“I don’t believe in God,” Stone said.
The car turned a corner. A group of schoolchildren crossed the street, brightly colored knapsacks clinging to their backs.
“You must believe in something.”
Stone’s mind was already getting gummy and slow and he just wanted to lie down and rest.
“I believe in the power of books,” he said at last. “Books are the best way to engage with humanity without actually engaging with humans. The world is full of uncertainty. Books have all the answers.”
“I know your father loved his books.”
“And now they are mine,” Stone said, an ecstatic rush overtaking him. “I need to get back to them now.”
“Are you afraid something will happen to them?”
“They’ll start speaking without me,” Stone said.
“Who will?”
“The books!” Stone replied. “With them I can know everything, knowledge is limitless, it fills the emptiness inside—”
“Matthew,” Seligman said, squeezing Stone’s wrist, “it’s not healthy for you to be alone now.”
“Imagine spending an evening with Churchill, T. E. Lawrence, Freud. They are all waiting for me.” Seligman’s face was melting and beneath that face was another face, full of evil intentions, and beneath that face was another face, calm as a night breeze, and the faces kept peeling back until Stone saw his father’s face alive in Seligman’s.
“Listen, it is the penitential month of Elul. A new year is upon us. It’s almost Rosh Hashanah. Come pray with me. You shouldn’t be alone. Come with me. You’ll sit, you’ll listen. You’ll be with Jews instead of sitting like a hermit with your books. Your father would want you to be with family. And every Jew is family. Think about it?”
If every Jew was family, Stone thought, then there must be another father for him somewhere, perhaps many fathers. And as he regarded Seligman up close for the first time in years, he saw the Judge in Seligman’s air of confidence, steadiness, self-assuredness. The raw timbre of their voices so much alike. There was even something about the way Seligman smelled that reminded Stone of his father, though he did not smell of cigarettes but carried some raw, masculine scent Stone could not place. He wanted to trust this person, he wanted to have a second chance, he wanted to believe it was he who was broken the last time he had seen Seligman, not the other way around. In fact, Stone’s mind had been broken, and running away from Seligman had solved nothing.
“Matthew, must I remind you, it is your obligation to say the Mourner’s Kaddish for eleven months after the death of your father. You said you believed you were a disappointment to your father? Let’s put an end to that now and start fresh with a new year.”
His father’s face was gone and Seligman had returned, that repulsive toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “You are a one-trick pony, aren’t you?”
“Matthew, I assure you I have only the most honorable intentions.”
“I don’t feel good. Please drive me to my friend’s apartment.”
“Relax, Matthew. You’re not in your right head. I mean no offense whatsoever. You are part of a beautiful tradition, a beautiful history. The Mourner’s Kaddish has provided comfort for grieving Jews for thousands upon thousands of years. I just can’t understand why you wouldn’t grab that lifeline.”
When the morphine hit this time, it struck hard, and Stone found himself pinned to the bare mattress, straining for breath, staring at the ceiling, his vision doubled. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and when he tried to call Pinky, his throat was so swollen a beastly sound not resembling any language he knew tumbled from his dried-out mouth. His hallucinations were worse this time around as well. His mother’s face appeared from a great distance, as if he were lying half drowned at the bottom of a swimming pool and looking up through a vast stretch of rippling water. She blurred into a dreamy soft focus and called to him, “Matthew, Matthew, do you hear me?” Of course he heard her; she was part of his imagination. He saw Pinky’s face appear, lengthened as if through a warped fun-house mirror, telling someone there was no fucking way he was calling 911.
He heard his mother’s voice again: “Take him to the hospital, you have to take him to the hospital.”
“Have you heard of the Rockefeller drug laws?”
Everybody these days was listening to “The Rockafeller Skank.” Everywhere he went, he heard that song—it had even been playing quietly on the radio in the limousine on the way to his father’s funeral. Yes, Stone thought, the funk soul brother. And now he was dancing, dancing upside down on the ceiling, spinning a gorgeous treble clef, arms around its tapered waist. Pinky and his mother stood way below him, staring up at him with their arms spread wide as if waiting to catch him. But he wasn’t going to fall, he was never going to fall; he could fly, he could fly if he wanted to!
He is six years old and his mother has taken him to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden to stroll through the greenery. They walk through the Rock Garden, the Children’s Garden, the flaming purple Bluebell Wood, and through the entire cross section of the Native Flora Garden, where they stop along a ledge of limestone. Everything is fever bright and vivid as an oil painting. He hears Pinky’s voice underneath everything, solemnly intoning the word Draconian, rolling it around on his tongue as if he’s never said the word aloud before: “They’re fucking Draconian.”
“Here is the bladdernut tree, and there the butternut and the angelica tree,” his mother tells him.
Matthew grips his mother’s hand, feeling some import in her words but not understanding the meaning. “If you can name it, you own it. It becomes part of your life, part of your world forever. Nobody can take that knowledge away from you. If you don’t have a name for something, how do you think about it, talk about it?”
Somehow Pinky’s voice is still there, but Matthew hasn’t even met him yet, and he’s saying, “First offense possession. Class I felony,” and Matthew has no idea what that means so he points out into the middle distance instead.
“What’s that?”
“Slippery elm.”
“Yuck.”
In the Herb Garden she identifies Conium maculatum, which is poison. “Stay away from hemlock.”
She shows him lavender, rosemary, mint, and thyme and explains their various healing qualities.
“Time?”
“Thymus vulgaris. It means ‘courage’ in Greek.”
“Courage.” Matthew rolls the word around his mouth like a cat’s purr. “It smells good.”
On their way home, Matthew points to a tall, leafy tree, its graceful leaves palmlike, almost tropical, swaying languidly in the spring breeze.
“What’s that?”
“That’s
