*******

“Chaim Reimer, how can I help you?,” Chaim picked up the ringing phone.

“Hi, Chaim, how are you, it’s Shea Marenchuk.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. Chaim tapped it into the database, trying to pull up a file, but nothing came up.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Marenchuk. From Ateres Yehoshua, you know, yeshiva. There’s only one yeshiva, right?” He laughed heartily.

“Ah, very nice.” Chaim was annoyed to be taking the call- probably about the annual raffle drive- during work hours, and he was determined to hang up as quickly as possible.

“Anyhow, I’d like to tell you about an exciting development. At this year’s dinner, in November, we’re hoping to honor your old class – forty years later. I’ve been having fun tracking down all the guys, it’s an amazing group, I’ve got to tell you. The others are mostly in.”

“Wait,” something was irritating Chaim, “how many of them did you call already?”

“Um… a fair amount, like half, maybe a bit more.”

It was quiet.

“Anyhow,” Marenchuk said heartily, “it’s really an impressive bunch, of course you know that Nochum Bernstein is a rosh yeshiva, no one calls him Normie anymore, ha ha. Then you have Mordechai Kugelsky, everyone knows what he does for klal Yisroel, Somech is an international organization. Sammy Weitz has a famous band, and Heshy Lunger speaks all over. He was actually in Russia this week, if you can believe that. Of course, we’ve honored Benny Schmidt before- which mossad hasn’t, ha ha- but he agreed to do this as part of the class, he’s coming in from California. David Mandler lives in Eretz Yisroel, he’s a doctor in Beer Sheva, he’s also going to come. The boys are real excited.”

He paused, certain that he’d reeled Chaim in. “But you know, we also need the regular guys, right, the bread and butter, the hamon am.”

The hamon am, Chaim thought, nice.

“So can I count you in? You don’t want to be left out, of course, and the rosh yeshiva and the old rabbeim are very into it. We’re trying to make a barbeque one night in the summer to get together and coordinate, just for your old classmates, it’s going to be special.”

Chaim was quiet.

Forty years. He didn’t have a famous band or prestigious organization, he certainly wasn’t a world-renowned gvir or respected rosh yeshiva. But he was a husband and father. He’d paid tuition on time and supported his married children in kollel happily. He owned his house and had no debt. He learned whenever he could and gave tzedaka. He davened three times a day and had recently added a new seder in Mishne Berurah before shacharis. He was a good guy, but he knew that Marenchuk hadn’t used his name in any of the other phone calls. No one got an update on ‘Chaim Reimer, he does something with insurance, I think, in Brooklyn, good guy.’

“Reb Chaim? Can we get your email address so we can update our files and get down to business please?” Marenchuk sounded impatient. Was there anyone in the class left to call?

Chaim thought about high school, how he was a kid from Bridgeport trying to make it in a Brooklyn yeshiva: his mother had convinced him he was too good for Bridgeport, but the other kids hadn’t gotten the memo. He was on the outs back at home, with his Brooklyn clothing and habits, and on the outs in yeshiva, where he seemed to have ‘out-of-towner’ labeled on his back in red ink. He had a sudden memory of one boy more pitiful then him, Yekusiel something or other, he didn’t remember, a shrunken little boy who rarely smiled and spoke even less. At least Chaim learned well: Yekusiel sat by the window and studied the sky. They had kind of an alliance, two outsiders, and they sometimes ate lunch together.

“Hey,” Chaim forced enthusiasm into his voice, “what about my buddy Yekusiel, did you call him?”

“Huh, there’s no Yekusiel here,” Marenchuk seemed confused. “Oh, there’s Yekusiel Brody, yes, but he lives in England, I haven’t been able to reach him. He’s a millionaire.”

Great, Chaim thought. Little Yekusiel, the closest thing he’d had to a friend, lived in a castle in the English countryside. Probably had guards outside.

He was sitting in an office, with a boss he didn’t like, children who didn’t understand him and a wife who did- only too well.

It was like he’d done nothing since high school.

And he thought about the feeling he’d had over supper last night: what he’d really wanted to tell Rivky.

He gave Marenchuk his email address and hung up just as Dovi Gelber tapped at the door.

“Good morning Chaim,” Dovi said, “can we speak for a minute?”

“Dovi,” Chaim stood up, “let me make it easier for you, okay?”

Dovi’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

Chaim took a deep breath.

(Originally Featured in Mishpacha Issue 618)