Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 6 of a new online serial novel, If Anyone Is Listening, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications.
“Even after I got out of the taxi, it was above me the whole time, circling in the air like an annoying little drone.” Shimmy swung back on the metal legs of the kitchen chair. “You know what it reminded me of, Mommy? That little baby duck that stuck to me when I was little, in Lakewood. Remember how it ran to me every time we went for a walk near the lake?”
“Sure, because you gave it food all the time. Did you give this bat anything?”
“He took by himself,” Shimmy said in a joking tone, as he sipped from the coffee his mother had placed before him.
“Maybe it really was that duck from Lakewood!” His mother laughed. “What color was it?”
“It was not a duck,” Shimmy said. “It was clearly a bat, with a very mousy face, and wings. Did you ever realize that bats know how to smile?”
“No. And whatever the case is, it’s a really strange story.”
“Right. The main thing is that at one point, before I entered the terminal, it just disappeared—baruch Hashem!” Shimmy yawned. “Thanks, Mommy. This coffee is great.”
“Good, I’m glad. And it’s so nice that you popped in! We haven’t see you in so long. Even though when I hear Tatty, it sometimes really reminds me of you. Tell me, did Batya enjoy herself here on Shabbos?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Because after Havdalah, I ran to work at the store. I had no time to pack her up a few things from Shabbos, and the girls didn’t think to do it. And Rubinson showed up for one of his routine visits to Tatty…”
“Yes, she told me. It’s fine—she wasn’t offended,” her son said as he broke off a piece of a cookie from the plate. “What did Rubinson want?”
“Tatty didn’t tell me. He probably had a few more comments and new decisions. How much of a fuss can you make about such a small shiur network? I asked Gita and she told me that she personally has never heard of this hotline, and of all her friends in Brooklyn, only one told her that she was subscribed to some kind of shiur and was enjoying it. But then it turned out that she didn’t remember the name of the hotline, so it’s not even clear if this is the one.”
“Jewish America is very big,” Shimmy murmured as he glanced at the newspaper folded under his elbow. “And there’s plenty of room there for lots of shiurim and lectures and whatnot. The main thing is that Tatty feels—” He fell silent. There are some things better left unsaid. Like: The main thing is that Tatty feels meaningful. That’s a sentiment that is unpleasant to think about, but sometimes thoughts come up without permission.
Zahava, his mother, listened to a faint sound from the entrance. “Sounds like Tatty is coming in now for his lunch break,” she said. “He’ll be happy to see you.”
“Hi, Tatty,” Shimmy said when his father’s shadow fell upon him from the doorway of the kitchen. “How are you?”
“Baruch Hashem, great. Good to see you again, Shimmy! How was it?”
“In general, really fine.”
“And in particular?”
“Also good, baruch Hashem, besides for this irritating bat that came into my hotel room. But it doesn’t matter—I’m back already.”
“A bat?” He limped into the kitchen, looking upward. “I see the electricity is making problems.”
“Yes, it’s blinking a lot and really bothering my eyes,” Zahava said, glancing up at the light fixture too. “But don’t call the electrician you called last time; he was clueless. Ask for recommendations for someone else.”
“I’ll ask in kollel, bli neder,” Yaakov Shlomo said. He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of cold water. “Someone who heard one of my shiurim two weeks ago claimed that maybe it’s worthwhile for all of us to live without electricity.”
“Without electricity?” She chuckled. “What’s the idea to live without electricity?”
“I brought up the subject of the trivialities of This World, and the needless pursuit of materialism. I think that this listener is not exactly a shomer Torah u’mitzvos, really not our type. But he seemed very interested in the lecture anyway.”
“How can people respond to your shiurim?” Shimmy asked. “They announce themselves in the middle while you’re speaking?”
“No, it’s not a live shiur—it’s a recording. But if someone has questions, Rubinson faxes them to me afterward, and I try to send answers, or to address the question in my next lesson.”
“Faxes?!” Shimmy laughed. “Wouldn’t it be easier to work with a computer and email, Tatty?”
“After I spoke about the trivialities of This World and the pursuit of materialism?” Yaakov Shlomo laughed and screwed the cap back onto the bottle. “No, Shimmy. It’s easier for me this way. I don’t think I’ll ever learn how to use a computer.”
Shimmy suddenly looked at him. “Does your leg hurt you right now, Tatty? You’re walking a bit differently than usual.”
“Depends which ‘usual’ you are referring to.”
His son felt a bit uneasy. “Usual for you.”
“I didn’t notice that my limp is more pronounced now,” Yaakov Shlomo replied, taking a seat. “In general I do feel in the past few months that my leg is stiffer, but I didn’t think it’s something anyone else would notice.”
