Free A Curable Romantic by Joseph Skibell Page A

rascal who couldn’t be trusted with the girls! Nor was this the first time I’d been exiled to rascaldom by the all-too-knowing gaze of another. My father’s glance used to pierce my side in the same crucifying way. Hadn’t I continually disgraced him, a boy with straw instead of thoughts inside his head, a balk of a son, compelled through life by no force greater than his own tomfoolery? As I crawled onto the sofa and stared at the ceiling, I knew a large part of the disgust I felt for myself belonged properly to my father.
    He had failed to prepare me for life in every way.
    ONLY TAKE, FOR example, the day he asked me into his study so that he might explain the mysteries of sexual union to me. This was a day I’d prefer to forget, though not one painful hour of it has escaped my memory. We sat opposite each other, my father and I, he behind a large desk piled high with bills and invoices, and I on a low, small chair before it. I was barely twelve.
    he said, addressing me, as was his custom, in Hebrew: Ya’akov (Genesis 44:34). Listen to everything I tell you, if you know what’s good for you (Deuteronomy 12:28).
    His short beard had turned greyer and his face thinner since the discovery of my crime. Unable to eat or sleep, he’d become an emaciated version of himself. When he folded his thin arms against his chest, the sleeves of his kapote scissored against each other, producing sharp whistling noises. He opened his mouth to speak but could apparently find nothing to say. He walked to the window and peered through it. The wind nudged a few leaves an inch or two across the meadow outside. With his arms behind his back and his spine held straight and his blue-black shadow falling behind him, he resembled the gnomon of a sundial.
    Neither of us had touched the tea my sister Reyzl had brought in to us. Our cups sat on their saucers, growing cold. When I lifted mine, my hand trembled so violently and the cup rattled so noisily, I had to put it down. Turning towards the sound, Father glowered, and my cheeks burned beneath his gaze. I knew what he was thinking: How is it possible that this creature, so alien to me in every way, this miscreant who’s made a mockery of everything I know to be true, this reproduction that resembles the original not in the least, sprung from my inner being? And now to have to school this botch of a son in the lessons of manhood so that he might plant his own seeds and produce his own children who, God forbid, will resemble me even less!
    The bitterness of my apostasy aside, it was a torment for my father to have to speak of these unseemly matters. And yet — he sighed — one is commanded to teach one’s children; and no man is exempt from the directives of the Lord.
    He picked up his tea and peered into the cup. His mouth an ugly gash, he sniffed at the drink, as though at the scent of curdling milk, before returning it to its place. He cleared his throat and rubbed his papery hands together, clapping once.
    he said. Don’t worry, for I won’t embarrass you (Isaiah 54:4). Come closer (Genesis 27:21). Now, my son, listen to me (Genesis 27:8). I’ve called you for a righteous purpose and have taken hold of your hand (Isaiah 42:6).
    He seemed to be listening to his own words — they seemed to hover in the air between us — scrutinizing them as a jeweler might a string ofdiamonds, searching for a secret flaw. Finding none, he proceeded. Only be strong and courageous (Joshua 1:7) and listen to me without interruption (Isaiah 41:1) for a son will show honor to his father (Malachi 1:6).
    How may I explain these linguistic peculiarities of my father’s?
    By the time I was born, he refused to speak in any but the holy tongue. What were his choices? Yiddish was a mongrel pidgin, suitable only for women and illiterates. German — a barking, braggart’s tongue — belonged to the children of Esau, and Father would have never dreamt of sullying the holy vessel of his mouth with its guttural