Are You Alone on Purpose? (4 page)

“I hate them all,” Alison's mother said. Her voice was suddenly quiet, calm, controlled. “I hate them. I've had enough of this, I've had enough of this from everyone.”

“Yes.”

“I feel like every day of my life I have to fight with somebody. Every time I think it's getting easier something else happens. There's some new jerk who needs to be begged or wheedled to help get Adam some service he needs. Or some stupid woman at the supermarket wants to know what's wrong with my son.”

“I know,” said Mrs. de Silva soothingly. Alison wondered at her calm. Couldn't she see that Alison's mother was nearly out of control?

“And now this,” Mrs. Shandling went on. “From a rabbi. A
rabbi
, Rosalie. He ought to be
ashamed
!” She got up abruptly from the table and paced back and forth, back and forth. “I've had it. I'm going over there, and I'm going to tell that man what I think of him and his synagogue and his religious school.” She turned back to Mrs. de Silva. “So if you'd wait here for Adam, I'd appreciate it. His bus comes around two. Alison and I might even be back by then.”

What? thought Alison, startled. Me?

“Betsy—” began Mrs. de Silva. But Alison's mother interrupted her.

“Rosalie, I know what you want to say, and I'm sure you're right. But I just don't want to hear it. Why, his son tormented Alison at school all last spring! He's some rabbi, all right.”

Alison winced.

“I know,” said Paulina's mother.

Mrs. Shandling's mouth tightened. “Alison wouldn't let me interfere. She begged me to stay out of it. She cried.”

Hello, thought Alison. I'm here.

“Yes,” said Mrs. de Silva.

“That boy is scum.”

“Yes, but Betsy—”

“No. I'm going. Where did I put my bag?” Mrs. Shandling looked frantically around the kitchen, finally spotting her enormous handbag on the counter. She snatched it up. “Alison, you can just pull a sundress on over your bathing suit.”

“Mom, I really don't want—”

“Go get a dress on.
Now
, Alison.”

 

The leather seats of the Shandlings' Chevy Blazer were dark red and hot. Alison longed for air-conditioning, but her mother seemed to have forgotten about it, and Alison did not want to turn it on herself. She did not want to make any move that might draw her mother's attention to her. Anyway, Temple Ben Ezra was only ten minutes away. Neither Alison nor her mother spoke during the drive.

The parking lot was nearly deserted. Mrs. Shandling pulled into the spot marked SYNAGOGUE PRESIDENT, right next to the old brown Datsun in the spot marked RABBI. Gripping Alison's hand, she pushed open one of the synagogue's heavy double doors and stepped in. The offices were in the small corridor over to the left, behind the main sanctuary. The door to the rabbi's office was open. Her mother marched Alison in.

“May I help you?” A thirtyish woman with dark brown hair was seated behind the desk in the outer office. She was on the telephone, but had placed one hand over the mouthpiece upon seeing them.

Mrs. Shandling ignored her. Still pulling Alison, she walked quickly on into the next office and closed the door. “Rabbi Roth,” she said clearly, “you'll remember me. Betsy Shandling. And you should remember my daughter, Alison, too.”

“Mrs. Shandling. Of course.” Harry's father looked up from the huge old personal computer that, despite its size, was nearly lost amid the stacks of paper on his desk. There were sagging bookshelves hung over the entire wall behind the desk, similarly crammed with books and pamphlets. “Hello. Uh, hello, Alison. Let me just save this . . . .” He gestured at the computer screen, and then fumbled with the keyboard.

“Sit down,” said Rabbi Roth finally. “Oh, just a second.” He got up to clear more paper and books off the two visitor chairs.

Alison hung back. She watched her mother. Mrs. Shandling waited until the rabbi was through dusting the chairs off and had sat back down. “We won't sit,” she said then. She smiled, a thin curl of the lips. “Alison and I have come to ask you about this letter, which arrived today.” She handed it to him. “There must have been a mistake. My son, Adam, has been refused admittance to the Hebrew school.”

