“You’re an enigma, that’s all,” Oliver continued, rolling up his window. “Ari, tell him he’s an enigma.”
“Really, can we not start this please?” Rebecca called from the front, fidgeting with the air-conditioning. “And leave Ari out of this.”
“Why am I an enigma?” Amir said.
“Because you’re out with Lily, and then you scamper to minyan in the morning.”
Amir resumed that anxious knuckle cracking. “Does no one else think Oliver’s a bit too obsessed with me?”
“Don’t be so sensitive. I’m just explaining things to our new friend—right, Ari? I mean, wouldn’t you say you’re kind of confused about how things work around here?”
“Nope,” I said quickly, yielding to a sudden urge to examine my fingernails. “I mind my own business.” In truth, of course, I did not quite understand how faith functioned in this quasi-secular world. Noah and Oliver, for instance, despite the fact that they attended a yeshiva high school, had not yet worn yarmulkes in my presence. (Amir, for his part, currently had his head covered with an aqua Dolphins bucket hat.) Such behavior in Brooklyn would have been unfathomable, and yet here it appeared perfectly normal. And so while I wondered to what extent their families maintained kosher homes or observed Shabbat, I understood that, though perhaps never articulated formally, selectivity functioned as the organizing principle of Zion Hills’s breed of religiosity. Here, apparently, one enjoyed the luxury of embracing mitzvoth deemed enjoyable or meaningful while neglecting those deemed burdensome or outdated. Shimon, my former rabbis, even my father would scoff at such freedom of choice, would lament a Jew unilaterally discarding centuries of tradition. I, however, was beginning to recognize the value of adhering to ancient rituals without sacrificing participation in the modern world.
Oliver smiled. “Is that right? So if I asked you, for example, whether you would turn on your bedroom lights during Shabbat, you’d say . . . ?”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t do that.”
“But if I asked you whether Noah does it? Whether I do it?”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“It sure doesn’t. But what would you guess?”
“Oliver,” Rebecca said. “Enough.”
“You’re allowed to speak up, dude,” Oliver said. “Nobody actually cares.”
“Look, I really don’t know,” I said.
“Do you think Amir does it?”
“Does what?” I asked.
Oliver shrugged. “Violates Shabbat.”
Amir opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. “No,” I decided, avoiding Amir’s gaze. “I guess not.”
Oliver smirked. “Well, allow me to break it down for you. Here are the rules, as actually practiced. On Shabbat, we don’t drive, we don’t work, but maybe we send a few texts or brush up against the TV so that the Heat game magically comes on. No meat out, Heaven Forbid, but go ahead and stuff your face with dairy, especially if you’re on vacation and no one’s looking. Do we really believe in the Flood or in the splitting of the sea or in, I don’t know, Balaam’s talking donkey? Maybe we do, maybe we don’t, but either way we’re sure as hell going to make sure you understand it’s imperative that you drop several years of what’s basically college tuition to ensure your kids learn these stories and develop the very same ambivalence!”
An awkward pause ensued during which I stared self-consciously out the windshield. Rebecca shook her head, returning her attention to her Twitter feed. Noah lowered the music slightly. “Jeez, Oliver,” he said, “have you been FaceTiming Evan for lessons or something?”
“Say whatever you want,” Amir said, rubbing his exposed shoulders, “but just because you’re too shallow or too stupid or too, I don’t know, too depraved to appreciate the complexities of Orthodox life doesn’t mean it doesn’t have depth.”
Oliver raised his hands in peace. “All I’m saying,” he said drolly, “is that Modern Orthodoxy is quite the experiment.”
The beach was breathtakingly hot: great beams of sun, the sand a blinding white. Rebecca picked a spot for us near the waves. It was my first time at a real beach and I was in a slight daze. Two women to our left were facedown, topless. Oliver squeezed my shoulder blades as I averted my eyes. “Welcome to the land of flesh, tzadik,” he said. If only Mordechai were here to see this, I thought.
Noah and Rebecca waded into the water. Amir, Oliver and I hung back, sprawled on towels, staring at the cloudless sky. Soon, Oliver grew bored and pulled out a carefully concealed baggie, some rolling paper and set to work.
“Risky,” Amir warned. Oliver scoffed. He finished rolling, licking the ends so they stuck together, and then admired his craftsmanship. He lit up and took a masterful drag, leaning lazily on his skinny elbows, hacking up a lung. When he finished he extended the joint my way. I shook my head, turning my nose at the smell.
“Mr. Samson?”
Amir, head buried in a book, refused to look up.
“Right,” Oliver said, tapping the jay with his forefinger, ash falling to sand.
We sat in silence. Noah and Rebecca had drifted so far out they were specks against a linear blue. After some time, Amir joined Noah and Rebecca in the water, leaving me with Oliver, who was busy retching pillars of smoke.
“Oliver,” I said, watching Amir voyage farther and farther into the ocean, “you know what you were saying at Niman’s party? About Amir’s family?”
“Sorry, officer, I don’t recall.” Oliver covered his face with a towel. “I say lots of things about Amir.” A small fixed-wing plane grumbled overhead, pulling along an advertisement for some club in Coconut Grove. “Good place,” he said, gesturing above. “Want to go tonight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ever been clubbing?”
“Can’t say I have.”
He made a show of burying the remains of his joint. “Give me enough time, I’ll make a degenerate out of you.”
I readjusted my yarmulke, the black velvet scorching in the sun. “Yeah, let’s hope not.”
“You were asking me something?”
“Amir was in shul this morning with an older man. Who was that?”
“His grandfather. Bit of a frightening dude. Yom Kippur War hero. Led some famous tanking expedition, then moved to America and went to MIT and became an architect or something.”
“He lives with him?”
“Yeah. Kind of a weird situation. Amir’s dad took off when we were younger. Nice guy, but decided he didn’t want to be Orthodox anymore and moved back to Tel Aviv. Pretty sure he’s in touch with Amir’s older sister, but Mrs. Samson doesn’t let Amir have anything to do with him. She’s no walk in the park, Mamacita Samson, let me tell you. She’s a spitfire, to put it mildly. Rides Amir hard. Like, real hard. Like, he-doesn’t-go-to-the-bathroom-without-consulting-her hard. She’s the reason he’ll go to MIT. Well, she and the legacy of Grandpa War Hero, who moved in after his son bounced. Some tale, huh? Remind me to major in history if I ever get accepted to college.”