A Town of Empty Rooms (9 page)

Betty Blumenthal noticed Serena coming into the meeting. The new girl had, touchingly, outfitted herself in a business suit and came in clutching a clipboard; she looked as though she were walking into a law firm instead of the sweaty and desperate volunteer effort that was the Temple Board. Betty was relieved to see this, for she hoped it distinguished Serena from the others whom she had been working with here — Norman, Tom, Tiffany; none of them held the vision for the Temple that she did. Betty had belonged to the Temple since she was a child, longer than anyone here — she had been a member for fifty-six years. She had been the first female Bat Mitzvah, the first woman president; the Temple had evolved because of her. She was a pioneer. She liked showing people what she had done for the Temple. As a girl, the Temple had prepared her, she thought, for her later achievement — her catering service. Norman, Tom — they had to just think beyond the small and embrace the potential grandness.

Lately, she had lots of ideas for the Temple. Betty spent a great deal of time thinking about the Temple and its future. She thought about it when she sat in her home, trying to become accustomed to
the immense silence; it had been six months since her husband had left — suddenly, after thirty-three years of marriage. After Pearl came to her, eight months ago, she had begun compiling the list. Betty wanted to find someone who would understand the gravity of the complaints on it.

Norman Weiss had been at the Temple second to Betty in terms of time. She had grown up here, and he had come here by choice, when he moved from the North after the death of his first wife. He had seen so many others join and drop, leave and die. He was still here. He had run the most sought after pediatric practice in the western part of Long Island; he did not even know why the children had liked him, or why the stocks he had picked had risen. He could never quite trust the good luck that befell him. He wanted to spread it around this place. If people looked around, they would see him everywhere. He had bought back the second Torah when he returned from Israel in 1979. He had paid for the new and elegant gold-plated Eternal Light that hung over the Ark. If the others knew what he had bought for the Temple, they would appreciate him. Now, with the news of his throat, after the doctor had sat down with him and told him what the results of the biopsy could mean, he wanted anyone to walk into Temple Shalom and know that Norman Weiss was the most generous member of the congregation — that he was somehow essential.

Tiffany Stein understood immediately why Serena had dressed in a suit; it was to show respect for the board. This was why Tiffany wore the large golden Star of David, the Chai charms around her neck. Her husband joked that she looked like a Jewish gangster, but she was trying to show the others her respect for the religion and also to convince them that she belonged. Her life as a Jew dated two years and seven months — it had coincided with her marriage to Harvey Stein. She had been recently divorced and had not believed she would ever marry again. Harvey loved her, but he wanted her to be Jewish, and she had never felt particularly attached to her Methodist upbringing, so she studied with Rabbi Moshe Rappaport in Tampa, and then the couple moved here. She came to Temple Shalom a fully certified — or however one would say it — Jew. And then, a year into her membership, she was
invited to become a member of the Temple Board. She had cried when she had been asked; she believed they took her seriously.

Serena walked into the Temple basement to join the eleven members of the board hunched around a folding table. The room gave the general impression of a cave. The fluorescent lights let out a long, aching buzz, and there was the undersea gurgle of the coffee machine. Betty Blumenthal was smiling at her.

Rabbi Golden saw her and clapped his hands together. “We're all here,” he said. “Let's begin. Tom, do you want to lead the opening prayer?”

Tom sat up, visibly brightening to have been singled out by the rabbi. His face assumed a blank expression that concealed something infinitely more complicated. The board members lowered their heads.

“Dear God,” Tom said, lifting his hands. His eyes were closed. “Watch over us tonight as we perform our duty of leading our congregants. Inhabit us with wisdom and the vision to care for all of us, young and old, sick and healthy, those who attend and those who do not. Let the Torah guide us in its wisdom. Amen.”

Everyone looked up. Norman reached to snag the last piece of pastry.

“First item on the agenda,” said Norman. “We have a new board member. Serena Hirsch. She's been a member of the Temple for five weeks. I say that's long enough!” He paused and looked up, grinning. “Georgia says she does a great job in the office. I say she can represent the youth.”