“I didn’t notice anything,” his wife interjected. “You need to go to the doctor, Yaakov Shlomo!”
“Oh, I went. And he sent me for a CT. The one I did two weeks ago.”
“Oh, that CT? It was because of that?”
“Yes, I didn’t want to worry you for no reason. And you see, baruch Hashem, everything is fine.”
“If everything is fine,” Shimmy said, “then why—”
“Why isn’t everything really fine? It seems like it’s just a progressive deterioration as I age.”
There was silence. “That’s a troubling word,” his wife objected. “Are you sure? And maybe Shimmy is imagining things?”
“He’s probably not imagining it,” Yaakov Shlomo said, and didn’t ask if the “troubling word” she was referring to was “deterioration” or “age.”
“He’s always noticed small details, right? Since he’s been a little boy. Also, don’t forget, you see me all the time—you couldn’t have noticed such a small change. He, on the other hand, hasn’t seen me for three months already.” He smiled and added, “But at least we spoke a bit by phone, right, son?”
“Right,” Shimmy said, and concentrated mightily as he took a sip from his remaining half a cup of coffee. How many times had he called his father these past few months? Maybe six. And two of those times had been because he wanted a loan.
***
“Her mother suggested that we come to them after the hospital for a few days,” Yudi updates me on the phone three days later. “They have three floors and tons of room. We’re always there for Shabbos. But I want us to go home to our house, because I’m getting sick of it already. Ruchi also agreed, so we’re packing up her things soon and we’ll go to our house.”
“Wonderful,” I say. But I’m not sure how wonderful it is. It’s wonderful that my son wants his independence and his privacy, and also knows how to express what he wants clearly. The less wonderful part is the fact that I’m picking up from conversation to conversation how complex this whole situation is. Maybe Yudi really can’t manage on his own?
Not because of his disabilities. Because of her disabilities.
“Her sisters brought two huge balloons yesterday that say refuah sheleimah. I think we’ll go find some other Jewish patients here and give the balloons to them, because how are we going to schlep such things home? They’re big and puffy.”
“Maybe ask Ruchi’s father to help you schlep your stuff.”
“Yes, he’ll come soon and bring us home. I think we’ll manage in our own house. Maybe I’ll learn to fold laundry.” He sighs. “That just may be my purpose in life right now.”
I laugh. “Nice, Yudi!”
“But I’m not sure it will be necessary,” he hurries to add, “because now Ruchi’s aide will come for more hours. I’m not excited about that, but I think there’s no choice.”
Despite myself, I smile. He learned that expression—“I’m not excited about it”—from me, apparently. Today I use it less, but there was a time, years ago, that for some reason, it got into my lexicon and got stuck there, until one of my sisters pointed it out to me.
“You’re anyway not the ‘excited’ type,” she said. “It takes you time to discover the beauty in things. So when you say this line all the time, it sounds really awful.”
I actually had been excited about the shidduch with Ruchi, from the start, for a change, more than all the other suggestions that had preceded it. The shadchante promised that it was a very quality family (which is true), and an impressive girl, easygoing, well-liked, on the ball… My inquiries confirmed that this was true, but the fact that they lived across the ocean made it all difficult. No, I did not pick up on the obvious differences between her and Yudi, and in my two meetings with her, she made a very pleasant impression, and seemed capable, while her disabilities had seemed so mild and insignificant. And while it usually does take me time to discover the beauty in things, with this shidduch I felt that I was discovering it right away, and I was thrilled.
My feelings held until the vort—seven minutes after we arrived. Ruchi shrieked with too much excitement at the sight of the floral arrangement we’d sent, and that was just the beginning. Then she’d gotten teary and cried a bit when her boss from her office didn’t come; had the boss been told about it in time? Had she been offended? And to top it off, Ruchi kept complaining that one of her shoes was too tight, and toward the end she took it off and left it off, until one of her sisters got hold of some slippers for her.
In the beautiful album that we’d received from the mechutanim a week and a half after the vort, there is no sign of any of the drama. In the family pictures taken at the end, only faces are visible, without feet at all.
But the Katz family cannot select our real memories for us, and decide to just send us the nice parts and omit the others.
Honestly? That’s a shame.
***Does anyone hear me? Whoever just recites without thinking, “A person seeks meaning,” doesn’t know what he is saying. It’s true that every person, even the one who is far away, looks for meaning. And it is true that there is no one in the world who has discovered meaning to his life by eating another slice of pizza, or by taking a walk in the sunset, but it’s not only that. It’s much more. Real meaning in life is something much deeper, something internal, and that’s what I want to talk about today.
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