The Angel of Losses Page 11

  “I don’t think they count.”

  “But there are Lost Tribes in Africa—the Falasha, and the Lemba—you know they have the Cohen modal haplotype? It’s a genetic marker on the Y chromosome. The DNA stuff isn’t really my area. And they’re in the New World too, of course, which is sort of my thing. The Mormons thought—well, they still think—that the North American Indians were Israelites. And then there are the Jewish Indians in Latin America. Why are you laughing?”

  “I figured out what you are now,” I said, and went to sit next to him on the bed. “You’re an obsessive.”

  “No, I’m a completist. I spent a week this summer cleaning audio from a twenty-something-year-old cassette that I bought on eBay. The Pixies in Croatia. Now, you, you’re an obsessive.”

  “I was,” I said. For the first time in years, I had put my academic work aside entirely. I had the notebook now—and the three other stories hiding somewhere. “I’m a completist now too.” Though even as I said it, I was exhausted by the litany of names, the clues that only led me back to Nathan and Holly, the world they were building with their son, which I would always be apart from. Maybe it would be easier that way, spinning in our own orbits, the space between us growing ever wider and colder.

  I kissed Simon. We didn’t talk anymore that night.

  SIMON KNEW WHERE TO FIND THE BEST NOODLES IN CHINATOWN, the best tacos in Red Hook, and the best cannoli on Arthur Avenue. We went to movie theaters with curtained screens and spent consecutive Sunday mornings getting lost in the park. For almost a month I tried to have a different kind of life. I met with my advisor and improvised connections and theses until she let me go. I downloaded the baby pictures—copied to no fewer than twenty cousins and classmates. I read magazines and newspapers, so I could talk about all the things I had planned my life around ignoring.

  I tried to forget the White Rebbe, his first meeting with the angel and the three stories still missing, but I couldn’t let him go. Every few days on the train I glimpsed a passenger with curling white hair in the passing car. In a diner I would hear a deep, rough laugh from the next booth, and my stomach would drop. “Do you know that person?” Simon asked every time, and I continued to answer no. If I got a good look, I saw it wasn’t him; if I didn’t, I was left preoccupied and unsettled.

  I ate and I talked and I traveled the length of the city and back, but I couldn’t run away from the White Rebbe, from whatever it was that Grandpa had left behind.

  “WHY THE LOST TRIBES?” I ASKED, PULLING MY KNEES INTO MY chest under the sheets in Simon’s bed. The window was open, and fresh air, dusted with the amber of streetlights, blew around us.

  “Diaspora studies. I think the lead investigator has trouble reconciling himself to the fact that the Jews—he’s Jewish—that the Jews are really mostly dead. He likes to thinks there are more still out there, waiting to be discovered in the Himalayas.”

  “And what about you?”

  “I’m just the computer guy.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Okay. I was into genealogy for a while. I made it back to the sixteenth century and an ancestor who learned his family—our family—converted to Catholicism during the Inquisition. He started practicing Judaism in the New World. It didn’t work out so well. The Spanish government in Mexico tortured him to death. They called him the Moor.”

  “You traced your ancestors all the way to the sixteenth century?” That was more shocking to me than the Moor’s fate. My mother had a family Bible with four generations penciled inside; with my father, history ended with Grandpa.

  “Yeah. You know, there are villages in Mexico where everyone lights candles on Friday nights, and they slaughter chickens like they do in Jerusalem; nobody could say why until the anthropologists came in. Now they want to be Jews, like their ancestors, instead of Spanish Indians.”

  “I don’t think of the Jews as being particularly popular.”

  “No,” he said. “But imagine you’re a poor Mexican hearing about the Israelis airlifting people out of Ethiopia.” He paused. “There’s this other guy on the project, one of the grad students. He’s a Hasidic kid from Brooklyn, and he went with our boss to China to meet the tribe of monotheists. He tested their rituals and prayers and whatever against the Bible, and their words against Hebrew. This kid has the whole Bible in his head. It’s incredible what they learn in their schools.”

