Sacred (22 page)

This was all news to me. Religion without God? God as a metaphor for the best of human potential? I felt a little
uncomfortable. It seemed that Martin was saying something very, very important, but fragile, too.

“I’ve heard it said, in response to the question, ‘Must Jews believe in God?’ ” Martin continued, “that the answer depends entirely on how you define four words:
must, Jew, believe
, and
God
. Rabbi Kaplan put it quite nicely, I think. Basically, he argued that to believe in God is to believe that it is our nature to rise above our basest compulsions and to eliminate exploitation and violence from all human society.”

“So to Rabbi Kaplan, believing in God didn’t mean believing in a thing, like, up in the clouds?” I said, wondering if Rabbi Kaplan was someone Martin knew personally.

“Exactly. By his definition, a belief in God is to believe in the best in all of us … and, by implication, that this belief
must
be acted upon, must manifest into deeds rather than remain paralyzed in words. Most Jews, regardless about what they think about God, will agree that ours is a tradition of action rather than faith. For Jews, it’s never enough to passively ‘believe’ in anything. For Jews, our
actions
are what define us, rather than our beliefs.”

Martin eyed me. “You look uncomfortable, Scarlett.”

I shrugged and picked at the cookie on my plate. “I don’t know,” I started. “I guess I haven’t spent too much time thinking about these things. Like I said, we’re not a religious family … but since Ronny died, I guess I’ve wondered what that means. Where did he go?”

Unspilled tears burned my eyes.

Martin looked at me with such gentle kindness that I
couldn’t hold the tears back. He let me cry, and I sniffled like a child. Then he passed me a napkin and patted my hand.

As I dried my eyes he said, “These are big questions. Too big for easy answers.”

“It’s pretty straightforward for Christians,” I mumbled. “All they’ve got to do to get into heaven is believe that Jesus is God, right? But we aren’t religious, not in any way that counts.” I wiped my nose with the napkin and then folded it carefully, setting it near my plate. I wanted to shift the subject away from Ronny, so I asked, “What about Jews? How do they get to heaven?”

Martin shrugged. “Most Jews aren’t too concerned with heaven and hell. We believe the purpose of life is to come to know God, as much as it’s possible, and this is done through both study and through living a life that makes us more like God—whatever that is.”

It seemed heretical to hear someone talking about God like this—redefining him—it?—and suggesting that God might not be something
outside
of us at all! And for all of this to come from someone I’d expected to give me answers.

“To be honest, Scarlett, I struggle with these same questions. Since Meryl’s death—and since Will’s abilities have manifested—I have been to some dark places. Dark and lonely. I look to my books for comfort.”

He seemed to be considering something, and then he pushed away from the table and said, “Wait here, Scarlett.” He walked out of the kitchen, toward his study. I heard him rummaging around and after a minute he returned, a book
in his hands. “You came to a rabbi for advice. If you’d gone to see a Buddhist, he might have given you a book about the Four Noble Truths to contemplate. If you’d visited a psychiatrist, she might have suggested Freud, though I hear he has fallen out of favor as of late. But you chose a rabbi … and this is what I have to offer. Why don’t you borrow this?” he suggested. The book was small, bound with a hard blue cover with golden words that read
A Guide to the Sefirot
.

“What’s the Sefirot?”

“It’s difficult to translate, but one way to interpret it is
emanation
—that which has been sent forth from God.”

“Didn’t you just say that the idea of God is up to interpretation?”

“You’re a quick learner, Scarlett. Perhaps we could think of it as sent from the best possible version of ourselves to our current, flawed incarnations.”

I thought about this. “Like time travel?”

Martin laughed. “That’s as useful a metaphor as any, I suppose. But the purpose of the Sefirot, the purpose of Kabbalah, is the same as the purpose of life—to ascend. Again, not theory … 
action
.”

“Kabbalah?”

