O: An Eclipse in Brooklyn

An Eclipse in Brooklyn

Leo Mendel stood in his parents' living room, a suitcase at his feet
and both hands clasped loosely in front of him. His orange robe fell
loosely to the floor, his long toes spilling out of the plastic sandals
he'd worn for almost two years. He would replace them, but not until
absolutely necessary. His head was bare, shaven so closely that his
hairline made a hazy frame around the nicks and cuts in his scalp. At
some point, Leo knew, his scalp would grow accustomed to this necessary
assault, his hair so thick and stubborn and black that by tomorrow
morning, he would again kneel in an attitude of prayer while the sharp
blade scraped along his skull.

By tomorrow, too, he would be back at the Vihara, which in his
excitement he'd visited even before coming to his parents' house. He
struggled with the impatience of it, the open space of the temple and
the simple stone Buddha sitting calmly in its Bot. He hoped the new
monk who wielded the blade over his head had a gentler touch, then
pushed the thought aside. Instead he remembered that the Vihara had
once been a Yiddish theater, something he would like to tell his
father. Perhaps he would, later.

Leo's father sat in front of him, hatless, a pipe between his frowning
lips and his legs crossed. He stared at Leo quietly, almost rudely.
Earlier, Leo had stood on the stoop of his parents' brownstone,
watching his father's green eye watch him through the peephole, a tiny
door within the main door that had fascinated Leo as a child. Finally
Leo had said, "It's me, Pop," and the door had swung open to reveal
Leo's father already walking down the long hallway, his back
trifurcated by the suspenders he'd always worn. The same damn ones he
will always wear, Leo had said to himself, frustrated by having to face
his father's back so soon and by the sudden burst of emotion.

He'd stepped through the doorway just as his mother had come around the
corner, trailing the cabbagey smell of holishkes and onion knishes
behind her. Leo had grimaced, both at the smells and the look on his
mother's face. His mother had made two of his favorite dishes at least,
and he would not - could not - eat either of them. Like his father, his
mother had turned and walked away, her hand over her mouth.

Leo had pulled his suitcase behind him as he followed his mother,
feeling ridiculous. I should not even have a suitcase, he'd thought,
before calming himself. He'd wanted to meditate, but he'd recognized
the desire to meditate for what it was, and forced himself to say,
"Mom?"

She was standing at the head of the table, already set for his
homecoming. She didn't look at him, so Leo surveyed the table: the
holishkes and knishes he already knew; the tzimmes, smelling of stewed
pineapples and almost as orange as his robe; the challah bread sitting
on the same plate as the lox. Leo's father would start the meal by
breaking the challah, frowning when Leo combined it with the lox, his
favorite appetizer before diving into the rest. On a plate Leo didn't
recognize sat a lokshen kugel, a sweet one, the nuts and fruits poking
out of the eggey custard and making Leo's stomach growl. The meal had
been made for him and his stomach knew it. That his mother had set the
table with a combination of the Pesach and Chametz dishes did not go
unnoticed by Leo. He himself had pulled the Pesach dishes from their
silk covers before Passover, had helped put them back so carefully that
the entire exercise left him drained and wanting sleep. He'd wished his
mother had chosen the Chametz dishes she used everyday, for regular
meals, so much more preferable than the guilt building in his
chest.

For several minutes, Leo and his mother had stood in the dining room.
She'd refused to look up, her eyes on the back of the chair that Leo's
father had sat in ever since Leo could remember. Leo had listened to
the street sounds - a car honking, a grocery cart rattling on the
cement sidewalk, a bird or possibly a person whistling - before turning
and walking out, his suitcase behind him. He'd closed his eyes against
the bright light of the living room; on his eyelids he'd still seen his
mother, a photographic negative, her glasses and the loose bun of her
hair as clear as the windowpanes.

His father had been waiting for him, and Leo had walked to the center
of the room, where he stood now. The smoke from his father's pipe had
settled in various strata around the room; Leo's entry had disturbed it
only briefly. We are as changeable as the clouds, Leo thought, as he
stood in the fine bands of smoke. He would write that down later,
perhaps show it to another initiate. For now, Leo focused on the
disturbing relief of not having to make himself feel kindness towards
this man, his father, who sat before him.

