The Wonder Spot by Melissa Bank Page B

one”—how many would He be? This might have moved Israelites in the desert thousands of years ago, but it did not move me here in the suburbs now.
    I decided to try atoning. It wasn’t hard to think of things I’d done wrong, with Moreh Pinkus rocking right in front of me, or to feel bad, with my father sitting just down the row.
    But I couldn’t think of how to fix anything, until everyone was saying the mourner’s prayer for people who had died. It was in Hebrew, and though I’d heard it many times—it was said in every service—I’d never learned it. The prayer was spelled out phonetically in English, and I read it quietly at first, and then louder. I said it as clearly as I could, remembering my grandfather, and I hoped that my father could hear me.
    After the service, Moreh Pinkus stood in the aisle at the end of our row.
    â€œHi,” I said, the only word I had ever spoken to him, except “Here.”
    He shook my hand with both of his and said, “Gut Yomtov, Sophie.”
    I wasn’t sure whether it was Yomtov or Yuntov, so I just said, “Thanks,” and, “you, too.”
    My parents were standing there, and though I was afraid of whathe might say about me, I said, “This is Moreh Pinkus; these are my parents.”
    My father said, “Gut Yomtov,” exactly as Moreh Pinkus had; my mother’s enunciation was so precise and clipped that her “Good Yuntov ” sounded more like the King’s English than Hebrew.
    They shook hands, and then Moreh Pinkus rejoined his family.
    On the way to the car, my mother said, “That’s your teacher?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œHe’s Orthodox,” she said to my father.
    He didn’t answer her. To me, he said, “What kind of a teacher is Moreh Pinkus?”
    I tried to think of a word that described him. “Meek?” I said.
    . . . . .
    I was looking for my Hebrew I when I heard my mother blow her nose in the kitchen. When I walked in, she was sitting at the table crying. Albert had one paw in her lap.
    â€œWhat is it?” I said.
    She said, “I just love cigarettes so much,” and I took her hand, and didn’t let go even once she stopped crying.
    â€œYou’ve been a good sport about Hebrew school,” she said.
    â€œMom,” I said. “I haven’t.”
    â€œYou went,” she said, in my defense. “And you didn’t complain about it.”
    I noticed her use of the past tense and adopted it. “But I wasn’t really there.”
    She said, “You did the best you could,” and she seemed to believe I had.
    I said, “I’ve just been going through the motions,” using the expression my father had after he’d watched my first tennis lesson.
    â€œSweetie,” she said, “that’s what a lot of life is.”
    In my meaner days, I would’ve said, That’s what your life is, but I kept quiet.
    The next moment, my mother said, “You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.” I could tell that it pleased her to say this; relieving me of my misery seemed momentarily to relieve her of hers.
    I hadn’t thought of her as having the authority to make this decision. “Really?”
    She nodded.
    I said, “I will go one last time.”
    She said, “You don’t have to.”
    â€œI know.”
    . . . . .
    I got there before Moreh Pinkus arrived. Leslie Liebman was telling everyone that Margie had robbed the gift shop and had been expelled. Then she noticed me and said, “How’s Margie doing?”
    I didn’t know; I hadn’t seen Margie in school. All I could think to say was, “She hated Hebrew school.”
    Moreh Pinkus arrived, and after a few minutes, he found our tests in his briefcase. He handed them back slowly. He turned my test face-down so no one could see that it was blank except for my note to