Читать книгу Nirvana Is Here - Aaron Hamburger - Страница 12

PREPARATORY

SCHOOL WOULD RESUME IN THE FALL as if nothing had happened. Back to Stern Academy, which Mark could no longer attend. Still, his shadow would linger.

I begged my parents to send me anywhere else, somewhere far from our district, somewhere I had no history. Somewhere with strict rules to keep me safe.

Our local public school was too close by, too Jewish. The Taborsky family was known there.

There was Rockingham Private Preparatory Day School, but a few years ago, a scandalous article in the Jewish News had alleged that Rockingham’s admissions department was marking the applications of Jewish students with hand-drawn bagels.

Another possibility was the Eaton School for the Arts, which Mom ruled out. “You need somewhere that will prepare you for a real career,” she said.

“What about your career?” I asked. “You’re an artist.”

“That’s different,” she said. “I don’t have to support a family.”

So if I didn’t have to support a family, would it be alright then to make art?

The winner by default was the Dalton College Preparatory School for Boys and Girls of Detroit, which despite its name, was not in Detroit, but in a suburb known for tasteful Protestant churches and private lakes. Mom canceled an appointment with Dr. Don so we could meet the assistant headmaster to discuss my prospects there.

The Dalton campus was a twenty-minute drive from where we lived. The entrance was next to a once “restricted” golf club that had banned Jews entirely and blacks outside of the kitchen and gardens. We drove past an unmanned gatehouse and up a severely sloped hill that hid the school from the road. Was it the elevation that made my stomach churn? The day was disgustingly humid—we were the Great Lake State, after all—and a pack of football players in full pads jogged uphill alongside our car. They carried their helmets, and their damp faces, in shades of black, brown, yellow, and white, glistened with sweat. “Let’s pick it up, ladies!” yelled their coach, trotting behind them.

Watching them, I realized we’d made a mistake.

Dad was watching them too. “Do any Jewish kids go to this school?” he asked.

After swerving around a flag plaza, we were confronted by the school itself: a sprawling brick palace with glass skylights poking out of the roof, reflecting the heavens. The front door was framed by Doric columns and an arch, like a Greek temple.

Inside, a group of moms in pleated slacks and glossy penny loafers were decorating the lobby with gold and blue signs to welcome students back from vacation. A sign-up sheet to volunteer at a food bank was filled with signatures. I took this evidence of the Dalton students’ kind hearts until I read the note at the bottom: “Fulfills your community service requirement!”

A few students dressed in soccer uniforms—shiny jerseys, shorts, kneepads covered in socks—roamed the halls. One girl gave us a strange look, then dissolved into a fit of giggling. Why? What had I done? But she immediately went quiet when an adult with a whistle around her neck appeared from around a corner.

“A place like this, you could learn some stuff,” Dad said, admiring a schedule of football games tacked to a bulletin board like a dead moth. “Dee, why didn’t we send David here?”

Because David wasn’t the kind of kid who needed to be “sent” anywhere.

My mother touched his elbow. “Max, let’s focus.” She peered at a row of student artwork hung behind glass: a watercolor of a race car; an awkward black and white ink drawing of Cindy Crawford; and a close-up color photograph of a flower that had won a prize. I was jealous. I too wanted to win a prize.

Two kids carrying tennis rackets, one of them white and the other black, stopped us. “You lost?” asked the black kid in a gentle, relaxed voice, so clear it startled me.

“We were hoping to find the office,” my mother said.

He pointed us down the hall. “You won’t miss it,” he said, though at first I thought he’d said, “You won’t miss me.” He had deep brown eyes, the color of warm mud, and his face, like his body, was long and lean. I liked the way his collared Dalton polo shirt fell naturally and easily over his shoulders.

I watched him over my shoulder as we walked to the office. He waved back at me, then held up two fingers, the peace sign. Peace sounds nice, I thought.

Dean Stephen Demuth was a lean man with big teeth, a bushy mustache, and tortoise-shell framed glasses. He offered his bony hand for us to shake across his thick-footed mahogany desk. We sat in wooden chairs painted navy blue and printed with the school logo, a Medieval shield with a laurel wreath surrounding a Ford Model T. The Dean’s secretary brought out Danish butter cookies and hot tea with thin slices of lemon. Mom held a cookie up to the light, bit into it, then nodded her approval.

Hanging over the Dean’s head were several photos: portraits of white football players in black and white; portraits of black basketball players in full color; and a sepia-toned shot of the Dean posing stony-faced in a Civil War uniform and carrying a musket.

“Before I went into admin, I used to teach history. Once a year, I still lead a tour of the Civil War Battlefields for the seniors, mostly boys.” He smiled my way.

I set my teacup a little too firmly on its saucer, almost knocking it over. “Sorry,” I said, still absorbing the idea of sharing a motel room with a mob of strange boys.

