The Last Words We Said Page 17

  “You can be mad at me,” Danny repeated desperately when nobody spoke. “I made a mistake. Two mistakes.” He swallowed again. “Okay, a lot of mistakes. But I won’t make any more. I promise.”

  I needed to say something, to try to rescue Danny from the babbling mess he was becoming. It wasn’t fair that he was taking all the blame and I was cowering behind him.

  Danny glanced back at me, and the fear on his face faded a little. “I’m so sorry,” I mouthed. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, turned back to my parents.

  “Except it wasn’t a mistake,” he declared, his voice a little steadier. “It wasn’t a mistake because I love her.”

  There was no response to his declaration. My father’s eyebrows rose a centimeter, and my mother sighed loudly, but nobody spoke. Except Danny, who seemed unable to stop talking.

  “And I will keep loving her. Even if you banish me from your house. Even if I am never allowed to see her again. I’m never going to give up. You should know that now. I can’t give her up.”

  Danny was carrying the noble knight thing a bit too far; my father was definitely smiling now, though he was obviously trying to keep a straight face. Even my mother had downgraded her death ray to “stun.”

  I needed to say something to save him, but still no words would come.

  Danny had actually said he loved me for the first time. I couldn’t believe it.

  It didn’t matter that he’d said it to my father. It was everything to me. I had to think of a way to help him.

  But Danny never gave me a chance to speak. He seemed to have discovered fountains of hidden courage, because he was suddenly standing with his legs spread apart and his arms extended, like a proud warrior about to sound a battle cry. “I am not ashamed that I love Ellie,” he declared. “And if kissing her is a sin, I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life in hell if I can just do it one more time.”

  Holy. Crap. Well, we were officially screwed. Danny had totally crossed the line. That was all my parents needed to hear.

  I was marched back to the house, and my phone and laptop were confiscated. Then they left me to stew in my bedroom while they had a heated discussion for two hours about my “behavior.” I caught bits of it when my mom’s voice rose and pierced the walls. Halfway through their war conference, Deenie showed up with a basket of muffins.

  My mom beat me to the door. (I guess she was trying to intercept Danny, just in case he was ballsy enough to come over after they had ordered him to go home.) “Rae made too many,” Deenie explained sweetly as my mother stared at the offering. “She asked me to drop these off.”

  Deenie winked at me as my mother placed the basket on the dining room table. When I looked blank, she gestured quickly at the basket before closing the door behind her.

  I waited until my mother had returned to her room and then overturned the basket. At the bottom there was a crumpled note wedged into the wicker lining.

  It read: “These muffins which I’m sending may contain: nuts, chocolate, and beef. For questions and complaints you, should definitely call your brilliant friend Rae’s sad and extremely handsome boyfriend.”

  I recognized Danny’s handwriting immediately, but it took me longer than it should have to decipher the meaning of the note. It was the misplaced comma after the word “you” that finally clued me in to the hidden message. I tried reading every other word, every third, and then finally every fourth until I got it. It said:

  “I’m nuts for you,

  your sad boyfriend.”

  He’d called himself my boyfriend in a love note. Granted, the declaration was wedged in between an allergy warning about beef muffins. But still. It was my first love note. It read like poetry to me.

  I was ready to brave whatever lectures my parents had in store for me.

  Turns out they decided to start at the beginning. Literally. Like, at the moment of my conception. Because Jewish guilt is not truly effective if it doesn’t invoke years and years of suffering, which may or may not have anything to do with the topic at hand.

  My mother began by reminding me of the miracle of my existence.

  “Ten rounds of IVF,” she told me in a grave voice. “Ten. Do you know what that does to a woman’s body?”

  I’d heard this story before. They’d told it at every one of my birthdays since I was three. But my successful conception was usually toasted with a glass of wine and happy tears. Now the years of injections and tests were being invoked to maximize the guilt. As if that petri dish with my sorry little embryo would have been better off on the floor than growing up into a girl who made out with her boyfriend.

  “In public!” my father put in. “Where anyone could have seen you.”

  “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t, but I didn’t know what else to say. I think if they’d simply been concerned, I would have been more remorseful. After all, I had gone against my religious upbringing, an upbringing I actually believed in. But they were relating to me as if I were simply acting out, breaking rules for the hell of it. I wasn’t trying to rebel; there were simply two very powerful forces pulling at me: the religious and the romantic. And they should have realized that faced with a new love, even sixteen years of teaching never stood a chance.

  “I don’t believe you’re sorry,” my mother said. She could be surprisingly perceptive sometimes. “And don’t tell me it was a spur-of-the-moment mistake, either. I know that’s not true.”

  I glanced down at my loose shirt and then quickly averted my eyes. It was just my luck, I thought. I’d tried to be sexy for my boyfriend, and the only one who had noticed was my mother. At least my dad was still clueless.

  I needed to distract them, or they would end the conversation by saying I wasn’t allowed to see Danny again. I could have given them the standard “but I love him” speech. But they were expecting that, and I knew it wouldn’t change anything. So I decided to take the less-traveled route; I turned the cop’s interrogation lamp on them.

