Placeholders, p.19
Placeholders, page 19
‘Will your grandchild be a Kohen, then?’
‘No,’ Michael is quick to say. Then he sees Róisín’s expression and shakes his head. ‘I mean, maybe.’
‘If they’re even Jewish,’ Annette snorts. ‘Maybe we should worry about that first.’
‘Annette,’ Michael says.
Eventually, Aaron gets through the reading, the rabbi shakes his hand and Aaron steps to the side of the bimah. The Torah reader resumes. Róisín smiles at Aaron. He looks away. He’s invited back to read once more before he’s released. He walks briskly back to their pew and slumps into his seat with his arms crossed.
‘Yasher koach,’ Michael says.
‘Fuck off,’ Aaron says, quietly enough that only Róisín can make it out.
When the Hebrew reading is all done, the rabbi steps up to the microphone at the podium and clears his throat. He adjusts the tallis around his shoulders and smiles at the congregation.
‘Shabbat shalom, everybody,’ he says.
‘Shabbat shalom,’ the congregation responds.
He holds a hand up to his ear. ‘I didn’t quite catch that, let’s try it again. I said, Shabbat shalom, everybody!’
‘Shabbat shalom!’ the congregation calls back, louder this time.
‘Our parshah this week concerns Joseph, beginning and ending with his dreams. Joseph is famous for his dreams, of course – specifically, his ability to read them as prophecies – and for being an icon of family comeuppance. Who among us doesn’t dream of our families begging for food at the feet of Pharaoh, only to find us standing beside his throne?’
There is muted chuckling. Someone in the back row coughs loudly.
‘The dreams Joseph is famous for include those of the cupbearer and the baker and, eventually, the Pharaoh himself. These do not interest me. No, what interests me instead is Joseph’s first dream. Let me set the scene. Joseph is toiling in the field alongside his half-brothers when he tells them of a dream he had the night before. Context may be helpful: it’s worth remembering that this is the favourite child we’re talking about here, favoured by their father to the point of having special clothing made for only him. It would be fair, if not understating things, to describe his half-brothers as envious of Joseph. Still, he tells them one day that, in his dream, they were out binding sheaves – meaning, stacking hay, typical farmhand terminology I’m sure all of us are familiar with – and his brother’s sheaves bow to him. Then another dream: the stars and the moon bow to him. Joseph’s brothers envy him and the parshah is clear that it is these dreams that tip their envy into bloodlust.’
The rabbi pauses, unscrewing the cap from a plastic water bottle and taking a sip. He adjusts the shoulders of his tallis and clears his throat before continuing.
‘My question is this: why? If I were Joseph and I had dreams like this, aware as I must be of my brother’s feelings, I would keep them to myself. Perhaps Joseph is proud; he truly believes his dreams to be so important they must be shared. Perhaps he is simply young, blurting things out without reflecting on how they will make people feel. There is little in the scripture to inform us how Joseph feels about his dreams, only that he has them. If we suspect pride, we must also allow equal suspicion of shame. An alienated child wants nothing more than to fit in. Perhaps Joseph’s flaw is simply naïveté. He reports his dreams as if to explain his favour is of divine origin, out of his hands. If this is his plan, then it is short-sighted, but forgive him. He’s only seventeen.
‘It is important for us to remember that it is Joseph’s decision to share his dreams that is the catalyst for everything which follows. His brothers sell him as a slave out of jealousy. He is propositioned by his master’s wife and subsequently imprisoned. There, in the cell, is where his story truly begins. That which got him into the cell – his ability to decipher dreams – is also what gets him out. Of course, anyone can decipher dreams, can’t they? If knelt before the Pharaoh and asked to foretell his future, who among us wouldn’t say the words we thought he’d want to hear? We should admire Joseph’s commitment to the truth. And what is a commitment to the truth but an obligation? Perhaps this, above all, is what we can learn from Joseph. Our strength can be our weakness. Our uninformed choices can lead to our worst defeats and to our greatest triumphs and, sometimes, there is very little difference between the two. With so much beyond the horizon of what is visible to us, we ought to follow Joseph’s footsteps. Follow our truths. Fulfil our obligations. Amen.’
