The Book of Stone. Jonathan Papernick
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wasn’t going to stick around for some pointless blood work, to share his misery with a complete stranger. Pinky had not yet returned in the Thunderbird, and Stone was in no condition to walk. Trembling, he leaned against a utility pole, trying to gather himself.
It was a sunny day and the warm air was pleasant—not too hot, not too cold—and life went on before his eyes, cars racing past along Atlantic Avenue, horns honking, shoppers going in and out of the colorful shops across the street: Fertile Crescent, Dar-Us-Salam Books, Treasure Islam, Zawadi Gift Shop.
It was then Stone realized that stapled to the pole on which he was leaning was a cardstock poster announcing an upcoming rally along Atlantic Avenue. There was a crude outline of the shape of Israel, filled in entirely with the colors of the Palestinian flag. It read: RALLY FOR PALESTINE! The date for the rally was the anniversary of the Court Street Riot. There was a list of Arab dignitaries from the West Bank and Gaza and other parts of the Arab world who would be attending. Stone knew some of their names. He tore up the flier when he noticed the master of ceremonies was to be Randall Roebling Nation.
This time, Stone had no difficulty popping open the bottle of morphine pills; he swallowed two dry, hoping Pinky would arrive soon.
Someone was approaching at a quick clip down the sidewalk, a giant, dressed in the style of the ultra-Orthodox—dark rumpled suit, black hat, and a standard white shirt. He was walking with purpose, a slight hitch in his step, and Stone’s stomach clenched. The man must have been six foot three or four, and before Stone realized it, the stranger was upon him. He did not smile; in fact, his bearded face showed no expression.
“Rav Seligman wants to see you.”
“Pardon me?” Stone said, far more politely than he intended. He was reminded of the ultra-Orthodox man who had torn his suit at the funeral, and he considered spitting in the man’s face.
“Rav Seligman wants to see you.” The man turned to walk away, expecting Stone to follow, and, when he did not, stopped and repeated himself for a third time as if he were programmed to say only that one thing.
Stone had only just spoken with Seligman on the phone from Israel, and now he was here? It was understandable that Seligman could not make it on time for the funeral, which was held the day after his father had died, but why was he here now? There was no shiva, no memorial service, no reason Seligman could possibly need to speak with him again. He followed the giant down the block, overtaken by curiosity. What else might Seligman do to try to make him feel guilty and remind him of his shortcomings? Was he obligated to do something more than say the Kaddish? They turned right onto a side street where a black SUV waited, idling. Seligman’s face appeared behind the windshield. He plucked a toothpick from his mouth, smiled, and beckoned Stone to get in.
He hesitated for a moment, expecting Pinky would arrive in the Thunderbird looking for him, but then he realized it was just Pinky and Stone didn’t give a fuck. He climbed into the back seat. Seligman looked as he always had, with his gray trimmed beard, knitted kippa on his head, aviator glasses obscuring his eyes. His face was bright and alive. He had not aged a day since Stone had last seen him. It was true that Stone hated Seligman: hated his fire-and-brimstone radicalism, hated his us-versus-them outlook, hated his strength. But he also realized there was something in Seligman that reminded him so much of his father he was drawn toward him: a second chance, in miniature, to make good.
“Matthew,” Seligman said, turning and placing his warm hand on Stone’s, “I know this is a difficult time.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“When I saw you at the bingo hall today,” Seligman said, his sunglasses catching a spear of sunlight, “I saw a lost, sick young man in no position to refuse any help. I just want to make sure you are all right.”
The morphine still had not fully taken hold, but Stone was slipping through the rabbit hole. Had he said he had seen him at the bingo hall? Why would Seligman be playing bingo? And why did Seligman give a damn about what happened to Stone? Seligman was not a warm and caring man. Seligman was a monster. Seligman was the one who had told him not to consort with Arabs when he had stayed with him at Giv’at Barzel. Seligman was the charismatic orator who pounded his clenched fist on the podium, spraying saliva as he shouted to the fired-up crowds about “Ishmael in Eretz Yisrael.” He was frightening, he was dangerous. Yet here Seligman was in the flesh, warm, kind, alive. Seeing Seligman face to face, Stone had an intense urge to flee. He had turned tail and run last time they’d been together, but the thought of his father’s avatar seeing him as a coward made him sick to his stomach.
“I’ve been better,” Stone said.
“You don’t look good,” Seligman said. “That worries me. Is there anything going on I can help you with?”
Stone offered no response. Seligman was not a sympathetic man.
Seligman wore a hurt expression on his face. “Kid, I have known you since before you were born. Your father and I go way back. You know that. He was one of the smartest and best men I have ever known. We grew up together, studied together. For goodness’ sake, you’re his only son. I’m talking about rachmones.”
“What do you mean?”
“Compassion, Matthew. I know it is not easy for you to be alone now. And I know you and your father did not always see eye to eye.”
“He’s gone,” Stone said.
“I know,” Seligman said, squeezing Stone’s hand. His father had not taken his hand in his own in years, and Stone was nearly overcome by the intimacy of this small gesture. He started to say something, then remembered the giant sat less than two feet from him.
“Don’t mind him. He’s just my golem. Moshe,” Seligman said. He nudged Moshe in the ribs. “Drive us around the block.”
The side and back windows had been blacked out. The frigid air-conditioning blowing against Stone’s bare arms made him shiver.
“I was a disappointment,” Stone said. “I always thought there would be enough time to make good with him.”
“Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht.”
Stone returned a puzzled look, and Seligman said, “Man plans and God laughs.”
“I don’t believe in God,” Stone said.
The car turned a corner. A group of schoolchildren crossed the street, brightly colored knapsacks clinging to their backs.
“You must believe in something.”
Stone’s mind was already getting gummy and slow and he just wanted to lie down and rest.
“I believe in the power of books,” he said at last. “Books are the best way to engage with humanity without actually engaging with humans. The world is full of uncertainty. Books have all the answers.”
“I know your father loved his books.”
“And now they are mine,” Stone said, an ecstatic rush overtaking him. “I need to get back to them now.”
“Are you afraid something will happen to them?”
“They’ll start speaking without me,” Stone said.
“Who will?”
“The books!” Stone replied. “With them I can know everything, knowledge is limitless, it fills the emptiness inside—”
“Matthew,” Seligman said, squeezing Stone’s wrist, “it’s not healthy for you to be alone now.”
“Imagine spending an evening with Churchill, T. E. Lawrence, Freud. They are all waiting for me.” Seligman’s face was melting and beneath that face was another face, full of evil intentions, and beneath that face was another face, calm as a night breeze, and the faces kept peeling back until Stone saw his father’s face alive in Seligman’s.
“Listen, it is the penitential month of Elul. A new year is upon us. It’s almost Rosh Hashanah.