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  Kathleen had cooked Buddy’s favorite dinner, the fat grams be damned: orange-glazed chicken, pan-fried potatoes, green beans, and chocolate mousse. When he saw the container of cream on the counter, he said, “Trying to get rid of me, eh?”

  “Well, now that I’m going to live to be ninety, I thought I’d find myself a younger fella,” she said from inside Buddy’s lingering hug. “I do have a favor to ask, though.”

  “That mink coat you’ve been hinting at?”

  “I won’t need that until November,” she said, teasing back. “But I would like to go to temple tonight.”

  Kathleen had converted to Judaism the week before they married, thirty-three years earlier. It didn’t bother Buddy that Kathleen Mary Elizabeth McCormack wasn’t Jewish. He had been one of a handful of Jewish kids growing up in Gloucester. The working-class Italian and Portuguese boys in school never bothered him about being different, maybe because he was a head taller than most of them. For Buddy, Judaism was a matter of holiday foods and honoring his parents’ traditions. But Mae and Irv Levine both wept for joy when Kathleen told them she was going to convert.

  It hadn’t felt like a momentous decision to Kathleen at the time. Catholicism had stopped making sense to her at the age of fourteen, and no one in her own family had objected to her becoming Jewish. The grandmother who would certainly have objected, and loudly, on the grounds of Kathleen’s immortal soul, was dead by the time she got married. Kathleen had no memory of her father, who had walked out when she was three. She didn’t recall her mother saying anything, but then, her poor mother seemed congenitally unable to object to any awful thing life laid in her lap. As a teenager, Kathleen had secretly prayed, “Please, God, make me be different from my mother.”

  Pat heard her calling to religious life in college and was Sister Pat by the time Kathleen met Buddy. Pat wrote a long letter wishing her sister “shalom in her new spiritual home” and, on the day of Kathleen’s conversion, sent a dozen long-stemmed roses, a huge extravagance back then.

  Rabbi Flacks, the perpetually tired man who tried to teach her the Hebrew alphabet, took her for a perfunctory ritual dunk in a tiny pool in the basement of a run-down Boston synagogue. Afterward, in the parking lot, with her hair still wet, Buddy gave her a simple, gold Star of David on a chain. She’d worn it at their wedding, at the boys’ circumcisions and bar mitzvahs, during the Jewish holidays, and whenever she went to temple — even if only for a committee meeting. She had worn it to her one and only job interview, too.

  They had joined Temple Beth Israel in Gloucester when the boys started kindergarten. Kathleen drove them to religious school faithfully and even worked on a few fund-raisers, but Buddy didn’t like going to services. He said he found the seashore more spiritual, and he wasn’t interested in the social life of the congregation. He would have let their membership lapse long ago, but Kathleen kept paying the dues.

  She was attached to the place. Buddy’s folks had been there for the bar mitzvahs, basking in the reflected glory of their grandsons’ performances. The organ played the same melody when each of her boys carried the Torah scroll up and down the center aisle in the sanctuary. Leading that joyful pageant, they clutched the blue velvet covers with white knuckles. They were very different, her boys: Hal serious, Jack sunny. But for their bar mitzvahs, they’d been identically proud and nervous in their brand-new suits, identically self-conscious and fearless of their changing voices.

  Patty had been there both times, too. She and Mae and Irv had blown their noses after Hal’s speech, and the sound of their combined honk had brought down the house. Whenever Kathleen walked into Beth Israel’s long, spare sanctuary, she remembered the three of them sitting in the front pew, laughing and crying together.

  Mae and Irv had been buried out of that sanctuary, too. And Danny. Had she worn the star for Danny’s funeral? She couldn’t remember.

  Buddy didn’t say anything about the reappearance of challah and candles. He stood close to her, his arm pressed against hers, as she bowed her head. She closed her eyes and remembered how Hal and Jack used to fight over who got to blow out the match. “Knock it off, monsters,” she had said every Friday. “Time to kiss and make up.”

  She turned to her husband. “Time to kiss and make up, eh, Bud?” He held on to her until the kitchen timer went off.