The congregation nods and repeats, ‘Amen.’
There’s a hushed murmur as everyone turns to their neighbours and nods or shakes their head in agreement or disagreement with the quality of the sermon.
It is clear to Róisín that life is not some karmic recycler where good deeds are transformed into good fortune. Life is a question without an answer. This hasn’t stopped generations of all sorts of people – mostly men, come to think of it – from trying to find one, or else invent one that best serves their purpose. People find an answer in religion under the guise of unity when it seems clear to Róisín that it only provides an unnecessary and arbitrary differentiation that encourages people to hate each other for absolutely no reason.
Annette shifts in her seat, turning towards her. ‘Really gives you food for thought, doesn’t it?’
Róisín nods and offers a smile. ‘It does, sure.’
‘What did you think of his sermon?’
‘Good, yeah,’ Róisín says. ‘Very interesting. Did you like it?’
‘I don’t know if I would say I liked it. I did find it interesting. He’s great. We had a rabbi before him who was all over the place, frankly, so it’s nice having someone… Ugh, would you wake him up, please?’
Aaron snores beside Róisín. She digs her elbow into his ribs and he jolts awake, looking around. ‘What?’ he says.
His mother glares at him and shakes her head. ‘Honestly, Aaron.’
Perhaps it is because Róisín has never had this type of religion in her life that she doesn’t anticipate the warmth of its community. It’s less shouty than she expected, for one. It’s singularly focused on rote repetition, which, in fairness, is exactly how Aaron described it to her all those months ago, that Judaism is closer to an ethnic subculture than a religion in the traditional sense. He told her that half of Jews were atheists. She didn’t understand that – she still doesn’t. All these people sitting here listening to what they know to be nonsense for the sole reason that generations of people before them did the same. She can’t shake the feeling that this is purposeless, that people should have better things to do with their Saturdays, but the feeling is muted. She doesn’t mind this.
Annette is explaining the story of Joseph and his tunic, which Róisín knows as his ‘Technicolor Dreamcoat’, though she’s not going to mention it. Aaron nudges her gently with his shoulder.
‘You okay?’ he mouths.
Róisín smiles and nods. She puts her hand in his and his fingers close around it. She takes a breath in through her nose and out through her mouth. This is what community smells like, she thinks, this is what it feels like. And though she also feels distinct from this community, she sees for the first time the possibility of an entrance into it. Something that is not home but close enough to serve the same purpose. If this is the shape she must contort herself into, if that is the price of admission, then so be it. Maybe this is something she can bear.
‘It’s almost over,’ he says and kisses her cheek.
There are a few more prayers in Hebrew and then the rabbi announces something called the Mourner’s Kaddish. Aaron watches his father struggle to stand and then his mother rises. He whispers something to his mother and she says something back that sounds like ‘yahrzeit’. The temperature drops a few degrees as Aaron looks to his mother and then his father and then stands. Róisín doesn’t know what to do, so she stands. All but a few in the sanctuary are seated.
יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא
And the congregation responds, with one voice, ‘Amen.’
As the prayer continues, Aaron puts his hand over Róisín’s, but soon sniffles and withdraws it to wipe his cheek. It is then she sees that he is crying. Annette looks sharply in his direction and then her face softens immediately. She puts her hand on Aaron’s shoulder. His father pats his back awkwardly. The prayer ends. They sit down.
Aaron clears his throat and tries to smile. ‘I’m fine,’ he says.
Róisín holds his hand and squeezes it. He squeezes back.
Lunch is served after the service and the congregation dissipates into clumps around the table of food in the centre. Annette helps Róisín assemble a bagel with lox.
‘Schmear,’ she says, pointing at the cream cheese.