“Ah, Kabbalah. It is sometimes easier to define something by what it is
not
. Kabbalah is not a book … it is not a single answer … it is not supposed to be easy.” Martin looked down at the book in his hands, and he seemed troubled, as if hesitating to hand it to me. But he placed it in my hands. I felt a whisper of fear deep inside me as I took the small book.

When Martin spoke again, his voice was hushed, reverent. “Kabbalah has been called the heart of Jewish mysticism; it has been called the Way. Literally, it is an action; in Hebrew,
Kabbalah
means ‘to receive.’ Remember what I said about Judaism being defined by action rather than faith? Kabbalah is a prime example. Men spend their entire adult lives studying the Kabbalah … and this study is not without risk. Kabbalah is a mystical practice. It has been veiled in secret for centuries. In fact, many have prohibited the study of the Kabbalah, saying it is too dangerous for anyone but mature, male Jews—over the age of forty—to even attempt.”

“Dangerous how?” The book looked innocent enough to me, not like it was about to explode in my hands.

“It can lead to madness.”

We were quiet together then, in the kitchen, and the sense of awe, of danger, seemed almost palpable, and suddenly the golden letters of the book’s title seemed to glow.

Then Martin cleared his throat, and clattered his teacup against the table, and the world was ordinary again.

“Read the book,” Martin encouraged, and he cleared the table, pouring the cooled tea into the sink. “The Sefirot is a good place to start.”

“Thank you, Martin.” I stood up too, and helped with the last of the dishes. “Thanks for talking with me.”

“I hope it won’t be the last time,” Martin said. “Please, visit again—bring your questions, and we’ll talk together about what the answers might be.”

He opened the back door, looking out at Delilah grazing in the tall grass.

“Animals are lovely, aren’t they?” Martin murmured. “Such grace, such peace.”

“Sometimes I wouldn’t mind being a horse,” I admitted. “It would be nice not to have to worry so much.”

“Well, that may be true, but think about all the good things your Delilah will never experience, by dint of her equine nature.”

I thought of the brush of Will’s hand against my cheek as he pushed back my hair, the spread of warmth his touch brought unfailingly, and my cheeks burned red. I hoped Martin wasn’t quite as astute as he seemed; I didn’t need him intuiting my thoughts about his son.

Martin watched as I tacked up Delilah and opened the side gate of his yard for me. I noticed she’d left a fresh pile of manure in the center of the lawn. For some reason, I found this desperately embarrassing, but Martin brushed it off.

He laughed. “That, too, is part of life.”

As I rode down the street, Delilah’s hooves clopping pleasantly on the asphalt, Martin’s little book tucked inside the pocket of my coat, I filled my lungs with breaths of fresh, cool air. The breeze carried the ocean’s briny smell upon it. Living on an island can be isolating and claustrophobic, but it can be deeply intimate, too. An island is small enough to come to know really well.

I had felt like an island myself, in the past. Perhaps, I considered now, turning Delilah up the trail that would lead us back toward the stable, being an island is not an entirely bad thing. To know oneself, intimately and deeply. To unearth one’s own potential. The book in my pocket seemed to emanate its own warmth, as if it were a living thing.

In the last twenty-four hours, I had held two books in my hands—my notebook, which contained a history of self-denial and pain, and now
A Guide to the Sefirot
. I was eager to find out what it might mean for me.

Overhead, a pelican traversed the sky. I urged Delilah into a canter, and the road seemed to fold open before us like the petals of a flower, the turning of a page. My heart was full to brimming.

THIRTEEN

A
t school on Monday, I found a note taped to the door of my locker.
Scarlett
, read the front. Again, I was struck by the beauty of Will’s script. It was as if he was creating a little piece of art just by writing my name.

Inside, the note read,
Will you do me the honor of being my date Saturday night?

Saturday night. I looked up from the note to the signs papering the school’s hallway advertising the winter formal. Saturday night.

Homecoming had come and gone earlier in the fall, and really I had had no plans to attend any school functions this year. Ronny had been King of the Undersea Ball his senior year; he had been voted Big Man on Campus two years running; he had won MVP for his soccer team every year he’d played.

