“You couldn’t find the biblical verse this alludes to,” Sam said. “That’s because there isn’t one.”
Jacob reread the line in Hebrew.
“Take your time,” Sam said. “Play with it.”
The instruction Sam had used when amusing Jacob with gematria — the geometry of letters.
Jacob added up the numerical values of the letters, reversed them. Nothing.
He selected the first letter of each word and paired them together.
“Barach ha-Golem,” he read.
The golem has fled.
“There’s nothing more hubristic than the impulse to create life,” Sam said. “Children are the best example of that. The Talmud says three partners participate in the birth of every child: the mother, the father, and God. That equation raises people up to the level of the Divine. It’s also a statement of faith, declaring that God involves Himself with the individual. And yet, no matter how we attempt to assert our authority — even if we appeal to the Divine — children go their own way.” He paused. “Any sort of offspring seeks to find its own way. That is the fundamental joy of parenthood, and also its terror.”
Jacob said, “She came for me.”
Sam didn’t answer.
“Because of the blood in your veins.”
“You said it yourself, Jacob. She came for you, not me.”
Jacob looked at him.
“If you don’t mind,” Sam said, “I’ll wait here while you get the car.”
For a legally blind man giving driving directions, his father exhibited remarkable confidence.
“You’ll want to get over to your right.”
“I’m not going to keep saying this—”
“Then don’t.”
“—but I can’t help thinking it’d be simpler if you just told me where we’re going.”
“You’re going to miss it.”
Jacob checked over his shoulder, swerved to avoid the 110. “Do I get three guesses?”
“Slow down,” Sam said. “There’s a speed trap ahead.”
Jacob touched the brake pedal.
Beyond the overpass, a radar gun glinted.
“I probably could have talked us out of it,” Jacob said.
“No need to take chances,” Sam said.
There was only one place Jacob could think of that was due east, one place Sam visited often enough to navigate there by sound alone. At the interchange with the 101, he signaled right, then bore left for the 60 East into Boyle Heights, toward the Garden of Peace Cemetery. He signaled again for the exit at Downey Road.
“No,” Sam said. “710 South.”
He thought his father must be misremembering, or miscalculating; perhaps he went with Nigel at different times of day, when the drive took longer or shorter, and they followed a roundabout route. “Abba—”
“710 South.”
Off the freeway, a tawny hill heaved up into view, speckled white with monuments. “The cemetery’s right there. I can see it.”
“We’re not going to the cemetery,” Sam said.
Mystified, Jacob made the merge onto the 710 South.
Two miles later, Sam had him get on the 5 South.
“I have half a tank,” Jacob said. “Is that going to be enough?”
“Yes.”
They switched to the 605 South, exiting at Imperial Highway and heading west through the city of Downey. Jacob had little to no knowledge of the area, and it was all he could do not to reach for his phone when Sam instructed him to get on the 710 North.
“We just got off the 710 South.”
“I know.”
“We’re heading in a big circle.”
“Keep going.”
Jacob said, “Is someone following us?”
Sam said, “You tell me.”
Jacob glanced in the rearview.
A field of cars.
At Sam’s behest, they changed lanes several times, feinting toward exits.
“I don’t think there’s anyone,” Jacob said.
Sam nodded. “I’m relying on you for that.”
They passed the cemetery again, this time on the east; from that angle, Jacob could not see anything except the nodding mop-tops of palm trees. Continuing on to the freeway’s terminus, they turned onto West Valley Boulevard, in Alhambra. He obeyed blindly as Sam relayed a series of turns through residential streets.
“What do you think?” Sam asked.
Jacob glanced in the rearview mirror.
“Clear,” he said. He was amused and perplexed and irritated in equal measure. “I’m down to a quarter tank, by the way.”
“We can stop on the way back. Right on Garfield, then it’s your first left. Three blocks down, number 456 East, end of the block.”
It was a nondescript lower-middle-class street, ranch houses with concrete latticework and proud flowerbeds, pickup trucks in the driveways, powerboats on trailers.
Sam said, “There’s a parking lot, but it’s only five spaces and they’re usually full. I’d take the first spot you see.”
Jacob pulled over outside a reddish three-story stucco apartment complex with a Spanish tile roof. There was a small semicircular driveway and a tiled overhang, boxwood hedges and a wooden sign.
They sat in silence in the car.
Sam said, “I ask for your forgiveness.”
Jacob said nothing.
Sam bowed his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — I’m sorry.”
He got out of the car and started up the driveway. Sick with dread, Jacob followed.
He knew. He knew the moment they stepped inside. The woman behind the desk smiled at his father. She was wearing Mickey Mouse scrubs. She said, “Good morning, Mr. Abelson,” and Sam nodded and Jacob knew.
The odor of cleaning agents was strong. He looked at his father, scrawling messily on a clipboard, signing himself in. Why was he doing this now? Why was he doing it at all? He’d never known his father to be selfish. Just the opposite. Sam gave and gave and gave. He gave all; forgave all. Jacob had to wonder if that same generosity extended, in a perverse way, to himself. Because he could not imagine a more selfish permission to grant oneself.
“Here.” Sam was offering the clipboard. He had signed his name as Abelson.
Jacob didn’t know what to write. Was he supposed to lie, too? He wrote his real name.
He knew. He followed regardless, trailing Sam down a cracked tile corridor, ecru paint in drippy layers. Through doors left ajar he saw grungy carpeting, flimsy bedspreads. Two beds per closet-sized room. The cheer of a child’s drawing amplifying the deadness of the rough vinyl wallpaper. A vase of failing sunflowers, the finger of water at the bottom luxuriantly scummed. The pain in his heart made room for more pain. This could not be the best they could do. They had to do better.
Glare budded at the end of the hall. DAYROOM.
Figures of men and women. Reading, snoozing, playing checkers. They wandered about in pajamas stained with marinara sauce and applesauce. They wore slippers at noon. They seemed ill-defined, as though the room was filled with steam. Obesity and tremulous hands and cloudy eyes testified to the long-term effects of medication.
Overwhelmingly their focal point was a television set, tuned to a talk show.
Two heavyset Latinas in pink scrubs (hearts, Hello Kitty) made up the staff. They were watching TV, too. They looked over when Jacob and Sam entered. One of them smiled at Sam.
“She’s in the garden.”
“Thank you.”
Jacob knew, and still he followed, passing numbly through the mute ranks of the mad, conscious of their stares. They — the vacant and the reasonless — even they were judging him. The one who never visits.