CHAPTER 2
“Umm…well…I don’t know anything about this kind of thing,” the rabbi said after a long pause. “I didn’t think it was possible, but…”
“Yeah, me, too,” Chaim husked as he sat back on his heels, “but it’s kind of hard to ignore the teeth.” He tapped one of the canine fangs with a fingernail, producing a hard tik-tik sound that seemed to spook the rabbi.
“Indeed,” Rabbi Reuben muttered. “Very hard to ignore.”
The rabbi straightened from where he had slumped against his car. “I confess to knowing nothing about this kind of thing, or how to deal with it. Nothing in my training or experience gives me any kind of a handle on this.”
“So there’s nothing you can do?” Chaim’s voice was dull as he rose to his feet and dusted off his knees.
“I didn’t say that. haShem appears to have allowed for this, and even though I’ve never heard of it, I can’t help but believe that you are not unique—you cannot be the first person to be placed in this position.” He stood in thought for a moment. “Let me call someone.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, queried up a number from the directory, and punched the call button. It rang twice.
Chaim could hear a gravelly voice respond with, “Hello, Reuben. What has you calling me so late at night?” The surrounding night was quiet, but even so, he was surprised he could hear it so clearly.
“Hello, Max,” Rabbi Reuben replied. “Sorry to be calling so late, but I need some help.”
“Anything, my friend,” Max—whoever Max was—said. “You know that. Any time, as well. But it has to be something serious to have you on the phone at this hour on Sabbath Eve. What’s up?”
“Who can you point me to who is really knowledgeable about the supernatural?” Reuben asked. “An expert.”
“An expert on the supernatural?” Max’s tinny phone voice had a tone of laughter even over the phone circuit. “Reuben, we’re Jews—we specialize in the supernatural. Are you dealing with the burning bush, the parting of the Red Sea, the Shekinah glory of haShem filling Solomon’s Temple, or something else?”
“Something else, Max.”
“What, then? What is so perplexing that you call me now?”
“I need to talk to someone about vampires, Max. Specifically, Jews who become vampires.”
“Oh.” Max’s tone went dark, and there was a long silence after that. “Why?” he said at long last.
“I’ve had an encounter tonight with a young man who is Jewish who presents a very strong case that he has been made a vampire by what he called ‘a daughter of Lilith.’”
“Ah.” Another monosyllabic response in that dark tone. “And you believe him?”
“Based on what I saw, it certainly appears to be possible.”
“Oh. Well.”
Chaim suspected that Max’s mind was racing.
After a moment, Max said, “There may be someone. It will most likely be someone from the Ashkenazic circles, you know. It’s almost going to certainly be someone of Eastern European background.”
“Not a Lubavitcher, please.” Chaim could hear the reluctance in Rabbi Reuben’s voice. He obviously had little liking for the ultraconservative wing of Judaism.
“I doubt that,” Max replied. “However, it may well be a Chassid.”
Reuben sighed. “If I can get someone who can help me, I would put up with about anyone.”
“That serious?”
“Yes.”
Max chuckled. “All right.”
“Thanks, Max. I’m totally out of my element, here.”
“Most of us would be, my friend. Hang on for a moment.” There was another long moment of silence before Max reentered the conversation. “Okay, the man who can probably help you is Rabbi Avram Mendel. I can’t tell you a whole lot more than you would find out if you googled him. He’s an old man, born in Poland in the 1930s, I think. His parents moved to Switzerland before World War II began, which is why the family survived intact. Educated in Germany, advanced degrees at Oxford and MIT. Noted scientist and researcher in genetics, but not prominent enough to win any awards. Took his life in a different direction when he decided to become a rabbi at age forty. Specializes in what is called ‘esoteric research’ these days.”
“Which means what?”
“That it’s weird stuff that some people think is bogus science.”
“What do you think?”