There was quite a bit of business to discuss. Marty Schulman, sixties, board treasurer, a former auto mechanic from Morristown, New Jersey, told them that the organ had come of age and that they needed to choose a birthday for it, as it was turning one hundred this year.

“I put down two thousand dollars as seed money to celebrate the organ's birthday!” announced Norman. “I will research the organ's history and choose the day of its birth.”

There was a silence.

“Two thousand?” asked Marty, making a note of this. “No offense, Norman, but why do we need two thousand? The religious school needs money — not to mention financial aid for members — ”

“It is rumored that this is the oldest organ in any religious
institution of North Carolina,” said Norman. “This will bring fame and renown to our Temple. I have even begun organ lessons — ”

“Is it
your
birthday, Norman?” asked Betty.

“If you want to donate two thousand dollars,” said Marty, “we could get all new books for the religious school, plus actually pay the teachers — ”

Norman was annoyed by Marty's attempt to distract him. The organ was what he wanted to fund. The organ people could hear. They could see. They would think of him. “My birthday is November ninth. I will be seventy-nine,” said Norman, smiling. “Betty, I can hire you to cater my organ bash, if you're nice to me — ”

“Schedule's full up,” said Betty. “But thank you.”

Serena noticed a tense cheeriness in Betty's voice. They established a task force to create the birthday celebration for the organ. “Our next item,” said Tom, “is the new Jewish cemetery.”

Serena noticed Rabbi Golden standing slightly apart from the board. His job, he explained, was not to serve on the board, for that was the job of the Temple congregants. He would be available for advice. He was pretending to ignore the workings of the group, but she noticed his reaction to everything that was said. It was almost as though he was having a personal conversation with each member of the board. He rolled his eyes, he smiled briefly, but he mostly wore a floating expression she could not place for a moment, then recognized as disdain.

“The cemetery,” said Tom. “I am head of a committee entrusted with creating a new Jewish cemetery for the Jewish residents of Waring. The land was a donation from the Selzer family. We are happy to say that it contains 152 plots, which we will put on sale when we have the area measured and cleared.”

The group applauded, which seemed both the right response and not.

“Someone has
got
to call the mortuary to stop doing what they do to the bodies,” said Saul.

“What do they do?” asked Serena.

“Put makeup on them!” said Saul. “They started an embalming process on Myron Steinway — without asking.”

“Why did they do that?” asked Serena.

Tom tapped his fingers together as though he were trying to be patient. “Because they didn't know the rules for cleaning the body,” he said. “Saul, you call them. Our other point of order is the status of non-Jewish spouses in the cemetery. We have, at last count, forty-three families in the Temple who are intermarriages.”

Tiffany looked up. “Some of us have converted,” she said softly.

“This is about the Christian spouses, Tiffany. Do we want to reserve spots beside their Jewish spouses? Or,” he cleared his throat, “should they be buried in a spousal section of the cemetery, specially designated for non-Jews?”

There was a silence as everyone considered the implications of this statement. “You mean segregate them?” asked Tiffany.

“They could have converted,” said Norman. “They had every chance to do that. Up to their moment of death. They made that decision not to. I don't want the non-Jewish spouses taking up the hard-won spaces reserved for Jews.”

Serena was a little too familiar with the idea of burial to contemplate forcing anyone to bury their beloved anyplace other than where they wanted; she suddenly wondered why she had believed that joining the board was a good idea.

“Plus, we don't have a lot of room in the cemetery,” said Norman. “What are the dimensions, Tom?”

“About an acre and a half,” said Tom. “It is adjoining the Walmart parking lot.”

“Is that where the non-Jewish spouses will go?” asked Tiffany, her voice hardening. “In the Walmart parking lot?”

Serena had had enough. She began to stand up.

“Where are you going?” asked Betty.

“I have to go,” said Serena.

“We need your vote,” whispered Betty. “Stay.”

