Visitor by Joshua Wade Uriel Levin had passed away in the night, just as the first snow of winter covered the ground outside his bedroom window. He had, quite unexpectedly, picked up the telephone two weeks prior and rang up his only son, Nate, after nearly three years of silence. "I miss you," he had said. "The snow is coming, Natanael. I think it will be a good winter." "Dad?" asked Nate, puzzled. He had been consumed by research ever since his students at university had gone home for the winter break and at the time his father had called, he was seated in the inglenook and reading in an effort to calm his mind amid the warmth and the slight crackling of a fire in the hearth. "Of course it's your father," said Uriel cheerfully, "who else calls you every Friday?" Nate, having noticed something strange in his father's voice that he could not quite discern, decided nonetheless to talk with him well into the night about mundane things that he had taken for granted for so long. The changes in the weather. The slight increase in cost of a loaf of bread. It had bothered him greatly, this telephone call from his father, whose voice sounded vaguely like that of a child and devoid of the deep coarseness that had characterized it for years. For it was not, in fact, Friday. Nor had they spoken regularly for nearly a decade. It was a generous act, but also quite sudden; his father's steady hand reaching across the in-between that separated them for too long. Nate packed a suitcase that night and headed to the train station, leaving on the Southern Pacific train out of Sacramento in the early morning destined for New York. He passed through mile after mile of sleeping towns, of dark houses in which children dreamed and parents sat in their kitchens, lonely glows burning in the windows as they sipped tea and read books by candlelight. It had taken five days to arrive by train at his father's home in New York. He had been met at the train station by Rabbi Schrier, his father's closest friend, and taken to Uriel's home just as the sun had gone down. There, Nate stood at his father's door for the longest time, the first flakes of snow touching down on his shoulders unsure of what to expect. He knocked, hesitantly, only to have the door fly open wildly to reveal his father standing at the threshold with a bright and wondrous smile on his face. Uriel Levin, a stout and stocky man in comparison to the thin, lean son who stood before him, took the boy in a warm embrace, tightening his arms around him until he was unable to move. "It's only been a week," began Uriel, "but it feels like millennia. You look older, Natanael. Have you been eating well?" Nate furrowed his brow, perplexed. "My name is Nate, Dad..." Nate began. And as his father patted him heartily on the back and led him into the house, warm from a roaring fire and the aroma of fresh Challah almost too thick to breathe, Nate decided then to indulge his father and pretend, as the look of happiness and sheer joy over the sight of his own son seemed too important to Uriel; a happiness that suddenly became important to Nate himself. It was one of the few decisions, as he looked back after years, that he did not regret. *** The leak in the roof dripped down through the ceiling and onto the floor, freezing into a murky disk next to the stove. It was the closest thing the cat, a little black thing with gold eyes whom his father had named Lulu, would ever come to ice skating and she loved it-- throwing herself as hard and as fast as she could across the ice and jumping at just the right moment onto the countertop with such grace and agility. She'd spent the morning locked away in the bathroom while the members of the community who comprised the Chevra Kadisha worked to prepare his father for burial, rushing to the house in the middle of the night at Nate's behest. Working in teams of four, they recited the sacred prayers and, after much insistence on Nate's part, they had taken Uriel to the Mikvah he had built in the foothills and cleansed his body. They then dressed him in a tallit and white shrouds, wrapped a sash around the garments, and tied the sash into a knot in the form of the Hebrew letter, shin. They had decided that due to the lateness of things and the snow that was beginning to build on the ground, that they would not be able to bury Uriel that night and thus, would return him to his bed and leave him there with the window slightly ajar to keep him cold until after the Sabbath. They would be able to start early, rested and refreshed. They would then have the time they needed to break into the cold earth and lay Uriel to rest properly, at which time Shiva would begin. When the Chevra Kadisha had gone, Nate released Lulu from the bathroom and watched her dodge past him to do sprints from the kitchen to the back closet for nearly an hour before collapsing lazily on top of the Davenport. Nate stood in the kitchen at the window, watched the sun rise, and then stared at the cobwebs in the corners of the room formed by dust and the soot that had been billowing out of the slightly clogged fireplace like a silent ghost since he had first arrived. The sun pushed its way through the curtain of white that had been accumulating at the window all morning, flooding the kitchen with light and causing the cat to jump up in alarm and bat at the soot that could be seen drifting lazily through the bright rays. He watched the snow blanket the lawn in downy white, falling harder