Acts of Faith (47 page)

“So you’d like me to be your piece of string.” Although I said it lightly, I was genuinely touched.

“Look at it any way you want,” said Mr. Newman. “We’ve canvassed the members. If you could visit each of five towns on a different day of the week you’d just about cover all of us. We think we could afford to offer you twenty-five thousand a year—we might be able to stretch a little more, but not much. Of course we’d take care of your travel expenses.” He added diffidently, “Do you think you could manage on that?”

Little did he realize how momentous his words were to me. If they were asking me whether a modest salary would be adequate, then they knew nothing of my other life … my peculation. To them I was still pure. And the thought of leaving my sins behind me made his offer seem like a gift from Heaven.

“Dr. Harris,” I said softly, “I feel honored.”

There was a universal sigh of joyful relief. “Danny,” Mr. Newman said with emotion, “we’re all grateful. You can’t imagine what you’re doing.”

And I, for my part, was unable to say that
they
could not imagine what I was doing, either. They could never know that I had just discovered what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Not be a big rabbinical heavyweight, being bowed and scraped to. Or sit in judgment over other people’s behavior before I arrogated to myself the right to render a judicial verdict.

Nor bow before the golden calf, either.

The New Testament may not be my Bible, but I found it to contain some important thoughts. For example, “the love of money is the root of all evil.” This had all the more effect upon me since it comes from the First Epistle of Paul to Timothy, and the whole phrase concludes that while some have coveted it, “they have erred from the faith and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.”

As far as I was concerned, I had erred right back to the faith. For the simple reason that I felt needed.

I
t was early spring in the third year of Deborah’s ministry. She was conducting a seminar on the upcoming Passover festival when her secretary politely interrupted to say that Stanford Larkin, Eli’s headmaster, was on the telephone. At first she feared that her son had been hurt. She was right, but did not realize the nature of the injury. Mr. Larkin wanted to set up an appointment. She implored him to see her right away, and he agreed.

“He’s a really lively boy,” the headmaster began.

Herself a counselor, Deborah knew full well this was a euphemism for rowdy.

“He’s also extremely energetic.”

She knew this meant belligerent. She only wondered how far Eli had gone.

“In one sense, I have to admire his courage,” Larkin continued. “I mean, he’s not afraid to take on boys twice his size. The only problem, Rabbi, is that he’s always the one who starts the fights.”

The headmaster continued. “It’s been my experience that when children act like this they are calling to us, signaling for our attention.”

Consumed with guilt, Deborah nodded. “What do you suggest we do, Mr. Larkin?”

“Well, I’d strongly urge that Eli be evaluated by a child psychologist.”

Her heart fell, but Deborah managed to respond, “Yes, yes, you’re quite right. If there’s someone you can recommend …”

Larkin took a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to her. Written on it was the name Marco Wilding, Ph.D. Lest Deborah think the conversation could have ended otherwise, included at the bottom was the exact date and time Dr. Wilding had agreed to see her son.

After three one-hour sessions with Eli, the psychologist arranged a fourth with Deborah herself.

As Dr. Wilding leaned his forearms on his desk, emphasizing the muscular shoulders of the football lineman he had been in college, he pronounced a clinical, incisive diagnosis to a woman he was clearly at the same time sizing up. This did not make it any easier for Deborah to accept his opinion.

“You’ve got to get on his wavelength,” he began. “You still think of him as a kid, but even boys of nine are becoming aware of their gender. And psychologically at least, he’s on the horizon of manhood. Does that make sense, Deborah?”

“I think so, Doctor,” she replied in a tone intended as a subtle reprimand for his cavalier use of her first name.

“I mean, tell me,” the psychologist continued, “are there any men in his life?”

“He’s got my brother, Danny.”

“And how often does he see him?”

“Every few months. On vacations mostly.”

“Well that scarcely counts, wouldn’t you say? When Eli gets up in the morning there’s no one shaving in the bathroom. No one tossing a football with him on the weekends. No one showing him how to box—”

“He fights enough during the week, thank you,” Deborah interrupted coolly.

