The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (19 page)

 

 

Yale wondered what Cynthia might have said. He decided to be truthful.
"I hope to go to Columbia," Yale said. "I am not interested in business.
I would enjoy teaching. Cynthia and I hope to be married a year from
now with your blessing, Mr. Carnell."

 

 

Aunt Adar gasped. She started to sob.

 

 

"Hush, Adar," Dave said. "This is no surprise. All that Cynthia has talked
about for two years is this young man. Now at least we have no more secrets.
We know what they are planning." He chewed thoughtfully for a minute.
"A year is a long time. I won't say I approve or disapprove. If my daughter
cares for you and you care for her, sometime soon we should meet your
family. There are many things for families to discuss."

 

 

Yale tried to conceal his dismay. Of course, he thought, the normal
thing was that Pat and Liz and Barbara would meet Dave and Aunt Adar
and Lennie and Michael. He had a vision of Pat, towering, red-faced,
examining this hard-fibred rock of a man, Dave Carnell. The immovable
force and the irresistible object, for sure. Between them Cynthia and
Yale reduced to ashes in the explosion.

 

 

"Yes," he mumbled, avoiding Cynthia's glance. "You should meet my mother
and father soon." For a moment he felt the hopelessness of their love
for each other. While he would be willing to defy Pat and marry Cynthia
tomorrow even . . . he sensed that Cynthia, rooted to her family,
would want to have a more traditional marriage. A marriage surrounded
by relatives from both sides of the family. A marriage where hatred did
not exist.

 

 

He was still thinking about it as they walked into the synagogue. There
was no solution. He and Cynthia would have to be married quickly in a
civil marriage. He was so occupied with his thoughts he almost missed
Dave's question.

 

 

"Have you ever been to a Kol Nidre service, Yale?"

 

 

"No. I have been to the synagogue in Midhaven with Cynthia during
Passover, and on several Sabbaths."

 

 

 

 

The synagogue was a small unpretentious building. At capacity it couldn't
accommodate more than a couple of hundred people. About fifty people were
sitting quietly waiting for the Rabbi.

 

 

"There aren't many Jews in this area," Dave said, "but those we have
are strongly religious. We have a very learned Rabbi."

 

 

To his surprise Yale discovered that Cynthia and Aunt Adar sat together
with a group of other females. Evidently, Yale thought, this was a more
orthodox Jewish group than in Midhaven where males and females sat together.

 

 

Sitting beside Michael, a Pentateuch in his lap, Yale watched as the
Scroll of Laws was taken out. Then the cantor began to sing in a melodious
chant that was familiar to Yale.

 

 

"That's the Kol Nidre prayer!" Michael whispered.

 

 

Yale nodded. "I never heard it sung before, but I know the music. It's
very beautiful." Yale looked at Michael and smiled. "I'd like it if you
would sort of guide me as Cynthia does. Otherwise, I get lost."

 

 

For the first time since they had met, Michael's remote and distant manner
toward Yale disappeared. "It's not always easy to understand. You almost
have to be born a Jew," he grinned. "I doubt if we'll convert you."

 

 

During the remainder of the service he guided Yale in the translated
Torah. In whispers he explained the Al Het, and how the congregation
response asks for the forgiveness of God.

 

 

Dave drove back to the farm. They talked of mundane things as if none
of them wished to be the first to probe Yale's reaction to the Kol Nidre
service. Each of them in his own way had seen the ceremony for the
first time through the eyes of an outsider. For Dave and Aunt Adar
it was slight annoyance, as if Yale had been admitted to a sanctuary
in which he had no right to be. For Michael therewas a sense of being
mocked, as if Yale were watching like an anthropologist enjoying some
primitive tribal rite without ever being able to understand its meaning
for the participants. But for Cynthia there was only pride and her sure
knowledge that Yale with his searching and curious mind had enjoyed the
evening on a plane of understanding equal to theirs.

 

 

Sitting in the hammock on the veranda, Cynthia beside him, Yale listened
to the warm sounds of the October night; an occasional cricket, and the
faint rustling of nearly dead leaves in the lonely elm that guarded the
house like a tremendous black sentinel in the night.

