March 18, 2020
The Minyan Man
It was the fucking mezuzah on the door that gave him away. When he bought the house he wasn’t going to put one up. But his sister had given him a hard time. Daddy would have been upset. Old man dead for ten years but still ruling his life. So he had driven into the city and found a Judaica store on the west side. Not far from the synagogue the old man used to go to. The one he stopped going to. Had bought a nice one. Jerusalem stone. Asked the handyman to fix it to the door. “Send us a picture,” his sister had urged. “It’s a mezuzah on the door.” “Send a picture.” So he sent the picture. “It’s tilted the wrong way.” “It is tilted the wrong way?” “Yes, the bottom needs to be pointing towards the house.” So the handyman came back. He felt bad about taking money for two minutes work. But he took it anyway. He sent another picture.
“Nice. Is that Jerusalem stone?”
“Yes.”
“Nice.”
“Did you say the bracha?”
“Of course I said the bracha.”
He hadn’t said the bracha. Or even put in the parchment. In the eyes of any religious Jew, any type of Jew, it was not a kosher mezuzah.
All it was was a sign.
A Jew lives here.
Now this kid, this snotty-nosed kid, was standing at the door. Jesus, was there some Talmudic law against Kleenex? Why were all their kids snotty-nosed? He knew what he was going to say. He’d seen the cars the last few days. Had heard the chatter on the street. The grandfather had had a heart attack. Street had been full of cars. But not today. Just a couple of vans parked in front of the house. He looked at his watch. It would be time for the evening prayers. The kid just stood there. Didn’t say a word. Then wiped his nose with his sleeve. Jesus.
“Let me put on some shoes.” He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. He wasn’t going to put on a suit. No fucking way was he going to put on a suit. But his sandals were a bit too much. He slipped on his black loafers.
Okay. Let’s get this over with.
Fucking mezuzah.
They had been waiting for him.
Okay, he’s here.
Baruch Hashem. Okay, Mendel, let’s start.
Someone handed him a black kippah. A cheap one. Like from the funeral home. When was the last time he had put one on? Was it the funeral? He couldn’t remember. And this one was ridiculous. Wouldn’t conform to the shape of his head. It was perched on his hair like a fucking teepee. He looked on the cabinet to see if there was another one. Maybe from a wedding or bar mitzvah. But there was nothing. He grabbed it with both hands and tried to press it down but made little progress.
A prayer book made its way to his hands but he did not open it. Nor did he pray. His amen was Pavlovian. As was his half-step back during the Amidah. It was a tic. A Hebraic Tourettes.
The deceased’s daughter, I think her name was Rivka, this was her house, was the only woman in the living room during the prayers. She recited the Mourner’s Kaddish in a barely audible whisper. When it was over he managed to mumble out his condolences. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you for coming. Have a piece of honey cake. It’s from Fleishman’s. In the city.” He shook his head and slipped out the front door.
Fleishman’s honey cake.
It had been his father’s favourite.
“You got the Fleishman’s honey cake?”
“Yes mom, I got it.”
“From the city?”
“Yes from the city.”
“Because they have it at the Publix but it’s not fresh. It’s day-old. You have to get the fresh one from the city.”
“I got it from the city.”
“Good. It’s your father’s favourite.”
They sent a different kid the next day. This one was a chatterbox in comparison.
“Imah said you should come.”
Then turned around and walked home.
He had on a dress shirt this time. And he brought his own kippah. He found it in the back of a drawer. From Josh’s wedding.
They’d already started when he walked in. He did a head count. 14. Jesus, they didn’t need him at all. Only needed 10 men to start the prayers. Could he turn around and leave? It was too late. He recognized some of the men from last night. And there were a couple of yeshivah boys in their white shirts and black fedoras. Nobody gave him a book this time. Nobody looked at him twice. Rivka nodded at him but they didn’t exchange any words. He was out the door two seconds after the last amen. But he hadn’t even made it to the curb when someone grabbed his arm. It was Rivka’s husband, Mendel.
“Tomorrow morning at 7:30.”
It wasn’t a question.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Okay then.
He knew it was bad when his father was an hour late. His father was never late.
“Don’t pick at the cake,” his mother said. “Wait for your father.”
The phone rang.
Drunk driver in a semi went through a red light.
Died instantly.
“It’s God’s will,” said his sister.
He stayed for breakfast after the prayers. Lox and cream cheese. Someone he hadn’t seen before brought him a cup of coffee. With cream and sugar. He took it black but drank it anyway. There was a photo album on the kitchen table. He leafed through it. A lot of pictures of the deceased from Israel. Nice shot of him on top of Masada. And him leading a hora in front of the Wailing Wall. Then on the last page a picture of him sitting in a 68 Mustang convertible. It was strange to see an Orthodox Jew in a 68 Mustang convertible. Even stranger that his father had the same car.
Only three nights of sitting on low chairs and shaking hands with people he didn’t know. May he rest with the souls of something or other in Jerusalem. Something people said. He didn't know what it meant. He nodded his head and said thanks.
He recited the kaddish at the cemetery and once, with his mother and sister, back at the house. Then never again. He read the prayer to himself in English. There was nothing in there about God taking his father away.
Nothing.
The next morning he was walking towards the house when he saw them, Rivka and Mendel and a few others he did not recognize, walking in his direction. He understood. They had gotten ‘up’ from shiva. The mandated seven-day period was over. The ritual was to walk around the block. He remembered walking around the block with his mother and sister. That part made sense to him.
He nodded at them as they passed. And then he remembered. He called out:
“May you be comforted among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”
It startled them. They didn’t expect that from his mouth.
“You heard about Samuels?” one asked.
He hadn’t. He didn’t know Samuels. He shook his head.
“99 years old. One week from his 100th birthday. Alov le shalom.”
May he rest in peace.
“Be well, young man.”
He scanned the newspaper and found it right away. Avraham Samuels. 99 years old. It was only three blocks from his house. He was able to walk. The street was full of cars. He stood at the doorway and made his way into the living room. Someone handed him a book but he declined. He knew the prayer by heart.
Yisgadal veyiskadash.
He heard a voice rising above the crowd.
It took him a few seconds to realize it was his own.
The end.