The officer promised they’d send a police car to check out the scene.

From the window, Asher could soon see flashing blue lights, and watched as two uniformed officers got out of a police car, black rifles bumping against their hips. Their faces were set in scowls.

They were rough with the punks. After an angry exchange, in which an officer and one of the boys stood nose to nose, gesturing and yelling something Asher couldn’t hear, the officer grabbed the teen, shoved him against the stone wall of the nearby building and did a brisk body search.

The others didn’t take that quietly. One stout boy kicked the officer holding his friend against the wall. The other officer let go of the kid he was frisking and chased after the kicker, tackling him to the concrete ground, then bending over him, and handcuffing his hands behind him.

Asher felt movement next him and heard Dina gasp over his shoulder. “What are they doing? Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! Call the police, Asher!”

“They are the police,” Asher responded. “I called them.”

Dina looked at him, eyes wide, mouth open. “Really? You called the police on those kids?”

Asher turned away from the window. “Kids? They’re not kids. They’re lowlifes.”

“I wouldn’t say that, Asher,” Dina whispered. “Life’s probably very complicated for them. If I could speak Hebrew, I’d reach out to them. Talk to them. Maybe invite them for Shabbos. The community really needs to do more for them.”

“I don’t want them in my house, Dina,” Asher snapped. “Not near the baby.” He knew that Dina had worked with OTD kids before he married her; she’d told him of the hours of DMCs and handholding she’d done with troubled teens when she’d come back from seminary. He’d liked that chesed and ahavas Yisrael were real to her. But he couldn’t imagine she meant punks like these kids.

“What’s with you, Ash?” Dina burst out. “They’re in pain! Where’s your heart?”

Asher didn’t answer. He’d wanted his wife and baby to sleep, that’s all. He had a heart. For the people who deserved it. What did Chazal say? Whoever is merciful to the cruel ends up being cruel to the merciful.

The birth of Asher and Dina’s baby had been a long-awaited event — with only one son and so far eight granddaughters, his father had been nervous there wouldn’t be anyone to carry on the family name — and his parents were flying first class for the shalom zachar and bris.

If only the baby would stop crying so much. How had things gone south so fast? Asher had felt on top of the world when he’d called his parents from the delivery room to inform them about the birth of their first grandson. Now the baby’s screaming was souring the sweetness of the occasion.

He knew he disappointed his father in many ways. He was quiet, simple Asher, instead of the leader in his class, academically or socially. He’d married Dina, a girl from a simple out-of-town chinuch family no one had ever heard of, instead of being shidduched off to a brand-name girl whose father was a renowned speaker or maggid shiur — or better yet a gvir like his father. He’d decided he wanted to live in Eretz Yisrael permanently, instead of settling in Lakewood, close enough to Brooklyn so his father could shep nachas. His sisters had done that, married boys from wealthy, famous families just like his, who after a stint in Israel, had come back to New York and joined their own fathers in business.

Because really, what was the point of existing if you didn’t shine like the silver in Mommy’s breakfront?

“Mazel tov, Asher,” Tatty boomed when he stepped out of the double sliding doors in the arrival lounge at Ben Gurion and grabbed Asher in a hug.

He grabbed Asher in a hug.

It was the third hug Asher could remember getting from his father. The first had been the warm one at his bar mitzvah, after he’d surprised everyone, including himself, by delivering a winning speech; the second, more like a cool pat on the back, after he’d smashed the glass under his chuppah. Now, he returned the hug, his arms feeling too long and gangly around his father’s back.

Tatty let go and slid an envelope out of his jacket pocket and into Asher’s. But with all the action getting back to Yerushlayim and his parents set up for Shabbos, Asher only managed to sneak a look when he hung up his weekday jacket in his closet two minutes before shkiah. It was a check, and he felt dizzy when he looked at the numbers written in his father’s neat handwriting: enough to cover the bris — and next month’s rent.

That was Tatty for you. When you pleased him, the generous gvir, the man behind so many mosdos in Brooklyn. But Tatty had his principles, and he wouldn’t budge from them. There was no way Dina’s parents could support the young couple — and Tatty wouldn’t either. (They couldn’t even afford to come in for their oldest grandchild’s bris.) When Asher had announced his desire to settle in Eretz Yisrael and stay in learning, he’d said, “Well, you’re on your own with that one, buddy.” Lucky for generous wedding presents. And now, a little baby boy.