Max was silent for a moment, then said, “Everyone I know who knows him, people that I trust, swears that he is solid, he is brilliant, and is a righteous man of faith. And every time a weird problem comes up, everyone says he is the one to talk to. He’s your man if anyone is.”
“Okay. I’ll take your word for it,” Rabbi Reuben said. “It’s just this is so far out of my comfort zone, I’m leery of just about everything.”
“Him you can trust,” Max said. “Even more than you trust me. Should I have him call you?”
Chaim waved a hand to catch the rabbi’s attention, and pointed a finger at his own chest. The rabbi nodded, and said, “No, have him call Chaim Caan at…” Chaim had his own cell phone out displaying his number, which the rabbi read off to Max.
“Got it. No promises as to how long it will take for him to decide to call, but this does sound like something up his alley.”
“Thanks, Max. I do appreciate it.”
“One thing about it, Reuben, you always bring me interesting problems. Now, go to bed and get some rest. Shalom, my friend.”
“Shalom, Max.”
The rabbi punched his phone off and returned it to his pocket.
“That was Max Weissmann. We’ve been friends since high school in Chicago and in our later rabbinate studies. He’s a religion and philosophy teacher at a major university, while I’m just a rabbi of a small congregation, but we stay in touch. Max knows almost everyone worth knowing in Jewish circles. That’s why I called him.”
“I can understand that,” Chaim said. “And this Rabbi Mendel is the man he recommended?”
The rabbi looked at Chaim with lowered eyebrows. “Just how much of that conversation did you hear?”
“All of it,” Chaim admitted.
The rabbi’s eyebrows reversed direction. “Oh. Well. That’s a bit surprising.”
“I’ve always had good hearing,” Chaim said. “It seems to have gotten a bit better since…”
“Ah.” The rabbi’s mouth twisted a bit. “Well, it appears Rabbi Mendel will be contacting you directly, but you might give me your phone number again just in case.”
“Give me yours, and I’ll text it to you.” The rabbi recited his number, Chaim keyed it into his phone, and a moment later had sent the message. “That’s my phone and my email address,” he said. “Just in case.”
“Good.” Rabbi Reuben checked his phone, then returned it to his pocket. It surprised Chaim to hear the rabbi give a wry chuckle. “You know, nothing in my rabbinic studies prepared me for this. I think it is true what is said—haShem has a sense of humor.”
“Perhaps,” Chaim said. “I think He has terrible taste in practical jokes if He does.”
“I won’t disagree with you on that,” Rabbi Reuben said. He stepped closer to Chaim and placed his hands on his shoulders. “I do not envy you what has happened. Even for a Jew, this will undoubtedly be hard to bear. You will be in my prayers, my friend.”
“Thank you, Rav Reuben,” Chaim said as he ducked his head. He was thankful, but he sounded weary and forlorn, even to himself.
Reuben dropped his hands and pulled his keys from his pocket. “I have done what I can, and I think the ball is now in Rabbi Mendel’s court, but if you haven’t heard by Thursday, call me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I will, Rav Reuben,” Chaim said, some energy coming back to his voice. “And…thank you.”
With that, he turned and melded into the shadows, leaving the rabbi standing under the parking lot light by his car, with a whole lot more on his mind than he’d had when he first came out of the synagogue, Chaim was sure. He watched from behind the magnolia tree as Rabbi Reuben finally unlocked his car and drove off. Chaim hoped the rabbi would rest better than he was going to.
* * *
Chaim stood for a while under the magnolia tree for some time, thinking dark thoughts, before he returned to his own car which was parked across the street from the synagogue’s parking lot. He had driven to Santa Carla from his apartment near the UCLA campus.
He knew he was still in shock from what had happened to him. Despite the fact that he had been living away from home for over a year, and despite the fact that he had been trying to distance himself from his family somewhat, trying to make space so he could figure out who he was as himself and not as the only child of Moses and Miriam Caan, he had a burning urge to go home. Finally he sighed, started the car, and drove there by the back streets. The traffic was light enough that it was almost restful to drive along at twenty-five miles per hour and make the frequent stops at intersections along the way.
