Last Stop: Chapter 3
| February 28, 2023“Wednesday,” Naftali echoes, suddenly exhausted. “You’re picking out a sheitel for Wednesday? It’s Monday”
It’s just after six in the morning when Naftali gets home from shul. At this hour, the house is unnaturally silent, the chatter of daughters replaced with the silence of slumber. He grabs his coffee and breakfast, and slips out before he wakes anyone.
But today, when he pushes the front door open, Chana is framed in the hallway, wide awake, and holding a brush in her hand.
He nearly jumps. “Chana! Is everything okay? Are the kids all right?”
“Do you think I look more professional in my sheitel or my fall?” she demands, and Naftali blinks at her, lost for a response.
Chana doesn’t wait for one. “I woke up with your alarm this morning,” she says, though there’s no accusation in her voice. “And then, instead of falling back asleep like a sensible person, I decided to panic that I have nothing to wear to Rivky’s dinner on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday,” Naftali echoes, suddenly exhausted. “You’re picking out a sheitel for Wednesday? It’s Monday.”
“It’s for new mothers at Ohr Gershon,” Chana reminds him. “Ari is starting next fall. These are going to be his classmates’ mothers.” She wrinkles her nose. “They’re probably all going to be, like, twenty-five, and I’m going to look ancient next to them.”
Then, to Naftali’s relief, Chana stalks into the kitchen and emerges with an insulated mug of coffee. “Yours,” she says. “I don’t let myself have coffee until I’ve dragged Meira out of bed. It’s my morning treat for dealing with our monsters.” She says it fondly, but she does toss a wary glance toward the staircase where said monsters are still sleeping peacefully.
“I have a nine-fifteen meeting with Pensions,” she says briskly, making a note on the memo pad she keeps on the kitchen counter. “I’ll have to get Ari to school a little early, but it should be fine. There’s an early drop-off option for five dollars a day.” She drums her fingers on the table. Chana doesn’t need coffee, Naftali thinks ruefully. “I think the fall makes me look like I’m trying too hard to look young.”
“Uh,” Naftali says. He finds a bagel in the fridge, packed up and ready to be eaten on the bus.
“Or maybe it does make me look young. Do you think I look young?” Chana asks, eyes laser-focused on him.
“You don’t look a day over fifteen,” Naftali says obligingly. Chana crumples up a page from her memo pad and tosses it at him. Naftali plucks it out of the air and drops it into the garbage.
“Why don’t you ask Rivky? She’s good at these things,” he says, moving to the sink to wash his hands. “I have to get started on my route.”
A curious expression crosses Chana’s face, a sudden discomfort that Naftali doesn’t understand. “Naftali,” she says suddenly. Her fingers twitch around her pen, her lips press together and then release. “Have you ever thought about…”
“About?” Naftali echoes, bewildered. Chana’s had moments like this all weekend, when she looks at him as though she’s about to speak, and then turns away. Something is on her mind, and Chana is usually frank and open, but Naftali isn’t one to pester.
She shakes her head sharply. “Never mind,” she says. “Have a great day.”
“Enjoy your meeting,” Naftali offers. He’s troubled as he heads out.
The feeling doesn’t quite leave him all morning. Yudi is slouched over in the front seat for the first leg of the journey, and the high school boys lurch onto the bus without greetings. The preschoolers are more cheerful, and Naftali is just beginning to brighten, when they pull up next to Ohr Gershon and he sees who’s waiting for them.
Eliezer likes to greet the students some mornings, shaking hands with a hearty “Shalom aleichem!” for each boy. But he favors the elementary boys, and it’s an unpleasant surprise to see him waiting for Naftali’s bus, his eyes widening a bit when he spots Naftali in the driver’s seat.
There is a particular humiliation, Naftali thinks, in facing a brother who is embarrassed at his position. Particularly when Eliezer is the one who had given him the job. When Eliezer doesn’t know that this is what Naftali is best at.
When Naftali works in an office at the school during the day, Eliezer doesn’t look this flustered. But out here, he has to force his smile back onto his face as he addresses the children, sticking his hand out to each. “Shalom aleichem! Shalom aleichem!” he says, and each boy chirps back, “Aleichem shalom, Rabbi Hartman!” before he bounds off into the building.
And then — even worse than ignoring Naftali, which would be understandable in front of the students and perfectly reasonable, albeit hurtful — Eliezer looks up, through the narrow doors of the bus, and makes eye contact with Naftali. “Shalom aleichem, Reb Tuli,” he says in front of the boys.
They don’t notice the way that Naftali’s eyes dim, of course, or how he responds through gritted teeth. Eliezer bends down to the boys and asks, “Did we thank Reb Tuli for our bus ride to yeshivah?”
Together with the little ones, he choruses, “Thank you, Reb Tuli!” Eliezer is back in his element, comfortable again with his brother’s presence on the bus. He winks at Naftali, who manages a weak smile in response.
A sudden memory arises, a scene from their lives, 20 years ago: Naftali’s mesivta graduation, when he’d barely scraped through to the finish line. Eliezer walking beside him, greeting his old rebbeim. That day Eliezer had had the same look on his face, that determined expression of I am not ashamed of my brother that had been all the more shameful. Naftali’s celebration had become a pyrrhic victory, a day to shove into the deepest recesses of his mind.
Naftali avoids Eliezer in yeshivah that day. Eliezer doesn’t approach him, either. It’s better that way. Naftali keeps busy — he has pivoted from selling masks on Amazon to kids’ fads, and he scores a decent number of sales by the end of the day. He lists a few new items under party favors. It’s a relief when his alarm goes off at two-thirty for the afternoon preschool route.
