Finding the Worm (9 page)

“So you want the world to be fair.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You want only good things to happen to good people and only bad things to happen to bad people.”

“I want people to get what they deserve.”

“That’s the world you want to live in?”

“I think it would be much fairer,” I said.

“Let’s imagine that world, Mr. Twerski. Let’s call it Twerski-World, all right?”

That made me smile, even though I knew he was setting me up. “All right.”

“So in Twerski-World, if you’re a good Jewish boy, and you study your haftarah, and you go to services, and you clean up your room, and you honor your mother and your father, God makes your life perfect. Nothing bad ever happens to you. There are no lumps in your oatmeal. You get lean brisket for dinner and cinnamon rugelach for dessert. Would that be acceptable to you?”

“No, because you’d get sick of it,” I answered. “If you have to eat nothing but brisket and rugelach forever, you’re definitely going to get sick of it. Sooner or later, it’ll feel like a punishment.”

“That’s a decent point,” he said. “So let’s say that if you’re a good Jewish boy, in Twerski-World, you can eat whatever you want, whenever you want—as long as it’s kosher. Is that more acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“But, on the other hand, if you’re
not
a good Jewish boy, if you
don’t
study your haftarah, and you
don’t
do those things I mentioned, then a lightning bolt comes out of the sky and strikes you dead.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to strike you dead—”

“But at least singe you around the edges,” he said.

“That would be fair, yes.”

“So then here’s my question to you: Who would ever be bad in Twerski-World? If good boys get cinnamon rugelach and bad boys get struck by lightning, you’d have to be a fool to be a bad boy.”

“Wouldn’t that be a better world?” I said.

“Do you know the story of Adam and Eve, Mr. Twerski?”

“Everybody knows that story.”

“But do you
know
the story?” he said.

“Adam and Eve eat the apple—”

“The what?”

“The apple,” I said. “Adam and Eve eat the apple.…”

His eyes got real wide, and I braced for him to yell. You could see he was thinking about yelling. He leaned
forward as if he was about to rush out from behind his desk, but then didn’t. He sank back down in his chair and reached into the bookcase behind him. He took down a Bible and slid it across the desk.

“Show me the apple, Mr. Twerski.”

“It’s in the story of Adam and Eve.”

“Then show it to me,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

I opened the Bible to the book of Genesis. I knew right where to look, because that was the first thing the rabbis had taught us when I started Hebrew school. I found the story of Adam and Eve in the second chapter of Genesis, and I skimmed through the Garden of Eden stuff. I didn’t see the word “apple.” So I read the entire thing, line by line. It took about three minutes. Not a word about an apple.

“It isn’t here,” I said.

“So there’s no apple in the Garden of Eden?”

“I guess not.”

“What tree did Adam and Eve eat from?” the rabbi asked.

“It says they ate from ‘the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.’ ”

“That makes more sense, doesn’t it?”

“But there’s no such thing as the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.”

“You’re missing the point of the story, Mr. Twerski.
Apples are good for you. They’re nutritious. This, we all know. Why would God tell Adam and Eve not to eat an apple?”

“He wouldn’t,” I said.

“As for the tree of the knowledge of good and evil—where was it?”

“In the Garden of Eden.”

“But where
exactly
? What does the Torah tell us?”

I glanced down at the page. “It says that the tree was in the middle of the garden.”

“In the
middle
of the garden, correct?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Not on the edge?”

“No, it says in the middle.”

“What does that say to you, Mr. Twerski?”

I thought about it for a second. “He wanted them to see it?”

“Don’t
ask
me!
Tell
me!”

“God wanted Adam and Eve to see the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. That’s why he put it in the middle of the Garden of Eden.”

“Now here’s my question:
Why did God want Adam and Eve to see the tree
?”

“How would I know?”

“
Think
, Mr. Twerski! God told them not to eat from the tree, yet he put it right in the middle of the garden.
He could have put it where they’d never see—out of sight, out of mind. But he put it where they’d have to walk past it every day. Why would he do such a thing?”

“Because it was a test?”

“Don’t
ask
me!
Tell
me!”

“It was a test,” I said.

“Exactly!”

“But if he knew they were going to fail—”

He slammed his fist down on the desk. “It’s not a test if you can’t fail!”

“So you’re saying that Quentin got a tumor because he failed a test?”

Rabbi Salzberg slapped his forehead. “Does that sound likely to you?”

“Then I don’t get it,” I said.

“Figure it out, Mr. Twerski. That’s your haftarah lesson for today.”

Here’s the fourth essay on good citizenship
I wrote for Principal Salvatore:

As usual, I slid the paper under the door of Principal Salvatore’s office as soon as I got to school, and as usual, Miss Medina handed it back to me an hour later. Principal Salvatore had written on the back:

Maybe that Garden of Eden talk with
Rabbi Salzberg was good luck, because sure enough, Quentin came home from the hospital a week later. I know there’s no
logical
connection between the two things, Rabbi Salzberg grilling me and Quentin getting out of the hospital, but somehow they felt connected. I mean, think about it. Last Friday, I was asking the rabbi why the world wasn’t fair, why a guy like Quentin would get sick, why God would let that happen, and then, today, Quentin comes home.

It was a big deal for the entire block, Quentin coming home. Even before he got home, there was a big crowd in front of the Hampshire House. The first ones to show
up were Quentin’s relatives, six cars full of them, grandparents and uncles and aunts, and more cousins than I could keep track of, who started to arrive around four o’clock. They double-parked and spilled out of their cars, dressed up as if they were going to a fancy party, and then they stood around on the sidewalk, doing nothing. There was one little girl, who must’ve been Quentin’s youngest cousin, running in circles with a pink helium balloon that said
WELCOME HOME!