  On their way to the temple, Kathleen played with her necklace, running the star up and down the chain absently. They hadn’t been to services there for well over a year; they’d been visiting Hal in California last High Holidays, which was pretty much the only time they went anymore, and they still hadn’t met the new rabbi.

  According to the article in the local paper, she was just a few years out of rabbinical school. Kathleen had meant to attend one of the get-acquainted coffees when she was first hired, but somehow the dates had slipped her mind, as had the new rabbi’s name.

  “Rabbi Michelle Hertz.” It was posted on the sign outside the building. “Let’s see if she’s better than Avis,” Buddy said as they walked in. Kathleen didn’t even bother to roll her eyes.

  At least forty people were in the sanctuary. “Pretty good crowd,” Buddy whispered. The congregation swelled in July and August, when the summer people showed up, but in May it was still just the locals.

  Kathleen and Buddy settled into what had always been Irv’s High Holiday pew, fourth from the front on the left, and waited for the service to start. Kathleen folded her hands, lowered her head, closed her eyes, and prayed, “Thank You.”

  Buddy took her hand and kept his eyes on their interlaced fingers, so neither of them noticed the rabbi walk to the lectern. They looked up when she started to sing. Her unaccompanied voice, reedy but pleasant, delivered a tune familiar from the boys’ years in Sunday school. “Shalom Aleichem,” she sang.

  After one stanza, the rabbi waved for the congregation to join in. After a second solo verse, she stopped and shook her finger at them. “I’m warning you, I don’t start the service until everyone is singing, and I don’t mind singing all night. There’s a transliteration on page seventy-nine, and we can even do it without words.” She was smiling, but it was clear she meant business.

  Rabbi Michelle Hertz was in her late twenties, Kathleen decided; nice looking, with a heart-shaped face, big brown eyes. No discernible makeup. Her yarmulke was a boxy, multicolored third-world cap pinned onto dark curls pulled back into a low ponytail. Her prayer shawl, though, was the kind worn by old men in Orthodox synagogues, black-and-white and very big. How traditional, Kathleen thought, especially compared to the last rabbi’s bare head, black robe, and skinny, little prayer shawl that had always reminded her of a priest’s stole.

  After four more stanzas that included a lot of “Yi-dee-di,” everyone was singing. Even Ida Rubelsky, who wore a hat and gloves to services, though much of the crowd was in sweaters and jeans.

  Smiling approval, Rabbi Hertz slowed the tempo, ended the song, and asked the congregation to turn to the prayer book and read with her.

  The old Union Prayer Book was gone, replaced by a softcover book in which God had changed from He to You. As though God were sitting across the table, close enough to ask to please pass the salt. There seemed to be more Hebrew in this book, a language that would always remain an inaccessible mystery to Kathleen. Her only D in school had been in Spanish, an everlasting shame. But the English translations were graceful, and the singing more than made up for her distance from the Hebrew.

  Kathleen smiled at the rabbi’s performance. Or maybe that wasn’t the right word for it. It occurred to her that Michelle Hertz might be a good match for Hal, if Hal were interested in women. She suspected that might be why he lived out in California. Thinking about her son, Kathleen sighed. Buddy cast a concerned eye in her direction; she reassured him with a pat on the arm and turned her attention to the readings.

  The service was so unusual that even Buddy was still paying attention when they got to the sermon, if you could call it that.

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sp; Rabbi Hertz hiked the prayer shawl over her shoulders and came down from the altar. “This is one of everybody’s favorite Torah portions,” she said, walking up and down the aisles, handing out copies of the weekly Bible reading, smiling as she made eye contact.

  “This is the part where God gives Miriam leprosy for yelling at her little brother, who just happens to be Moses, who is — like it or not — God’s all-time favorite human being.”

  The rabbi made her way back to the pulpit and said, “This section has always bothered me. I mean, Aaron does exactly the same thing as his sister, but he gets off without so much as a mosquito bite! So who wants to read the first verse?”

  Ida Rubelsky stood, adjusted her hat, and in a pungent North Shore accent rhymed Hazeroth with Reheboth and intoned the name of the “Laud.” She read on and on, ignoring the rabbi’s frequent “Thank yous.”