Rabbi Roth turned the letter over in his hands, studying it briefly. “Well,” he said. He reached across the desk to hand the letter back to Alison's mother, who folded her arms in front of her, refusing it. After a moment, Rabbi Roth put it down on the desk.

“Mrs. Shandling,” he said, “you must understand. We are not equipped for special education. We haven't the facilities, the experience, the teachers . . . .” He paused, apparently waiting for Alison's mother to say something. When she didn't, he continued : “Much as we'd like to have Adam, we simply can't. We have to think of the other children. There are more of them.”

“There are more Christians in the world, too,” Mrs. Shandling said. “How would you like it if they said there wasn't room for you?”

“It's been done. Look, Mrs. Shandling—”

“Perhaps we will sit,” said Alison's mother, suddenly, dangerously calm again. She nodded at Alison, who perched herself gingerly on the edge of the chair nearest the door. Then she took the other chair for herself. “Go on,” she said.

“I really don't know what else there is to say.” Rabbi Roth shifted a little in his seat, and then looked directly into Alison's mother's unblinking stare. “I am sorry, Mrs. Shandling.”

“Sorry?” said Mrs. Shandling, in her most reasonable tone. “Tell me exactly what you're sorry for, Rabbi Roth. Are you sorry for me because I have a handicapped child? Or are you sorry because you haven't got the—what did you say?—the facilities, the experience, the teachers, that would enable you to allow an autistic boy to sit in a corner of a classroom?”

“Mrs. Shandling—”

Alison's mother ignored him. “You know who you should be sorry for? You should be sorry for yourself! Rabbis are supposed to be compassionate and understanding, but you . . . you can't see past bureaucratic details to the simple difference between right and wrong!”

“Mrs. Shandling—”

“It really is that simple, Rabbi. This is a house of God, and you won't admit a Jewish boy because you think it would inconvenience you. Now, I expect this sort of crap from bureaucrats. From strangers. Even from some of my own neighbors. I live with it. But never in my life did I imagine I would see it in a rabbi.”

“Please—” Rabbi Roth tried to interrupt. Alison could have told him he had no hope of saying a word. Her mother swept right on.

“But you know what? At least now I don't have to wonder where your son learned right from wrong. Like father, like son. Or don't you know about what Harry was doing to my Alison at school last year?”

Alison winced. For an instant, Rabbi Roth's eyes fell on her. Then they returned to her mother.

“Because the way I see it,” Alison's mother had gone on, “it's your son who's handicapped. Not mine. And you know what I wish, Rabbi Roth? I wish your son were even more handicapped. Then you'd be forced to pay attention to your own problems, and you'd have a little more understanding about other people's.” Mrs. Shandling paused, and then added, deliberately, “Although, come to think of it, perhaps you don't have the facilities or the experience to do anything about your own problems, either.”

She stopped, finally, and Alison dared to take a breath. Rabbi Roth said nothing. He sat unmoving, as if he had magically been transmuted into cement.

“Come on, Alison,” said Mrs. Shandling, standing up. “We're through here.”

Alison nodded. But at the door, she paused and looked back at Rabbi Roth. He was looking straight at her. Then he looked down.

Alison would have sworn he was going to cry.

A
t the same time that Mrs. Shandling was confronting his father, Harry, at camp, was trying to figure out how he should handle the Rachel Pearl situation. The previous evening had given Rachel the wrong idea.

“There she is,” said Mark Titelbaum, nudging Harry. Mark had the upper bunk next to Harry's in Cabin Gimel; the Rachel dare had originated with him.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Harry. “I see.”

Rachel, in a red two-piece bathing suit and flip-flops, was leaning against a pine tree on the path leading down to the lakefront, holding a towel and pretending not to be watching the upper path.

“Hey, Rach,” said Mark as they neared her. He smirked at Harry.

“Oh, hi there,” said Rachel. She joined them, falling into step beside Harry, elaborately casual. “Going down for free swim?”

Harry slowed his walk, and so did she. Then he speeded up. So did she. She was smiling brightly.

Great. This was all he needed.

