“I’ll store the information away carefully,” Sam said, “in case I ever go on Jeopardy! This Felix sounds like a pretty sad guy.”
“I don’t think he is, actually.” Leah plunged the skillet into the suds and started scrubbing. “I think in his own weird little world, in his own weird little way, he’s happy. His mother pressured him to go into rehab — she loves him dearly, she says, but she’s worried about what will happen when she passes away. She’s got a point. So, how did the meeting with the Hartwells go?”
“Brilliant,” Sam said. “Genius. I did some Internet research and found out ‘Hartwell’ means ‘well of the stags.’ So I did a sketch of a well with big bucks standing on either side, just lousy with antlers — it’s a bird bath and a family crest. Both Mr. and Mrs. loved it. They signed a check big enough to cover our mortgage payments for two months. So if you don’t want to go back to this center tomorrow—”
“Of course I do.” She stopped washing dishes and turned to look at him. “I made a commitment to Fred, to the people in my groups. Why wouldn’t I want to go back?”
“I guess I’m the one who doesn’t want you to go back,” Sam admitted. “I still worry about your being around all those addicts. Did you listen to the noon news today? It turns out that gambling addict has been embezzling for years but hiding it so cleverly that no one caught on to it before. The police followed a trail that seemed to lead to Atlantic City, but it turned into nothing — who knows where that embezzler’s holing up? And that small-time drug dealer shot execution-style, Arnold Belmont — did you know he was just nineteen? An informant told the police his suppliers killed him for stealing two hundred thousand dollars — but they didn’t find the money. As for the person who wounded two people in a drunken rage, the police have no leads. I don’t like it, Leah. All this crazy, violent stuff going on, and it feels like you’re in the middle of it.”
“I’m in the middle of silly squabbles between plagiarists and proofreaders. There’s absolutely no connection between that and those scary stories in the news. Well, that’s the last of the dishes. Go finish your design. I’ll play homework police.”
She quizzed Rachel on her multiplication tables, then turned to Sarah. “How are you doing on that history essay?” she asked.
“It’s done,” Sarah said. “Math’s done, too. So all I have left is religious school. I still don’t get it, Mom. Why is Mrs. Goldberg making us do this every night?”
“It’s part of counting the omer. Remember? It’s a way of marking the forty-nine days between Passover and Shavuot, between the exodus from Egypt and the giving of the Torah at Sinai. And during those days, it’s traditional to study PirkeiAvot. Mrs. Goldberg just wants you to take a few minutes each night to think about one saying from Pirkei Avot. I think it’s a wonderful assignment.”
“That’s because you don’t have to do it,” Sarah said, pouting.
“Watch your tone, please,” Leah said, not too gently. “That’s no way to speak to your mother.”
“I know. Sorry. Okay, then. Pirkei Avot — I keep forgetting what that even means.”
“There are several ways of translating it,” Leah said. “My favorite is ‘Ethics of the Sages.’ It’s a book of moral teachings that some great rabbis of the past have handed down to us. What saying did Mrs. Goldberg choose for tonight?”
Sighing, Sarah opened her notebook. “It’s a saying of Rabbi Ben Azzai: ‘Be as quick in carrying out a minor mitzvah as in carrying out a major one, and flee wrongdoing; for one mitzvah leads to another mitzvah, and one wrongdoing leads to another wrongdoing; for the reward for a mitzvah is another mitzvah, and the reward for a wrongdoing is another wrongdoing.’ I don’t get it.”
“I bet you will,” Leah said, “if you just think about it. You know what a mitzvah is, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure,” Sarah said. “It’s a Commandment.”
Rachel twisted around in her chair. “No, it isn’t. It’s a good deed.”
“You’re both right,” Leah said, “because the Commandments teach us to do good deeds. And when we do good deeds, we’re honoring the Commandments.”
“But this saying doesn’t make sense,” Sarah said. “We should be as quick about doing minor mitzvoth as about doing major ones? So clearing the table is as important as, like, saving someone’s life?”
“Ben Azzai doesn’t say they’re equally important,” Leah said. “I think his point is that doing minor mitzvoth helps us develop the habit of doing the right thing. Then, when an opportunity to do a major mitzvah comes along, we’ll be ready. See? ‘One mitzvah leads to another mitzvah.’ And ‘the reward for a mitzvah is another mitzvah.’ ”
Sarah scrunched up her nose. “So the reward for clearing the table is that I get to clear the table again?”
“In a way,” Leah said, smiling. “Every time you clear the table, you take a step toward becoming a helpful person who will be ready to help in lots of ways, both big and small. Ben Azzai also says the opposite is true — ‘one wrongdoing leads to another wrongdoing.’ If you get into the habit of doing things that are wrong, even just a little bit wrong, you’re more likely to become someone who does lots of wrong things, including things that are very wrong. Does that make sense?”
“I guess.” Sarah picked up her pen. “I guess I can write a paragraph about that. You think it’s okay to use clearing the table as an example?”
“I think it’s fine,” Leah said, and kissed her on the forehead, and went downstairs.
Wednesday, April 27, 2:47 p.m.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to take notes or not. I have plenty of time — afternoon groups have been canceled, and we’re all sitting around, waiting for news. But I feel so numb that it’s hard to hold onto my pencil. Still, I feel I should try to write things down. Somehow, I feel that’s important.
From the moment I got to the Caterpillar Room, I should have sensed that something was wrong. When I arrived five minutes early, Brian was already there, looking flushed, doing crunches.
“Oh, Brian,” I said, “you know you’re not supposed to do that sort of exercise. You should conserve your calories. Why don’t you get your thermos and take a seat?”
“Maybe that’s a good idea.” He walked slowly to the couch. “I don’t feel so great.”
He’d forgotten his thermos. I opened the refrigerator door, spotted the purple thermos labeled “Brian,” and set it on the end table next to him. “Maybe you worked out too hard and got dehydrated. Have some water.”
“In a minute.” He sat hunched forward, pressing one of the three bright red throw pillows against his stomach. “I’m not thirsty right now.”
Felix scurried in next, managed a slight, silent smile, got his thermos, and sat in the same chair he’d chosen yesterday. A minute later, Martha arrived, found her thermos and a chair, and immediately took out her sampler. I walked over to admire it.
“ ‘Fools hate reproof,’ ” I said, reading the cross-stitched words, “ ‘but the wise love correction’ — that’s from Proverbs, isn’t it? The translation I know is slightly different.”
“I edited it,” she said, adding several quick, hard stitches to the eagle’s tail feathers. She took a sip from her thermos, frowned, and set the thermos down.