Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (22 page)

She performed the same examination on his right leg. He felt everything.

“It seems the only involvement is with the peripheral nerves on the left side,” she said.

Joshua and his mother looked curiously at the doctor.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Schiffman said, looking up from her notes. “That means that the damage was only on the left side, and mostly to the nerves that affect the lower leg. That’s good, it means that the damage is very localized, small and contained, which also means that your chances of recovering your feeling and movement are good.”

“Are you talking about a complete recovery?” Loretta asked.

“It’s hard to tell right now just how much of a recovery, but my gut feeling is positive.”

Joshua was beginning to like this doctor.

Schiffman gathered her things together, and said, “I have to go now, but I’ll be back in a few hours to check on things. I’m also going to have a neurologist come in. That’s a doctor who specializes in this kind of thing.” She touched Joshua’s arm. “Get some rest, and
stop
worrying!” To Loretta she said, “You too!”

She smiled, turned, and left them alone.

Later that day, Joshua awoke again from the darkness. Loretta’s chair was empty. Behind the curtain, in the next bed, he heard someone groaning and snoring. The noise was annoying, but he was glad to know he wasn’t alone.

It took about a minute for him to notice that there was a third person in the room, standing quietly in the corner. The room was dim, and his vision was slightly marred from the fight. He thought he might be hallucinating, that the medication was doing funny things to his mind.

But then, she spoke: “I told your mother to go home for a few hours, get something to eat, clean up, that sort of stuff.” Nervous, jittery. “I told her I would stay.” Hesitation. “That is, until she gets back.”

It was her all right; he wasn’t imagining at all. She seemed ill-at-ease, and he wanted to change that. He attempted a smile. “Thanks.”

“You don’t have to speak if it’s hard,” she said, approaching the bed.

The first thing that hit him was her scent, despite his swollen nose. At once, both calming and enticing. It was hard watching her stand there from a hospital bed; definitely not what he would have planned for their first real moment alone.

“It’s okay, I can talk. It only hurts a little,” he lied.

“Do you need anything?”

“No.” He pointed to the chair. “Please sit.”

She sat, and suddenly a tear fell from her eye. Embarrassed, she took a tissue from the box on the night-stand. “I’m sorry, I get stupid sometimes.”

“You’re
not
stupid!”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I am. I should be thanking you for what you did, rather than sitting here, crying like a baby.”

“I didn’t do anything really.”

“But you did, you
really
did. Those boys were out to hurt us. Who knows what they would have done if you hadn’t come along.” She hesitated. “You saved us.”

“What happened after they beat me?”

“Well, they didn’t exactly beat you. I mean, you got a few licks in of your own. One of them had blood all over his face, and another limped away.”

“But what happened to
you
?”

“Us? Oh, nothing. Esther—that’s my friend—she screamed the whole time, and I jumped in and tried to pull them off of you.” Her tears stopped as she became more animated. “I think I actually got one of them square in the eye; at least, my hand hurts and all.” She held up her right hand, proudly displaying the discoloration around her knuckles. “Anyway, someone must have finally heard what was happening, because two big men came over and broke it all up.”

“And me?”

She hesitated. “You were unconscious.”

“What about the Micks?”

“They ran away,” she said, tentatively, fearful the news might displease him.

“Nobody caught them?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure they will. Esther and I gave descriptions to the police, and so did the two men. It’s only a matter of time.”

He became pensive; her story didn’t make him feel like much of a hero.

“You really did save us, Joshua. I’m so sorry for what happened to you.”

“I’ve been hurt before, been in lots of fights. I was okay then, and I’ll be okay now!”

She got up, came to the side of the bed, leaned over, and touched her hand to his face. Once again, she began to cry. He managed to maneuver his arm enough to take her hand. Suddenly, his pain disappeared. She squeezed his hand slightly, just enough to let him know that there was now something between them, something undefined yet tangible. Something that bound them together.

The police caught the Irish boys the next day and brought them to Joshua’s hospital room for identification. He recognized all four, but didn’t know which one had actually stabbed him. He knew from TV that the cops had ways of obtaining such information and, in truth, he didn’t really care. He wasn’t out for revenge or “justice.” He’d had more than enough of both for one lifetime.

The neurologist came. A real professorial type—bespectacled, balding, bow-tie, hushpuppies, and all. He repeated the same examination as Doctor Schiffman had performed, wrote his notes, and went about his work rather impassively. “Doctor Schiffman will be in to see you shortly,” was all he said before leaving the room. Joshua sensed it wasn’t going to be good news.

About ten minutes later, Doctor Schiffman walked in, a solemn expression on her face. She examined Joshua again. No changes. She looked at Joshua and his mother. “Okay, Joshua, Miss. Eubanks, I’m going to speak frankly now, because I don’t want to hold out any false hope.”