Chaim parked on the street in front of the house. He kept his keys in his hand as he walked to the front door. A moment later he was in the house. “Mom? Dad?”
“In the kitchen,” his mother called. Chaim headed toward the back of the house, where he found the two of them standing in front of the kitchen counter eating slices of chocolate cake. He wasn’t surprised. It had long been their practice to have a sweet snack after Friday-night services.
They both set their plates down and proceeded to give him hugs—his mother first, then his dad. Once that was done, he looked at them both. They were each a bit shorter than his own height of five feet nine inches. His father’s face seemed a little paunchier than it had been the last time he had seen them. His mother had quit coloring her hair during the Covid year, and it was showing a little more gray than he remembered. But they looked good.
“So, what’s the occasion?” his father asked as he resumed eating his cake. “It’s been what, three months since you last came down?”
That was his dad, all right. Never missed a chance to point out when Chaim was missing the mark.
“Moses, he just got here.” His mother put her hand on his father’s arm.
“What? The boy only lives twenty miles from here. He can only come home once a quarter? We’re spending all that money so that he can ignore us?”
“Nice to see you, too, Dad. And I got scholarships, remember?”
His mother’s Shih Tzu climbed out of her downstairs bed in the corner of the kitchen and came over to sniff at him. For a change her tail wasn’t wagging. She spent her time sniffing at his shoes and lower pants legs. She looked up at him and growled.
“Tiffy!” his mother said. “What are you doing?”
Tiffy looked back at her mistress, then looked back at Chaim as he bent down and extended a finger to her. She sniffed it thoroughly as well, before giving it a desultory tongue wipe. Chaim wasn’t sure what was going on, but that wasn’t Tiffy’s normal behavior. He stared at the dog as she waddled back to her bed and curled back up in it.
“Well, I don’t care why you’re here,” his mother said, “it’s good to see you.” She gave him another hug. “Want some cake? It’s Aunt Rachel’s recipe.”
“No, I’m not hungry right now.” He placed his hand on his belt buckle. “My stomach’s been a bit queasy today anyway, so I’ll pass. I can’t stay very long. I need to get back pretty soon. I’ve got night shift tonight.”
“So why’d you bother?” his dad said, putting his empty plate back on the counter. “If that nothing job at the urgent care center is so important, why’d you bother coming down?”
Chaim sighed. “I came down to do a little research in the Santa Carla University library for a project I’ll be doing next semester. Thought I’d get a jump start on it.” He hated lying to his folks, but there was no way he was ready to tell them what was really going on. This at least was a plausible explanation. “Since I was this close, I figured I’d come by. I knew you’d be home. It’s Friday, after all. And I wanted to get a couple of books from my room while I was here.”
“Fine.” His father waved a hand to one side. “You do what you want.” He turned and headed for his study. Chaim looked after him.
His dad had never been the warmest of men—he was very formal—but they’d always had an okay relationship until two years ago when Chaim told him he was going to study medicine instead of becoming a rabbi. He’d always known his father didn’t handle disappointment very well, but that event proved it to him. Overnight his father had become cold, distant, and very critical. He sighed and shook his head.
His mother was looking at him with a sad expression on her face. “It’s okay, Mom,” he said. He went to the cabinet and got a glass, then filled it with ice and water from the refrigerator door, so he could avoid looking at her. Setting the empty glass in the sink, he turned and brushed past her.
Chaim could see his father sitting in his chair in the small office/study as he turned to go up the stairs. He was reading something. Probably his old study copy of the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible. He spent as much time with that as he ever had with Chaim.
The door to his room was at the top of the stairs, and was standing open. Chaim walked in and looked around. His room was unchanged. His mother obviously kept it dusted and cleaned, but as far as he could tell, nothing had been moved even a fraction of an inch since the last time he’d been in it.