  Someday that would be Eli.

  “So the project director is out there, getting DNA swabs, talking about Diaspora migration and prestige aspirations.” He traced my tattoo as he spoke, his fingertip cycling my shield, always following, always protecting me. “And this kid is looking for the Messiah. Because the Messiah can’t come until all the tribes return to the Holy Land, and as long as ten are missing in action, well. We’re fucked.”

  “My brother-in-law would love to meet you,” I said. I could hear sleep in my voice.

  “He’s looking for them too?”

  “He was, I think,” I said. He had come home from India disillusioned—or so he said. “But anyway, what does this have to do with you and your family tree?”

  He took his hand away. “I’m just the computer guy,” he said quietly. I opened my eyes. He had rolled onto his back, and now he stared at the ceiling as if something important was written there, something he could just barely make out. Then he turned to look at me, slid his hand back and forth across my hip. “I kind of like you.”

  “I like you too,” I said, because it was the easiest response. I did like him. I liked him more than I had ever liked anyone, and in contrast the rest of my life felt more than complicated; it felt deeply, dangerously unsettled.

  He smiled. “You’re a little bit like the Moor for me,” he said. “Someone I have to know, who will always remain just out of reach.”

  Soon he was asleep. I settled in beside him and watched the lights from passing cars sweep over the ceiling until it seemed they followed the same rhythm of his breath, and then my breath too, and my mind slowed to a halt and the world slipped away.

  THE VOICE FILLED MY EAR COMPLETELY, LIKE WATER FILLING A VOID.

  “Arise!”

  I sucked in a breath and sat up in bed. Simon was asleep beside me; beside him, the clock glowed 12:40.

  I put my hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Wake up,” I said. His brow furrowed, but otherwise he was still.

  There was a thunderclap, a flash at the curtains, and the voice shouted again. “She is in exile!” It was a man’s voice, raw, anguished.

  I climbed over Simon and pulled on my clothes. I hiked the window open, hung half my body into the night. The city smelled burnt, and I wondered if the lightning had hit nearby.

  The street was empty.

  “Our holy house is on fire!”

  “Simon!” I said. “Do you hear that?”

  He turned over in his sleep.

  I couldn’t bear to wait for the elevator, so I ran down four flights of stairs. The night was black and numbing; I felt like I’d fallen into the haunted lagoons of the White Rebbe’s story. The clouds were thick overhead, about to burst into rain. A group of girls passed by, all leaning into one another, speaking at the same time.

  “Arise, for Israel is in danger!”

  The voice was coming from across the street, from the park. I ran toward it.

  Steps from the avenue, the block plunged downhill into darkness, the fifteen-foot wall of the cathedral grounds a dam against stray light. I stopped. The wet pavement was studded with the tracks of bare feet, and for an instant I imagined the man who left them had floated up with the sudden pressure drop, toward the magnetic weave of stars.

  A dark column slid slowly down the hill. A breeze came through and lifted its long hair. “Hey!” I called, and instantly regretted it—shouting at a stranger on a deserted, late-night city street. But the figure didn’t flinch, and I found myself running after her, or him, calling again, “Hey!”

  It turned around, the wind at its back now, i
ts hair and the tails of its cloak streaming toward me. It seemed to draw taller—lifting its head—when a seam of fire opened in the sky, accompanied by thunder so loud I felt it where my bones joined.

  I put one hand over my eyes, the other to my throat, instinctively reaching for the charm I’d given Holly. I felt my ribs expand against my skin, my tattoo stretch like a wing.

  I opened my eyes. Rain beat down, exploding in momentary spheres above the pavement. I took a few steps forward, then turned back, wading into the puddles already swirling at the curb. After a few minutes the rain slowed just enough for visibility to return, and I stood there, soaked through, shivering, alone.