It wasn’t that I had anything against school dances. I’d
always relished the opportunity to get dressed up. Even if the dancing was mostly of the rocking-back-and-forth variety, there was something kind of dorkishly fabulous about wearing a corsage and having my picture taken.

And the winter dance was always held at Avalon’s Casino, the beautiful rotunda built just above the shore at the edge of town.

The Undersea Ball theme was a yearly tradition: the murals in the theater of the Casino set the mood and the high school seemed unable to purchase new decorations, so year after year they hauled out the same papier-mâché starfish and seahorses, the same aqua-colored ribbons and lace, and adorned the island’s finest building.

Of course I would go to the dance with Will. I would probably go anywhere with him.

Behind me, my classmates shuffled down the hallway, making their way to first period, jostling and pushing and telling off-color jokes.

“Andy asked me to the dance in the most romantic way,” trilled Kaitlyn. It seemed that her voice was intentionally loud. “He came to my house last weekend with a bunch of roses and sang me this silly little song on my front porch. Isn’t that
adorable
?”

Katie Ellis, whom Kaitlyn was towing along by her arm, murmured something I couldn’t make out, but as she sauntered by, Kaitlyn peered at me with mean, narrowed eyes.

I smiled and gave a little wave, which seemed to both baffle and infuriate Kaitlyn. She nearly yanked poor Katie Ellis’s arm right out of its socket as she stomped off down the hallway.

And then there he was—Will, leaning appealingly close, his face just inches away, that achingly beautiful curl falling across his forehead.

“Well?” he asked, his voice sounding a strange mixture of amused and nervous.

“I’d love to,” I said, smiling.

“That’s a relief,” Will answered. “I already bought a suit.”

Will in a suit. That was definitely a sight worth seeing. “What color is the tie?”

“Umm … blue.”

I mentally ran through my wardrobe. Did I have anything that would go with blue? Probably not. But I knew the best place on the island to find a dress.

“Of
course
I’ll loan you something,” Lily said at lunch. “When can you come over?”

I considered my afternoon. The farrier would be shoeing the horses, so there would be no riding, and my homework was all pretty much under control. “Today?”

“Fabulous!” Lily hopped up and down, her dark curls bouncing. “It’s been
forever
since you’ve been over, Scar.”

“I know.” I paused. “I haven’t been exactly the most fun person lately, huh?”

Lily grinned. “You’ve been an absolute
drag
,” she said. “But I love you anyway. And I understand.”

Even though I hadn’t been to Lily’s house since the spring before, her parents greeted me from the kitchen table, where they sat playing a game of cribbage, as if no more than a weekend had passed.

“Scarlett,” boomed Jack Adams. “Tell this woman that she’s out of her gourd if she thinks she can beat me at a hand of cribbage. It’s been nineteen years now that we’ve been married, and she hasn’t done it yet!”

“You’re out of your gourd, Laura, if you think you can beat Jack at a hand of cribbage,” I parroted obligingly.

Laura smiled up at me a bit absentmindedly over her cards. “Hello, dear. Good to see you. You and I both know that Jack is full of shit.”

I turned back to Jack. “She’s right, you know. Everyone knows you’re full of shit.”

Laura laughed loudly, and Jack did too. Laura was built like Lily: fabulous, full breasts, loose curls that she wore longer and lighter than her daughter’s, highlighted to a caramel color that must have cost a fortune to keep up.

But they had a fortune. Jack, even on casual days, kept himself impeccably groomed as well. His short brown hair was thinning on top and around the temples, but it was a good look for him. The twins, Jasper and Henry, would probably grow up to look just like their dad. They worshipped him, and sat on either side of him at the table now, working at building some Lego structure right in the middle of their parents’ cribbage game. All the extra little wooden cribbage pegs that weren’t fastened to the board were strewn among the Lego pieces, and I wondered how any of them kept their games straight.