 

 

Dave sat in a rocking chair. Despite Adar's protest he lighted his
pipe. "God would not object to the solace it gives me, even on Yom
Kippur. I miss your mother, Cynthia. Even more on the holidays. . . ."

 

 

Aunt Adar, in a stiff-backed wicker chair, knitted silently. Michael sat
on the rail, clinging with one arm to a post that supported the porch roof.
Occasionally, Dave Carnell sucked on the pipe. The flare from the pipe's
bowl lighted his face for an instant, and then, like the others, he became
a dark shadow again. It was a pleasant way to converse, disembodied voices
in the night, not revealing their facial expressions, daring them to say
the thoughts they might not wish to reveal in full light.

 

 

Dave confessed his worries first. "We only want Cynthy to be happy. I'm
afraid she doesn't know too much about hatred."

 

 

"Mixed marriages don't work," Aunt Adar said bluntly. "Families won't
let them work."

 

 

Yale squeezed Cynthia's hand. He felt the pressure of her response.
"I enjoyed the service tonight," he said, trying to divert their thinking.
"You see, for two years now I have been really studying religion on a
comparative basis. Tonight when they sang the Yigdal I recognized in
the translation the creed of Maimonides. . . ."

 

 

"The thirteen Principles of our faith . . ." Dave interrupted. Yale could
see the outline of a pleased nod. A puff of smoke surrounded his head.

 

 

Yale continued, "The first five Principles are at the basis of most
Western religions. The first: 'I believe with perfect faith that the
Creator is the author and guide of everything that has been created, and
that He alone does make and will make all things' . . . Even Mohammedism
accepts that." They listened in silence as Yale spoke. "The second:
'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is a unity, and there
is no unity in any manner like unto His, and that He alone is our God,
who was, is and will be.' . . ."

 

 

"The Catholics won't accept that," Michael said. "They have a Trinity."

 

 

"I don't know," Yale said. "From a philosophic point of view the Catholics
have provided for the bridge between the perfect and the imperfect with
the concept of Christ."

 

 

"Well, it took a Jew to do it," Michael said, laughing.

 

 

"Anyway," Yale said, "I think even Catholics actually accept this
Principle in the idea of an indivisible Trinity. The third and fourth,
also: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is not a body,
and that He is free from all the properties of matter, and that He has
no form wihatsoever.' And fourth: 'I believe with perfect faith that
the Creator is the first and last.' . . ."

 

 

"The fifth . . . here is a horse of another color," Michael said
triumphantly. " 'I believe with perfect faith that to the Creator and
to the Creator alone, it is right to pray, and it is not right to pray
to any being beside him.' Here your Jew goes his own way."

 

 

"Followed by quite a few Protestants. . ." Cynthia said.

 

 

"What about the other eight Principles?" Dave asked. "These are what
make a Jew, is it not so?"

 

 

Yale nodded. He listened to the squeaking of the hammock chains.
It was strange, he thought. Men always wanted to be unique; to have
their little groups that set them apart from their fellow men . . .
to give them a delusion of importance. In a smaller way, functioning
within the larger religious groups were the Masons, the Knights of
Columbus, the Rotarians, the Moose, the Elks and thousands upon thousands
of societies and associations that existed basically only to convey a
sense of distinction and individuality. Maimonides' final Principles
codified for Jews their uniqueness. Yale spoke his thoughts aloud trying
to show Dave and Michael that all men should seek to share their common
beliefs and build their lives on their humanity rather than the divisive
factors in their experience.

 

 

"This boy of yours is a lambden," Dave said. "But even scholars must
commit themselves. What do you believe?" They waited in silence to
hear what Yale would say. Yale, forced for the first time in his life
to commit himself on his beliefs, knew that whatever his answer would
be it would not satisfy Dave or Aunt Adar. He decided to be painfully
honest. "I accept your beliefs, Mr. Carnell, and the beliefs of all men,
but I see no need to believe in a Jewish God or a Protestant God or a
Catholic God or any God conceived by men. Since all we can ever know
is man himself . . . I see no reason to go further. Each day to me is
a revelation of the endless wonder and dignity of man."

