to say it whenever you want, in your homes, in your churches, in the world. This is a free country! Who could have a problem with that?”

“Merry Christmas,” a few shouted back.

“So,” he said. “No one wants to take away Christmas. Now, how many of you can throw a spear?”

A surprising number of hands flew up.

“We could have used you!” said the rabbi, his voice bright. “You would have been great Maccabees!” He paused. “Does anyone know anything about Maccabees?” He went into a discussion of the temple and the light, dramatic renditions of Romans breaking in on Jews worshipping and dragging them off to be executed. He strode to the side and dimmed the lights for a moment, and he lit a menorah, one candle after another, a piercing white glow on the stage.