Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
S leep hadn’t come easy, not when Leah was hyper-aware of Avi in the bunk below. She lay as still as she could, listening for any signs of steady, even breathing to indicate he’d finally fallen asleep. And let their version of the parable roll around in her head until it barely made any sense to her. She still couldn’t believe she would still be boarding the boat tomorrow, now as Avi’s guest.
But something about Avi’s sacrifice…
She must’ve drifted off at some point, because the next thing she knew, light was streaming in. She carefully made her way down the bunk bed ladder to find the room clear of all traces of their Latkepalooza after-party last night.
Avi slipped back into the room, her traveler mug from the car in his hand and a huge chunk of challah slathered with sweet, rich sunflower butter. “I’ll go put our stuff in the car while you change.”
Leah gratefully took a sip of the coffee to get her moving. Sarit had added cinnamon to the grounds before brewing, and combined with a bite of the open-faced sandwich, it was heavenly. She quickly dressed and slipped out, leaving the Mahjong set, the one she’d styled with yoga and mindfulness as the motif, on the counter with a Post-It note for Serit.
Avi had pulled the car around, Bertha’s windows all scraped of last night’s ice. Leah hopped in, only to find Avi – snacking on a piece of rugelach, with her phone cradled in its holder and already cued up. Not with music this time – her audiobook, where she had paused it on a particularly racy chapter.
“Avi!”
“Who knew dragons could be so smutty?”
She laughed, no longer even bashful about her reading preference. They had apparently reached the stage where he knew her phone passcode. And where it felt totally normal to be sharing sips of coffee from her big stainless steel mug as he cruised toward the highway. And bites of challah, once she had safely stowed the rugelach tin out of his reach. At this point, there’d be none left to board the Baller with.
The day was bright and sunny as they maneuvered the winding roads of Route 17, way more picturesque than Route 81. But, Leah knew, it was not the fastest route to the city. “Was the other way still closed?”
Avi shook his head. “One last stop before the city.”
They’d gotten an early start, so Leah sat back; eager and excited to see what Avi had in store for the morning.
A little over an hour later, a wooden sign came into view, announcing their destination. Her eyes widened, and she felt a sudden surge of happy tears well.
“Slow down, slow down! Pull over!”
Avi obeyed, driving into the breakdown lane and parking with his hazards on, so she could snap a photo.
Welcome to Jacobsdale, NY, founded 1798
Population 4,104
“Town of Painted Doors”
“Avi!” Leah’s voice was incredulous. “Has that always been the town’s motto?”
It had never occurred to her. His band name, and another one of the countless quirks their hometown enclave was known for. It was probably written in the town’s 1798 by-laws: thou shalt paint thy door a contrasting but complementary color to thy neighbor’s.
“The sign is new, but…yeah? I think so.”
“Is that why you named the band Painted Doors?”
“I’ve always equated painted doors with protection. I can’t tell you how many Passover seders I suffered through, staring at the Haggadah and wishing for some lamb’s blood for myself.”
For protection. Leah hadn’t ever imagined this version of Avi growing up. Now, he stared at the sign, lost in memories.
She turned and pulled out the tin. It already felt lighter than it did last night. Barely any left. But…sometimes there had to be sacrifices. “Rugelach for your thoughts?”
It had worked in Niagara Falls.
She held it up. She didn’t care if he emptied the entire thing. She knew this was a big one.
He chose a piece and ate it before speaking. “I could sing the Four Questions like an angel. Learned the melody by ear and the Mah Nishtanah part phonetically. My dad was all smiles then. But when I couldn’t read the part aloud about Four Sons – I got no dinner. He seemed to care more about my voice than he cared for me.”
Leah’s heart broke a little, holding the tin between them.
“Of course, once I started studying with your dad, I was no longer called the Simple One. Worse. I became the Wicked Son. Refusing to use my ‘gift’ the way my dad thought I should, out of spite. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, become a cantor. Threatened to disown me. Your dad went to bat for me, sponsored me.” He smiled at the memory. “He and my aunt Miri put me on that plane. To Israel. For that Year Course. Which changed the course of my life.”