  Buddy whispered, “I haven’t had this much fun at temple since I was seven and my grandmother nodded off and fell out of her seat.”

  The rabbi finally got Ida to stop and returned to the top of the page, soliciting comments about Moses’ relationship to God, Miriam’s “raw deal,” and the reason why it took seven days for her to heal. After extracting a few tentative remarks, Rabbi Hertz eased into her own interpretation of the story.

  “Let’s assume for a moment that Aaron isn’t a bad guy,” she said. “He doesn’t run off congratulating himself on his good luck while Miriam’s skin turns white and she goes to solitary confinement for a week. Let’s imagine that Aaron is horrified by what happened to his sister, and that he suffers for her.

  “What does Aaron think, at that particular moment, about the God they’ve been chasing around in the desert? A God who would do such a terrible thing to his kid sister, the only one in the family who can sing, who composes beautiful songs in praise of Adonai?

  “‘What kind of deity am I serving,’ he thinks. ‘What kind of God punishes Miriam and not me?’

  “Maybe Aaron wonders if he could have protected his sister. Maybe he’s thinking, ‘Why didn’t I challenge God and ask why she got punished and I didn’t?’ Maybe Aaron suffers over what he perceives is his own cowardice.” Rabbi Hertz took a long breath and scanned the room before going on.

  “Now, as biblical characters go, Aaron doesn’t have a lot of charisma. We don’t know a whole lot about him, and besides, we tend not to trust high priests. But I imagine Aaron sitting beside his sister’s hospital bed with his head in his hands. I see him as just a regular Jew, like the rest of us. Guilty. Afraid. Wondering about the meaning of pain. Struggling with his faith and searching for comfort. But also connected by blood and history and love to his brother, Moses, to his sister, Miriam, and to the Jewish people’s unending project of discerning and creating meaning in a seemingly random, sometimes cruel universe.”

  Kathleen’s cheeks burned. She felt as if the rabbi were speaking directly to her and almost looked around to make sure no one was staring at her. But everyone seemed intent on the rabbi’s story. Even Ida, notorious for fixing her lipstick during sermons, was listening.

  Kathleen struggled with the rabbi’s words. Why didn’t I argue with God about my cancer? She had been frightened and worried, but she’d borne her cross (hah!) without complaint, like a martyr.

  But she knew why she didn’t argue. She believed her cancer was a punishment. The doctor had cut a hole into her breast as retribution. She had survived Danny’s death. What kind of mother reads stories to other people’s children after throwing dirt on her own son’s coffin?

  It should have made a louder sound, but the box had been so little. She had wanted to climb down into the too small hole, cut into the warm soil. The world had smelled so good that day. The damp earth, the cut grass. She had wanted to die.

  She had gotten cancer because it was her turn to suffer, as Pat had. Though Patty hadn’t deserved it.

  Kathleen realized that everyone else was standing and scrambled to her feet. Rabbi Hertz asked that anyone who had come to honor the anniversary of a loved one’s death now speak that person’s name. Voices came from different corners of the sanctuary, some barely audible.

  “My father, Moshe, who died twenty-five years ago this week.”

  “Lena Swartz, my sister.”

  A woman in the back said, “My father, Charlie, the atheist, who would have been mystified to see me here.”

  The rabbi didn’t have to do nearly as much coaxing to get the congregation to sing a final song, and the melody caromed off the thirty-foot-high dome, doubling the sound. “Now that was some really joyful noise,” Rabbi Hertz said, beaming. “Please do stay for our Oneg Shabbat coffee hour, which is provided by our wonderful sisterhood. The only requirement is that you say hello to at least two people you’ve never met before — and that includes me.”

  Kathleen was the first to greet the rabbi. “I enjoyed your service so much,” Kathleen said, watching the rabbi fold the prayer shawl and tuck it into a red velvet bag. “It was exactly what I needed tonight.”

  “And what was it you needed?” the rabbi asked, taking Kathleen’s hand and not letting go.

  “A place to be grateful, I guess. I had good news this week.”

  The rabbi, still holding on, raised her eyebrows quizzically.

  “It seems that I’m not going to die from breast cancer.”

