into a red velvet bag.
“It was exactly what I needed tonight.”
“And what was it you needed?” the rabbi asked, taking Kathleen’s hand and not letting
go.
“A place to be grateful, I guess. I had good news this week.”
The rabbi, still holding on, raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“It seems that I’m not going to die from breast cancer.”
“I’m so glad. My mother had breast cancer, too.”
Kathleen started to laugh and, mortified, clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no.
Sorry, I, oh . . . it’s just that it seems every time I tell anyone, they tell me
about their mother or friend. I’m sorry. I must be at the end of my rope.” Kathleen
lowered her voice. “How long ago did she die?”
The rabbi laughed at that. “My mom is alive and well. In fact, she’s off in India
on an elder hostel.”
Kathleen didn’t know how to respond.
“You must be going through a lot,” the rabbi said. “Is it okay if I say a Mi Sheberach
for you tomorrow morning?”
Kathleen, embarrassed, admitted she didn’t know what that was.
“It’s a traditional prayer for spiritual and physical healing for members of the congregation
and their families.”
“That sounds awfully, um, Catholic,” Kathleen said. “I mean, when I was a child, we
prayed to all kinds of saints for healing.”
“Did it work?”
Kathleen didn’t know how to respond. How could the rabbi be so cavalier about a question
of faith? “I don’t think it works that way,” she finally said.
“Neither do I,” said Rabbi Hertz, putting a hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. “But I know
that public prayer can work like an embrace for people in pain, and there’s no such
thing as too many hugs when you’re hurting.”
Kathleen, almost stammering, said she wouldn’t be there the next day.
“That’s okay. You’ll be in our thoughts. Thanks for coming up and saying hi, Kathleen.
Let’s get together, soon,” the rabbi added, and turned to greet the young couple waiting
behind her.
Kathleen walked toward the coffeepot at the far end of the sanctuary. “Genevas are
my favorites, too,” she told a dark-haired woman who had just picked up the last one.
Joyce smiled, snapped the oval neatly in half, held out one piece to Kathleen and
said, “It tastes better if you share it. Or at least, that’s what I used to tell my
daughter when she was little.”
Kathleen accepted the half-Geneva. “Are you a regular?” she asked. “I haven’t been
here for ages. The last time I was at services, the rabbi was an older gentleman who
looked like Ichabod Crane.”
“This is my first time here, ever.” As Joyce spoke, Kathleen realized she was talking
to the woman who had described her father as an atheist. “My dad died fifteen years
ago tomorrow. I never go to services for kaddish, but I couldn’t find any of those
memorial candles in the supermarket. And I wanted to do something real, something
physical, to remember him.”
“The candles are by the shoe polish at the Star Market,” Kathleen said, smiling.
“I’m glad I came, anyway.” Joyce smiled back. “I always wondered about the Gloucester
synagogue. It’s kind of a conceptual oxymoron — a Yankee temple. But the service was
pretty interesting, much better than the last one I went to, which was just deadly.
That must be five or six years ago for a bar mitzvah.”
“Are you here for the weekend?” Kathleen asked, admiring Joyce’s outfit, a casual
but sophisticated cream-colored chenille sweater over black silk pants. Her silver
earrings caught the light as she talked.
“Actually, my husband and I just bought a little house up here — near East Gloucester
square, you know? Over by the theater? We’ll be summer people, I guess, though we’ll
probably have to rent the place most of the summer to help cover the mortgage.
“We hope to come up on weekends during the school year. My daughter’s at a sleepover
“It was exactly what I needed tonight.”
“And what was it you needed?” the rabbi asked, taking Kathleen’s hand and not letting
go.
“A place to be grateful, I guess. I had good news this week.”
The rabbi, still holding on, raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“It seems that I’m not going to die from breast cancer.”
“I’m so glad. My mother had breast cancer, too.”
Kathleen started to laugh and, mortified, clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no.
Sorry, I, oh . . . it’s just that it seems every time I tell anyone, they tell me
about their mother or friend. I’m sorry. I must be at the end of my rope.” Kathleen
lowered her voice. “How long ago did she die?”
The rabbi laughed at that. “My mom is alive and well. In fact, she’s off in India
on an elder hostel.”
Kathleen didn’t know how to respond.
“You must be going through a lot,” the rabbi said. “Is it okay if I say a Mi Sheberach
for you tomorrow morning?”
Kathleen, embarrassed, admitted she didn’t know what that was.
“It’s a traditional prayer for spiritual and physical healing for members of the congregation
and their families.”
“That sounds awfully, um, Catholic,” Kathleen said. “I mean, when I was a child, we
prayed to all kinds of saints for healing.”
“Did it work?”
Kathleen didn’t know how to respond. How could the rabbi be so cavalier about a question
of faith? “I don’t think it works that way,” she finally said.
“Neither do I,” said Rabbi Hertz, putting a hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. “But I know
that public prayer can work like an embrace for people in pain, and there’s no such
thing as too many hugs when you’re hurting.”
Kathleen, almost stammering, said she wouldn’t be there the next day.
“That’s okay. You’ll be in our thoughts. Thanks for coming up and saying hi, Kathleen.
Let’s get together, soon,” the rabbi added, and turned to greet the young couple waiting
behind her.
Kathleen walked toward the coffeepot at the far end of the sanctuary. “Genevas are
my favorites, too,” she told a dark-haired woman who had just picked up the last one.
Joyce smiled, snapped the oval neatly in half, held out one piece to Kathleen and
said, “It tastes better if you share it. Or at least, that’s what I used to tell my
daughter when she was little.”
Kathleen accepted the half-Geneva. “Are you a regular?” she asked. “I haven’t been
here for ages. The last time I was at services, the rabbi was an older gentleman who
looked like Ichabod Crane.”
“This is my first time here, ever.” As Joyce spoke, Kathleen realized she was talking
to the woman who had described her father as an atheist. “My dad died fifteen years
ago tomorrow. I never go to services for kaddish, but I couldn’t find any of those
memorial candles in the supermarket. And I wanted to do something real, something
physical, to remember him.”
“The candles are by the shoe polish at the Star Market,” Kathleen said, smiling.
“I’m glad I came, anyway.” Joyce smiled back. “I always wondered about the Gloucester
synagogue. It’s kind of a conceptual oxymoron — a Yankee temple. But the service was
pretty interesting, much better than the last one I went to, which was just deadly.
That must be five or six years ago for a bar mitzvah.”
“Are you here for the weekend?” Kathleen asked, admiring Joyce’s outfit, a casual
but sophisticated cream-colored chenille sweater over black silk pants. Her silver
earrings caught the light as she talked.
“Actually, my husband and I just bought a little house up here — near East Gloucester
square, you know? Over by the theater? We’ll be summer people, I guess, though we’ll
probably have to rent the place most of the summer to help cover the mortgage.
“We hope to come up on weekends during the school year. My daughter’s at a sleepover
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