| Parallel Journeys |

Blood Brothers

By Faigy Peritzman | July 16, 2020

“It’s Dad. It’s bad. Come quick.”

"I guess this makes us blood brothers.” Justin looked solemnly down at their fingers, now scratched and bloody from the bare branches of the oak tree they’d just scaled.

“Aren’t we blood brothers already? I mean, we are brothers.”

“You’re so lame, Jonathan. This makes it real. A pact. Now we have to promise solemnly that we’ll always stick together, no matter what.”

“Uh sure. Right. No matter what.” He linked his fingers with Justin’s and promised.

There wasn’t much opportunity to part ways. Only 15 months apart, Justin and Jonathan were inseparable. People often assumed they were twins and they never bothered to correct them.

Justin was the leader fearless, feisty and full of life. Jonathan followed, glad he didn’t have to make the decisions, reaping the benefits of Justin’s superior skills.

Years of living in the Midwest taught them both survival and a love for the great outdoors. Family biking trips, white water rafting, cross country camping, the boys were encouraged by their parents to think quickly and use their skills to survive independently.

“Gotta use your mind, think on your feet,” their dad often said. “Don’t rely on anyone, and you’ll never get the rug pulled out from underneath you.”

Justin graduated first. Quarterback for his high school team, he had a generous scholarship waiting for him at Oklahoma State University.

Jonathan spotted the brochure one evening as he was looking under his brother’s bed for his hiking boots. “What’s this Birthright business,” he scoffed, tossing the pamphlet on Justin’s bed. “You plan on pulling oldest son’s rights on me?”

“Nah, just a trip backpacking this summer. Gary and Drew are going. Thought I would too.”

“Cool! Hanging around Europe?”

“Nope, Israel.”

“Israel? Watcha want to spend time there for? Way too many terrorists.”

But the prospect of hard hikes and heady adventures propelled Justin to the tiny land.

He returned two weeks later, sporting a tan, with a head full of stories about Bedouins, camels, and endless sand.

The next year Jonathan had the application for Birthright filled out before the end of the school year. He was planning on following Justin to OSU the following September. Although his scholarship was based on his grades, not his football goals, little else had changed between them.

He flew off to Israel, eager to hit the grit of the desert and top Justin’s hair-raising adventures.

He returned two years later sporting a black hat, with a head full of values and philosophy.

“You’ve flipped. Gone totally AWOL. You got to get back on the ground.” Justin spoke urgently, his eyes never leaving Jonathan’s. “What do you need all this religion junk for? Remember what Dad always says — don’t rely on anyone and then you’ll never lose your footing. Well, I’m not sticking around to bail you out when your rabbis leave you flailing.”

Jonathan watched his older brother head out of his life, knowing that this time, he wasn’t going to follow his lead.

He tried to keep communication open. Wrote long letters, sent pictures, and worked hard not to be hurt when Justin declined to fly to Israel for his wedding.

“The Draft is soon, bro. You know how it is. Got to make the pros or all these years of training were worthless.”

The gap was widening and both brothers watched the schism grow. Neither knew how to bridge it. Jonathon tried to communicate his ideals. To explain the beauty of a life with more goals than 60 minutes, more strategy than the game plan.

“You’re living in a dream world,” his brother responded. “I prefer a quick tackle and touchdown.”

***

Yonason was rocking the baby, hoping his wife was getting some sleep despite the colicky screams. His phone rang, breaking the silence of the night.

“It’s Dad. It’s bad. Come quick.” Justin’s voice was shaking. “Car accident. And he’s going fast.”

Stumbling into Will Rogers Airport, Yonason barely noticed his fatigue. His brain was consumed with only one thought. Get to Dad. Make him well.

The ICU was like a twilight zone. The smells. The sounds. Hydraulic pumps swooshed, rubber-soled nurses scurried by. It was a world of hopelessness, of dependence on modern medicine and machinery to maintain life.

Entering his father’s cubicle, Yonason almost staggered backwards.

Dad. Big brawny Dad who had taught him to fell a tree with an ax, showed him how to rope swing past the falls, coached him skiing down the steepest slopes. Dad was lying motionless, his chest barely rising.

“Glad you could make it.” Wrenching his gaze from the stranger on the bed, Yonason saw Justin hunched in an armchair. His body seemed to have shrunken, vitality seeping out as fast as his father’s life.

“Where’s Mom?”

“They took her for paperwork. She wouldn’t let me come. Wants to do it all herself. He’s going fast.”

“No! He’ll get better. He’ll—”

The machines erupted in a series of cacophonous beeps and Yonason knew the fight was over.

The levayah was the next battle.

“Why would I bother with a rabbi?” his mom wondered. “We’ve never had any connection to rabbis before. I have to do what’s good for me. That’s what Dad would’ve wanted.”

“He certainly wouldn’t have wanted a show with a group of ten in vampire costumes.” Bitterness made Justin’s voice hard.

Years of trying to keep the peace notwithstanding, Yonason swung into action. And as he watched his father merit a Jewish burial, he knew that one crisis had been avoided.

Shivah was the next.

Friends and family crowded into the house, filling up the rooms with food, drink, laughter, and some tears. Yonason sat by himself, nodding occasionally when an acquaintance remembered to offer condolences.

By evening they had left and he sat by himself, learning hilchos aveilus, hoping his very being was an aliyah neshamah for the dad who had loved him so. He dragged himself up to bed and collapsed in his clothes.

He was startled awake at 3 a.m. He stared out his bedroom window, gazing at the old oak tree in the yard, wondering how things could still be the same when his dad was gone.

The door opened behind him.

“So what do you have to say now? All those years of studying. What was the point? Why did your G-d do this? Dad was a good guy. A great guy! He didn’t deserve this! To die like this, at the peak of his life. What’s the point?” Justin’s voice rose and he paced the floor. “Where are your answers? What happens now? How do we go on knowing that it all can get pulled out from underneath us in moments?”

There was rage in his every movement, fury as he whirled on his younger brother. He smashed his hand into the wall inches away from Yonosan’s face. “What is the point? How can you just stand there?”

“Because I’m not standing on my own,” his brother answered quietly. “When the rug gets pulled out underneath me, I have Someone to lean on.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 537)

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