Four years younger than his foster brother, Mutty had always looked up to Artie. He could still remember the terror enveloping him as a five-year-old when he’d looked down from the tremendous height of the slide in the local playground. He’d shinnied up the ladder, no problem, but now, wailing, he realized he could never get down. He was trapped here on this slide, forever and ever. And then came Artie, flying up behind him, settling his little brother carefully between his knees, and showing him the delights of zooming together down the hot metal slide onto the ground.

It had been like that for years, Mutty following Artie’s lead, his big brother teaching him card tricks, showing him how to play stoop ball, helping him understand arcane baseball stats.

When did we start moving away from each other?

Perhaps it was when Mutty was in third grade and Artie in seventh. The morning after a PTA meeting, when Mutty got proud hugs from Mama, and Artie got a lecture about doing his homework from Dad. Or maybe a year later, when Mutty was hanging up honor certificates in his room, and Artie was looking dolefully at a rejection note from a high school. Whatever the cause, the two had become separate entities, rockets on different trajectories, one shooting for the stars, and the other…?

While Mutty pondered the intricacies of brotherly relationships, Artie had continued working, humming a tune as he dealt with a beam, cracked but still usable. It was a beautiful tune, poignant, a tune that seemed to slip into the cracks of a person’s heart like the wood glue he was carefully pouring into the breaks in the wood.

Before he’d started working on the roof, Mama had asked Mutty to try to draw Artie out, find out what his plans were. “Do it subtly,” she’d told him. “Don’t press, just be natural.”

Okay, natural he’d be. Maybe just start a conversation. Keep it light, and see where it led.

“Hey, Art, what’s that you’re singing? One of your own?”

“Yup.”

“Any lyrics?”

“Yup.”

“Can I hear them?” Mutty grinned. “Maybe you’ll make a record one day. We’ll call it your ‘single on a shingle.’”

Now this was a bit of Levine chutzpah. Artie had been writing songs for years, but he hardly ever shared them, and Mutty didn’t really expect him to do that now, either. But perhaps it was the laughter after Mutty’s lame joke. Or maybe Artie, too, was remembering the good days. Whatever the reason, after a moment’s hesitation, Artie nodded.

The two sat down on a crossbeam, their legs hanging down, enjoying a break. And Artie began to sing, his hands beating a gentle rhythm on the wood.

My hopes. Their dreams. The lies I live.

Something, something has got to give.

I’ll disappoint, I’ll hurt, the ones I love

And maybe even the One above.

This burden I bear, this mask that I wear

I’m scared

I’m scared

I’m scared to tear.

But even more, I’m more afraid

Not to be the person He made.

And it’s forgiveness that I ask,

As I tear off my mask. My mask!

The tapping on the wood stopped. Artie gave a small smile. Mutty stared at his brother. The silence felt warm, like a mother’s hug, like the wintry sun smiling above them.

And then a voice broke the moment.

“Holy smokes!” Marjorie said, pulling herself out onto the roof. “That was so cool!”

*

“Did you write that song yourself?” she demanded.

Artie, his cheeks as red as the shingles in his hand, as red as Marjorie’s hair, nodded.

“Fabulous lyrics. Groovy. They’re really good. You could sing them, you know, in a club or something. Even become a folk rock star.”

“What are you doing up here?” Mutty interrupted the flow of rather embarrassing enthusiasm. Then, realizing he hadn’t been very polite, he added, “Of course you’re welcome, Miss Burton, but it’s kind of dangerous here, with all the nails and everything.”

“Oh, I like danger,” she said, her eyes glinting in the sun. “But actually I came to find out when you’ll be done.” Her eyes grew narrower, the sparkle turning into fire. “I had to get out of that kitchen for a bit.” She stared at the two young men. “Your mother was there, and she hates me.”

Artie and Mutty exchanged uneasy glances. Good yeshivah boys, they had avoided the company of this strange young lady, although they, like many of the boarders, wondered why in the world their grandfather had allowed this girl into his hotel — and why in the world she wanted to stay there. But Mama had told them that the girl’s grandfather had been Zeide’s friend; the explanation had satisfied them, and they didn’t give her another thought.

And now here she was, saying the most ridiculous things. “Mama?” Artie said, finding his voice. “My mother doesn’t hate anyone. She just couldn’t.”

“Well she can, if it’s me,” came the sharp rejoinder. “She’s never forgiven me about that silly margarine. And it wasn’t my fault, and she was—”

This conversation was going to places that Mutty had no desire to visit, and he tactfully changed the subject. “The work is going faster than we expected. We think it will be done by Purim.”

“Purim? What’s that?”

Another exchange of glances between Mutty and Artie. This girl, she really didn’t know anything at all.

“A Jewish holiday that’s coming up. It’s lots of fun, you’ll see, if you’ll still be here.”

“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that.”

Mutty couldn’t help it, the words just came out. “But why do you want to live here?”

Amazingly, Marjorie stopped talking for a long moment. Then she smiled, though her eyes still held that fire. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out. I guess my lucky star just sent me here. And I always follow that star.” The fire dimmed just a little. “But I’ll give you a hint. Do you know what it’s like to feel that you just don’t belong anywhere?”

Artie jumped off the beam where he’d been sitting. He picked up a hammer and muttered something to himself.

But both Mutty and Marjorie heard his quiet words, though neither of them would admit it.

“Yes, I know how it feels. I know all about it.”

*

With a cheery, “Well, gotta go. Back to the dragon,” Marjorie disappeared into the hole where she’d come from.

Artie and Mutty looked at each other, and burst out laughing. “Did that just happen?” Mutty asked, reaching for a shingle.

“That girl, she’s–” Artie began, and then stopped. Anyone raised in Annie Levine’s home knew the laws of shemiras halashon well; she’d drilled them into her children from their youngest years.

The two worked in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Mutty spoke.

“Um, like, Artie?”

“Yeah?”

The words didn’t come easily to a 21-year-old young man. “Like, you know, about the masks and about belonging and not belonging—”

“Forget it. Just me in a bad mood.”

“No, really. Like — you know where you belong. With us.”

Artie rolled his eyes. “You guys are all Levines. Smart. Successful. Me, I’m just Artie Klein.”

“No, Art—”

“Quit it, Mutty. I’m no Levine: It says so on my birth certificate, okay? And it says so every time I mess up.” His voice rose. “Mama used to call you her ‘Purim boy’ Mutty, ’cause you were born on Purim. But me, I’m the one who always wears the masks, every day of the year. C’mon,” he ended, giving his brother a light punch on the arm, “let’s both stop sounding like crazy ladies in a soap opera. Everything’s fine, life is great, I’ll figure it out one day when I’m 90 years old.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Let’s get back to work. Though I’m afraid these repairs are just the start. The whole building needs revamping.”

Mutty continued the work — lay a shingle, hit a nail — but the sense of giving his brain a vacation was gone. Now his thoughts were full: full of worry about his brother — yes, his brother! — Artie. Full of questions about this strange girl and why she wanted to be in the hotel and why she thought Mama hated her.

But mostly, full of questions about the masks people wear.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 852)