Good Harbor

“I know I’m young,” said Michelle gently, “but I am no stranger to illness. Let me know if I can help or if there’s something the congregation can do. And I mean anything from dropping off food to driving you to appointments, to just coming over to say hi. Okay?”

“It’s nice of you. But from what I hear, the radiation isn’t too debilitating. That’s all I have to endure right now.”

“Well, whatever you need, we’re here for you.” Michelle took a cookie, broke it in half, put it down again. “And if you feel up to it, I want to ask you to help me make a library for the temple.”

Kathleen was startled. She shook her head, starting to make her excuses, but the rabbi spoke first. “I just received a donation of five thousand dollars specifically for the library. That’s a lot of money for a collection that, as of today, includes about one hundred mostly outdated books with broken spines and torn pages. I’d like to make a big announcement about it, call the newspaper, the whole schmear. But I don’t want to do that until I have a committee in place. Since you’re the only professional librarian in the congregation, you’re the natural choice.”

Kathleen pressed her lips together and tried not to look annoyed.

“You would be the official chair, but there would be no meetings, I promise, and no heavy lifting, of course. I have a bunch of young moms who volunteered to do shelving and carding and stuff like that. There are a couple of contractors in the temple who’ve agreed to build new bookcases. I need help on the children’s section. I can suggest plenty of titles for the adult collection, but I know almost nothing about children’s books. Someday I hope to” — Michelle shrugged — “but not yet.

“I know there are loads of new Jewish books for kids, and I’d like to make sure we’d be getting the best. The donor actually stipulated one-quarter of the gift for the children’s section. So what do you say?”

Kathleen was put out. Here she thought she was getting a nice pastoral visit from the rabbi, when she was actually being recruited for a fairly big job. She knew nothing about Jewish books for children, though, of course, she could learn, and she did know quality.

Kathleen realized she was also flattered. “It’s kind of you to think of me. I’m just not sure I’m going to be up to it.”

The rabbi put her hand on Kathleen’s arm and said softly, “I went through this with my mother. And while I don’t presume to know what it’s going to be like for you, my bet is that you’ll be able to do some reading. All I’m really asking is for you to go through what we’ve got and help with a list of titles. I’ll find you some catalogs, and you could check out the Web, maybe visit a bookstore, or one of the big temple libraries. I can even ask someone to drive, if you like.

“I really need this to happen. I’m trying to revive the religious school, and there’s talk of starting a preschool. But we don’t have a single children’s book published after 1975.”

“That’s terrible,” Kathleen said, professionally offended. “No one’s bought anything since then?”

“If they did, the books are long gone.” Michelle glanced at the kitchen clock. “But I’ve got to get going. I don’t want to be late for my first Cape Ann Interfaith Clergy meeting. Jim Sherry told me there’d be a good turnout. Seems everyone wants to meet the first lady rabbi on the North Shore. Cool, huh?”

Kathleen walked her to the door and thanked her for coming.

“I’m not letting you off the hook,” the rabbi said. “I really do need your help. More to the point, the temple needs your help. Please say you’ll think about it.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Kathleen, smiling at the hard sell.

“Good-bye,” said the rabbi.

“See you,” said Kathleen.

“God willing.”

“God willing?”Kathleen repeated softly, closing the door. What an awful thing to say. It makes me feel doomed, she thought, heading back to the kitchen. The meadow of Sweet Williams on the deck flashed into sight. Doomed or blessed. Either way, the rabbi was right. It was out of her hands.

JOYCE FELT AS IF she’d wasted the first half of June in the car driving to and from soccer practices, and soccer games, and soccer dinners.

Nina’s team had led their division all year and was now in the play-offs, and Nina was a big part of their success. She was a great ball handler, a generous teammate, and an apparently fearless player who inspired the other girls. Joyce was in awe of her daughter’s athletic ability; Frank had to be the source of those genes, just as he was the source of her long toes and shell-like, little ears.

Joyce went to the games because Nina wanted her there, especially now that each match mattered so much. And Joyce was glad to be there, especially for the time-outs and pauses in the action, when Nina sought her eye. Those moments recalled the days when her daughter would shout, “Look at me, Mommy,” in the pool or on her bicycle or swinging upside down on the monkey bars. “Mommy, look at me.”

By now, Joyce understood the language and basic strategy of the game; even so, soccer bored her silly. She tried to distract herself by watching the crowds, but the other parents were too predictable: white of skin, khaki of pant, never an amusing T-shirt in the bunch. And unlike her, they seemed genuinely interested in what was happening on the field.

“From the outside, I may look like a soccer mom,” she confessed to Kathleen on the phone one night after a game. “But on the inside, all I want is for my kid to pick up a book and read of her own free will. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really proud of Nina. But I do envy the parents of kids who are into chess or dance or theater. I’d rather watch sixteen performances of Annie than sixteen soccer games. Although I’m sure that gets old.”

Kathleen looked forward to Joyce’s calls and stories. Her own days dragged, hour to hour. “All this waiting is doing me in,” she said. “First, there was the waiting for the lab report, then waiting for the incision to heal, and for school to end, and for treatment to start. I can hardly sit still long enough to read the newspaper. My garden is keeping me sane, though. If I didn’t have to weed and water, I’d jump off the A. Piatt Andrew Bridge.”

“Oh, you can’t do that,” Joyce scolded. “You promised to take me out to Salt Island.” She loved hearing how Kathleen’s voice grew lighter during their conversations.

When Kathleen began the radiation treatments, Joyce mailed her a rusted toy metal ray gun she found at a thrift store. Kathleen sent back a note on a postcard from Three Mile Island. Whenever they spoke, Joyce found a new use for the word zap, and Kathleen laughed every time.

Nina’s last day of school was followed by the make-or-break soccer match of the year. Belmont was playing Newton, which had won the past three state championships. Joyce and Frank stood, shoulder to shoulder, cheering as Nina took the field. They high-fived each other and hooted when she assisted on the first goal.

That turned out to be Belmont’s solitary score. “Let’s go, Nina,” Frank shouted between cupped hands. “Go, Belmont,” he yelled until he was hoarse, but Newton racked up one goal after another. Joyce felt her neck and shoulders get tighter and tighter. Finally, mercifully, it was over.