Dread fell upon Joshua and Loretta.

The doctor continued, “There’s been significant nerve damage, affecting the left leg.” She turned to Loretta. “Doctor Levy, the neurologist, agrees that we really have no way of knowing just how much sensation or movement Joshua will regain.” Then, to Joshua: “What we do know, however, is that whatever you get back, Joshua, you have a long road ahead. I’m not saying that you’re going to end up in a wheelchair or anything like that, but you are going to have to work very hard to learn to get around with that leg.”

Loretta tried not to cry, for his sake, but that didn’t stop him. It hurt for him to cry; it hurt to do just about anything.

The doctor waited a moment before continuing, “Now, we’re going to keep you here for a little while, until we see how you progress. As soon as your wounds heel, you’ll be transferred to the Rehab wing. That’s where you’ll get physical therapy, and we’ll try to rehabilitate that leg. You’ll have to work hard, it won’t be easy. And there’s no way of telling exactly what the result will be. Do either of you have any more questions?”

They didn’t.

“Oh, there’s one more thing,” she said, looking down at the chart. “It seems every cloud does have a silver lining after all,” she added softly, as if to herself.

Joshua and his mother looked at one another, not quite understanding.

She realized she’d lost them. “I’m sorry, I was just noticing in your chart that you’re almost seventeen years old.”

Joshua nodded.

“Well, then, I also have what I suppose you might call ‘good news,’ though at a time like this it’s hard for you to imagine such a thing.”

Joshua identified with the bewildered look on his mother’s face.

“Under normal circumstances,” Schiffman continued, “you would probably be drafted into the army in another year or so, and shipped off to Vietnam like all the other boys around here. Guess what?”

Joshua had no clue. What did Vietnam have to do with anything? Loretta seemed to understand.

“You’re not going to be drafted at all,” Schiffman said.

Joshua looked at his mother.

“I suppose that’s good,” Loretta said to him. “Some boys have been coming back from that place in worse shape than you, a lot worse. I suppose it
is
good.”

So this was his silver lining, the saving grace of the single worst thing that had happened to him yet. And somehow, he thought, he would much rather have taken his chances in Vietnam.

Rachel visited daily, even on the Sabbath. She told him it was a special
mitzvah
to visit the sick on the Sabbath, and the hospital wasn’t a bad walk from her home. She was surprised he knew what a
mitzvah
was; in fact, she was surprised by all the Yiddish terms he’d picked up at the synagogue. He enjoyed surprising her.

After a week, he was transferred to the Rehab unit, where he stayed for over a month. He was receiving the best care possible, no expense spared. He was too preoccupied with his condition to wonder where the money came from, though on reflection he would easily have guessed.

Rachel continued to come every day. On the days that she worked with Doctor Schiffman, she would visit late, after her shift, and one of her parents would come to pick her up. Otherwise, she was with him for the entire afternoon.

Loretta was with him constantly, and knew he wanted to be alone with Rachel. Though she didn’t exactly approve, she didn’t want to make an issue of it, at least not now. So she managed to disappear for a while when Rachel showed up.

Initially, Joshua thought Rachel was visiting out of obligation. But with time, he grew confident that a real friendship was developing between them. He missed a lot of school, and Rachel took it upon herself to be his personal tutor. She was a whiz at math and science, and he was certainly able to hold his own.

She inspired him, and challenged him to do even better. He knew that when he returned to school, he would be far ahead of the other kids in his class, though he wondered when that would be.

His leg was improving. He had regained most of his sensation, but only some movement and control. During the three weeks on Rehab, he had gone from a wheelchair to a walker, and now he was even managing with a four-pronged cane. The therapists and nurses were encouraging; he had progressed far in a relatively short period of time. But he knew he would never walk and run as he had before. No one ever said it, but he knew.

And Rachel knew it too. Sometimes he felt worse for her than himself. He was always feeling bad for someone, and that included his mother as well. He saw the sadness in her eyes, and was certain that she, too, would rather have seen him eligible for the draft, war and all.

During his final week on Rehab, the therapists worked him harder than usual. They knew that time was running out. He was exhausted after the sessions, too tired for school-work. He also became depressed, his progress was slowing, and his reason for being there was ebbing.

On the second day of that week, Rachel showed up at her usual time, books in one arm, and her bright red wool coat draped over the other. The last time he’d been outside, it had been too warm for a coat. Now it was well into autumn; he could hear a harsh wind howling outside the window. Her cheeks were red from the cold.

“Come on! Snap to it, Joshua! We have work to do. We don’t want you going back to school in a week being the dumbest kid in the class, do we?”

“I’m not dumb,” he reacted, too sullen to even get angry.

“I was just kidding.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I’m just not in the mood today.”

