The Book of Trees (6 page)

“Of course you can come for Shabbos. Every week if you like.”

“Oh, well, maybe just once would be okay. I’m not really all that Jewish. I mean, my mom is, but I don’t really know anything and—”

“So, you’ll come and learn. This Friday, okay?”

“Well, okay.”

“You should go to the Blumes’ house. They live at— do you have a pen?”

“Um, sure. This is at someone’s house?”

“Yes. You should have Shabbos in the community.”

“Oh. Should I bring something?”

“No, just come.”

He gave me the address and told me to wear a long skirt—nothing skimpy—which made me feel both embarrassed and nervous.

I almost didn’t go. I stood in front of the mirror at home trying to decide between a knee-length velvet circle skirt and a longer tube skirt. The circle skirt showed off my long legs and the tube skirt was fitted across the butt. Neither were appropriate. In the end I wore the circle skirt with my favorite pair of cowboy boots and an almost modest cardigan with beading across the chest. The directions were to a neighborhood where a lot of Orthodox Jews lived. When I rang the bell, a huge bearded guy in a
kippah
answered the door like he’d been waiting all his life for me to show up.

“Welcome, welcome. I’m Joseph Blume. Please come in.” He took my coat. “Have you ever been for Shabbos before?”

I shook my head. I’d been to my bubbie’s, but never to an Orthodox home. I wanted to back out the door.

He clasped his hands together. “Such an honor to share your first Shabbos with you.” He sounded genuinely excited. “Chava,” he called down the hallway to the kitchen, “this is Mia’s first Shabbos!”

Mrs. Blume, a little mousey thing wearing an awful gray hat, came down the hall. She looked like a small mushroom. She gave me a huge smile and grabbed my hands. “We’re so happy you could come.” I kept nodding and smiling.

I followed the Blumes into a dining room crowded with people standing around a table laid with a white cloth and blue-edged china. Mr. Blume invited everyone to sit down, and a teenage girl with dark curly hair, the Blumes’ daughter I guessed, came in from the kitchen.

Mrs. Blume blessed the candles. I remembered some of the words from Bubbie Bess’s house and mumbled along. A sense of nostalgia for Bess and her apartment enveloped me.

Then Mr. Blume sang a Hebrew love song about a woman of valor. I watched in awe as this fat middle-aged man sang this loving song to his frumpy wife in front of a table of guests. I tried to picture Don singing Sheila a love song in front of our family. Even though he was a musician and had a beautiful voice, I couldn’t imagine it. I felt a lump in my throat like I was going to cry. I swallowed it away.

After the song, Mr. Blume’s daughter, Aviva, stood before him and he put his hands on her head and whispered a blessing in her ear. I’d never seen that before and I started to tear up. I wanted to get up and excuse myself to go to the bathroom, but the table was so crowded, at least six people would have had to move to let me out. So I sniffed a little and murmured “Allergies” and let my hair fall in front of my face, just in case anyone was looking at me. They weren’t. They were all watching this dad show how much he loved his daughter. I tried to imagine Don giving me any kind of blessing, or even a song—it
so
wasn’t going to happen. I gritted my teeth.

What if I made my future different? What if that was me at one end of the table with a husband who sang me love songs every Friday night even though we’d been married twenty years? What if I had a husband who loved our children to pieces and blessed them every week with a secret whisper in their ears? What if?

Mr. Blume blessed the wine and then everyone filed into the kitchen to wash their hands in a complicated ritual I didn’t understand, pouring water over each hand with a special pitcher. All the guests filed back to the table and sat silently until Mr. Blume blessed the
challah
, a braided bread, and passed it around. I’d never sat in silence with a room of people before, not even for a minute.

After the meal, the Blumes passed around little song-books. I watched as Mr. Blume closed his eyes, tipped back his head and sang “
Ribbono shel Olam
.” “Master of the Universe.” His family joined him, their voices floating on the wide-open notes. The other guests joined in as best they could, stumbling through the transliteration.