and harder until he could no longer discern any one thing through the sheets that fell across the window. Only moments earlier, a little blonde girl named Jane, a friend of the Rabbi's daughter, had brought him another urn of coffee and a plate of hot latkes, opening her mouth in an effort to speak before turning a bright shade of red and hurrying away through the snow. And it was as he brought one to his mouth in an effort to finally eat something, at Rabbi Schrier's behest, when a sudden hard knock at the door caused Nate to jerk his arm and knock over the urn of hot coffee. He froze, staring bewildered. After a moment's pause, he inched slowly towards the door and extended his hand to the knob. The door creaked open on a slim gazelle with a shapely oval face buried in the fur shawl collar of her overcoat, who smiled to reveal a bewitching mouth full of beautiful teeth. She removed a blue scarf that had been wrapped cozily around her neck and held it in front of her, meekly. "Are you here for Shiva?" asked Nate abruptly. He looked disheveled, his stubble beginning to show and dark circles under his eyes. He'd misplaced his jacket and cufflinks in the confusion after his father's death and so he stood before her in his bare shirtsleeves and waistcoat with his cuffs undone. "Pardon?" she said, the slightest hint of a French accent gracing her words. She shook the snow out of her long, black curls. "I..." he stammered, "I'm sorry, it's been an eventful morning." "May I come in?" she asked. Nate nodded and stood aside. "Who are you?" asked Nate. "My name is Razz," she said. "Razz?" "Short for Razzmatazz. It's... well it's a long story, actually. Could I see Uriel, please?" "My name is Nate," he said, turning his back to her and moving to the pantry to search for a mop as she continued to stand in the doorway. "Is this how you treat all of your guests?" she asked. "I'm sorry," said Nate quietly, "I wasn't expecting anyone, not to mention that today is the Sabbath. Not really a time for guests." "I didn't mean to interrupt your observance. Uriel has been teaching me the traditions." She removed her cream colored overcoat and moved with poise to the table, a long, checkered blue and white day dress draping her slender frame. She folding her dress beneath her as she sat; her hands covered in white lace gloves. He couldn't help but stare at her for a moment as she smoothed over the dress and adjusted its white collar, the mop grasped firmly in one hand while his other braced the door jamb. She was delicate in her way, carrying herself gently and with dignity as though she would shatter had she stepped any harder or moved any faster, conveying a confidence he was not accustomed to seeing in such a small and seemingly fragile woman. "I'm sorry," she said sweetly, "but I don't understand. Has Uriel stepped out?" Nate moved to the counter and mopped up the coffee. He took another cup from the cupboard and filled it with the hot, black liquid turned, and handed it to her. Razz smiled bearing her striking white teeth. She then blushed, quite suddenly, causing her naturally rosy cheeks to turn an even brighter, pinker rouge. "You're a dear!" she said excitedly, wrapping both of her small hands around the cup, "Thank you so much. It's bitter outside, you know. So cold. So much snow. Uriel and I keep one another company on the Sabbath. I wanted to wish him Bon Hiver." Nate returned the mop to the pantry and took a seat across from Razz at the kitchen table. He gave her a short, kind smile in an effort to be courteous, as he had never been prepared for the situation in which he found himself and thus, did not know how to act in front of the elegant lady sitting before him. "How do you know Uriel?" asked Nate. Razz smiled warmly. "I met Uriel a long time ago," she said fondly, "he was there to help the Chabad-Lubavitch in France. I was just a girl then. When my mother died, I moved to Boston to be with an uncle who... well... let's just say that he wasn't kind." "I'm sorry," said Nate, "about your mother. And your uncle for that matter." "Thank you, you're such a dear. He was a drinking man. Not friendly to me. I'm sure you understand my meaning." She turned away for a moment and he knew, in her silence, what she was trying to say but could not. "Well," she continued, "to make a long story short, I decided to leave my uncle after receiving a lovely letter from Uriel in which he described his little community here so beautifully. It seemed like a good place for me. Where I could be accepted. I came here to live and Uriel has been... a mentor of sorts ever since." *** It was there at the table, in the cold quiet of the early morning, that Nate and Razz spoke for nearly an hour about their families or lack thereof, in Nate's opinion, and of her girlhood in France. She spoke at great length about her mother, a simple barista who possessed all the grace of the world, and of her father, a bright young poet of modest genius who had passed away when she was a young girl. As the morning wore on, she began to tell him more and more about her father, a man who had traveled the world and had spent a great deal of time in California baking cakes at a diner when, one hot afternoon in mid July, he met one of his heroes, a famous bohemian writer who lived in the hills beyond the diner. Her father had sped away to the kitchen to bake a special cake for his hero, a cake made with raspberries, vanilla, and cream. The writer took one bite of