Leah was stunned. Avi put the lid on the tin and pressed it down firmly, as if closing that chapter.
“After that, I didn’t let him get in my head. Even after Miri died. By then, I had my Jew Crew. I lived in Paris and studied music for a time. Met Vic there. I had songwriting and the beginnings of a band. I named it Painted Doors. I held him at a polite distance. Visited him here and there, between touring the world. I’ve got the Grammy now, not him. I know who I am, and it’s none of those things he’d said. Thanks in part to your dad.” He smiled. “Come on. I want to tour Jacobsdale and see it through your eyes.”
Driving through their childhood suburb was like walking through a dream. Everything the same, yet…different. Smaller? No, she was just bigger. Avi swung Bertha up a main road, hung a right onto a residential avenue, and then turned left up a terrace – the tiny street she’d grown up on.
Of course he remembered the way, too.
Clouds had replaced the earlier sun, and a cold drizzle began to fall as they sat in the car by the curb.
There was the small house, dark brown brick. Its door, still a cheery, cherry red. Next to her, Avi hummed the Rolling Stones’ “Paint It, Black.”
“That window up on the left was your dad’s study,” he murmured.
“I used to stand outside the door,” she confessed. “Listening to you every Wednesday.”
Avi rubbed the bridge of his nose, clearly embarrassed. “Listening to my voice crack?”
“Yeah, that was pretty funny. But then you’d reach past it…” She stared up at the slate roof, its tiles slick from the rain. “And your voice would just…soar.”
She understood now why her father had championed Avi and was willing to risk those long-held personal and professional ties. She was glad Avi had had her father’s ear.
Leah was quiet as they drove through downtown on their way back to the interstate. Avi could only imagine the rollercoaster of emotions seeing her old house had sparked.
He had always been so envious of the stability of her family, of the support system she and her siblings had had as they moved through life in Jacobsdale so assured. Now, knowing what he knew of the aftermath – having to pivot and adjust to a new normal in Ohio…
Sure, people endured worse. But he could only really speak of his own experience – he had escaped the shame and pain of his childhood, the shadow of his father. He had held no nostalgia for this town, no tug pulling him toward the “What Ifs” like Leah had felt.
Until he’d seen it through her eyes.
“You okay?”
She kept her gaze on the road, only flicking them to glance in the rearview. “That van has been following us. Since we turned onto Hudson Avenue.”
Avi’s stomach lurched. “What if you turn down the alley by the bakery?” He suggested now. “Or wait…the bank parking lot will take you through – ”
The van began flashing its high beams. Leah’s knuckles tightened to white on Bertha’s steering wheel. “There’s the police station. I’m pulling in. Let’s see if they pass.”
Not only didn’t the van pass, but it began tooting its horn before swinging into the adjacent diagonal parking space. A man hopped out of the van’s front passenger seat into the rain, gesticulating excitedly. The large hood from his winter coat partially obscured his eyes. His mouth, moving a mile a minute. Avi wasn’t the best lipreader, but it appeared the guy was talking about… hamentashen?
Leah rolled down her window.
“Sorry to startle you, but – by any chance…” The stranger peered into the car. “Are you Jewish?”
Leah’s hand immediately flew to her throat. Her coat was buttoned to her neck, but her first thought must’ve been Miri’s necklace.
A surge of protectiveness propelled Avi to lean closer. “Why do you ask?” he demanded.
“Your bumper sticker,” the guy exclaimed.
“Were you…honking for… Hamentashen ?”
Leah’s incredulous tone had the man throwing his head back in laughter, so far that his hood slipped down. He turned to point to a red kippah, fastened to his thick, wavy hair.
“Member of the tribe, here! We are the Minivan Minyan. Well, part of it, anyway. We’re down a few guys today.” He hopped on his tiptoes in the cold. “We volunteer in the community – you know, shiva calls, Kaddish…the happy stuff too. We recently did the Seven Blessings for a couple that eloped, right next door at City Hall. So…favor to ask.”
