Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
S eeing Avi back in tallit and a yarmulke was like a weird flashback, but Leah was most struck by his eyes, which seemed to pitch a shade darker. Pupils expanding, taking everything in. The wide, serious eyes of a little boy.
“Seven from the van, and two inside,” she whispered at Avi’s side. “They wouldn’t have needed a tenth if your dad was here.”
He squeezed her hand gratefully, only letting it go when one of the men thrust a siddur at him. “Let’s rock and roll.”
Leah quickly grabbed a lacy head-covering from the basket next to the prayer books and bobby-pinned the doily haphazardly to her hair as she followed the men into the sanctuary.
Not many had made it out in the extreme weather. There were a few other women present, some with small children. Phil’s children or grandchildren, perhaps. Leah slid onto a bench behind them, keeping her eyes on Avi.
In his hoodie and tats. Davening next to a man in a suit on one side, a guy in New York Yankees jacket on the other. Their lips moving in unison from one prayer to another.
Mourner’s Kaddish, when it began, made her eyes flood with tears as it always did. It was easy to spot the widower in the group. Although younger, Phil had the same look in his eyes as Mr. Horowitz did. Shell-shocked and lost.
All those around her stood. Some reciting along, some not. In her temple, it was custom to silently sit through, had you not lost a parent, a spouse, a sibling, a child.
Someday soon, possibly in the nearer future than expected, Leah knew she’d be saying this same prayer for her dad. The realization brought her to her feet, and she quietly slipped out of the sanctuary, closing the door behind her.
She found the ladies’ room, splashed cold water on her face, and wandered back out in the hall.
“Leah Gellman? Is that you?”
A woman had exited the temple office, papers in hand. Leah recognized her instantly: Mrs. Tannenbaum, who always joked about being Jewish with a name that meant Christmas Tree, had been the part-time office administrator for Anshe Shalom since forever. Leah never given much thought to what the woman did with the rest of her time, but perhaps she spent an equal amount working in the office here at Congregation Emeth – the Switzerland of clerical workers.
“What a treat to see you! How is your father? Oh shoot, sorry – ” She held a manicured finger up to take a call. “Any luck? Shoot. I guess I’ll call the bakery to see if they can run something over. Short notice though.”
“Sorry. The rabbi’s wife promised to bake for tonight’s oneg, but their entire family is sick. I’ve got the challah already, the bakery donates. But I hate to bother them so last minute for anything else. I guess we can go without, it’s going to be a small group, what with this cold weather.”
Leah touched the tin in her bag. “You’re in luck, Mrs. T.”
There was still a perfect single layer of pastry, maybe a dozen or so pieces, under the parchment paper. And when she uncovered it, the woman’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? Will you stay for service?”
Leah shook her head. “We’re due in the city soon.”
“At least let me list you in the printed program!”
Providing a dozen two-day-old rugelach was hardly like sponsoring an oneg , but an idea came to mind. “You can list Avi Wolfson and Leah Gellman.”
With a smile and a nod, Mrs. T. squeezed Leah’s shoulder in thanks.
“Letty.”
She turned at her nickname, falling into Avi’s orbit. He stood before her, sans kippah and prayer shawl.
“Leah Tova, tell me you didn’t.”
She turned in the direction he was looking, into the social hall where Mrs. Tannenbaum had taken the unmistakable tin.
“They needed homemade sweets for tonight’s oneg .” She giggled. “The look on your face! I can bake you some more, you know.”
“Me? I was thinking about Doctor Perfect.”
“About that.” She bit her top lip, voice softening as she braved his gaze. Her stomach fluttered and for a moment, she wasn’t sure how to say it. “The doctor actually took himself off the bucket list. The other day. But we –” She hesitated, the words tangling in her throat. “You…”
The attraction had been growing, the longer she was in his presence. His kindness, his generosity, his openness. His strength and bravery. Not to mention – he had picked up some of the soul-traits from Mussar class. Patience. Compassion. Humility, as much as a musician of his caliber could be humble.