‘Schmear,’ Róisín repeats.
‘It’s Yiddish. It means “to spread” but you can also use it as a noun to describe the thing you’re spreading.’
Róisín nods intently. ‘And is it always like this after the service?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Everyone just hanging around and talking?’
Annette nods. ‘Schmooze,’ she says.
Róisín repeats the word.
‘It’s Yiddish.’
‘What does it mean?’ Róisín asks.
‘This,’ Annette says, gesturing vaguely at the room. ‘Hanging around and talking.’
Róisín finds Aaron and his father sitting at a table at the back of the room with the rabbi and sits next to them. The rabbi has a bemused look on his face. Michael looks annoyed.
‘The Reform movement has been around much longer than the Conservative one,’ Aaron is saying. ‘In 1800s Germany, most Jews had Christmas trees.’
‘How did that turn out for them?’ Michael asks.
The rabbi laughs and shakes his head. ‘I’m not debating the history with you, Aaron, I’m sure you’re right, but I don’t think that the congregation would approve of one in the lobby.’
‘Nor would your mother approve of one in our home,’ Michael says. ‘I hope that goes without saying.’
Aaron squints and opens his mouth to say something. Róisín kicks his foot under the table. His mouth closes.
‘Is that something you two have discussed yet?’ the rabbi asks. ‘We have many interfaith families in the congregation and they all handle the holiday season differently, it seems.’
‘No, we haven’t had a chance,’ Róisín says.
‘I think it could be confusing for a child to grow up Jewish but have a Christmas tree,’ Michael says.
They were in bed the other night when Aaron made a comment referencing their baby’s bar mitzvah. It wasn’t even the focus of what he was saying, more of an afterthought to the main point. Róisín went quiet, thinking. It took Aaron a few moments to notice.
‘What is it? What did I say?’
‘No, nothing,’ she said.
‘It’s not nothing,’ Aaron whispered.
‘I didn’t know you wanted to raise them with religion.’
‘Oh,’ Aaron said.
‘It’s never been a big part of my life,’ she said.
‘Right.’
The bedroom was dark and cold but they were warm beneath the duvet. Aaron traced his fingers along her shoulder, a gentle motion that hesitated before continuing.
‘Would we celebrate Christmas, at least?’ she asked.
‘German Jews saw it as a symbol of integration,’ Aaron says now at the table. ‘A reclamation of what would otherwise be a purely Christian symbol.’
‘But it is a Christian symbol,’ his father says. ‘Christ’s Mass.’
‘It was adapted from the pagan celebration of the winter solstice to get more Christians. That’s how Christianity spread so quickly as a religion: it was always adapting. Something we could learn from.’
Michael shakes his head.
Róisín excuses herself from the table, asking where the bathrooms are, and the rabbi points her down the hall and to the left. She gently removes Aaron’s arm from the crook of her own. She checks her phone in the hallway. She has one new notification, a message from her mother. It’s a picture of Sinéad holding up five hand-knitted stockings complete with stitched names – one for her, one for Aaron, two for his parents and one for ‘Baby’.
Send me their address!!!
Róisín zooms in on the background of the photograph. Red-and-green bunting is stapled to the wall. Christmas trinkets occupy every available counter space – a model train beside the radio, elves resting on the windowsill. Her father sits at the kitchen table with a pint glass and an empty green bottle, looking up at the camera in surprise. Darragh must be the one taking the picture. Róisín feels the warmth of that room, of those people, and feels an enormous emptiness well up inside of her.
23
The car shudders as Aaron slows down and then jerks forward as he presses his foot down on the gas.
‘Sorry,’ he says.
Róisín doesn’t notice, or else notices but doesn’t say anything. She’s in the reclined passenger seat, her forehead leant against the fogged window. She has one hand resting on her stomach and the other propped up beneath her jaw.
Aaron clears his throat. ‘Sorry,’ he repeats.
‘It’s fine,’ Róisín says to the window.