All was well. His father was so jovial, he’d even called Dina’s parents to wish them mazel tov on Friday afternoon, speaking to them for the first time since they’d parted ways at the end of Dina and Asher’s last sheva brachos. And he took it in stride when he came home from shul on Friday night and saw the meal wasn’t ready. He just offered to hold the baby while Asher set the table and his mother hurriedly dressed a bag of shredded cabbage while Dina went into her room to get ready. And he congratulated himself loudly on being the “grandfather of the year” when the baby fell asleep in his arms and stayed asleep all through the seudah.

At the shalom zachar, Asher kept an eye on his father, hoping he wasn’t annoyed that he didn’t have something like his regular upholstered chair with the armrests, which Asher and his sisters had dubbed “the throne.” But from his position on a plastic Keter chair at the head of the folding table in Asher’s living room, Tatty beamed, accepted mazel tovs, and pumped Asher’s friends’ hands, in between distributing shot glasses of the Johnnie Walker Blue Label he’d bought duty-free.

Asher let out a breath.

Perhaps it was premature.

When the shalom zachar ended, Tatty and Ima left Asher and Dina’s small apartment to walk back to the guest suite they’d rented. They returned a few minutes later, Tatty’s clean-shaven face white, fingers curled into shaking fists. “What kind of neighborhood do you live in?” he growled at Asher. “What is this place? Harlem?”

“What’s going on, Tatty?” Asher asked. The rugelach on the tray he was holding did a little shuffle.

“The car.” He was referring to the sleek black SUV he’d rented. “The windows are smashed. I accidentally left my laptop and attaché case in there. They’re gone. I was parked right outside your building. Do you have CCTV cameras?”

They did, and on Motzaei Shabbos, they cornered the vaad bayit representative and Tatty ordered him, yes, ordered him, to give him the footage.

“It’s probably Arabs from Shuafat,” Asher mumbled.

But it wasn’t. It was the neighborhood punks who’d taken stones and thrown them through the car window.

“We need to file a police report,” Asher’s father declared. “Asher, you’re coming with me to the police station.”

Asher was surprised by how polite and sympathetic the police were. That was unexpected. But then again, his father had presence. His sharply angled jaw, his well-cut suit, and the way he gave orders like the CEO he was usually made people buckle to his command.

The baby had slept a lot over Shabbos, and on Sunday morning, things were looking up for Asher. He hummed as he walked Dina to the Tipat Chalav to weigh the baby, as they’d been instructed, relieved that his parents were planning to spend the day up north. Dina needed to rest, and he wanted to get a good morning seder.

But when the nurse saw how much weight the baby had lost, she told them to consult their pediatrician, who insisted they go straight to the pediatric emergency room at Shaare Zedek. “The worst-case scenario is a heart defect. Chances are small, but we want to rule it out,” he told a stunned Asher and Dina.

It felt like there was something wrong with Asher’s heart. He just stood there, until a kind secretary ordered a taxi, and Asher helped a shaking Dina buckle the baby’s car seat in.

As he sat beside Dina on the padded chairs in the pediatric ER waiting room, Asher couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus on the sefer Tehillim Dina had opened in front of them. His son. His little baby. The one who’d already brought them so much joy.

What if there was something wrong with him?

What if he didn’t grow up normal?

What would he tell his father? Tatty would be disappointed in him, again, this time at his inability to produce a healthy grandchild.

The baby gave a cry, and Asher turned to look at him. Wow, what was he thinking? Worrying about his father’s opinion of the baby instead of worrying about the child’s suffering, that he was sleepy because he didn’t have the energy to keep himself alive?

His poor, poor little baby.

False alarm.

“Everything’s clear,” the pediatric cardiologist said. “Other than signs of dehydration. This little guy needs something to eat. I told the nurse to bring up a bottle of formula. Other than that, no worries, the scans have come back clear. There’s nothing sinister going on. His heart looks great.”

His relief. Asher could touch it.

He sent a quick text to his anxious parents, then to Dina’s, still in the States, waiting for news. Then turned back to the doctor.

“So what’s going on then?” Dina was asking.

“Could be a milk supply issue,” the doctor replied, tapping his stethoscope against his chest rhythmically, a sound Asher found strangely soothing. “It looks like he isn’t getting enough to eat. We have a lactation consultant on site. Once you’ve seen her, I can write you a michtav shichrur and you’re free to go.”

They got home close to midnight. Asher took the baby from the car seat, pressed the little fellow close to his chest. He didn’t want to let go of him.

As he walked toward his entrance, he saw the teens there again, sitting on the bench outside their building, smoking, laughing, arguing passionately and loudly. So loudly. What was with these kids? When did they sleep if they were up all night hanging out in the park?