Small desk under the window in the corner. Empty headphone stand on one desk corner. Small magnetic whiteboard on the side wall with smeared ink from the last time he had erased something on it. Dresser on the other side wall, with a few things scattered across the top. Bed against the long wall, bookcase standing next to the window.
He walked over to look at the bookcase. His Jewish study books occupied the top two shelves. He took down his two Talmud reference books from the top shelf and laid them on the bed. He hesitated, then from the second shelf pulled his copy of the Kabbalah that Uncle Bernie had given him, along with his copy of The Idiot’s Guide to Kabbalah. He smiled a little at the fit his father had pitched about that. “Studying mystical trash,” he’d called it, but since it had come from his brother, and since it was Jewish, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to forbid it. Chaim shook his head, but tossed them on the bed as well. Maybe they could help with this mess.
Kneeling, Chaim bypassed all his Boy Scout books and the associated notebooks on the third and fourth shelves. From the bottom shelf he pulled a half-dozen worn paperbacks. He had e-book copies of them, for sure, but these books were special to him. His hands brushed the covers: Catseye, Star Surgeon, John the Balladeer, Lest Darkness Fall, Downbelow Station, Lord of Light. Science fiction stories that had helped him through some dark days when he was younger. He laid them on the bed with care. They’d helped in the past—maybe they’d help now. If nothing else, maybe they’d be talismans.
Chaim stood and looked around again, then stepped back over to the desk and pulled open the top-right drawer. Lifting out a small plastic box, he opened it and took out the only thing in it. It was a small folded piece of paper that said In Loving Memory on top. He opened it, and read the order of service for the funeral for Elena Ramirez. Then he looked at the photo he’d tucked into the program when he’d put it in his desk over a year ago, and sighed.
He’d liked Elena—a lot. It wasn’t really a schoolboy crush. They actually hadn’t met until his last year, when he’d accelerated into the senior class level. Neither one of them were part of the in crowd at school. She was the oldest of his classmates, partly because her birthday was September 1, and partly because she’d lost a year of school for health reasons. Cystic fibrosis. So he was a nerd, and she was considered weird. They’d ended up being lab partners in AP Advanced Physics by default when no one wanted to work with either one of them.
None of the other girls in his class wanted to have anything to do with Chaim. The goths, the surfer girls, the skater girls, what passed for preppy girls these days—none of them. He was too young, too nerdy, and too introverted for any of them to pay attention to him. For that matter, none of the guys cared for him, either. Elena was the only one who’d taken a chance on him, and he was so glad she did.
She wasn’t beautiful—certainly not like the well-tanned blonde beach girls or like the slim long-haired Asian girls. She was pudgy—they both were, actually, but she was pudgier. But she was so smart, she was quick to pick things up, and she had the wickedest sense of humor. They propped each other up all year. He taught her the secrets of Sudoku, and she taught him how to dance. They went to the senior prom together—the only dance he’d ever gone to—and she had him laughing the entire time with her running commentary on the other kids, their attire, and their dance steps.
A week after the prom, she was in the hospital. Her cystic fibrosis had flared up. A week later, she was dead from pneumonia, two weeks before graduation. He went to her funeral at the Baptist church without telling his parents, and sat in the back. He didn’t understand much of what went on, and the eulogy pissed him off, because the girl the minister described was not the Elena he knew. So he spent the entire time looking at her picture up on the projection screen, trying to figure out how to say goodbye. When he came home, he put the funeral program and the little picture away. Looking at it now for the first time since the day of the funeral, he realized he still hadn’t figured out how to say goodbye, but he’d gotten used to the empty space she’d used to occupy in his life—the space that no one had stepped into—definitely no other girl. He tucked the program and picture into his jacket pocket.
There was a whisper of sound behind him. He turned to see his mother standing in the doorway.