 

 

"Man can hate," Dave said. "Man can kill."

 

 

Yale grinned. "Man has given God the same abilities, but this does not
prove that God is a hater or a destroyer. If there is any reason to
believe in God at all, it is in the simple fact that buried in each and
every man is the possibility of love for another person. I don't mean
sexual love. I mean love that transcends most human acts. Love that
properly cultivated from birth in the human mind would bind each man to
another in a chain so strong that the twelfth Principle of Maimonides
would come true."

 

 

Dave got up and patted Yale on the head. "Cynthy, this boy is too
idealistic. I fear for him. I'm going to bed before he confuses me.
Come on, Adar, and Michael. Let them have the night alone for awhile."

 

 

As they walked in the house they heard Aunt Adar say to Dave, "This
conversation I do not understand. Simple people just believe . . .
no 'pilpul.' What is the twelfth Principle? I have forgotten."

 

 

"I believe in the coming of the Messiah," they heard Michael say. Cynthia
turned to Yale. She hugged him, kissing his face fervently. "Oh, God,
God. I love you," she breathed huskily. "Why does it have to be so
complicated?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

10

 

 

Driving toward New York City, Cynthia seemed unusually quiet. She sat
beside Yale, legs curled up beneath her, her skirt primly tight over her
knees. She stared at the flat New Jersey landscape, the endless rows of
filling stations, ice cream and hot dog stands, and innumerable roadside
restaurants dedicated to a particular aspect of exotic dining vanishing
before her eyes.

 

 

Occasionally Yale would look away from the road. The graceful line of her
jaw, the fullness of her lips, the animation of her hair blowing in soft
waves against her forehead and cheeks, seemed to have a personality and
essence of their own that was Cynthia and at the same time, unbeknown
to her, carried on an independent existence. Yale felt a strong desire
to stop the car and hug her, and say, "Oh, Cindar. I love you so very
much. I am so happy that we are going to have this night together. It
will be good and beautiful, I'll always love you and years from now when
we are married we will look back and remember this." Instead he said,
"What's the matter, Cindar? You're so quiet. Are you getting cold feet?
Do you want to forget it and just go back to Midhaven?"

 

 

Actually she was wondering what was going to happen. She couldn't picture
herself walking across a hotel lobby and standing near a registration
desk while Yale signed the register "Mr. & Mrs. Yale Marratt." She was
sure she would blush. They looked too young to be married. The clerk
would know. What if he refused to give them a room? Maybe he would ask
for their marriage license? It had been different going to that cabin
last spring with Sonny and Beatrice. Then, it had been flagrant and out
in the open. They weren't pretending to be married and there were four
of them. If they had been refused, so what? . . . it was a lark. There
was something about this that was secret -- a sharing between two people
of the guilt and deceit necessary to be together as well as the physical
love that would follow. Did she love Yale that way? Was it wrong to go
to bed with someone when you weren't entirely sure you loved him? But
she did love Yale. Only sometimes when he looked at her and she could
see the naked hunger and yearning in his eyes, and in the gentleness
of his touch, she was frightened. She wondered whether she deserved --
or anyone deserved -- such devotion . . . bordering on adoration.

 

 

"Of course, I want to go, Yale." She touched his arm. "Only, I can't help
feeling guilty. Daddy looked so pathetic when he hugged me. These last few
weeks since I got back from camp have been real family weeks. Lennie, Mike
and Aunt Adar, all of us have been so close. Being the youngest and the
only girl I guess it has been hard on Daddy -- my going away to school,
and then taking the counsellor's job. Gosh, it seems only yesterday when
after supper I used to climb on his lap and snuggle against his neck,
and play with his ear while he told me about the work he had done that
day. Aunt Adar used to look at me in her prudish way and tell him that
he was spoiling me, and I was getting too old to act like that with
my father. You know, Yale, he has had a lonely life since my mother died.
You would have liked her, too. She came from Vienna. She was very pretty
and gentle -- the kind of woman you would call a real lady. Very feminine
. . . not like a lot of mothers."