What if they disturbed the baby again? Asher’s cell phone felt heavy in his pocket. “Go home,” he hissed at the teens. “Go to bed. It’s late.”

One gruff-looking boy smirked at Asher and took a deep puff of his cigarette. “Home? Where’s home?”

The others chortled.

Gruff-boy put his arm around the neck of the scrawny, olive-skinned kid sitting next to him and mock choked him. The kid squirmed and struggled. “This is Ido. Ido’s been living on the street since his father threw him out of the house last week.”

Asher narrowed his eyes, uncertain whether to believe the boy or not. He dismissed it as an exaggeration.

The baby stirred. Asher clutched him tighter and followed Dina into the building.

Satisfied from the bottle the lactation consultant had recommended they keep giving him, the baby had slept well. Asher startled awake at six thirty. It made him feel accomplished, holy even, when he davened neitz, got up before sunrise and came home from davening when the rest of the world was still hitting the snooze button.

But today, he didn’t berate himself for sleeping in. He just lay there until it was time to get up for the seven o’clock minyan, watching the baby’s chest moving up and down as he slumbered. The baby. There was nothing like being a father, Asher thought. He’d brought a child into the world, and it was his responsibility to keep him safe. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his little boy. He couldn’t get the boy from last night, what was his name… Ido… out of his head. Ido, whose father had thrown him out of the house. How could a father do such a thing? He’d never understand it.

It was still quiet outside when Asher left the house, but it was light. He wasn’t the sentimental type, but in this peaceful Yerushalmi morning, he couldn’t help but smile up at the cloud-scattered sky and whisper a thank-You to Hashem.

It was a shame the crane from the construction site opposite marred the view. The hook swayed gently in the early morning breeze.

And a shame about those teens, too. Harlem, his father had called the neighborhood because of them. Asher looked over at them, huddled at the corrugated fence surrounding the construction site. They were pointing upward and yelling something in Hebrew Asher couldn’t make out.

Asher looked at the direction they were pointing. There was something atop the crane’s hook?

A person?

Impossible, he thought. You need more sleep, Asher.

He looked again. Wiped his glasses and looked again.

It was definitely a person.

Hashem yishmor!

Asher ran toward them, whipping his cell phone out of his suit jacket as he did and calling the police.

He could hear one of the teens yelling, see him pummeling his fist into the air. “Ido, dafuk atah! Ido, you’re an idiot!”

Asher was closer now, and he looked up to see Ido sitting complacently atop the hook. Gruff-boy, who’d mock-strangled Ido last night, was yelling at him.

The street was suddenly buzzing as it filled with blue-and-white police cars, orange-vested Hatzalah guys, two red fire trucks and a red-and-white rescue jeep, a yellow intensive care ambulance, and locals in their black pants and white shirts, looking, pointing, panicking.

The scene was so Israeli it made Asher want to snort. In an emergency, the pariahs of the neighborhood were suddenly everyone’s top priority.

Asher turned on his heels toward shul. He’d done his duty. Called the police. Maybe the boys would learn a lesson.

Then he stopped short and turned back around. His eyes locked with Gruff-boy. To cool to cry, Gruff-boy looked like he might faint.

Asher felt his stomach squeeze. He wanted to run a million miles from here, away from these punks. They’d made his wife look at him askance, ruined his shalom zachar, soured his father’s good mood.

But he couldn’t leave Gruff-boy to face this alone. And he was worried sick about Ido. Ido, the boy whose father had thrown him out of the house. How could a father do that? He didn’t please his father all the time, Asher knew. But Tatty wouldn’t throw him out. Just like Asher would never do that to his son.

He inched closer to Gruff-boy and watched as a helmeted firefighter climbed gingerly up the crane, a police officer shadowing him. The firefighter rappelled down the cable and landed deftly on the hook next to Ido.

The crowd heaved a tense sigh; it rippled across the masses of people and straight into Asher’s heart.

The firefighter attached himself and Ido to a harness and then stepped off the hook, arms and legs wrapped around the teen. There was clapping and whistles, calls of “baruch Hashem” when the firefighter finally touched down on the ground.

Gruff-boy jumped up like he was at a soccer game and his team had scored a goal. “Todah, Abba!” he roared, pointing upward.

Asher breathed deeply, allowing the feelings of relief and sadness and longing to wash over him. Poor Ido, he thought as he began to walk toward the shul.

Then he turned and reached out his hand to Gruff-boy. “I’m making a brit milah for my son tomorrow,” he said. “Will you come? And bring Ido as well. Yes?”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 929)