“I wrapped up a piece of cake for you to take with you.” She had the crooked smile on her face she always got when she was trying to smooth things over between him and his dad. He repressed a sigh. He couldn’t tell her he couldn’t eat it. As much as he wanted to tell her—to tell them—what had happened, he couldn’t. They weren’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready for that.
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll pick it up when I leave.”
She moved closer. “I don’t care why you came. I’m just glad you did.” She reached up and patted him on the cheek. “I know you’re trying to live your life, but I miss you. I’m a mother. I have that right.”
Chaim shrugged and gave her a smile. “I know.”
She frowned. “You look skinnier. You said you’ve been queasy. Are you sick?”
“No, Mom,” he said.
“Well, you take care of yourself.” She walked over to the window and looked out at the night. “So, have you met any nice girls yet?”
“Mom, I’m only eighteen. You can wait a little while to start the Jewish mother schtick, okay?” Chaim grinned at her, and she grinned back. “And no, I haven’t met any girls yet. I’ve been busy, and most of them are still wearing masks and don’t want to meet new people, even though everyone’s had the vaccine.” What was being called the Covid Years had really disrupted life for a lot of young singles in more than one way. Even a year later.
He walked over to the bed and gathered up the books. “I need to get going. I really do have night shift.”
Chaim followed his mother down the stairs. At the bottom, she reached over to the side table and picked up the plastic plate with a huge slice of chocolate cake swathed in plastic wrap. “Here. You’ll like this.” She hugged him, and said again, “I’m glad you came.”
He nodded, then looked in the door to his father’s office. “I’m leaving, Dad.”
His dad didn’t look up, just waved a hand and said, “Goodbye.”
Chaim’s mother followed him to the door, opened it and reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Call me later.”
“Bye, Mom.”
Chaim loaded the books and cake in the front passenger seat. When he started the car, he noticed the gas gauge was showing he only had a quarter of a tank, so he drove to the nearest 76 station and fueled up. By the time he got there, the smell of the chocolate cake was making his stomach churn. He noticed an older homeless lady sitting on the curb outside the building, so after he gassed up he picked up the cake and walked over to her. “You like chocolate cake?”
She looked up with a gap-toothed grin. “Sure.”
“Here. I’m allergic to it.”
She took it with delight, and started peeling the plastic back. He walked back to his car, musing on the question of whether that counted as a lie or not. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he decided that while it wasn’t absolutely factually accurate, it wasn’t a lie, because he really couldn’t eat the cake. He chuckled at that, and pressed the accelerator. He needed to get to work.
* * *
It was late enough at night that the traffic was fairly light by mid-California standards. No accidents along the way, and only one road repair section that was relatively short. Chaim pulled into the parking lot a half hour before his shift began.
The lot only had four cars in it besides his, which Chaim was glad to see, since that meant things were going to be slow when he walked into the Urgent Care Plus 24/7 facility. He’d gone to work for them at the beginning of the Covid Year as a receptionist and screener because as a sophomore premed student, that was as close to real medical work as he could get. He figured the experience would pay off one way or another. He’d learned a lot, he knew—both about the realities of medicine and about people.
The strip mall UCP was in was fairly good sized, but there were only two other tenants besides the medical facility: a cannabis dispensary down at the other end of the building, which was closed, and a 24-hour doughnut shop between the two that had one customer. He had wondered more than once if the location of those two stores was planned—after all, if a cannabis patron walked out of the dispensary with a case of the munchies, wouldn’t the doughnut shop benefit from it? Probably not, but he was still convinced that could be a good stand-up comedy routine. Too bad he wasn’t a comedian.
The rest of the building was occupied by the UCP, and from the looks of it, there were no patients there at the moment. That was not good for the business, but was good for his peace of mind tonight.
Chaim was surprised to see the facility manager there when he walked in. She usually worked the day shift from 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. To see her there after 9:30 p.m. was very unusual. Karli Jones was a tall, energetic black woman who usually had bright eyes and a big smile for everyone. Tonight she looked exhausted.
“Karli, what are you doing here?”