Naftali doesn’t like to introspect, to dwell on his life or choices. His only quibble with the bus rides is the silent ones, when he’s left with no company but intrusive thoughts, and he dreads the dull, quiet drive with the mesivta boys tonight. The shame that washes over him is like poison, digging deep into his skin and spreading through his blood. He can’t rid himself of it. He can only keep driving.
It’s a relief when Yudi settles down into the seat behind his, still with the same lighter as last time. Naftali waits until the last of the local boys traipses off the bus before he twists around, holding his hand out. “Not on the bus,” he says. “Or in school.”
Yudi sulks for a moment, but he hands it over. “You gonna tell the menahel about it?” His voice is wary, as though he isn’t sure if Naftali is friend or foe right now.
Naftali shakes his head and sees how the tension fades from Yudi’s shoulders. “You made a mistake,” he says. “Just don’t do it again.”
“I didn’t use it,” Yudi says. “I get into enough trouble as it is, whether or not I deserve it.” His face is sour in the mirror. “We’re supposed to have this big skiing trip next weekend, yeah? Rabbi Hartman pulls me over and gives me this whole lecture about not bringing electronics on the trip. He doesn’t tell the whole class — even though Moish Brunsfeld smuggles in an iPhone every year, but no one notices because he’s such a little toady — just me. Like I’m their only problem.”
Naftali frowns, something in his heart aching at the sullenness in Yudi’s voice. “You’re not a problem,” he says. Naftali had been a problem, the kid who couldn’t succeed, and had never found peace until he’d been out of school. Yudi is just… struggling.
Yudi snorts. “Tell that to the menahel,” he says. “You should see the way he gets whenever he notices me in a room. He comes in to talk to the rebbe and then he’ll spot me and it’ll be like…” He straightens and he barks out, in a flawless imitation of Eliezer, “Yehuda! Your knees belong below your desk! Are those sneakers dress code? Did you get that glare approved at the office before you put it on?”
Naftali has to press his lips together to keep from laughing. Today, there is a nasty satisfaction that comes with Yudi’s mockery. Almost immediately, he regrets it. Eliezer doesn’t deserve this from him. He probably doesn’t even realize how patronizing he’d been this morning.
“Tone it down, Yudi,” he says mildly, and Yudi rolls his eyes at Naftali through the mirror.
“I’m just saying,” he says, “it’s a good thing he doesn’t go on the skiing trip with us. My parents are probably skiing now,” he adds suddenly. “They’re in Vail, I think. Opening up a new Stein Resorts branch there.”
“I hope they bring you along sometimes,” Naftali says lightly. “My mother was a school librarian. She stopped taking me to work with her when I turned seven.” He winks in the mirror. “To be fair, it was a girls’ school.”
Yudi kicks the back of the seat once. “We went to the resort in Barcelona for Succos,” he says. “It was fine. Kind of boring to be there alone. I’d much rather go skiing with the other guys.” Sometimes, he has nothing but contempt for his classmates. Today, he sounds wistful.
Naftali pulls the bus into Yudi’s quiet, wealthy neighborhood, easing the vehicle through wide streets and lawns that replace sidewalks. He frowns as he nears Beaker Street. There is something gleaming in front of the darkness of Yudi’s house, flickering like fire on the lawn.
As they get closer, Naftali can see a few teens clustered near what looks like a makeshift fire pit, large rocks arranged in a circle around it. Yudi seems unsurprised by his welcoming committee, only sighs at the top of the steps of the bus.
Naftali passes back his lighter. “Everything okay?” he asks carefully. He doesn’t know what might set Yudi off.
“Yeah,” Yudi says. “Thanks for the ride.” He climbs down and walks to the fire pit. Naftali can see the faces gleaming in the light of the flames, guys he’s never seen before. They wear casual tees and hoodies, though Naftali spots a stray tzitzis string or two.
“Eyyy, it’s White Shirt,” one of them says. Another looks up, shooting a hostile look at Naftali. Naftali hesitates, unwilling to leave Yudi alone. These boys look like trouble, and one of them shoves Yudi dangerously close to the fire.
Yudi stumbles, then catches himself, wiry and capable. Naftali debates his options. Yudi won’t want him here, watching over him. That much, he’s sure of. He drives on, turning the corner and then the next two, then he cuts the headlights and shifts to neutral so he’s quiet as he rolls down the block beside Beaker Street. He parks across the street, visible only if the boys glance over the bushes that run along the side of the Steins’ property, and he shuts off the engine so he can hear them.
They’re prodding at Yudi, the sort of comments that come from friends who aren’t quite friends. “Imagine White Shirt a little yeshivah brat,” one of them says, his voice loud and rough. “Think his parents take the principal on vacation every year so he’ll be willing to put up with him?”
Yudi snorts. “They’d have gotten rid of me years ago if they weren’t angling for another wing to the beis medrash.” He sounds comfortable with the boys, which worries Naftali. “Wish they’d just kick me out so I could go to school with you guys.”
“Your parents would never let you go to our school,” one of the boys says, laughing. “Besides, what would happen to you if you didn’t have Rabbi Hartman trying to reform you?”
“Good luck to him,” Yudi says moodily. Naftali watches him crumple a paper from his knapsack, stoking the fire higher. The light plays off the angles of his face, dancing from orange to shadowed, and Naftali realizes that there’s nothing he can do here.
to be continued…
(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 951)
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