Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (35 page)

But not tonight. I should call a taxi and go home. My hand patted my hip in search of my Blackberry, and I remembered what had happened to it. Aaron would give me a ride.

Sitting at the piano, I let my fingers find their own way on the keys, hitting random notes, until they picked up “White Christmas.” I went along with it, and soon my lips started moving with a quiet humming and words emerged, almost by themselves. “…
where the treetops glisten and children listen…
”

The white streets of Tarrytown came to my mind, and I kept playing, but only with my right hand. The left arm was hurting too much, and I let it dangle by my side. My orthopedic knowledge was rudimentary, having had no involvement with the field since medical school, but my mind still tried to diagnose the condition. Had I pinched a nerve? Compressed the cartilage? Or was it my shoulder, perhaps a rotator cuff?

Playing with one hand, I whispered, “
May your days be merry and bright…
”

The door opened and Aaron emerged, followed by Judy Levy, Mat Warnick, and Cantor Bentov pushing Rabbi Rachel’s wheelchair, who handed me a piece of paper. I read it.

I stood, leaning on the table for support. “Unanimously?”

“Yes,” Rabbi Rachel said. “Unanimously!”

My gaze went to Cantor Bentov, who looked away. Judy’s eyes locked with mine, pained but not ashamed, and then she glanced at the crumpled canvas of
Extinct Together
. Mat continued to the exit, keeping his back to me, and I realized he was more resentful of Jonathan’s financial swagger than I had suspected. His vote had not been against me or for the rabbi, but in defiance of his nouveau riche brother.

That left Aaron.

I faced him and asked, “
Et tu,
Brutsky?”

“It’s better,” he said very quietly, like someone offering condolences to the bereaved. “Better for everyone, especially for you and Rebecca.”

“
Shouldn’t that be my decision?”

He lowered his eyes. “We had no choice. She’s the rabbi.”

“
And what am I? Chopped liver?”

Aaron smiled sadly. “You are who you are, which is why you can never
really
understand.”

“
Understand what?”

“
This.” He gestured at my Christmas tree. “Only a born Jew, the son and grandson and great-grandson of Jews, could understand why this is so terribly wrong.”

I turned away from him, the searing pain making me grimace.

On the table before me were the three pieces of Rabbi Rachel’s writing. On top was the note:
The Jews are stealing Christmas!
I wanted to reach out and pick up the papers, but my hand didn’t move. She deserved to be unmasked, but did Jose deserve jail and deportation, being torn away from his wife and kids? The board’s decision was a clear message to me.
Dr. Christian Dinwall is hereby removed from the position of president.
What would I gain from destroying her? Did I even want to recover the position of president? What for? These people were not the friends I had believed them to be, and this building had just ceased to be my place of worship. I was a stranger amongst them.

The sound of commotion made me turn. Jose came in with a wheelbarrow. The cantor went over and helped him load up my Christmas tree. They pushed it out the door while a few of my decorations fell to the floor.

I followed them.

They dumped my tree at the curb near the pile of snow.

I came closer.

In the glowing Christmas lights from the synagogue, I noticed a man and a woman standing on the sidewalk, a young couple, both of them tall and trim, she in a short dress, he in uniform. Even from a distance I could see the cross hanging from her neck. She pointed at me and said something to the man, and he waved. I held up my hand in a hesitant greeting, took another step, and another. I ignored Jose and the cantor, who passed by me with the empty wheelbarrow on their way back inside. Now the couple’s faces emerged more clearly, and I heard my own voice, full of wonder. “Mom? Is that you?”

She nodded.

The man beside her waved again, and I recognized him from the photo at her bedside.

He was my father.

Joachim Dinwall.

“
Dad!” A great swell of joy broke over me. I leaped forward, my arms open to take them both into an embrace, into a family hug, into a realization of an old dream—the dream I had shared with every other fatherless child, the dream I had summoned often to comfort a terrible longing, the dream I had used during childhood to suspend disbelief in the adults’ insistence that my father was gone and was never coming back. It was an old dream, one that I had seldom visited in recent years, but it came back roaring, as real and tangible as the ground under my feet.
My father was back!

I ran toward them, breathless with happiness, but the pain in my left arm suddenly spiked into my chest in a sharp, stabbing jolt. My legs folded under me, and my view twisted sideways as I fell onto the side of my face, then rolled onto my back.

In detached observation, like a physician reaching an unexpected yet logical diagnosis, I observed that the aches I had experienced on and off over the past few weeks had not been the benign manifestations of stress, lack of sleep, muscle cramps, or an orthopedic injury, but the warning signs of very real and deadly heart disease. Just like my mother, I was physically active and not overweight, and yet my genetic disposition and overwrought, dutiful way of life had brought me down to an end very similar to hers—and at about the same age.

The sky above me was dark. Aaron’s face appeared, his forehead creased. He was probably feeling my wrist for a pulse, but I could not feel his fingers, nor could he feel any pulse. I wanted to see my parents again and tried to look for them, but whiteness descended around me, resembling a thick, glowing fog that materialized in the dead of night, blocking off all sounds, bringing peace.

His mouth opened, his lips moved, but I could not hear Aaron’s voice.

