The Final Testament of the Holy Bible Page 7

  I don’t know how long it was or what it took, because it seemed like hours and hours and hours, but Ben’s seizure ended and everything calmed down and I was allowed back in the room. Ben was on the bed, either asleep or sedated, and his arms and legs were in straps attached to the sides of the bed in case he had another seizure. Mrs. Avrohom was in the corner, quietly sobbing into her hands. I wasn’t sure what to do, but decided that if Jacob considered me a family member, I should comfort his mother as if I truly were one, and that things that might normally matter for a Christian man, that I was a single man and she was a widowed woman, that she had been using Hebrew in prayer, that she had been raised a Jew, didn’t matter, and that if God judged me, he would also forgive when I repented. I moved over towards Mrs. Avrohom and I put my hand on her shoulder and asked her if she was alright. She looked up at me and between her sobs asked me what had just happened, what had just happened with her son. I told her that I didn’t know, that God always had a plan and that we should never question it, but that I didn’t know.

  Jacob showed up later. The doctors had called him because he was the family member listed as a contact. In between the call and his arrival, doctors came in and out of the room, checking Ben’s blood pressure and heart rate. I was no longer touching his mother when he walked in, but he was upset that I was sitting close to her. I told him what had happened, with every detail I knew, and he didn’t seem surprised or upset. He looked at his brother, and said let us pray, pray for the man who may be sitting before us. I didn’t know what he meant, and didn’t feel like I should ask.

  Together we kneeled and we prayed, prayed silently until the sun rose and another of God’s glorious days began for us.

  In the morning, Jacob took his mother home. She didn’t want to leave, but he felt she needed some time away, and she obeyed him because he was the head of their household. He asked me to stay and try to learn everything I could about Ben’s condition. The doctors kept coming in and out of the room, but when they spoke they did so in hushed tones, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Around lunch they stopped coming in. It was just Ben, who had not moved since his seizure, and me. I started reading my Bible, turning immediately to one of my favorite sections, Matthew 4:1–11, which is about the temptation of Christ by the Devil while Jesus was living in the desert, and about the food the angels of Heaven brought him after he resisted the Devil’s offerings. I often imagined myself in the position of Christ, resisting the Devil’s foul gifts, which I had spent so many sinful years indulging in, and someday having angels descend from Heaven, their wings shining with holy righteousness, to bring gifts for me. When I heard a voice, I thought my prayers had literally come true. I closed my eyes and I said thank you, God, thank you for rewarding my devotion to you. And then I heard the voice again and I stood up and I was scared to open my eyes, not knowing what to expect, and knowing that angels had extraordinary powers that humans could and never would understand. The voice again, and again. I opened my eyes, and there were no angels, but Ben was looking at me, which was almost like an angel was there.

  He spoke.

  Who are you?

  My name is Jeremiah.

  Where am I?

  You are in a hospital in New York.

  Why are you here?

  I am here because your brother, Jacob, who is my brother in the worship of God and his Son, the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, asked me to be here.

  Jacob?

  Yes.

  He looked away from me, laughed to himself, looked back.

  Is Jacob responsible for me being restrained?

  No. The doctors did that because of your seizure.

  My seizure?

  Yes.

  Take them off.

  I can’t.

  Please, take them off.

  He looked at me, looked right into my eyes, and there was something about his eyes, which were black, jet black, and so deep they looked limitless, that made me feel weak and vulnerable, humbled me, and made me want to do whatever he asked of me. I understood why he was restrained, but also knew that there were many doctors and nurses very close by if anything happened. He said it again.

  Please.

  It wasn’t desperate or pleading, just simple and direct.

  Please.

  I set down my Bible, stood up, and took off the restraints. He smiled and said thank you, and he didn’t move, just closed his eyes and took deep breaths, one after another after another. I don’t know how I expected him to act, or what I expected him to do, but not that, not just lie there as if he were still restrained. I just stared at him, waited. After a few minutes, he started slowly running his hands along his body, feeling the scars, running his fingers along the length of them. He put his hands on his face, moved his fingertips all over, moved them along his head and the back of his skull. When he was finished with the back of his head, he continued moving them over his body and his face and he spoke.

  What happened to me?

  You had an accident at a construction site. A plate of glass fell and hit you.

  How long have I been here?

  A couple months.

  How did Jacob find me?

  Your sister saw you on the front page of a newspaper and visited you and she told Jacob.

  Why would Jacob care?

  Jacob has been looking for you for many, many years.

  Why?

  I don’t know. I only know he desperately wanted to find you.

  You said he’s a Christian?

  Yes, Jacob was born again and baptized into the ministry of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. He’s a pastor now, a holy man.

  When did this happen?

  Many years ago.

  And my mother and my sister?

  They’re also Christians.