Before long, there were maybe thirty-five people out on the sidewalk. Quentin’s relatives, guys from the block, even grown-ups I didn’t know who were just passing by and asked what was going on and then decided to stick around.

The whole gang was there, obviously. Even Shlomo Shlomo. He never hangs out with us after school on Fridays, on account of his dad is real serious about the start of Sabbath. But Lonnie figured this was a special thing, so he and I ran over to Shlomo’s house and walked right up to the front door and rang the doorbell like it was nothing. Lonnie explained the situation to Shlomo’s dad, and sure enough, for the first time I could remember, Mr. Zizner actually cracked a smile. He said Shlomo could skip Sabbath dinner just this once, and not even a minute later, Shlomo had pulled on his overcoat, and the three of us were running back to the Hampshire House.

It was right around five o’clock when Quentin’s car came cruising up the street. The sun had just gone down, but there was still enough light to see Mr. and Mrs. Selig’s faces in the front seat. Mrs. Selig put her hands over her mouth when she noticed the big crowd in front of the Hampshire House, and Mr. Selig started to laugh. You could see how glad they were that so many of us came out.

Once people realized who was in the car, they started to clap. Then, as the car rolled to a stop, a big cheer went up. It sent shivers down my spine, how loud it was. I felt Lonnie grab me from behind and hug me, which would have felt weird any other time, but which felt like a natural thing to do at that moment. It was a hugging kind of moment.

Quentin’s mom got out of the car first, and then Mr. Selig got out and hurried around to the back. I thought he was going to open the back door for Quentin, but instead he popped the trunk. It took me a second to figure out what was going on, but then I realized the two of them were hauling out a wheelchair.

They had a lot of trouble getting the thing out of the trunk, and then even more trouble unfolding it, but every time one of their relatives took a step forward to help them, Mr. Selig waved them away. While they were doing that, I was wrapping my brain around the idea that Quentin was going to be sitting in that wheelchair. As
stupid as it sounds, I was thinking he’d just climb out of the backseat, get a good night’s rest, and then turn up tomorrow morning in Ponzini. I was thinking nothing would be different, that Quentin would be just like he was before he got sick.

It took maybe half a minute for Mr. and Mrs. Selig to get the wheelchair set up on the sidewalk. That might not sound like a long time, but it sure felt like a long time when I was watching them do it. Then Mr. Selig went back around the car and pulled open the back door, but Quentin didn’t come out on his own. His dad had to lean into the car and lift him out. Then Mr. Selig carried him over to the wheelchair and sat him down in it. He was wearing blue pajamas and a Yankees baseball cap, which was pulled down on his forehead so you couldn’t even see the look on his face. It was scary how skinny he’d gotten. I’d only seen him in the hospital that one time—the doctors said afterward Lonnie and I had tired him out—and back then he was covered up to his neck with a blanket, so I had no idea what was going on with the rest of him. But now, sitting in that wheelchair, he looked unreal. His arms and legs looked like pipe cleaners. He looked like a Yankees cap stuck on top of a skeleton.

You could tell how shocked people were by how quiet they got, and how sudden the quiet came. I glanced up at Lonnie, and he’d shut his eyes. He couldn’t bear to look.
It was the same way with Shlomo and Eric and Howie. They were staring straight down into the sidewalk.

Except then Quentin reached up real slow with his right hand and tilted back the Yankees cap. He had this huge grin on his face, just like he always did back in Ponzini. I mean, he still looked bad. Even without much light, you could see dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were kind of caved in. But the grin on his face was pure Quentin.

His dad got behind the wheelchair and pushed Quentin toward the entrance of the Hampshire House. People were kind of leaning in for a closer look and stepping back at the same time, which made it hard for Mr. Selig to steer Quentin in a straight line. But his mom got in front of the wheelchair, and she led them up the path until they got to the lobby door. I figured that was going to be it, that Mr. and Mrs. Selig would take Quentin inside, and probably the relatives would follow them upstairs, and the rest of us would go home. But then, as Mrs. Selig was fishing around inside her purse for the key, out of the crowd stepped Beverly Segal.

Until then, I hadn’t even noticed her. But she stepped forward while the rest of us were hanging back. She did what none of us had the nerve to do. She touched him. Just like that. She walked up behind the wheelchair, like it was her right, and she took hold of Quentin’s hand. Then
she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Quentin didn’t even realize what she was doing until she’d done it. But once it sank in, he started to crack up.

You could just feel the relief in the crowd when they heard him laugh. People started laughing along with him. Then, one at a time, they came up behind the wheelchair and rubbed his shoulder or patted his arm or squeezed his hand. It was like Beverly broke the ice, and now the rest of us lined up to pay our respects. Mrs. Selig was holding the key in her right hand, but she didn’t open the door. She just stood there, smiling, letting it happen.

As Lonnie and I waited our turn, Beverly walked past us. She wasn’t going to say a word, but Lonnie caught her by the arm and nodded. That was his way of telling her she did a good thing.

She nodded back and whispered, “It’s not like the guy has cooties.”

That was all she said. After that, she headed back to her house. It was like … she did what she felt like doing, and she didn’t think it was a big deal.

You had to give her credit.

Most Saturdays, Lonnie is the last one
to roll out of bed. It’s like a running joke, how me and Eric and Howie and Quentin always wind up twiddling our thumbs on the corner of Parsons and Thirty-Fourth until he pokes his head out the door. It’s like waiting for that groundhog in Pennsylvania. But this morning he was already downstairs, ringing the doorbell of my house, at eight o’clock. Not that I’d slept much either. How could I? Quentin’s mom had said, when we were begging to go upstairs with the relatives, that we could stop by and visit him tomorrow.