He turns a dial on the centre console two clicks clockwise and the hot breath from the vents gets stronger. Róisín leans forward to slide the vent in front of her seat closed.
‘Oh,’ Aaron says, turning the dial back to where it was. ‘I thought you might be cold.’
‘It’s fine,’ she says.
‘Only another hour,’ he says, even though it’s closer to two.
Róisín nods. Her eyes are open, listlessly gazing out over the endless, barren highway landscape. Everything is white snow or black road, or else some intermediary grey sludge piled into enormous frozen waves on either side of the road.
‘It’s not much to look at,’ Aaron says.
He checks the clock on the console and does the mental math. They’ll likely arrive too late for sunset after all. He found the vacation cabin online. Outdoor hot tub. Beautiful view of the lake. Snow-capped trees. The cabin is on an inlet, surrounded on all sides by a wide lake. Every picture in the photo gallery had some hint of purplish sky, the red sun sinking into the water. Aaron had opened another tab in the web browser to check his bank account balance and then navigated back to the rental website to reserve it for one night. What he’d forgotten to account for was distance, as in the four hours it would take them to drive up to the backfuck of nowhere, Maine. But the pictures were beautiful.
The past few days have all unfolded in the same way. Aaron wakes up alone, Róisín and his father long since gone for their sunrise walk. He dresses for his morning run and comes home to find that Róisín is already back in bed for her morning nap. He helps his father around the house while Róisín lies in bed, scrolling through social media on her phone. She’s been doing a lot of that lately. The activity is an empty salve. It doesn’t seem to restore any energy to her. She is no more relaxed nor communicative at the end of a binge than at its start. Sometimes Aaron will stand at the end of the bed and say something and have to repeat it two or three times before Róisín acknowledges him. He’ll ask if she wants to join him downstairs and she’ll shake her head and turn back to her phone. The basement is a nursery now. Róisín hasn’t come down to see it yet. They have things in online shopping carts like cribs and baby toys and clothes that are sized in months. Aaron is learning how to change a diaper.
Róisín coughs into her fist and nuzzles against the glass of the window. Aaron reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder. She nods towards the windshield and tells him to watch the road. He returns both hands to the steering wheel.
It’s not so much that Róisín explicitly says that she’s hungry, but that Aaron notices her staring at the lit-up golden arches of the McDonald’s sign while he fills the gas tank. The sky is blue with tawny streaks. Róisín looks like a ghost through the car window, an afterimage imprinted beneath the distorted reflection of sky. He’d envisioned them in the outdoor hot tub watching the sky break apart into fiery colours as the sun sank into the lake, his arm around her, things exactly the same as they used to be. He watches the numbers on the pump go up. Róisín is still staring at the McDonald’s sign. When the tank is full, he swipes his credit card and plops back into the driver’s seat.
‘I’m really hungry,’ he says.
Róisín tilts her head. ‘Do you want to get something to eat?’
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Sure, of course.’
Now they’re sitting across from one another at a plastic table, the only ones in the place except for the teenagers behind the counter. There’s a red tray in the space between them, complete with burgers, fries and two large cokes. Róisín chews on the end of a fry.
‘Do you remember when we went to that state fair?’ Aaron asks.
He wants her to think back to it and be surprised by the warmth of the memory. He wants to see her smile and watch all this distance between them collapse.
She only nods. ‘What about it?’
‘Nothing,’ Aaron says.
They eat in silence. When he finishes his burger, he folds the wrapper into neat squares. He leans back in his chair and watches Róisín pick at her food. She looks tired. No, she looks exhausted. Since the moment she told him about the pregnancy, Aaron has fixated on the state of their lives once the baby arrives. The after. Any comfort he’s provided her has always been within the context of that future. A crib. A nursery. Maybe he’s ignored the space between now and then and, in doing so, has lost track of the love they share, that real and beating heart at the centre of their universe. Róisín finishes her food and looks around the restaurant with a vacant stare.