Of course, he wasn't sure if he wanted to discourage her entirely. Rachel Pearl was okay-looking, even with the big teeth, and Harry supposed he wouldn't say no to another “walk” like last night's. There were a lot of ultrareligious kids at this camp, and he'd definitely established that Rachel wasn't one of them.

But it wasn't as if Rachel really liked him. Harry had given her no reason to do so, had barely ever said hello to her before last night, and then only because Mark had told him Rachel had been talking about him. Harry had had to pursue her then, a little. It was expected.

Rachel wasn't hard to figure out; she'd come to camp this year with an agenda. Harry was the fourth boy she'd told her girlfriends she “liked.” It wasn't her fault none of them had worked out.

Harry even supposed he wished her luck. He just didn't see himself as part of Harry and Rachel, cute camp couple. Cute fake camp couple, using each other.

Not that he cared about that. It just wasn't worth it. He just didn't want to start anything.

After all, his father would probably be thrilled about Rachel. He'd met Harry's mother at this very camp, all those years ago.

Not that the rabbi talked about that with Harry. Harry wasn't even sure how he knew it. Maybe his mother had told him once. He couldn't remember.

He was tired of camp, anyway. He wouldn't come next year. It would be counselor-in-training year, and Harry had already been taken aside by the camp director. They didn't think Harry was counselor material.

But, Harry knew, they also wouldn't want to offend his father. It would be touchy.

Hypocrites. He would have to think of a nice surprise for the camp director. Just to make sure the rabbi wouldn't be able to pull any strings next year. He wouldn't put it past his father, just to get Harry out of the house.

He wondered, briefly, if his mother would have made him do all this religious crap. Probably. She'd married a rabbi, hadn't she?

Well, that was another thing against her. The list had been building up since she died. No, since she'd gotten sick, and turned into someone else.

“Harry?” Rachel said as they reached the small beach. “I was wondering if maybe you'd want to take out a canoe? Instead of going swimming?”

“Hey, sounds good,” Mark sang out. He elbowed Harry. “Let's go!”

“Not you,” said Rachel to Mark. She giggled. “Go away.” Her giggle was a shrill, witchy heh-heh-heh, and Harry flinched, unexpectedly unnerved by it.

“I'm going to practice diving,” he said.

“Why?” said Mark. “I thought you were kicked off the team last week.”

“I don't need a team,” said Harry, distinctly. He dropped his towel and headed for the water. Rachel scurried along beside him.

“I'll sit on the raft and watch,” she said, as they splashed through the shallows. “Okay?”

Harry didn't reply. When the water reached waist level, he dove in and began a rapid crawl to the raft. He didn't wait to see if Rachel could keep up.

The raft was about an eighth of a mile out in the lake, where the water finally became deep enough for real diving. There weren't a lot of campers out there right now; most of them generally stuck to the inner raft area, where the water depth was only about six or seven feet.

Harry had just begun serious diving this year, and he wasn't very good. “Not enough discipline,” Pam, the diving coach, had said. He'd fooled around too much, too, which had led, eventually, to Pam kicking him out, for distracting everyone else. Harry didn't really care. He wasn't in it for discipline. He didn't care about developing perfect form. Hell, he wasn't going for the Olympics.

Harry knew exactly why he liked diving. He liked the kick you got in the split second after you dove, before you hit the water. When you knew everything was out of your control, everything already decided, and you could do only one thing: fall.

That was great. Beyond anything.

I
t was Mrs. Shandling's new friend from the synagogue, Gloria Kravitz, who called and told the Shandlings about Harry's accident.

“Diving,” Mrs. Shandling said over Sunday lunch to her husband, Alison, and an inattentive Adam. “A few days ago. Apparently he's in the hospital now. Somewhere in New Hampshire.” She flicked a little glance at Alison. “Gloria . . .uh, Gloria says he broke his back. He won't walk again, she says.”

“Well,” said the professor, “that might not be true.” He also looked at Alison, and then looked away. “Spinal injuries are funny things. I've read stuff lately about new drugs . . . .” He looked at Alison again. He seemed to expect a response.