I started to sing the song too, and an amazing feeling rose inside me. As I sang, I could feel our voices bringing peace into the world. I wanted to hug each person at the table because I felt happy and oddly united with these strangers. I wanted to feel this way— connected to others—all the time.

I went home elated, humming one of the songs on the subway. At the Blumes’, all the pieces seemed to fit together. They worked all week and then they rested and celebrated the Sabbath together, sharing what they had with others. They sang songs at the end of the meal, with their eyes closed, and a feeling of godliness filled the room. It was better than playing with the band. It wasn’t just music, it was spiritual music. And the Blumes didn’t even need alcohol or a joint to have a good time. Singing at that religious dinner was like being in the frozen trees, except you didn’t have to wait for an ice storm. Every Friday you could be with friends and family and make that feeling through song, and you could even name that feeling:
God
. I couldn’t wait to call Zev Teitelbaum.

“I want to come to another dinner, and I want to learn more,” I told him. “I want to learn about God.”

“Wonderful,” he said.

I started going back to the park at the end of the street in the evenings. It was spring by then and the trees were starting to bud. Each new shoot made me feel like the world was changing, and I was part of it. I’d lie on the slide and look up at the trees. I wasn’t exactly sure how to define God, but when I saw those trees, I felt sure God and nature were the same thing. I also felt you could create God’s presence with beautiful music. I never discussed this with Aviva or her family or at my classes. It felt too personal.

Suddenly all my actions had a purpose: to bring more God into the world. Instead of trying to be the coolest or sexiest girl, or the best musician, I could help others by following God’s commandments: love your neighbor, honor your mother and father. This, in turn, would bring peace to myself and others. God, peace, music, nature—it all seemed to form a beautiful cloud of happiness in my head.

Despite my religious conversion, I had some trouble with the bit about honoring my mother and father. I was still angry with Don. He hadn’t called all winter. He sent me a postcard, but all it said was
Enjoying the snow and
ice. How’s the band? Don.

Not even “Love, Don.” I never wrote back.

I finished my coffee, stuck my unfinished postcard in my backpack and headed up to the bus stop. On the way up the street I saw the guitar player sitting on a bench picking coins out of his case. I ducked my head and tried to scurry past, but he gazed right at me and called out, “Hey.”

“Oh, hi.”

He stood with his legs wide, one hip cocked forward, wearing an olive green Che Guevara T-shirt, his jeans resting low on his hips. His body was compact and muscular in a sinewy way. His legs were long and he was taller than me.

“I hope I didn’t insult you the other day. I’m sure your sandwich was great. I just didn’t want you to think…”

“It’s okay.”

“Anyway, I wanted to play you something.” He gave me a cocky smile.

“Oh…”

“Just wait, okay?” He picked up his guitar and sang.

Sandwiches are beautiful, sandwiches are fine,

I like sandwiches, I eat them all the time.

I eat them for my breakfast and I eat them for my lunch,

If I had a hundred sandwiches, I’ d eat them all at once.

I burst out laughing. I let my body hunch forward, arms dangling. The tension in my neck melted away.

He grinned at me. “You know that song?”

“My dad used to sing it to me.”

He laughed and took off his sunglasses. Again I was surprised by his light, clear eyes. “I’m Andrew.” He stretched out his hand.

“Mia. I’m sorry, I don’t shake hands.” I waved at him.

“Germ fetish?”

I shrugged. “I’m just not into it.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“I’m religious.”

“Yeah, so. I’m a Sagittarius.” He bent to scoop more change out of his guitar case.

“I think my bus is coming.”

“I’m heading to the Russian Compound for a drink.” He put his guitar in the case and picked it up. “Coming?”

“I…”

“You look thirsty. C’mon.”

He started strolling down the street. He had a casual, relaxed stride, like nothing bothered him. I followed him because he was still talking.

“So your dad is a musician?”