“Ah,” said Wilding, with a knowing smile. “That’s
precisely it, Deborah. He fights because nobody teaches him to box. Does that seem paradoxical?”

“No, Doctor,” Deborah confessed.

“How about you?” he inquired. “Are there no men in your life? I assume as a rabbi you would come into contact with many.”

“Yes. But precisely because I am a rabbi, the relationship has to be strictly pastoral. Do you get my point, Doctor?”

“Loud and clear,” he answered. “But don’t you think your problem’s quite germane?”

“My problem?”

“Deborah, you’re young, attractive—and unattached. I assure you—and I’m speaking now with total objectivity—that if you had a stable relationship, it would do wonders for your son. Now, when do you think you’ll be ready to remarry?”

Deborah was offended but inwardly she had to concede that the question was legitimate. She replied with quiet candor, “Never. I don’t intend to.”

“What makes you so adamant?”

“
That
is none of your business. Now, if you’ll stop grinning at me like a toothpaste commercial and tell me what I can do to help my son, I’ll leave and let you upset your other parents. By the way, are you as blunt as this with the fathers?”

“Absolutely.” Wilding smiled. “And you’d be amazed how passively they take it. You’ve got a lot of spunk, Deborah. If you’re as brave as you’re coming on now, you’ll do what’s right for the kid.”

“And what in your opinion is ‘right’?”

Wilding looked her in the eye and said two words: “Military school.”

“What?”

“All right, call me a fascist reactionary. But Eli needs discipline. And yes, call me a sexist—but he needs some paradigms of masculinity to emulate.”

“Oh, come on, Doctor. Can you actually see my son
marching around in a uniform saluting people all day long?”

“Yes,” the psychologist answered, pounding his desk for emphasis. “And I can see it doing him a world of good. Of course, if you object to that much regimentation, there are always the traditional boarding schools—”

Deborah could tolerate no more.

“You’re bent on taking him away from me, aren’t you?”

“I’m just trying to help him, Deborah,” Wilding replied with the first hint of compassion he had displayed that afternoon. “And I’m telling you what I believe he needs.”

“Then perhaps you can give me one alternative that doesn’t get me out of the picture.”

Marco Wilding rested his square jaw in his hand, reflected for a moment, and then spoke. “Okay, I should’ve thought of this before.…”

“Yes?” Deborah asked impatiently.

“Your kibbutz—he loves it there. He lives for the summers and dies at the thought of having to leave. Have you ever thought of going back with him permanently?”

“You mean just give up everything—my job, all my responsibilities?”

Suddenly Dr. Wilding’s face grew somber. He looked the mother of his patient squarely in the eye.

“I would think your first responsibility would be your son. And that, Ms. Luria, is all I have to say.”

For once her brother refused to discuss it with her.

“But, Danny, you’re the only friend I have. Just put yourself in my place for a minute. What would you do?”

“I’d go right out and marry the first remotely eligible girl I could find.”

“You’re not serious. You mean ‘love’ wouldn’t come into it?”

“Listen,” he retorted. “I’d do it out of love for my
kid.
In fact, I’d do it if you wanted Eli to live with me. You know, so much of my unofficial rabbinical counseling involves
screwed-up parents with screwed-up kids. I’m convinced that a spouse can survive almost anything—but a child can’t.”

Just then the doorbell rang. They made a date for another chat at ten that evening, and Deborah rushed to the door.

There were two people there. But at first Deborah did not even notice Jerry Phillips, Eli’s Phys. Ed. teacher. All she could see was the blood smeared over her son’s small face.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped. “Eli, what’s happened to you?”

The boy lowered his head. The explanation was left up to Jerry.

“He’s okay, Rabbi. Just a bloody nose that’ll clear up with a good wash. Unfortunately it’s the other fellow, Victor Davis.…”

Oh, God, Deborah thought to herself, and a congregant, too.

“He started it!” Eli interrupted in angry self-defense.

Ignoring him, Deborah asked the teacher, “What exactly happened?”

“Before I could separate them, Eli decked the Davis boy, and Vic kind of hit his head on the wooden floor.”

“Is he okay?”

