Shabbat. To get his soul back in alignment, be able to pray with a clear head.
He visited his father at the shop, stayed longer than usual, eating pita and drinking orange juice, admiring several new pieces of jewelry. When he invited his father to come for Saturday lunch, he received the usual answer.
'I'd love to, son, but I'm already obligated.'
A shrug and a grimace-his father was still embarrassed after all this time. Daniel smiled inwardly, thinking of plump, cheerful Mrs. Moscowitz pursuing Yehesqel Sharavi, with soup and cholent and golden roast chicken. They'd been carrying on this way for over a year, his father complaining but making no attempt to escape. The man had been a widower for so long, perhaps he felt powerless in the pres-ence of a strong woman. Or maybe, thought Daniel, he was underestimating this relationship.-A stepchild at thirty-seven. Now that would be something. 'After lunch, then, Abba. We have guests from America, interesting people. Laura and the children would love to see you.'
'And I, them. What do you think of the pin I gave Shoshana?'
'I'm sorry, Abba. I haven't seen it.' His father showed no surprise.
'A butterfly,' he said. 'Silver, with malachite eyes. I conceived it in a dream I had two nights ago-springtime in the Galilee, flocks of silver butterflies covering the sky, alighting on a stand of cypress. Such a powerful image, I began work yesterday at sunrise and finished by the afternoon, just before Laura came by with the children.'
'They were here yesterday?'
'Yes, after school. Laura said they were shopping at Hamashbir and decided to drop in. It must have been desti-ny' -the old man smiled-'because I'd just gone out to shop myself and had a brand-new chocolate bar in my pocket, Swiss, with raspberry jelly in the middle. Michael and Benja-min pounced on it like little lions. I offered some to Shoshana, too, but she said candy was for babies, she was too old for it. So I gave her the butterfly. The green of the malachite went perfectly with those wonderful eyes. Such a beautiful little girl.'
'I got home after she was asleep,' said Daniel, thinking How cut off have I been? 'I'm sure she'll show it to me tonight.'
His father sensed his shame, came over, stroked his cheek, and kissed it. The tickle of whisker evoked a flood of memories in Daniel, made him feel like a small boy-weak, but safe.
'I've been consumed with work,' he said.
His father's hands rested on his shoulder, butterfly-light. Yehesqel Sharavi said nothing.
'I feel,' said Daniel, 'as if I'm being drawn into something? unclean. Something beyond my control.'
'You're the best there is, Daniel. No man could do more.'
'I don't know, Abba. I really don't know.'
They sat together in silence.
'All one can do is work and pray,' said his father, finally. 'The rest is up to God.'
Spoken by anyone else, it would have sounded pat-a cliche employed to kill discussion. But Daniel understood his father, knew he really meant it. He envied the old man's faith and, wondered if he'd ever reach that level, where reliance upon the Almighty could dissolve all doubt. Could he hope to attain the kind of religious serenity that obliterated nightmares, steadied a heart beating out of control?
Never, he decided. Serenity was out of reach. He'd seen too much.
He nodded in agreement, said 'Amen, God be blessed,' playing the dutiful son, the unquestioning believer. His father must have known it was an act; he looked at Daniel quizzically and stood, began circulating among the jewelry, tidying, fussing with velvet, and adjusting displays. Daniel thought he looked sad.
'You've been helpful, Abba. As always.'
His father shook his head. 'I bend wire, Daniel. I don't know about much anything else.'
'That's not true, Abba-'
'Son,' said his father, firmly. He swiveled and stared, and Daniel felt the little boy take over again. 'Go home.
Shabbat is approaching. Time to rest and renew. Everyone rests, even God.'
'Yes, Abba,' said Daniel, but he thought: Does Evil have respect for God's calendar? Does Evil ever rest?
He got home at eleven-thirty, saw the look on Laura's face, and knew they'd either work things out or have a terrible fight. He stayed with her in the kitchen, plying her with smiles and unswerving attention, ignoring the lack of response, the seemingly frantic preoccupation with simmering pots and meat thermometers. Finally she softened, allowed him to rub her neck, and laughed when he got underfoot, the two of them knocking shins in the small, hot room.
She wiped her hands with a towel, poured iced coffee for both of them, and gave him a hearfelt kiss with cold lips and tongue. But when he tried for a repeat, she backed away and asked him to sit down.
'Listen,' she said, settling opposite him, 'I understand what you're trying to do. I appreciate it. But we have to talk.'
'I thought we were.'
'You know what I mean, Daniel.'
'I've been overinvolved. It won't happen again.'
'It's more than that. For the last few weeks you've been in another world. I feel as if you've locked me-all of us-out of your life.'
'I'm sorry.'