The man took a deep breath, expelling a frosty cloud. “If you are indeed Jewish, can you do us a solid? One of our own, Phil…it’s his wife’s Yahrzeit . He’s waiting on us…but we need a tenth.”
Avi opened his mouth, about to explain they were on a tight deadline. Every excuse, built-in or otherwise, flashed through his mind. But the imploring look Leah shot him…along with the slightest tug of her lip and brow upwards…
Kismet or bust .
“Sure thing.”
“Great! It’ll take twenty minutes, tops. Follow us!”
Of all things to waylay them…and all due to Cantor Joel’s version of a joke on a bumper sticker.
“Maybe you should’ve just offered him some rugelach and he would’ve been on his way.” Avi joked.
“Avi!” Leah admonished, slapping at his knee. “You’re doing a mitzvah. It’s a good thing.”
“ Me? How do we know they weren’t asking you ?”
They both stared at each other for a beat, before turning their gaze to the Minyan minivan. The thought must’ve occurred to them at the same time, causing uneasy laughter.
“We have no idea which temple they are leading us to.”
The temple in town where Leah’s dad had presided as cantor absolutely counted women as part of the required quorum of ten worshippers for prayer.
The other temple was still led by his father.
Rabbis had come and gone at Congregation Emeth over the years, but Hazzan Wolfson remained the draw there, the star power. Avi hadn’t stepped foot inside since before Israel.
Two more left turns, and they’d know. Kismet? Or karma?
Leah’s hand found Avi’s knee again; not in a stinging reprimand, but rather a gentle squeeze. They drove in silence.
The massive parking lot of his childhood synagogue contained two other vehicles. A path had been shoveled in the snow, the sidewalk salted with care.
The posse of passengers streamed out. Young, old, short, tall. Kippahs all colors of the rainbow. Umbrellas sprouting. They greeted Avi with handshakes, pats on the back. No one commented on his choice of fur outerwear. Then again, some of these guys were pretty old country, possibly one step removed from donning a shtreimel . One noticed Leah, hanging back.
“Young lady, it’s too cold to stay outside. You are welcome.”
“I, um…it’s just not my custom to recite Kaddish yet…my parents are still alive.”
“It’s all good.” Red Kippah offered her his arm. “We’re even playing a bit loose and early with the prayer time… Mincha during Hanukkah, with the rabbi out sick with the flu, on top of a polar vortex?” He shrugged his shoulders with a sheepish chuckle. “Being here for Phil is the main thing.”
Her smile lit up the dreary day. “I agree.”
Inside smelled exactly as Avi remembered as a kid. Pine cleaner, polished wood, and just a hint of spice and smoke from last week’s Havdalah service. Or perhaps years of Havdalah, steeped into the carpeting leading up to the bimah .
He steeled himself in preparation for who might be waiting, up on that bimah . What were the chances of his father not even recognizing him? The longer hair, the tattoos creeping out of his sleeves and collar?
Leah took their wet coats to hang, and Avi followed Red Kippah. Two men eagerly greeted them in the lobby, prayer books in hand. It was easy to distinguish between the bereaved, and the staff member. The latter introduced himself, adding: “I’m the temple president. Hebrew name?”
Avi reached for a tallis from the wooden rack by the sanctuary door. Muscle memory. There were always spares of the white and blue prayer shawls for visitors and for those who did not possess, or simply forgot to bring, their own.
“Avigdor Meir ben Yosef.”
The words held their own strong memory. Approaching the bimah as a bar mitzvah, being called for various aliyot over the years, in temples far from here.
The hushed chatter among the group died away. The older men in the group may have remembered him as a boy, for all he knew. The younger men, maybe just had heard the talk. He doubted his celebrity status even factored into it.
Everyone knew who the real rock star was here.
And Avi was on his turf.