  THE PHONE RANG AT 7 A.M. I PULLED THE BLANKET OVER MY head, my arm pressed into my eyes to block the sun. I had returned home alone and lain awake all night, unable to shake the sight of the strange wanderer, evaporated in a lightning strike. Just a nightmare, I told myself, planted by the strange old man. He had told me I would hear the Angel of Losses calling for his people to rise, and now my subconscious had conjured it, half fire and half water, flanked by storms. But if it was a nightmare, then I was a sleepwalker, waking suddenly in the middle of a wet sidewalk. I wondered if I should see a doctor after all. The phone stopped ringing, then after a moment began again. Caller ID showed a number I didn’t recognize, a Brooklyn area code. I lifted the receiver to my ear.

  “It’s Yael. Chava asked me to call you.”

  I fell back into bed, my eyes burning with exhaustion. “Sorry I didn’t answer before. I was asleep,” I lied.

  She took a deep breath. “They’re at the hospital with Eli. Everything’s okay—he’s stable.”

  My grandfather. Another heart attack.

  No. The baby.

  “He had a seizure. The doctor said it was mild.”

  “Mild? How can a seizure be mild?” In my mind I saw Eli shake into a blur, and I felt the phone tremble against my cheek.

  “When my oldest was a baby she had a seizure when a fever spiked. Sometimes that happens to little children, babies. If their temperature changes quickly, they can seize, but they’re okay.”

  “When did he catch a fever?” Anger welled up inside me. I thought of him lying in the backyard at midnight, crying so, so quietly. But of course it had been too many weeks, more than a month, for that to have been the cause.

  “I’m not sure. I know Chava was worried yesterday that he seemed lethargic. But the doctors are taking good care of him.”

  “Which hospital?” I asked, picking my jeans up off the floor.

  She named one near the house. “The doctor expects to release him in a few hours, and I’m sure they’ll head straight home and to bed. They were up all night with him.”

  “Yael, please don’t tell me not to go see my sister when her baby is in the fucking hospital.”

  “I know how you feel,” she said deliberately. Like she had prepared this answer. “But Chava doesn’t want a lot of people in the hospital, or crowding them when they get home.”

  “I don’t think she meant me,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Marjorie,” Yael answered, and she did sound sorry. “She wanted me to tell you what happened and that she’ll call you later. She doesn’t want you to come.”

  HOLLY DIDN’T ANSWER HER CELL PHONE. “THIS IS CHAVA,” THE outgoing message on her voice mail began. I hung up without leaving a message. When I still couldn’t reach her an hour later, I called my mother. The doctors’ theory was the same as Yael’s. A fever spiking, and now already settled at a normal temperature. He had follow-up appointments scheduled. There was nothing to do but comfort him and watch him.

  I had made it a policy never to call the landline at our old house—Nathan might answer—but when evening came and I still hadn’t spoken to my sister, I dialed the phone number I had memorized as a child.

  “Hello.” Nathan’s voice was flat, his greeting a grim statement.

  “It’s Marjorie.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to have a conversation. I just wanted him to put Holly on the line. “How’s Eli?” I asked.

  “We don’t know.” He paused. “I take it you spoke to your mother? You know what there is to know.”

  “Can you put Holly on, please?”

  “Chava’s resting.”

  “I’ve been calling all day.” My voice hardened to meet his angry tone.

  He exhaled into the phone, a rush of static. “You shouldn’t have interrupted. We were trying to protect him.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, but as soon as I spoke I knew what he meant. The night before the circumcision. The moonlit prayers. The men kneeling in our backyard. “He shouldn’t have been outside in the cold.”

  “I know what’s best for him.”

  Here we were, accusing each other of causing Eli’s fever. Interrupted spells versus cold night air. Superstition versus—what? The absurdity of a human body continuing to live at any given instant?

  “He doesn’t need prayers,” I said, taken by this idea of Nathan as a science-rejecting faith healer, his fantasies putting Eli at risk. It meant that I hadn’t hurt the baby by bringing the ritual to a halt.

  “He needs his father,” Nathan answered, and hung up the phone.