the cake, still hot and fresh from the oven, and muttered a single word. "And so, he named me Razzmatazz," she said with conviction and a vibrant smile. "Je suis Razzmatazz Fournier." Nate grew quiet, as the matter of his father's untimely death had been looming above them ever since her arrival, casting his mind into shadow and leaving him unsure of what to say; of how to make her understand without wholly breaking her heart. "I... I take it you knew my father well," he said after a long and awkward moment of silence. "I'm such a fool!" she exclaimed. "Has it really taken me this long to realize? Your father!" She smiled enthusiastically and brought her cup to her lips to blow away the steam. "It's all right," said Nate, his voice fading into a somber tone, "I guess I just assumed you knew." "I feel so silly. Why didn't you tell me? I should have known by Nate that you must have meant Natanael. He speaks about you so often, you know." "I've been told he talks about me. It's strange for me to hear. He wanted me to be a Rabbi, but I decided to become a Physicist. Needless to say, we were... estranged." "You would never know such a thing to talk with Uriel. He spoke as though he saw you everyday." She frowned, the rouge beginning to leave her cheeks as she quickly lowered the cup, tuning pale with wide and alarming eyes. "Wait. What... what did you mean by... knew your father?" Nate looked up to meet her eyes, furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. "Razz, this is hard..." "Oh no," she whispered. "Please... is Uriel... I mean is he not... is he ill?" "I'm sorry but," said Nate, his voice faltering, "my father died. He died last night." Her face had frozen in a shock he did not recognize at first. It was the look of someone who had lost almost everything, her eyes empty and glazed over like fresh glass. She had grown white, the strawberry hue leaving her cheeks altogether, making the dark red of her lips even more noticeable, to the point where they almost seemed stained with blood. She brought one hand to her lips as they began to tremble, prompting Nate to place his hand over the other as it lay motionless on the table. "Razz?" he said after a moment. She had been staring off into some forgotten place. A place without time. She blinked rapidly, releasing the tears that waited as though dammed by the lower lids of her eyes. Her eyes suddenly widened and she caught her breath. "Is he already..." she managed, her voice breaking, "did I miss--" "No," said Nate abruptly, "he hasn't been buried. We have to bury him after... Jews don't bury the dead on the Sabbath." He offered her his handkerchief, which he had never used and kept folded tightly into a square in the pocket of his waistcoat. She smiled slightly as she took it from his hand and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. "May I see him?" she asked quietly. Nate pursed his lips again and nodded, saying nothing. He stood and offered her his hand, lifted her from her seat, and took her to his father's bedroom where Uriel lay on the bed, draped in white, a dark blue kippa adorning his head. His beard had been trimmed and his face was quiet, still, as though he were resting. The window was slightly opened, allowing for the cold December air to fill the room, but Razz showed no signs of being cold. She cupped both hands over her mouth and ignored the handkerchief Nate had given her, allowing her tears to flow steadily down her cheeks until they dripped to the floor. She knelt beside Uriel and placed one of her gloved hands over his as they rested, one over the other, atop his chest, and whispered into his ear: "my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night..." Razz moved closer and kissed Uriel deeply on his cheek. "My father moved through depths of height..." She combed her fingers through his hair and whispered to him in French, a language that had been lost on Nate as he stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. He watched her as she lay her head on Uriel's chest as delicately as a faded flower, her dark curly hair falling down his father's side like the dark cascade of a waterfall in the night. "Bon Hiver, Uriel," she said, with another gentle kiss to his forehead before standing and smoothing over her dress. She looked at Nate and through the cold, dark room it seemed as though they were separated by entire oceans of time and space. She smiled at him, so enchanting that Nate became warm and faltered in the doorway. And as she exited the room and moved quickly past him, he was caught in the uplift of her perfume and the fresh clean smell of her hair. He watched her as she drifted to the living room and folded her dress beneath her as she sat down on the Davenport. Nate lingered in the doorway of his father's room, staring at the body that lay in the bed, unable to bridge the space between them in any way. Spiritually. Physically. He was unable to touch the cold skin, unable to utter a single word. And though Razz sat only a few feet away from him, letting Lulu nuzzle the side of her face against Razz's smiling cheek, Nate could not escape the sinking feeling of being alone at the edge of the world. Joshua Wade is a 25 year old writer currently residing in Atlanta, GA. He attended West Virginia University for English with a concentration in Creative Writing. His work has recently been featured in The Frequent and Vigorous Quarterly. | home |

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