  “You and mom dated for ten months,” I began. “Are you telling me that in that whole time you never once wanted to kiss her? Not once?”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Well, of course I wanted to but—”

  “I know that you two were shomer. But you’re telling me that you never slipped up once?” I challenged him. “Even though Mom was prettier than most models?”

  Dad’s face was growing hotter. Next to him, Mom’s iciness was melting. She looked uncertain—almost fearful. I was obviously on the right track.

  “Well, I’m shomer too,” I concluded, in what I hoped was a confident voice. “But I’m also human like you. I know you guys are disappointed—and ashamed of me. But I don’t want to be ashamed of myself. Not for this.”

  I’d never seen my parents so confused, and I hadn’t even planned that speech. It was just process of elimination: I’d only said things that I knew they couldn’t dispute. Now I just had to head off the worst punishment in the world.

  “Please don’t say that I can’t see Danny anymore,” I begged. “I know that would be the easiest thing to do. But he’s my best friend.” I raised tearful, repentant eyes. “Please, Mom. Please, Dad, just don’t say that.”

  Chapter 19

  Two days before Yom Kippur, I make a private appointment to talk with Rabbi Garner. To my surprise, the rabbi agrees to see me, even though his schedule must be full to bursting.

  “I notice you called me directly, instead of going through Deenie,” he remarks as I sit down in the comfy chair across from his desk. “Is something wrong?”

  “With Deenie? No, I’m here for another reason.” I pull my notebook out and flip to a blank page.

  He nods and leans back against his seat. “Aha. I wondered when you’d ask me for my contribution. This is for your collection?”

  “Yes! You heard about it?”

  He shrugs. “Word travels.”

  “And you think what I’m doing is okay?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Thi
s—project. Is it a good thing?”

  He considers the question carefully. “Why are you worried about that? You’re keeping Danny’s memory alive, aren’t you?” The rabbi leans over his desk and gives me a reassuring smile. “Whatever the outcome, honoring someone’s memory is never wrong.”

  “I’m so glad you approve,” I say, relieved. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “Of course I approve.”

  “But I mean—” I study his face for a moment and consider my next question. I hadn’t really planned to ask him, but now I can’t help wondering. He’s usually so right about everything. The rabbi’s words were as close to prophecy as I could get in this world.

  “What is it, Ellie?”

  “You think I’m right, though? You think that Danny is coming back? That it isn’t just about his memory. I have a reason to hope, right?”

  The seconds before he answers feel like hours. I wanted an immediate affirmation of faith, not a careful consideration of the evidence. Even the flicker of doubt in his eyes feels like a smack to the face.

  “I think that while there’s life, there’s hope,” he says finally.

  I slump down in my chair. “That’s just something people say. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Ellie, I just said that there is hope—”

  “But you don’t want me to believe,” I interrupt. “You want me to give up.”

  “No, of course not.” He pauses again and looks down at his hands. “You were hoping I’d tell you that it will all turn out all right.”

  “Yes.” I sigh and close my eyes. “You don’t have to, though. If you don’t believe it.”

  “But I do believe it.”

  My eyes fly open, and I lean forward again. “You do? Really?”

  He shakes his head, his brow furrowed with regret. “Ellie, things don’t always turn out the way we imagine they will.” He holds his hands out in a calming gesture. “Please. I’m not a prophet. Don’t look at me like that. I’m just as fallible as the next man.”

  “But you do believe that Danny’s coming back? You think that they will find him?”

  He swallows and takes a deep breath. “I do. I think that they will find him.” His face crinkles in sympathy. “I do.”

  I exhale my relief and sit back in my chair. For a moment I consider telling him my theory about Danny’s disappearance; it would mean the world to me if he supported it. But then I remember my mother’s reaction and decide against it. Some things are better left unspoken.

  “So, do you want to hear my story?” he asks me abruptly. “It’s quite an old one. I’ve never told anyone this.”

  His expression reminds me a little of Danny’s, the first time he ever told me a story. There’s that desperate hope in his eyes that pleads, Hey, if I make you laugh, will you forget that our ship is sinking?

  “Okay.” He smiles as I scribble his name on the top of the blank page. “Go ahead.”

  “It must have been about five years ago,” he tells me. “Right around this time of year, if I recall. I was heading out to give a lecture when I stumbled on this little kid, hunched over the fender of my car. He was carefully scraping at the paint with his fingernail, and then flicking the dried flecks onto the grass.

  “ ‘Hello, there!’ I shouted, and he jumped so hard he fell right over onto his back.

  “I reached out and pulled him up, but he was hyperventilating like I’d just brought on a heart attack. I gave him a moment to get himself together and leaned over to inspect my car. There was a white slash of paint over the fender that had been partially peeled off.

  “ ‘So—what are you doing here?’ I asked him.

  “ ‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t do that,’ he said, when he could speak.

  “ ‘Okay. Who did it, then?’

  “He shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you. But I’m sort of responsible. So, I was trying to get my part off.’

  “ ‘Your part? What are you talking about? Who are you?’

  “He seemed to have calmed down a little, but he took a deep breath before answering. ‘Danny Edelstein.’