  Seven

  Two days after Holly brought the baby home, the seizure labeled as a fluke, we still hadn’t spoken. I barely slept, waiting for the only thing more frightening than the ghost I had seen: a middle-of-the-night phone call delivering more bad news about Eli. It was possible she was exhausted and distracted, or that she felt awkward reaching out to me, but I believed she was punishing me for arguing with Nathan, and finally I decided I wouldn’t allow her to banish me.

  On the third morning, I went to the library loan office and told the girl manning the desk that I was looking for Simon.

  He stepped out of the back and stopped when he saw me, ran a hand through his hair. The girl conspicuously turned a magazine page. Finally he came to the other side of the counter and I followed him into the hallway.

  “Sorry to bother you at work. I need to ask you a favor,” I said.

  He leaned against the wall, staring in front of him like I wasn’t even there. “A favor?” he asked. “What happened the other night? You disappeared. I called you three times yesterday.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “I didn’t want to bother you. I’m sorry.” He still wouldn’t look at me. “Listen, my sister’s baby is sick, and I need to get out to Jersey. I’ll bring the car back by the afternoon.” I was broke, and no one was going to pick me up from the train station.

  His eyes softened. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was angry.”

  I waved my hand. I didn’t mean for Eli to be an excuse—I knew it was awful to ignore Simon, but I just couldn’t talk to him about this, any of this. I didn’t want him to see a girl who saw ghosts in Harlem, whose own sister refused her calls.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, and his face changed again. He was worried about saying the right thing, and he wanted me to worry too. And here I had already accepted that I had screwed up and it was over, and I just wanted to pretend like everything would be fine. “It’s about an hour away, probably not even at this time of day,” I said quickly. “I just don’t want to bother them about the train, now that they just got home from the hospital.”

  “The hospital?” he repeated. “Is the baby going to be okay?”

  I had no idea. The assurances and platitudes all felt meaningless. “Sure. Yes. But it’s scary. He’s only a month old.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  “You don’t have to be here? In the office?” I stalled, preparing to refuse the offer, however much I wanted him to come with me. It was too much to ask, too tense a situation to draw him into.

  “No one’s paying attention to me,” he said. “And I know what it’s like. To need backup when you go home.”

  “Backup.” In Simon’s eyes, we were just y
our ordinary dysfunctional family. Maybe with him there that’s all we would be. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  I CALLED HOLLY AS WE CROSSED THE BRIDGE. THE HOUSE phone—I wouldn’t be cowed by Nathan. Still, I was relieved when Holly answered. “I’m on my way over,” I declared.

  “Over here?” she asked. Her voice was weak. “Now?”

  “I want to see Eli,” I said.

  Holly had announced her pregnancy to me in a voice mail, and maybe she was right to have done so. Back then, I thought her pregnancy was a trick Nathan played on her; a game-winning move, the ultimate claim. Now that the baby was here, I felt like he was our baby too, my family’s. He had my grandfather’s name. I wanted to protect him.

  “A friend is giving me a ride,” I continued. “We’ll be there before eleven.”

  “Who is it?” she asked. “I really don’t feel up to people right now.”

  “Whose voice is that in the background?” I asked. “I mean, voices?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “They’re family,” she said.

  “So am I.”

  I hung up and stared at the planes hanging low over Newark. I felt Simon glance at me once, twice, before finally speaking.

  “How’s your sister doing?” he asked.

  “I have no fucking clue,” I answered, and instantly felt sick at the aftertaste of my voice, the one Holly summoned from some ugly place inside me. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, how much I missed her, how much I wanted us to be the way we were growing up, a pair of shared eyes, seeing the world in a way that no one else ever would. But when we spoke, all that hope and sadness burned away to anger. I had long told myself I had to bear Nathan for Holly’s sake; today I felt like I had to bear Holly for Eli’s.

  “My brother’s older,” Simon said. “Twelve years. He was always a kind of a stranger.” He veered into the exit lane. “Sometimes it’s easier that way.”

  “We were always close. Always,” I said. “Until her husband came along.”