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enough to hold this. She was crying, because she felt vulnerable, afraid, and protected. She got up, not one to sit in the rawness of awkward pain. She peered out the window. Once, in times like these, she’d look up to the sky. She’d peer deep into the royal blue forever, and she’d find stars. Lights, strung about like perfectly placed confetti, that spoke of the deliberateness and greatness of a Creator that attended to each miniscule person, including herself and her broken heart. Now all she saw was the gutters of the new building. And a light, on the third floor, still illuminating the entire night color with its yellow fluorescence. Who’s still up now? she wondered, annoyed. Her moment, her connection with a world more wise and intricate than she could perceive, narrowed. All she saw now was the neighbor, and the air she took up, and the light she took away and replaced with a fluorescent that should have been off at three in the morning. But the distraction helped. It’s far more comfortable stepping on a pebble of dislike for another, than a rock of worry over one’s own child. Spent, she didn’t even finish her tea, but put it on the top shelf in the refriger-
50 / THE MONS E Y V IE W
ator, maybe for tomorrow. * * * * *
Lights, strung about like perfectly placed confetti, spoke of the deliberateness and greatness of a Creator that attended to each miniscule person, including herself and her broken heart.
It was a good time for his mother to pray. Maybe she should have stayed in the moment, prayed a little longer. Under that same starry night, Chaim Elazar slept. His body was tense and spent from a full day of driving himself toward success. He didn’t feel the rustle of the other man approaching. Jose wasn’t in a frame of mind to think. His logical capacities had drowned in beer, but his heart was on fire. He felt the switchblade in his pocket like one would a fine strand of hair. That boy at the party, Geraldo, had been downright fresh, making derogatory remarks that still smarted. Jose had left earlier than everyone else. The loneliness, failure, sense of not belonging smarted in places that felt uncomfortable. He wondered what others would think of him if he did anything to this boy. It might be fun to see what would happen, to see how Geraldo and the others would think of him then. Jose was also Jewish. His father had told him they had Jewish ancestry, all the way back to Portugal and the Inquisition. He was standing right behind the boy now, he could feel the heat, the buzz, emanating
from the sleeping boy. What if he got caught? He might get caught; it’s a risk everyone has to take when you get on the wrong side of someone else. He might be deported back to Mexico. There was nothing to do there. But the plantains back home were good. Oh, were they good. Nowhere in the United States could you find them. And goat the way Nanna made it, cooked in milk forever. He pulled out his knife and it glistened in the weak beam from the flashlight in the crook of the boy’s arm. Jose looked around, at the windows all around him. He bent slightly. Chaim Elazar stirred. And screamed. To be continued...
Chany Rosengarten’s work has appeared in Mishpacha, Ami, Jewish Press, Chabad.org, Lakewood Shopper and of course, The Monsey View. She writes for businesses and entertainment venues, gives workshops on writing and success, and her book Jerusalem Stone will soon be released.