“Let’s hope so,” Phillips answered uneasily. “He’s at Middlesex Hospital being X-rayed right now. Which reminds me, I promised to meet the parents there.” He looked awkward and embarrassed. “I … I’m really sorry about this, Rabbi,” he mumbled.

“Please, Mr. Phillips,” she replied uncomfortably. “Thank you for understanding,” she said, adding, “And thank you for driving him home.”

Deborah closed the door, looked at Eli, and shouted, “You should be ashamed of yourself!”

But the boy persisted in his self-defense. “Mom, I swear he started it. He kept elbowing me in the neck.”

For an instant, Deborah tried to visualize the scene
and realized that Eli’s antagonist must have been considerably taller. Still, bravery was no excuse for pugnacity.

“All right, let’s get in the bathroom and clean you up.”

As she rubbed her son’s cheeks with a cold cloth she could feel him wince. Whatever the outcome, he had obviously taken several hard blows and was manfully trying to disguise his pain. It was all she could do to keep from hugging him.

Ten minutes after she had sent Eli to his room to finish his homework, the phone rang. It was Mr. Davis.

To Deborah’s anxious query regarding his son’s condition, he growled only that there was no concussion but “it could have been a heck of a lot worse.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Deborah offered.

“Sorry?”
Mr. Davis answered. “I would think you’d feel ashamed. That’s no way for a rabbi’s son to behave.”

She wanted to interject that most nine-year-old boys are prone to aggressiveness—regardless of their parent’s occupation. “The horizon of manhood,” as the good Dr. Wilding put it.

“I mean, really, Rabbi,” he continued his harangue, “you should be setting an example in this community. It’s disgraceful that my so-called spiritual leader’s kid acts like a hooligan. I’m warning you, if I ever see your boy at basketball again, I’m resigning from the Temple.”

Seething, Deborah could manage just one final burst of civility.

“I’m grateful to know your position, Mr. Davis,” she answered coolly. “Good night.”

She put the phone down, buried her face in her hands, and tried to think clearly. If young Davis was anything like his father, it was no wonder Eli had belted him.

She went up to his room. Light still shone under his door.

She knocked softly. There was no reply. She slowly opened the door and saw her son curled up under the blankets, fast asleep. His reading light was still on.

Some instinct made her glance at his bookshelves, and she instantly realized that something was different.

Everywhere they went Eli carried with him, as a kind of holy icon, a framed photograph of his “father” standing proudly by a Phantom jet, the Star of David clearly visible on its side. He always placed it near his bed so he could see it before going to sleep. This was perhaps the most painful of all the lies she had been a party to. Every night when he said his prayers Eli would always conclude with, “Good night, Mama,” and then add in Hebrew, “Good night,
Abba.
”

Suddenly, it struck her what was wrong: The frame was empty. What had he done with the picture? Some irrational fantasy made her first think he had somehow discovered the truth and torn the photograph into a million pieces.

Yet a closer look at her sleeping son revealed where the photo now was—in Eli’s embrace.

She had all she could do to restrain her tears as she leaned down, gently brushed aside a lock of blond hair, and kissed his forehead. Then, turning out the light and closing his door, she went downstairs to make the most important phone call of her life.

At breakfast she tried to restrain her emotions so the subject would come up naturally. Though she avoided all mention of the previous day’s brawl, Eli was nonetheless sullen and withdrawn. She sat down across from him, took a sip of coffee, and opened the conversation.

“Eli, do you like it here?”

“What do you mean by ‘here’?”

“I don’t know, Connecticut, your school—just ‘here’ in general.”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied blandly. “I mean, it’s okay.” He studied his mother’s face to decipher her intentions. “How about you, Mom, do you like it?”

Ah, that was a tough one. She had prepared no text for this.

“To be honest, Eli, I’d be happy except that something tells me you’re not.”

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied defensively. “Why don’t you say what you want to say?”

“Well.” Deborah hesitated, trying not to betray emotion. “Sometimes I miss the kibbutz, don’t you?”

“We go there in the summer, so how could I miss it?”

“You could miss it in the winter,” his mother suggested. And then asked, “Do you?”

The little boy paused. “Sometimes …,” he confessed in a whisper.