  He opened his eyes and sat up and he turned to me and put his feet on the floor. He looked at me and the Bible I was holding, and again I felt this profound sense of peace and joy and love and contentment and humility. He reached towards me and put his hand on my forearm, and as soon as he touched me, everything I had struggled with, and tried to leave behind, my every urge and temptation, my need to sin and behave in a deviant manner, came rushing forward through whatever walls I had built to contain it. I wanted him. I wanted him more than I had wanted anything in my life, more than any man in my life. I wanted to take him, and him to take me, and I never wanted it to end. I closed my eyes and said please protect me, Lord, please protect me, Jesus, but nothing happened, nothing went away. His hand was on my forearm and I wanted him in my mouth and inside of me and on top of me and behind me. I knew it was going to happen if he didn’t let go of me, I knew I would ask him to satisfy me. Then I felt him lift his hand, and I opened my eyes and he was looking at me as if he knew, he knew what I wanted, and he didn’t judge me or hate me for it. He stared at me. He took a deep breath. He smiled. And something in him changed. His eyes were in the same place, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was looking beyond me, at something I could never know or touch or comprehend.

  And then he exhaled.

  And then the seizure hit.

  ADAM

  I was certainly surprised when Jacob came to see me in my office at the synagogue, very surprised indeed. It had been many years since I had seen him, though I had never stopped thinking about him, or rather, I should say, I had never stopped thinking about his brother, Ben Zion.

  Ben Zion was extraordinary from the day he was born, or more accurately, from the moment he was conceived. The circumstances were unusual, or confusing, or mysterious. There are a number of words one might use to describe it, and all of them would be appropriate. His parents had been trying unsuccessfully to have a second child, Jacob being their first, for several years. The night of conception, or what is believed to be the night of conception, they had been to a wedding together and had both most likely, though Ben’s mother claims not, had a few too many alcoholic beverages, which, as everyone knows, can affect behavior and
memory, along with a host of other things. Ben’s father claimed that he did not have marital relations with his wife that night, while Ben’s mother claimed they did. It caused a terrible rift in the marriage, and in some ways ruined both of their lives. Ben’s father believed his wife must have been with another man. She hadn’t been. But she did, I believe—though I cannot definitively say—lie about having been with Ben’s father that night. He lived with a great resentment and anger, which was transferred to Ben Zion, and he never trusted his wife again, or loved his child as a father should, and she lived with a lie that she perpetuated for far too long. If both would have accepted and acknowledged the truth, regardless of how unbelievable it may have been, and it was, I believe, quite unbelievable, they would have had dramatically different, and most likely happier, and more content, lives. And I have always found that to be the case: if you can accept the truth and live with it, your heart will be at peace.

  Jacob arrived in the middle of the day, when I am often working on my weekly sermon, which I deliver during services on Saturday mornings. This particular sermon was focused on readings from Exodus 13:17 to 15:21, which deals with Moses and the Red Sea and the series of events that led Moses to use divine powers to part the waters of the sea, thus allowing the Israelites passage out of Egypt on their way to Canaan. In today’s world, I find this story, and the story of the life of Moses in general, to be particularly relevant, as so many people, people of all faiths, are seeking an exceptional, perhaps even divine, individual who might be able to lead us into a place of greater safety, greater prosperity, greater peace. I was asking myself, and ultimately also asking the members of the synagogue, whether this search is healthy and productive, whether politicians should be mentioned in the same breath as the Messiah, whether it is possible, despite the ridiculous preening that so many engage in, and so many people believe in, for a politician to really make any significant changes, despite their claims, and their promises to do so. There was a knock. I looked up and said come in, and my assistant rabbi, Rabbi Stern, entered and said a man named Jacob Avrohom was here to see me. Rabbi Stern knew of the Avrohom family, as I had often spoken about them with him, and about Ben Zion in particular, and he knew that a visit from Jacob might be of some significance. I asked him to show Jacob in, and I put away the sermon.

  Though he looked like the person I once knew, aged of course, by well over a decade of life, if I had seen Jacob on the street I am not sure I would have recognized him. He had very short hair, was clean shaven, and wore tan slacks and a blue sport coat. He carried a Bible with him, one that had clearly been read with great regularity, and where one might normally wear a tie, he wore a large gold cross on a gold chain. I stood and smiled when he walked into the office, and greeted him with an open hand. He did not smile in return and didn’t take my hand. He asked if he could sit and I said of course, and before I could ask if he wanted a beverage, water, tea, or perhaps a cup of coffee, he spoke.

  We found my brother.

  I was surprised, but not shocked, for I had always believed that Ben Zion would return. I believed that he had to return, that God would impel him to do so. I was very excited to have received the news, thrilled actually, and extremely curious. Given, however, Jacob’s demeanor, and the fact that throughout the entire time I knew him as a child he was a very angry person, I thought it best to remain reserved.

  Where?

  He had an accident and is in a hospital in Manhattan.

  What type of accident?

  He was working on a construction site and a plate of glass fell on him.

  Oh my. Is he okay?

  Yes, he is okay, or at least I believe he is.