He grabbed my arms and dragged me over to the pile of snow. Judy and Cantor Bentov appeared. He spoke to them, and they began to dig up snow and cover me. I understood. I would have done the same—lower the stricken patient’s body temperature to minimize the damage to the heart until CPR could bring back a steady beat, followed by surgical intervention. But did I want to stick around for that, or would I rather join my parents?

I wasn’t sure.

Aaron placed his hands on my chest and pressed down rhythmically. He paused and leaned over to give me mouth-to-mouth, and our eyes met.

His face contorted in anguish, his eyes wide behind his glasses, filled not only with horror and disbelief, but also with terrible guilt.

With the last bit of air in my lungs I managed to say, “I…forgive…you.”

Part Eight

One year later – Christmas Day

Noel, Noel, Born is the King of Israel

At 2:18 a.m. on Christmas morning, at the maternity ward at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City, Debra gave birth to a baby boy. He had wisps of his mother’s dark hair and a wide mouth with pink gums that seemed ready to accommodate his father’s healthy teeth.

Bundled up in a white-and-blue blanket, the baby suckled fervently on his mother’s breast.

Mordechai sat on the side of the bed, and they watched the creased face of their newborn son, marveling at his natural instinct, a miracle that enabled him to feed without prior experience or a printed manual.

Soon the baby was full.

Mordechai draped his shoulder with a towel and burped the baby gently.

Standing by the window with his newborn son, the dimly lit room behind him, Mordechai could see a section of the dark sky between the tall buildings of Manhattan. It was the first clear night after almost a week of rain and snow, and the stars burned brightly.

A nurse came in with a writing pad. “Sorry to bother you with this, but we have to fill out an application for a birth certificate as soon as possible after the delivery.”

“Sure.” Debora beckoned her to a chair by the bedside. “Go ahead.”

“
Mother’s name?”

“
Debra Dinwall-Levinson.”

“
Father’s name?”

“
Mordechai Dinwall-Levinson.”

The nurse looked at Debra and asked, “How did you manage to make him agree to that?”

“
Actually, it was my idea,” he said.

“
It’s true,” Debra said. “We’re equal partners. Neither of us wanted to give up our own last name, but we wanted to share the same one. So we combined the two.”

“
We put Dinwall first,” he explained while placing the baby back in her arms, “because alphabetically it comes first.”

“
I should have kept my last name,” the nurse said. “Would have made the divorce a lot less irritating.” She filled in the address of their studio apartment on the upper west side and asked if they had decided on the baby’s name.

“
We have,” Mordechai said, “but we’re not supposed to reveal it until the circumcision ceremony in eight days.”

“
You’re safe with me.” The nurse made like she was locking her lips.

“Joachim,” Debra said. “Joachim Dinwall-Levinson.”

As if responding to his name, the baby opened his gummy mouth and whimpered, his tiny hands moving up and down while his mother rocked him gently.

“After his great-grandfather,” Mordechai added. “He was a Marine in Vietnam.”

“A beautiful name,” the nurse said. “It sounds…biblical.”

“That’s correct. Joachim was one of the greatest kings of Israel.”

“And he’s born on Christmas!” She touched baby Joachim’s cheek with a light finger and began to sing softly:

“
The first Noel, the angels say,

To Bethlehem’s shepherds as they lay,

At midnight’s watch, when keeping sheep,

The winter wild, the light snow deep,

Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,

Born is the King of Israel…”

Little Joachim’s eyes were closed when the nurse’s voice faded away.

“
Thank you,” Debra said. “It makes me think of the birthday parties we’ll have for him every year, on Christmas. Too bad we can’t sing this one. It’s so pretty.
Born is
the
King of Israel…
”

“
We could,” Mordechai said, “with different lyrics.”

“
A Jewish theme?”

“
Yeah! Maybe a song of praise for the biblical King Joachim. Should I ask your dad?”

“
You won’t have to ask him twice.”

The nurse paused at the door. “Is he a song writer?”

“
A physician…but he’s very creative.”

“
What’s his specialty?”

Debra looked at Mordechai, who answered for her. “My father-in-law is a heart surgeon, but now he does everything. He’s with Doctors Without Borders. In Vietnam.”

“
My mom is teaching English there.” Debra sighed. “It’s so far.”

“
Don’t worry, sweetheart.” The nurse pointed at the baby. “That’s a grandma magnet. She’ll be back in no time.”

When the nurse left, they sat quietly, watching Joachim’s face under the knitted cap, listening to the subtle purr of his breathing. After a while, when they were certain that he was sound asleep, Mordechai picked him up carefully, held him for Debra to kiss each tiny cheek, and placed him in the bassinet.

Then, for the first time, Mordechai recited the traditional Jewish father’s blessing over his child: “
May God bless you and guard you; May God shine His face upon you and judge you kindly; May God watch over you and keep you in peace.
”

“
Amen,” Debra said.

“
It’s time to share the good news.” He took out his iPad and tapped on the Skype icon. “Who should I call first? Your parents or mine?”

“Try Rabbi Mintzberg,” she said, and they laughed.

THE END

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to all the composers and lyricists of Christmas songs, who inspired me to write this novel, and to my friends, both Jewish and Christians, who shared with me their thoughts and feelings about Christmas.
Their input lent this story its richness and humanity.

As with my previous novels, editor Renee Johnson and the helpful staff at CreateSpace made the book a great deal better.
And to my friends and family members who read the manuscript in its various iterations and provided insightful comments, thank you!