“That’s okay then, we don’t have to study. We can sit here and talk, or watch TV, or do whatever you want.”

“I want you to go.” Not very energetic, but resolute enough.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just wanna be alone.”

A tear fell from her eye. “Joshua, I know you…”

“Please,” he interrupted, “I just think you should leave.”

She stood up, and slowly gathered her coat and books, almost clumsily. She turned to him, gave him a rueful glance, and started to walk out.

“It’s probably best if you don’t come back.”

Saying nothing, she opened the door and slipped out. She broke into tears in the hallway, and ran toward the elevator. She wanted to turn back, go to him and make things better. Only, she knew she couldn’t.

He lay in bed, helpless, wishing he could get up, chase after her, grab her, hold her, and tell her he didn’t mean what he’d said, that he never wanted her to leave his side, that everything was going to be okay. But it wasn’t. He was going to be a cripple for the rest of his life, no good to anyone, always struggling just to get around. His days of chasing after anyone were over.

CHAPTER 25
 

Several weeks later, Rachel Weissman came home from school to find her parents at the kitchen table with another man. They were drinking tea and noshing on Hannah’s homemade honey cake. As soon as Rachel saw who their guest was, she understood why her mother had baked a cake for the occasion, and why her father had come home so early. She wanted to escape to her bedroom, but forced herself to be polite.

The man was Reb Nachum Blesofsky, one of the Lubavitcher community’s most prestigious, and most “expensive” matchmakers. All the young girls in the neighborhood revered him, and every parent tried to engage his services, but Reb Blesofsky’s talents were reserved strictly for those from the most scholarly or wealthy of families.

“Ah, Rucheleh,” Rabbi Weissman said heartily, “Come in, say
sholom
to Reb Blesofsky!”

“
Sholom
,” Rachel said, keeping herself from trembling.

“A beautiful young lady,” Reb Blesofsky said, as if confirming something that had been discussed earlier.

Rachel could just imagine what their conversation must have been. The thought of it disturbed her. She had conveniently forgotten that it was time for her to start “dating,” that many Hasidic girls her age were already betrothed. She wished she was little again, playing hopscotch on the sidewalk outside Esther’s house, a fantasy she had been having quite often these days.

What
has
happened
, she asked herself, thinking of the events of the past few months. Her life had become quite complex, far beyond her parents’, or even her own wildest dreams.

She looked at Reb Blesofsky, not knowing how to respond. He was a middle aged, tall, dark-bearded, well-tailored man, who projected authority with his every gesture.

He
is
going
to
ask
me
questions,
I
know
it
, Rachel mused.
He
is
going
to
interview
me,
to
determine
if
I
will
make
a
fitting
wife
for
one
of
his
scholars.
And
what
should
I
tell
him?
Should
I
lie
and
talk
about
food
recipes
and
stories
from
the
Talmud,
or
should
I
tell
him
the
truth,
that
I
want
to
go
to
college
and
medical
school,
that
I
enjoy
watching
half
naked
boys
playing
basketball,
and
that
my
heart
aches
over
Joshua,
a
black
boy
who
once
killed
a
man
and
used
to
work
cleaning
up
in
the
synagogue
?

“So tell me, Ruchel, what are your plans after you finish high school?”

“Well, I hope to attend
Bet
Rivka
, the women’s seminary, of course.” It sickened her to lie, but what choice did she have? She had planned to tell her parents of her true desires, but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. She just couldn’t break the news now, in front of one of the most influential men in the community, for she could never embarrass them that way.

“Ah, this is what I like to hear: a young woman who desires to continue her Torah study. It must be the influence of your scholarly father!” The two men exchanged smiles.

“Mama, I’m not feeling very well. I think I’m coming down with something. May I be excused to my room?”

Hannah searched Isaac for a response. He turned to his daughter, and said, “Of course, Rucheleh. Go lie down and your mother vill see you in a few minutes to check on you.”

Isaac turned to Reb Blesofsky and said, “I’m sorry, maybe another time?”

“It won’t be necessary,” the
shodchin
stated. “She is a wonderful, God fearing daughter of Israel. It would be an honor to find her a scholar of unmatched intellect.”

The rabbi and Hannah smiled at one another, then the two men shook hands as Blesofsky went on his way. The deal was struck, though no specifics had been mentioned. The rabbi wondered about that, but didn’t want to push. He figured that Blesofsky knew that the Weissmans lived modestly, and even a small wedding—to say nothing of a matchmaker’s fee—would be a hardship.

“So this scholar of unmatched intellect and character vill also have to be from a rich family,” the rabbi said to Hannah as they were clearing the table.

She laughed; he was always able to make her laugh.