She looked up from the computer she was staring at, and sighed. “Chaim. Man, am I glad to see you. Anna, our new morning-shift nurse, went home sick at 11:00 a.m., so we were shorthanded for the afternoon part of that shift, and then Carlita called in around one-thirty to say that her water had broken and she was in the hospital. That means her maternity leave’s going to kick in. So yeah, I ended up covering the desk for her in the evening shift. It wasn’t a horrible day, but it was extremely long. I’m beat.” She stood up and moved from behind the desk.
“Wow. Sorry to hear that.” Chaim sat down and logged into the computer. “Anything I need to know?”
Karli gathered her purse from a cabinet drawer and her sweater from the back of a different chair. “No. Tran and Ricardo are in the back already, and Lupe called to say she had run into a bit of a traffic slowdown but she thought she would be here on time. Other than that, just make sure the morning shift knows about Carlita.”
“Got it. Go home and get some sleep.”
“Yeah.”
Karli walked out, and the shift began. Chaim took a deep breath. One more night to put in his time. Maybe he’d be able to sleep when he got off.
* * *
More than once in the next several days Chaim opened his Tanakh to the book Vayikra, which almost everyone, Jews and goyim alike, called Leviticus. The seventeenth chapter contained the strongest instructions not to consume blood, and he spent some time considering those. He spent more time reviewing the Talmud, looking for teachings that might be applicable to his situation. He even found an online copy of the Shulchan Aruch, the Jewish legal compendium. This situation was weird enough that Chaim would take help from wherever he could get it. He of course knew the rule that most laws could be disobeyed in order to save a life, but he wasn’t certain that applied here. It worried him that he might not be human anymore, and if that was the case, how would any of the mitzvot apply to him? That kept him awake most of the daylight hours when he hid within his apartment, thankful for the heavy blinds and drapes on his windows.
Unfortunately, Chaim arrived at no conclusions. But at least, he decided at one point, he wasn’t any worse off than he was before. He didn’t know anything useful then, and he didn’t know anything useful now. With each passing day, he looked at his phone with increasing urgency, trying to make it ring with the oh-so-expected call.
Early Wednesday afternoon, his cell phone buzzed with a text message from an unknown number, and Chaim almost sprained a finger, he punched the phone so hard to open it.
<RE: your issue. Are you available for a phone call tonight at 9 p.m. Eastern time?>
Chaim made the calculations in his head: 9:00 p.m. Eastern would be 6:00 p.m. Pacific time. Of course he would be available! He typed in <Yes> for a reply and he hit send.
<Good. We will call you.>
He smiled at the perfect spelling and grammar. Obviously an older person. He sighed. In one respect, his tension eased, knowing that they (whoever “they” were) were going to reach out to him. But in another, it ramped up, because he had no idea what they were going to say.
Precisely at 6:00 p.m., Chaim’s cell phone rang. He’d been pacing around his living room off and on for the last several hours. He bobbled his phone pulling it out of his pocket and almost dropped it, which put a spike in his already elevated adrenaline.
“Hello,” he answered in what he hoped was his normal tone of voice.
In response, the purest tenor voice he’d ever heard said, “May I speak with Mr. Chaim Caan, please?”
“Speaking.”
The voice continued with mildly accented English, “Good evening, Mr. Caan. My name is Avram Mendel, and you have been forwarded to me through a chain of acquaintances beginning with Max Weissmann. I understand that you are engaged with an unusual problem.”
Chaim sighed. “That would be one way of putting it.” He hoped he didn’t sound as despondent as he felt. He paced a few steps. “Look, I don’t know what Mr. Weissmann told you, but what hit me over a week ago is absurd. It shouldn’t even be possible. It’s pure fantasy—except that maybe it isn’t.”
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” Mendel said with a bit of a chuckle.
“Shakespeare?”