  “ ‘Ah, of course. I know your father. How old are you, Danny?’

  “ ‘Twelve.’

  “I would have guessed that he was closer to nine, he was so small. He was basically a shivering little stick with a mop of crazy hair. I picked up his kippah off the ground and handed it to him. ‘And what would your father say if he saw what you were doing here, Danny?’

  “He stuck out his chin. ‘He told me to do it,’ he squeaked. ‘I’m supposed to take responsibility. And I’m responsible for this part.’ He placed his hands over the top of the streak. ‘So I’m peeling it off.’

  “ ‘I see. And why just that part?’

  “ ‘Because that’s when I came along. But I didn’t stop the person doing it. Not right away. When I told my father what happened, he said that I’m kind of guilty; it’s almost like I painted that part—because I could have stopped it. And I can’t go to shul on Yom Kippur and repent for it if I haven’t even tried to make it right.’

  “ ‘So he told you to peel it off?’

  “He dropped his head and kicked at the flecks on the grass. ‘No. He told me to apologize to you. But I didn’t want to do that.’

  “ ‘I see.’

  “ ‘Even though I really am sorry.’ He looked up at me, and his eyes got very large. ‘I really am. But it wasn’t my secret. And I knew you’d want me to give it up.’

  “ ‘It’s okay,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m not going to ask who did it. You can relax.’

  “He didn’t seem convinced. He just kept staring at me, like he was trying to work something out.

  “ ‘Look, I forgive you,’ I assured him. ‘You can daven on Yom Kippur with a clear conscience.’

  “He hesitated and slowly turned away. ‘I really hate secrets,’ he said. ‘There should be something in the service about getting rid of secrets.’ ”

  The rabbi pauses and looks down at his desk. He seems suddenly older to me; the lines around his eyes look like deepening scars. “I should have told him that we do, that our secret sins are right there in the Al Chet prayer, close to the beginning. But I was kind of preoccupied with my own concerns at the time, and I just didn’t think of it. I really didn’t see Danny much after that, even after he moved to Atlanta to live with his dad. So, I’m sorry that’s the only story I have for you. But I thought you might enjoy it anyway.”

  His expression is open and untroubled; he’s recounted the memory without hesitation or doubt. On the face of it, he’s the same honest man I’d trusted since I was little. But there’s something wrong with this story. “Did you ever find out who did it?” I ask him faintly. “Do you know who painted that stripe?”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “No, I didn’t bother. Some bored kid, probably. I don’t think it matters, does it?”

  He looks completely innocent to me; it obviously hasn’t occurred to him that the mark could have had a deeper meaning. But I know something he doesn’t. I actually know who did it, and I know that Rae wasn’t just some bored kid. She’d told me that she’d found something out that had shattered everything she’d believed in, that she was splattering her disappointment on that car for the whole world to see. But what had she found out?

  Was that just her first rant against organized religion and the rabbi simply a symbolic target? Maybe that was why she’d dropped the idea halfway through. Perhaps she realized that it was immature to focus on one member of our religion, even if he represented an institution she was rejecting.

  When Rae had told me her story, I’d wondered at the coincidence of Rae and Danny’s first meeting. But now it made sense; the rabbi’s house was just around the corner from the Edelsteins’.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter who did it,” I say finally. “But I agree with Danny. I hate secrets.”

  The rabbi had spaced out a little after finishing his story, but my comment catc
hes his attention. He rouses himself and focuses on me. “Well, this is the time to rid yourself of them. We are in the final days of repentance, remember?”

  “I know.” I look up quickly; his understanding smile is making me nervous. “I didn’t mean myself, personally,” I assure him. “I don’t have anything to confess.”

  He laughs and rises from his chair. “I’m not a priest, Ellie. I don’t demand confessions, because I can’t give absolution. Only God can do that.”

  I drop my head and focus on my notebook. I can’t look him in the eye; I know he’ll see right through me, right down to the guilt rotting inside me. “But what if—what if the sin wasn’t against God?” I ask.

  “You mean, if you’ve hurt another human being?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe you know what you have to do. Have you asked this person for forgiveness?”

  Yes. A thousand times.

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Well, I’m afraid God can’t forgive a sin ben adom l’chavero,” he explains, using the Hebrew phrase meaning “between man and his friend.” “It’s up to the injured party to forgive.”

  But what if he can’t? I want to ask the rabbi. What if you’ve pleaded and cried, and he just can’t hear you? What if you’ve been waiting for him to come back so that you can beg for his forgiveness?

  What if you’re responsible for everything that happened?

  What if you’re the reason he’s gone?

  THE FIGHT

  The verdict that came down from my parents was far more generous than I’d expected. It was barely a punishment. In short, Danny and I were never to be alone together. We could hang out with Deenie and Rae, or in any public setting, but my mother would be monitoring his comings and goings more carefully now that she knew we were a couple. I accepted their judgment meekly and without argument. They were only enforcing yichud rules, which had been in place in religious communities for generations: unmarried boys and girls were not allowed to be alone together. Mom and Dad had been very lax about that, but my little transgression by the ice cream stand had opened their eyes.