Demuth scored points with my father by calling him “Dr. Silverman.” Oddly, my father always insisted on his title, despite the fact that he never seemed very proud of being a dentist and referred to his education as trade school. “Fill and drill,” he called it.

The Dean then listened patiently while Mom explained slowly and at length, as she always had to for non-Jews, about her ketubah business. “People think Jewish art is all landscapes of Jerusalem, bearded rabbis and Stars of David. But that was just a trend that started twenty years ago and got stuck until it became so obvious and overplayed,” she explained. “I do incorporate traditional, biblical symbolic images in my work but in a fresh and modern artistic way. I find inspiration from all kinds of sources, textile patterns, architecture, nature. Gustav Klimt. I like bold colors.”

“Ke-TOO-ba,” Demuth said carefully, and I blushed. I hated trotting out our Judaism in front of Gentiles. “I’d love to see your work.”

Mom immediately handed him a brochure from the pack she kept in her purse. “Just in case you have any Jewish friends. Or even non-Jewish friends. You don’t have to be Jewish to want to memorialize your marriage vows in a work of art.”

The Dean turned my way and so did my parents, and I felt the stiff wooden back of my chair digging into my spine. Was it time now to confess my story? How much was required? But luckily, the Dean seemed more interested in telling Dalton’s story. “Our mission is to prepare young people for college by providing a well-rounded education, nurturing minds as well as healthy bodies,” he said. “A Dalton student is equally at ease discussing history, serving a tennis ball, or analyzing a European painting.”

The current crop of Dalton students included children of the top brass at GM, Ford, Chrysler, as well as the auto unions. There were two sons of a State Supreme Court Judge, grandchildren of three Governors, and the niece of a local broadcaster who’d challenged Mayor Young to a boxing match for charity.

Demuth handed us wallet-sized cards printed with the school’s address, phone number, and two-sentence honor code, like an article of faith:

“As a member of the Dalton community, I stand for what is good and right. I resolve to act with respect, honor, and compassion.”

In other words, if I put my head down, did my work, and spoke to no one for four years, I could survive high school. Maybe I’d develop a healthy body, a football player’s body. I’d bang lunch tables with my powerful fists. I’d throw, catch, and carry things without tripping over my own legs. Pounding down school hallways, I’d draw the attention of students and teachers. I’d turn myself on by looking in the mirror.

“And he could start this fall?” Mom asked. “He’d fit in?”

“I know he would,” said Dean Demuth.

“Do you attract many students from the city?” Dad said, eyeing the pictures of the basketball players behind the Dean’s chair.

“A few, on scholarship,” Demuth admitted. “However, at Dalton, we keep our students too busy to get into the kind of trouble so common in other schools.” He gave me a long, sad look when he said “other schools,” and I dug the toe of my shoe into the carpet, dark green like a forest where I might lose myself—if I were lucky.

“Busy doing what exactly?” my dad asked.

Busy with the “Three A’s,” academics, athletics, and the arts. Busy adhering to a dress code (jackets, ties, slacks, dark socks and shoes for boys, blouses with skirts or dresses for girls). Busy earning red points (for clubs), white points (for community service), and most dauntingly, blue points (for doing sports after school).

But I didn’t “do” any sports.

“Not even skiing?” asked Dean Demuth.

No, not even that. Dad had seen too many teeth knocked loose in ski accidents.

“Ari has some experience in the martial arts,” my mother said.

“Mom, please,” I said.

“There’s always track,” Demuth suggested, his voice dripping with pity. “All Dalton students do a sport. Our motto is mens sana in corpore sano.”

Dad approved. He liked Latin, almost as much as he liked Hebrew, though he didn’t know that particular phrase.

“Healthy mind in a healthy body,” I said, translating for him.

“Did you hear that?” Demuth said. “He’ll fit right in.”

Promises, promises, I thought, as my mother uncrossed her legs and picked up her purse. Were we leaving? Yes, it seemed we were leaving. I sprang to my feet.

Mom shook the Dean’s hand, promising to donate a print to their next fundraiser auction. “I have ones that aren’t too religious, that anyone would like,” she said.

Demuth glanced my way, then added, “We take care of our students.”

He must know, I thought. For sure, he knows. My skin prickled with shame.

After our meeting, I hurried past my parents toward the car. This had been a mistake. Maybe if we never came back, the school would forget all about us. Didn’t the Constitution protect my right to be homeschooled?

Driving out of the parking lot, Dad said over his shoulder, “Hey, Ari, maybe you could try the baseball team. You’d make a natural shortstop.”

“Shut up!” I burst out. “Stop trying to make this all so . . . different from what it is.”

“What?” said Dad. “What is it? What am I trying to do?”

“Please, Max, don’t push him,” said Mom.

For the rest of the quiet ride home, I thought of the tall, thin boy with the warm brown eyes, the one who’d directed us to Demuth’s office and promised peace. I could still hear him saying: “You won’t miss me.” Wasn’t that what he said? I was almost sure of it.