I had to run a few steps to catch up. What if someone walked by and saw me? “Yes, a songwriter too. You know the band the Jaywalkers?”

He stopped short, and I almost bumped into him. “That lame boy band?”

“My dad sold a song to the people who put the band together.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, well, he was sick of driving the folk-music circuit, and selling the song gave him enough to retire.”

“Sweet.” He nodded and continued down the street.

I had a sudden urge to ask Andrew if I could borrow his guitar and play him Don’s tree song. “My father’s other songs are very beautiful. There’s one about a tree.”

“You should play one for me.”

“I’m more into banjo.”

His eyes widened. “Unusual choice.”

“My dad bought one for me. He gave my brother Flip a mandolin.”

“What are you guys, the Partridge Family?” He flashed me a smile, and the corners of his eyes crinkled up. I couldn’t help smiling back.

We crossed King David Street and headed up the hill into the Russian Compound, an area of bars and cafés surrounding a large Russian Orthodox Church.

Andrew gestured toward some seats outside a bar.

“Do you mind if we sit inside, out of the sun?” I didn’t want anyone from school to see me at a bar. With a guy.

He shrugged and we went inside. He sat loose and relaxed: legs spread, hips tilted, thumbs casually hooked through the belt loops of his jeans. Out of the glare I studied him. He had a thin, angular face. I could tell he’d broken his nose, maybe more than once. He wore one small stud in his ear, and I could see the scar from an old eyebrow ring.

I felt my forehead muscles ease. I hadn’t been in a bar like this—dim, wooden tables, black graffiti-covered walls—since I had become religious. When Don didn’t come back from his cottage, I’d shoved my banjo and guitar in the basement and given up playing.

We sat at a scratched wooden table, and I studied the band posters. I wanted to shake out my hair, run my fingers through it, maybe lean one elbow on the table and prop up my chin.

A waitress with dyed blond hair and too-tight jeans eyed me from behind her thick-rimmed glasses as she took my order for lemonade. Andrew ordered a beer, and I wished I had done the same. I could almost taste the sweet bitter liquid.

“So, the banjo, huh?”

I nodded. “My dad has this thing about the South, old-timey stuff. He’s from West Virginia.”

“You’re not from there.”

“No,” I laughed. “Toronto. You?”

“Portland. More recently this beach on the Oregon coast. So you’re giving out sandwiches. That’s what you do.”

“One thing.” I laughed self-consciously.

“It’s a good thing.”

“I’m here studying at a yeshiva—that’s a Jewish seminary—to learn Torah.”

The waitress brought our drinks. I drained mine and stirred the ice with a straw.

Andrew leaned back in his chair, looking intently at me. “Sounds interesting.”

“Some of it is.”

“And the rest?”

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, fiddled with my straw. “It’s very fragmented and detail-oriented. I’m more of a big-picture person.” Again I wanted to play with my hair, prop my feet on the rungs of Andrew’s chair.

“So stop going.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll get better.” A giggle rose up my throat. “I’m…”

He leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the table. “You’re what?”

“I’m playing hooky right now.”

“Huh,” he drawled, “aren’t you a crazy girl.”

We both started to laugh. I signaled for the waitress and ordered a beer.

By four o’clock I’d learned Andrew had been traveling through Turkey when he became friends with this Dutch guy who suggested they take a boat to Israel. He’d been here three months. He busked afternoons, did a few shifts moving stuff at the Israel Art Museum and lived in a hostel near Zion Gate in the Old City. He had no siblings, and his mother, the only relative he mentioned, lived in Portland. Before traveling, he’d worked in a lab doing drug trials. He liked to surf.

“Why busking?” I asked.

“Why not? You could join me, teach me some bluegrass. We’ll be a duo.”

“You strike me as more rock ’n’ roll.”

“I could learn.” He gave me an intense, piercing look.

I drummed my fingers on the table and looked away. “So, how long will you stay?”