“Of course, Shakespeare. For a goy, he was very perceptive, and he had a definite way with words, nu?” Mendel gave another chuckle, then sobered as he said, “Of course, if you want to be serious, recall that haShem said to Isaiah, ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.’” There was a brief pause before he concluded with “The Ineffable is at times inscrutable as well. But that is beside the point. Assume I know nothing. Tell me everything from the beginning.”
“All right.” Chaim tried to gather his thoughts. “The short version is…”
Five minutes later, he concluded with, “And that’s when Rabbi Levinson called his friend Max Weissmann.”
Mendel had said nothing during Chaim’s recitation, but Chaim had the sense that he had been listening intently.
“Absurd. Fantasy. Those are good words for such a story, are they not?” Mendel observed. “Yet it would seem that you have decided that you are a vampire. Why?”
“I don’t know that I believe—actually, I don’t want to believe,” Chaim said slowly, “but there are two things that have kept me from just calling myself insane and turning myself in for treatment.”
“And they are?”
“First, the fangs.”
“The fangs?”
“Yes, just like in the movies, those long canine teeth that seem to be standard equipment for Dracula and all his imitators. They are kind of hard to ignore.”
“Ah. Those fangs. You do know, of course, that in this time of progressive dental technology it is possible to have prosthetic fangs implanted. I understand that it is fairly popular among certain circles of the goth culture.” Mendel’s voice had taken on a dry tone. “I imagine it makes things a bit difficult in eating a hamburger, but to each his own.”
“Ah”—Chaim swallowed—“no, I didn’t know that. None of the goths I know do that. But I’m just a suburban college kid who doesn’t like to go to the dentist, so…”
“So that’s likely not a factor, then.”
Chaim nodded, forgetting that Mendel couldn’t see him. “No. And in the end, that doesn’t really matter. The second thing is, I’ve been changed. I can’t eat, and blood smells so good to me now.”
Mendel’s voice was darker as he said, “Is that so?”
“Rav Avram”—Chaim swallowed—“the mitzvah about not eating blood, the verses say that he who does will be cut off from the congregation and cut off from haShem. I’ve had to take blood three times now. Sunlight hurts. Am I even human? Can I be a Jew now?” He knew there was panic in his voice. He couldn’t help it.
“Ah. One moment.” There was a sound of murmuring, and for the first time Reuben realized that Mendel was using a speakerphone and someone else was in the room with him. “Mr. Caan?” Mendel was back.
“Yes?”
“From your phone’s area code, you appear to be in California. Where, specifically?”
“Santa Carla. On the coast, south of San Francisco, north of Monterey and west of Los Angeles.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Good. Mr. Caan, understand that I think there are things that can be done to help you, but I must meet with you to be certain of that. I cannot be where you are until Sunday afternoon at the earliest. Can you arrange a meeting time and place after that? A synagogue, perhaps? After dark, of course, and someplace that a stranger with a rental car GPS can locate. Would that be a problem for you?”
“Are you kidding? School’s done for the semester, I work night shift for my job, and I don’t have a girlfriend. Of course I’m available on Sunday evening. Not a synagogue, though. Not until I know where I stand.”
“I understand,” Mendel replied. “You pick the place and call this number back with the details. Someone will answer and take the information. I doubt I will be able to take your call—I have much to do between now and then—but be assured that I will see you on Sunday. I will do what I can to help, Mr. Caan.”
“Thank you, Rav Avram. Thank you very much.” The sense of relief that Chaim felt at that assurance almost had his feet stepping on air.
“It is nothing. I will see you on Sunday, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Until then, may haShem bless you and keep you, may haShem make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you, may haShem turn His face toward you and give you His shalom. Good night, my friend.”
The call ended before Chaim could speak, so his responding, “Good night,” was heard only by himself. He put the phone down and stared at the wall. Could this be help? Could this rabbi really be able to address his concerns? He hoped so. Oh, how he hoped so. It might not work…“But it’s more hope than I’ve had,” he muttered. The intensity of feeling in his voice was almost frightening.