The general resemblance of the Temple members to her own family, to people she had known, was like looking into a funhouse mirror. Serena's neck was getting warm.

“Why can't it be for anyone who wants to be buried there?” burst Serena.

She stopped, startled by herself. Betty was beaming at her. Norman's face stiffened in alarm.

“Rabbi,” said Norman. “Get over here.”

Rabbi Golden clicked off his cell phone and walked over, slowly.

“What are the rules for burial in a Jewish cemetery, Rabbi?” Norman asked. “Wouldn't it make sense that the buried would have to be — Jewish?”

“Rabbi, thirty percent of our congregants are intermarried,” said Betty. “Isn't the true spirit of religion to be inclusive? To make everyone feel welcome who wants to belong — ”

“All I'm asking is a little room for me,” Norman said. “All I'm asking — ”

“And why wouldn't there be room for you, Norman,” said the rabbi, clapping Norman on the back. “You! Norman Weiss! You don't just need a cemetery, you need a statue.”

She was surprised by his tone, its light, almost merry quality. He seemed to sense the tension in the room, and he was skating over it, somewhat joyfully.

“Set up a task force,” said the rabbi, lightly. “Jewish cemeteries. How to design it for everyone's, um, needs. Norman, Betty, you head it. Vote.”

They all voted to establish a task force. The rabbi smiled and stretched, as though he had just come in from a refreshing jog. Serena was impressed with his ability to change the tone of the room; the air had been simmering a moment before and now was calm.

“Thank you, Rabbi,” said Norman.

“Meeting adjourned,” said Tom.

As they headed out, Betty caught up with her. “See, we need you,” she said. “A voice of reason.”

 

 

THE NEXT DAY, SHE HAD a discussion with Zeb about the concept of BC, and he was eager to try it out on Ryan.

Later in the week, she was driving the two of them home in the car.

“Do you know what BC is?” Zeb asked.

“No,” said Ryan.

“The time of earth before Christ was born,” said Zeb, sounding pleased to have claimed this era.

“Well, that would be a
very
short time,” said Ryan, “because Christ was here first. He invented the world.”

Zeb was quiet. “No, he didn't,” he said.

“Yes, he
did!
” said Ryan. “He was here before anything! He was here before the
sun!
”

“He was not,” Zeb said. “God was. Sorry to say. It started with Let there be light.”

“But who said it?” asked Ryan.

“We're made of a star,” Serena said, quickly. “All of us. The Big Bang theory. A big star exploded, and here we are.”

“I am not,” said Ryan. “I'm skin.”

“I'm made of star,” said Zeb wistfully, holding out his hands and examining them, and then they were home.

Chapter Six

DAN BELIEVED HE HAD THE solution to helping Zeb become part of this community. He walked into the bedroom one night and held up a manual.

“We're doing this,” he announced.

The book was titled
Boy Scouts of America: A Guide to Pack Leaders.

“Zeb can learn to make anything out of anything. He can make a burner out of a tin can. On Eskimo Day, he can make a blubber mitten. He can make a knight helmet out of an ice cream carton.”

Serena wanted to join his enthusiasm, but she thought this sounded ill-advised.

“How is that going to help?” she asked.

“I never learned to do any of this. I never belonged to any group. Most people belong to groups.”

“That's why we should join the Temple,” she said.

Dan flinched. She was intent on this. Her father. It was some tribute to him. It made him jealous, he had to admit, this endless tribute to the great Aaron Hirsch. He had liked Aaron, liked particularly the way his father-in-law grabbed Dan and hugged him, fiercely, when he saw him. Aaron had escaped the worst calamity the Jews had faced, which meant, according to Serena, that they had to honor the religion in some endless celebration of him. Although in Dan's opinion, it seemed the smarter strategy would be to avoid Judaism altogether. It was the one area in which he agreed with his parents. His own parents had been Jewish in name only. They stayed away from the temple with a sense of entitlement — his mother, before the divorce, said they were too successful to need such magic.