"You are half-naked," his father started, just as the first dish
crashed to the floor in the dining room. Leo turned his head and stared
at the mirror in the hallway between the living and dining rooms, which
gave him a full view of his mother. She wailed and leaned against the
table, awkwardly, as if she were about to fall on it. Which, Leo saw,
she was.

"I cannot decide which is worse," Leo's father continued, "Being
half-naked, or completely naked. Why don't you enlighten me?"

At the word enlighten, Leo again faced his father. His right shoulder,
left bare by the robe, seemed to throb. Leo kept his hands clasped in
front of him, and said meekly, "Buddhist," choking on the last
syllable.

"That I can see. The robe, your hair - or lack thereof," his father
said, placing his pipe in his mouth. He regarded Leo silently while two
thin streams of smoke erupted from his nostrils. He's inhaling the
smoke, Leo thought. He is not so calm.

"There are two-hundred and fifty million of us," Leo blurted, instantly
ashamed.

"Though surely," his father answered, "Not all dressed in a costume of
cheap marigolds."

Leo waited. He reminded himself that desire leads to suffering, that
the word cheap meant nothing. More than anything he wished he was at
his new Vihara and facing the Buddha, not this man with his stomach
spilling over the top of his pants and wearing leather shoes. The
Buddha at the Vihara - an old Yiddish theater, no less! - was not the
roly-poly trinket Buddha sold in carts along the street. Instead it was
Siddhartha just after his transformation, serene, a slight smile on his
lips. Perhaps Leo was not enlightened as Siddhartha had been, but that
would come. It had to come. This thought - this yearning, Leo admitted
to himself - was interrupted by his mother's cries and his father's
voice.

"And, yes, I will admit, numbers are important," his father said,
"Numbers are important, but so are the mitzvahs. Laws do not stop with
people robbing a bank, or stealing a car. They do not stop because you
travel to a different place and allow yourself to become a half-naked
man with no hair, your mother already dead in the next room." At this
Leo's father leaned forward and jabbed his arm in the direction of the
dining room, a thin line of spit hanging from his beard. His pipe lay
in his lap, burning and forgotten.

Leo allowed himself to look at the hallway mirror so he could see his
mother. By now she had positioned her upper torso on the table, her
arms above her head and her palms down. The food and dishes not pushed
to the floor spread out before her, the tablecloth bunched under her
breasts and stomach. Like a ship crashing into the harbor, Leo thought,
and watched his mother raise her head so she could get a better look at
the sugar bowl her fingers threatened to send crashing to the floor.
Her wailing stopped as she lifted the sugar bowl - most definitely a
Pesach dish - and carefully placed it on a chair, out of Leo's sight.
Then she placed her forehead back on the table, her wake again pushing
the less important dishes out of the way. She inched along, each dish
and piece of silverware that fell to the wood floor punctuated by a
high-pitched yelp.

"Here! Here!" his father yelled, "Here!"

Leo turned, his father pointing at the Torah sitting on a wood table
against the wall. As a child, Leo had played with the table, twisting
it this way and that, finally making his way up to the old book that
smelled like the storage closet in his father's store. He'd touched its
pages maybe four times in his life, always afraid he'd tear the thin
paper or look up to see his father shaking his head.

"You are chosen why?" his father asked. He'd picked up the Torah and
thrust it in Leo's direction.

"Because I accepted this when no one else would," Leo recited quietly,
his hand fluttering over the worn leather cover like it was afraid to
land.

"And?"

Leo said nothing. The room darkened, not because it was late but
because clouds had formed over Brooklyn. The orange in Leo's robe
dimmed, along with his bare arms and face. Around him, the brocade
chairs and worn rugs and heavy wood tables seemed closer, as if they'd
expanded to better surround him. A final crash came from the dining
room; in the hallway mirror, Leo could see his mother, now fully
extended on the dining room table, her stocking feet twitching in the
lesser light. Her hair had come loose. She'd knocked over every chair
at the table, save one. Despite his father's hard stare, Leo smiled. It
took all his will not to break out in a full grin.

Later, Leo would find the Pesach sugar bowl and place it carefully out
of harm's way. He'd handled the bowl many times, it's tiny pink and
blue flowers embossed on the surface with a gold rim edging the top. On
the bottom of the bowl it said Haviland - the pattern designer, he
guessed, or maybe just the pattern name - and under that, Limoges,
France, the writing like a blue ink tattoo etched lightly into the
frail white porcelain.