Free Finding the Worm by Mark Goldblatt Page A

fifth-floorwindow. When Quentin got home from the hospital, he’d be sure to notice them every time he looked outside. It was a good tribute.
    Like I said, though, Lonnie wasn’t the one I should’ve been worried about. Rabbi Salzberg was ticked off, and I mean
ticked off
, at how I’d run out of temple the past Saturday. When I showed up for my haftarah lesson on Thursday afternoon, I could almost see puffs of steam leaking out from under the yarmulke on his head.
    “You have a problem with your ears, Mr. Twerski—am I correct?”
    I sat down in front of his desk and shook my head. “No, Rabbi.”
    “Because I’m sure the congregation would take up a collection for a hearing aid.”
    “I don’t have a problem with my ears, Rabbi Salzberg.”
    “No?”
    “I’m sorry I rushed out after services,” I said. “It was a real rude thing to do.”
    “There’s no need to apologize, Mr. Twerski. You’re a busy fellow. I’m sure God understands that. He’s busy too. I’m sure he wouldn’t want to keep you from your next appointment.”
    That kind of got under my skin, the way he brought God into it. Maybe I had insulted Rabbi Salzberg by running off, but
no way
did I insult God. Plus, if you stop andthink about it, I wouldn’t have insulted
anyone
if I hadn’t gone to temple in the first place. If I’d just slept late and skipped temple, I wouldn’t have wound up standing in front of Rabbi Salzberg, taking his sarcasm.
    “Do you really think God cares, Rabbi?”
    As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted them back. Not because of what I’d said, but because I knew I’d opened a can of worms.
    Rabbi Salzberg arched his shoulders. His eyes got real wide and then, a second later, got real narrow. “The question isn’t whether God cares, Mr. Twerski. The question is whether
you
care.”
    “Why should I care if God doesn’t care?”
    His eyes narrowed even more, until they were slits. “You’re quite a clever boy.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “But tell me this: When will you become a man?”
    “It was
your
idea to push back my bar mitzvah, Rabbi.”
    “Mr. Twerski, the bar mitzvah does not make the man.”
    Then I blurted out something without thinking about it … which I guess means I must have been thinking about it without realizing it. “If God cares so much, why doesn’t he care about Quentin?”
    “Ah.”
    “What did Quentin do to deserve a tumor? Why did he get one and I didn’t?”
    “You think you deserve a tumor?”
    “As much as Quentin does,” I said.
    “So you want the world to be fair.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “You want only good things to happen to good people and only bad things to happen to bad people.”
    “I want people to get what they deserve.”
    “That’s the world you want to live in?”
    “I think it would be much fairer,” I said.
    “Let’s imagine that world, Mr. Twerski. Let’s call it Twerski-World, all right?”
    That made me smile, even though I knew he was setting me up. “All right.”
    “So in Twerski-World, if you’re a good Jewish boy, and you study your haftarah, and you go to services, and you clean up your room, and you honor your mother and your father, God makes your life perfect. Nothing bad ever happens to you. There are no lumps in your oatmeal. You get lean brisket for dinner and cinnamon rugelach for dessert. Would that be acceptable to you?”
    “No, because you’d get sick of it,” I answered. “If you have to eat nothing but brisket and rugelach forever, you’re definitely going to get sick of it. Sooner or later, it’ll feel like a punishment.”
    “That’s a decent point,” he said. “So let’s say that if you’re a good Jewish boy, in Twerski-World, you can eat whatever you want, whenever you want—as long as it’s kosher. Is that more acceptable?”
    “Yes.”
    “But, on the other hand, if you’re
not
a good Jewish boy, if you
don’t
study your haftarah, and