Lying in her bed, Rachel thought of Joshua. It had been two months since she’d seen him. She had returned to the hospital once, after he’d asked her not to, but Doctor Schiffman had caught her in the hall, outside his room, and had advised against going in. Apparently, Joshua had shared some things with the doctor.

“You must understand, Rachel, that Joshua is going through a rough time right now, it would be best to give him some space,” the doctor had said.

Rachel hadn’t wanted to listen to Schiffman, even though the doctor made sense. “Do you think I can come back in a few days?”

“I believe that’s probably too soon. If you want the truth, I think you should wait for Joshua to contact you. I’m sure he will, when he’s ready.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“He will.” With that, Schiffman took Rachel by the arm and began leading her down the hall. “Come, we
do
have other patients to attend to.”

Rachel complied. She trusted Schiffman’s judgment. She knew that the doctor had been observing her and Joshua over the weeks, and wondered what Schiffman thought about them.

Rachel wasn’t sure why she needed the doctor’s approval. Perhaps because she knew she would never have anyone else’s, or maybe because Schiffman’s opinion mattered most. Either way, hearing those two simple words—
he
will
—had gone a long way toward lifting her spirits.

And now, two months later, still nothing from Joshua. So many times she had thought about contacting him. It wasn’t easy to defy Doctor Schiffman’s advice, to ignore the woman she idolized. But after seeing her parents with the
shodchin,
she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Despite her confusion and fear, having no idea what she wanted from Joshua or why she craved his presence, she would go to him tomorrow.

News travels quickly in the Hasidic world, so it wasn’t long before Paul Sims learned that the Weissmans had enlisted the services of Reb Nachum Blesofsky. Just two hours after the
shodchin
had left the Weissmans’ home, the yeshiva was charged with gossip.

“What do you think, Sims, will it be you?” one of his classmates jested, while several others stood around chuckling.

“Well, I can assure you, Novitsky, it
won’t
be you,” Paul responded.

It bothered him that his feelings for Rachel had become public knowledge, but it was his own fault. In his efforts to make friends, he had confided in one or two of the boys, believing his secret would be safe. He chided himself for not having known better, then quickly turned his attention to the more pressing issue of how to become
the
one
.

He considered talking to the rabbi directly, but deemed it a bad idea. He was certain that the rabbi had long known of his feelings for Rachel; thus, the hiring of Reb Blesofsky could only mean that the rabbi had already dismissed him as a prospect. It was a painful realization, but he wasn’t going to let it deter him. He would somehow convince Reb Blesofsky, and let the
shodchin
deal with the rabbi.

And that was what he set out to do.

It was a cold afternoon, overcast and gloomy. Paul waited on the corner of President Street and Kingston Avenue, within eyesight of Reb Blesofsky’s home. It was unusual for a
shodchin
to live in such an elaborate house, on the most affluent street in the neighborhood, but rumor had it that Blesofsky had married into money, an excellent way to gain credibility in his chosen profession.

Paul didn’t have much of a plan, and didn’t know whether Blesofsky was already in for the evening, on his way home, or on his way out. He also didn’t know if Blesofsky would give him the time of day. None of this mattered, however, for he was on the mission of his life and had to succeed.

He had considered requesting an appointment with the
shodchin
, but was certain he wouldn’t have gotten one. He was a nobody in the community. So here he was, standing in the frigid air, hoping to trap Blesofsky into talking to him. What he would ultimately accomplish by this, he had no idea.

Almost an hour passed. Paul began walking in little circles to keep from freezing. A few passersby gave him strange looks, but he didn’t care. He would remain there as long as necessary.

His determination eventually paid off, as the
shodchin
emerged from the house. He’d seen Blesofsky a few times in the yeshiva, and recognized him immediately, walking tall, marching down the path from the front door of the house to the sidewalk.

Paul’s anxiety heightened as Blesofsky walked toward him. It was now or never. He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his mind.

“Uh, excuse me, sir, are you Reb Blesofsky?”

“Pardon me?” The
shodchin
peered into Paul’s eyes.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Reb Blesofsky?”

“I think so.” He looked himself over to make sure. Humorous.

“I was wondering, sir, if I might just have a brief moment of your time?”

Blesofsky wore a curious expression that said,
Well,
get
on
with
it
!

“My name is Pinchus Sims…”

“Is this about arranging a match?” Blesofsky interrupted curtly. “I don’t deal with yeshiva students, only their parents. If you want something from me, your parents must phone my office for an appointment.
That
is how it is done.” He turned on his heel and began to walk away.

“But that’s impossible,” Paul asserted.

Blesofsky stopped, impatiently glanced at his watch, and decided to grant Paul a few more seconds.

“You see, my parents aren’t from around here.”

“I know that, otherwise I would have recognized your family name.”

“They’re not Lubavitchers.”

“What else is new?”

“They’re not even Hasidic,” Paul said, feeling humiliated.