  “I’m so glad. My mother had breast cancer, too.”

  Kathleen started to laugh and, mortified, clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no. Sorry, I, oh . . . it’s just that it seems every time I tell anyone, they tell me about their mother or friend. I’m sorry. I must be at the end of my rope.” Kathleen lowered her voice. “How long ago did she die?”

  The rabbi laughed at that. “My mom is alive and well. In fact, she’s off in India on an elder hostel.”

  Kathleen didn’t know how to respond.

  “You must be going through a lot,” the rabbi said. “Is it okay if I say a Mi Sheberach for you tomorrow morning?”

  Kathleen, embarrassed, admitted she didn’t know what that was.

  “It’s a traditional prayer for spiritual and physical healing for members of the congregation and their families.”

  “That sounds awfully, um, Catholic,” Kathleen said. “I mean, when I was a child, we prayed to all kinds of saints for healing.”

  “Did it work?”

  Kathleen didn’t know how to respond. How could the rabbi be so cavalier about a question of faith? “I don’t think it works that way,” she finally said.

  “Neither do I,” said Rabbi Hertz, putting a hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. “But I know that public prayer can work like an embrace for people in pain, and there’s no such thing as too many hugs when you’re hurting.”

  Kathleen, almost stammering, said she wouldn’t be there the next day.

  “That’s okay. You’ll be in our thoughts. Thanks for coming up and saying hi, Kathleen. Let’s get together, soon,” the rabbi added, and turned to greet the young couple waiting behind her.

  Kathleen walked toward the coffeepot at the far end of the sanctuary. “Genevas are my favorites, too,” she told a dark-haired woman who had just picked up the last one. Joyce smiled, snapped the oval neatly in half, held out one piece to Kathleen and said, “It tastes better if you share it. Or at least, that’s what I used to tell my daughter when she was little.”

  Kathleen accepted the half-Geneva. “Are you a regular?” she asked. “I haven’t been here for ages. The last time I was at services, the rabbi was an older gentleman who looked like Ichabod Crane.”

  “This is my first time here, ever.” As Joyce spoke, Kathleen realized she was talking to the woman who had described her father as an atheist. “My dad died fifteen years ago tomorrow. I never go to services for kaddish, but I couldn’t find any of those memorial candles in the supermarket. And I wanted to do something real, something physical, to remember him.”

  “The candles are by the shoe polish at the Star Market,” Kathleen s
aid, smiling.

  “I’m glad I came, anyway.” Joyce smiled back. “I always wondered about the Gloucester synagogue. It’s kind of a conceptual oxymoron — a Yankee temple. But the service was pretty interesting, much better than the last one I went to, which was just deadly. That must be five or six years ago for a bar mitzvah.”

  “Are you here for the weekend?” Kathleen asked, admiring Joyce’s outfit, a casual but sophisticated cream-colored chenille sweater over black silk pants. Her silver earrings caught the light as she talked.

  “Actually, my husband and I just bought a little house up here — near East Gloucester square, you know? Over by the theater? We’ll be summer people, I guess, though we’ll probably have to rent the place most of the summer to help cover the mortgage.

  “We hope to come up on weekends during the school year. My daughter’s at a sleepover tonight. She’s twelve, so she’s almost always at a sleepover.”

  “My sons are long gone,” said Kathleen. “It’s just me and my husband, who’s here somewhere.”

  “Frank’s here, too.” Joyce looked around the room. “Actually, I’m kind of mystified that we’re here at all. Normally at this hour, I’d be in bed with a book.”

  “Oh? And what are you reading?”

  “I’m about to start the new Amy Tan. And you?” Joyce asked, approving of Kathleen’s elegant posture, her thick, white hair and the darkest blue eyes she’d ever seen.

  “I’m just finishing the latest of the Harry Potter books — belatedly for me. It’s work as well as pleasure; I’m a children’s librarian.”

  “Ah, a librarian.” Joyce put her hand over her heart and bowed her head. “May I kiss the hem of your garment?” She grinned. “I can’t tell you the number of times librarians have saved my deadline.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “For women’s magazines, mostly.”