Our Year of Maybe

“Did you know,” he says, “that ‘yarmulke’ is actually Yiddish? It comes from the Polish word for ‘skullcap.’ In Hebrew, it’s called a kippah.”

“I did not,” I tell him. All around us, people trade hugs and handshakes. My dad and I stand apart, strangers in this sanctuary. I wish it weren’t just the two of us, but my mom insisted she had a cold coming on. And even if Sophie were in town, she made it clear she had no interest in going.

We take seats near the back. “You don’t want to sit closer to the front?” he asks.

I shake my head. Somehow it seems like a more sacred space up there, one that should be reserved for the more devout.

The Shabbat service isn’t as long as Sophie made it seem. We stand up, we sit down, and we stand up again. Every so often, people sort of half bow, and I do my best to follow along, trying to figure out which words and phrases trigger a bow or a change from sitting to standing. Trying to keep up is exhausting in a fascinating kind of way.

My dad is reading the Hebrew, singing along. As best I can, I follow along with the English transliteration, but I don’t know the tunes of any of the prayers. I like the way they sound, and though all of this is foreign to me, it feels right more than anything. Jewish is what I am; I’m convinced of that now. I’m not half.

Afterward, challah and hors d’oeuvres are served in the foyer. The sweet bread has never tasted better. The rabbi who led the service, a middle-aged man in a silver yarmulke, makes the rounds of the room. I’m positive he’ll skip right over my dad and me until he stops in front of us and sticks out his hand for my dad to shake.

“I’m Rabbi Levi Edelstein,” he says. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in our congregation before, so I wanted to introduce myself.”

“Ben Rosenthal,” my dad says. “And my son, Peter.”

I become shy, as though meeting a rabbi is the equivalent of meeting a rock star. Still, I shake the rabbi’s hand too.

“Welcome! New to the area?”

“Not exactly.” My dad shrugs. “We’re just . . . not the best Jews.”

Rabbi Edelstein laughs heartily, like he genuinely finds this funny. I decide I like him.

“My mom isn’t Jewish,” I blurt.

“No matter,” Rabbi Edelstein says. “You’re more than welcome here. Do you by any chance play kickball? Our recreational team, the Matzah Ballers, is starting back up in a couple months, and we’re pretty good, if I say so!”

“That might be fun, huh, Peter?” my dad says, and I can only imagine how Sophie would tease me if she knew I’d joined the Matzah Ballers.

“Sure,” I say.

“I hope to see you both back here?”

“You will,” I tell the rabbi.

It’s nearly eight by the time we leave the temple.

“So, what’s the verdict?” my dad asks as he starts the car.

“I really liked it. I wish I could have understood it.”

He chuckles. “It’s amazing what sticks with you. I haven’t read the Hebrew in a long time, but I guess it’s still in there.”

“Why didn’t I have a bar mitzvah?”

He’s quiet for a few moments. The wipers slash across the windshield, a duet with the tickticktick of the blinker.

“Did Mom not want me to—”

“No,” he says emphatically. “Peter, no. I know your mother doesn’t understand this. She had some bad experiences with religion growing up, so she’s always been a little opposed to it. But I don’t want you to blame her for any of this. We wanted you to find your own way. She and I were both forced into religion as kids. It wasn’t a choice for us.”

“You gave me the choice.”

“Yes.”

“I’m choosing this. This is what I want.”