Avi Wolfson was like the Jewish doctor of rock stars. He’d been unknowingly checking all her boxes, all along the trip.
Slowly he reached up, unpinning the lace from her hair. Running those long, tapered fingers through her rain-damp hair to push it away from her cheeks. Adding gentle to her list. His eyes searched hers, and their quiet intensity send a shiver through her. When she opened her mouth to continue, he shook his head to silence her.
“Let’s get out of here.”
They skirted past the small crowd now chattering about where to eat and who was driving. Phil gave them a small smile, and Red Kippah waved in thanks.
Avi grabbed their coats, fishing the keys to Bertha from her pocket. “My turn.”
It was evident, as they sped up the hill away from the temple and in the opposite direction of the interstate, that Avi was talking about more than just driving.
He pulled into the long driveway of a white Colonial, black shutters on its many windows and a lemon yellow door.
“You showed me yours. I wanna show you mine.”
“Are you sure we should?” Leah glanced anxiously toward the neighboring houses.
Avi fished the spare key out of the flowerbox in the window closest to the door. “My dad and stepmom are at her daughter’s in Arizona for the holiday.”
According to the minyan making small talk on the bimah after the service, Hazzan Wolfson and wife went every Hanukkah for the last four years. Since Avi hadn’t spoken much to his father in the last seven, this was news to him.
“When did your dad remarry?” Leah asked, holding the storm door open for him.
“About eight years now? She was widowed too, three grown kids.” Perfectly nice, but he didn’t feel the need for a “forced family,” not when he had his found family to sustain him.
A whooping blare greeted them. “Shit, I forgot about the alarm!”
Panic zipped through him, causing his fingers to shake as he punched in his mother’s four-digit birth year. “He always used – ” Shit, he’d changed it? He tried 1969 again, but the blaring did not stop.
“Try an anniversary?” Leah hollered above the din. “Your birthday?”
“My dad could never remember an anniversary. And my birth probably isn’t something he wants to remember.”
He pictured the alarm company calling Arizona, the cop cars descending. Breaking and entering being added to his list of transgressions. Out of sheer desperation, he punched in his birthday, and the blessed silence that followed was practically deafening.
“Huh.”
“Huh,” Leah mocked, carefully removing her boots and setting them aside. Avi did the same, and they crept into his childhood home.
He tried to see the place through Leah’s eyes, imagining someone’s first time here. In some ways, it wasn’t hard. He didn’t recognize the new family room furniture, the fancy kitchen appliances – kosher houses often had two dishwashers, two ranges. These were top of the line. Other things hadn’t changed – the Judaica in the china cabinet, the bookshelves crammed to bursting, his father’s marble chess board, all set for a match.
Leah bit her lip. “Can I see your room?”
They made their way upstairs. To his shock, it was exactly how he had left it, untouched, all those years ago. Well, cleaner and neater. But the rock posters, stacks of records. Leah walked in, turning in circles.
“If I close my eyes… I can almost smell your Axe body spray.”
“Very funny, Gellman.” He opened his closet, feeling like a game show contestant. What’s behind door number one? Avi Wolfson’s teenage dirtbag wardrobe! Sure enough, his rock Ts, his sneaker collection, even the suit he wore to Miri’s funeral.
“Since the boat runs on ‘diesel,’ shouldn’t I wear the jeans?” Avi held up some sort of tight acid-washed Y2K-styled pair, laughing.
“First the alarm code, now this time capsule?” Leah said, all joking aside. “I think your dad is a bit more sentimental than you know.”
Your dad would be so proud.
Those had been Phil’s words, the widower. After they had said their final amen.
“I think,” Avi blew out a breath. Swallowed hard. “I think it’s all my stepmom. Wouldn’t be surprised if she charged fans admission to the shrine.”
“Let’s see the rest of the house.”