  How long has it been since you’ve seen him?

  Sixteen years.

  Your mother must be very happy.

  Obviously. We are all very happy. We missed Ben terribly, and we were all worried that we would never see him again.

  Is he still in the hospital?

  Yes.

  May I visit him?

  He asked that I find you and ask if you would. Just so you know, I was against it.

  There’s no reason for you to be angry with me, Jacob. I tried…

  He stood and interrupted me.

  I’m not here to discuss anything with you other than visiting my brother. If you would like to see him, I can take you there. If not, I’m leaving.

  I would very much like to see Ben Zion.

  Come with me.

  I stood and put my sermon aside, knowing that this, the reemergence of Ben Zion, was more important than anything I would ever write or speak, and that if he was what some, including me, believed, he would make all of my sermons irrelevant. Jacob turned and walked out of the room. We walked to the subway station, took the train into Manhattan, and walked to the hospital. I did not, as I did not feel it would be kindly received, initiate any sort of conversation, and Jacob did not speak a word to me, look at me, or acknowledge me in any way. We entered the hospital, took an elevator up to Ben Zion’s floor, and walked down a series of long white hallways, hallways of the type that, because I visit any member of my synagogue who is in the hospital, whether it’s for a broken leg or terminal cancer or anything else, normally depress me, but in this particular instance greatly excited me. Jacob was a step or two in front of me, and he stopped in front of a door and motioned for me to enter, and as I did I said a silent prayer of thanks to God for who I believed I was about to have the honor and privilege of seeing, speaking to, and being in the presence of, if even for just a moment or two.

  Ben Zion was lying on the bed, above the covers, wearing a hospital robe and watching television. A handsome young man was sitting in a chair near the bed, reading the New Testament. Ben Zion looked up at me, and I was hit with the full shock of how he had changed, and the extent of the trauma he had survived. His head was shaved and ringed with deep, jagged scars. His skin was white, an unearthly, almost inhuman white, and was covered with scars, some of which were thick, some of which were thin, some of which were long, and some of which were short, but which seemed to be everywhere. His eyes, which had been deep brown as a child, but definitely brown, were now black, a black so deep and thorough that it was almost something else, something without a name or word or label that would apply to it. He smiled and turned off the television and sat up and spoke to me.

  Hello, Rabbi Schiff.

  Hello, Ben Zion.

  He stood.

  Just Ben. No Zion anymore.

  Hello, Ben.

  And we shook hands. Jacob was now standing next to me. Ben looked at him and the young man, and he spoke.

  Would you mind leaving us alone?

  The young man stood and closed the Bible and left the room. Jacob spoke.

  I would prefer to stay.

  Please respect what I’m asking you, Jacob.

  I don’t trust him.

  But I do.

  You know what he did to our family?

  I know what you believe, Jacob, and I respect your right to believe it, but I would like to speak to him alone.

  Jacob stared and Ben met his gaze, but without hostility or anger, and Jacob turned and left, though it was clear he was not happy about it. Ben sat down on the edge of his bed, and motioned for me to sit in a chair across from him, which I did. He spoke.

  Long time, Rabbi Schiff.

  It certainly has been. I have often wondered what became of you and if, or rather when, I would see you again.

  He smiled, didn’t speak, so I did.

  Where have you been?

  Here.

  For a short while, as I understand it, but what about all of the preceding years?

  Drifting.

  Through greater New York, America, where? And how did you live?

  Doesn’t matter.

  Were you happy, or safe?

  It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.

  And I’m very excited to see you, Ben Zion, or excuse me, Ben, I was terribly shaken when you disapp
eared and your brother did what he did with your family. As you know, I have always thought you were extremely special, and did everything I could to watch over you as a child and…

  He waved me off.

  The past doesn’t matter. People cling to it because it allows them to ignore the present. I asked for you because I need to talk to you about the present. Something happened to me, or is happening to me, and I don’t understand it, and I don’t want it, and I’m scared of it.

  You’ve had a terrible accident and…

  I don’t remember much about my childhood, but I remember enough. You weren’t visiting me out of some sense of charity.

  No, I wasn’t, though I did care a great deal about your family and its well-being, as I do about all of the families who belong to the synagogue.

  Tell me what’s happening to me.

  Only you can know, Ben, and at some point, if not already, you either will or you won’t, and you will either be, or you will not be.

  I’m not ten or twelve years old anymore, Rabbi Schiff. Tell me what’s happening to me.

  You need to tell me what’s happening to you, Ben, and if I can inform you or help you in any way, I will certainly do so.

  He sat perfectly still, and stared at me in a way that felt very soft, and very gentle, almost quiet, if it is possible to stare quietly. I felt he was somehow looking into me, to see or learn my intentions. He took a deep breath, but only through his nose, which gave me the last piece of information I believed I needed, and then he exhaled, and then he spoke, spoke the words I had been waiting for thirty years to hear from him, he spoke.