whom I hated the instant I saw him on Melissa’s wall. He was young, muscular, sensitive eyed, confident, dressed in fashionable understatement. Every girl needs one, I thought.
The books, crammed in every which way, were mostly novels and old textbooks—she’d had three years of liberal arts—and obscure volumes of “forgotten lore” her father had given her.
Someone screamed, long and bubbling, from the hallway. There was a desperate pounding on the front door that stopped abruptly.
Our feelings had been frozen, looming over us like a stop-motion tsunami, until that instant. Now the film ran forward, and all those feelings crashed down on the three of us. People may react differently to the same stimulus. But we all felt the same thing and knew we felt it together. As if steel chains had been kept in some freezer somewhere and then clapped onto us all at once, we all shrank, at the same moment, from the icy shackles.
Melissa spoke in the coiled silence. “Dad . . .” Her voice was small. “Is it some sort of Armageddon?”
He hesitated only a moment. “I do not believe it is.”
I looked at him in surprise. He nodded. “Yes, I mean that. I do not believe it is Armageddon, biblical or otherwise.”
“But,” I asked, “what do we do, then? I mean—if we don’t just wait for . . .”
Paymenz reached into a stack of books, pulled out The New Oxford Annotated Bible , and flipped expertly to the passage he wanted. He read it aloud.
“Book of Job, chapter five, verses 17 and 18: ‘How happy is he whom God reproves; therefore do not despise the discipline of the Almighty. For he wounds but he binds up; he strikes but his hands heal.’ ”
He put the book on the bed, laid his hand thoughtfully on it. “We go with the assumption that all this is happening for a reason. Whatever happens, there is an appropriate human response. A lawful response, along with the natural reactions—fear, anger, whatever you feel. Even during the Holocaust there was an appropriate response, when physically fighting back was not possible. Even then, seeing your children taken away and murdered, there was a spiritually appropriate response. Hard to enter into the state where that response is possible sometimes. But it can be done. We will find the appropriate response.”
“And just now?” I asked.
“Now? Now the appropriate response is to search for the appropriate response. That means research. Scholarship is our sword.”
I didn’t believe a word of it, but it was good to hear him say it.
“But there’s a more pressing concern,” Melissa said.
“Yes?” her father said, looking at her.
“Should we try to help those who are being murdered out there?”
We all three turned and stared at the door.
We went to the kitchen. I climbed up on the sink and peered out a lower corner of the kitchen window, expecting a feathery spider leg to ram through the glass the moment I lifted my head into sight, picturing it plunging a hook into my eye, digging for my brain. But the creatures on the balcony were immobile, maybe dormant.
The city below was reeling from the invasion. It made me think of footage I’d seen of the bombing of Kabul in 2007: dim, smoke-shrouded canyons of streets lit only by random bonfires and burning cars and now and then a burning storefront.
Below, figures darted for cover. A car careened, something clinging to the roof, flailing at it; the car piling into a hydrant, water geysering, the door torn aside, a man scooped out like a sausage from a can.
Above . . . was that a passenger jet, just under the lowering cloud cover? Was it veering in the sky? Was there something that ravaged, aboard it?
I climbed down, my mouth gone paper dry again. Melissa looked the question at me. She was hugging herself to keep from wringing her hands.
“It’s not good,” I said. Meaning, it was still going on, out there—so it was going on in the building, in the hall.
She nodded, biting her lip.
The
The books, crammed in every which way, were mostly novels and old textbooks—she’d had three years of liberal arts—and obscure volumes of “forgotten lore” her father had given her.
Someone screamed, long and bubbling, from the hallway. There was a desperate pounding on the front door that stopped abruptly.
Our feelings had been frozen, looming over us like a stop-motion tsunami, until that instant. Now the film ran forward, and all those feelings crashed down on the three of us. People may react differently to the same stimulus. But we all felt the same thing and knew we felt it together. As if steel chains had been kept in some freezer somewhere and then clapped onto us all at once, we all shrank, at the same moment, from the icy shackles.
Melissa spoke in the coiled silence. “Dad . . .” Her voice was small. “Is it some sort of Armageddon?”
He hesitated only a moment. “I do not believe it is.”
I looked at him in surprise. He nodded. “Yes, I mean that. I do not believe it is Armageddon, biblical or otherwise.”
“But,” I asked, “what do we do, then? I mean—if we don’t just wait for . . .”
Paymenz reached into a stack of books, pulled out The New Oxford Annotated Bible , and flipped expertly to the passage he wanted. He read it aloud.
“Book of Job, chapter five, verses 17 and 18: ‘How happy is he whom God reproves; therefore do not despise the discipline of the Almighty. For he wounds but he binds up; he strikes but his hands heal.’ ”
He put the book on the bed, laid his hand thoughtfully on it. “We go with the assumption that all this is happening for a reason. Whatever happens, there is an appropriate human response. A lawful response, along with the natural reactions—fear, anger, whatever you feel. Even during the Holocaust there was an appropriate response, when physically fighting back was not possible. Even then, seeing your children taken away and murdered, there was a spiritually appropriate response. Hard to enter into the state where that response is possible sometimes. But it can be done. We will find the appropriate response.”
“And just now?” I asked.
“Now? Now the appropriate response is to search for the appropriate response. That means research. Scholarship is our sword.”
I didn’t believe a word of it, but it was good to hear him say it.
“But there’s a more pressing concern,” Melissa said.
“Yes?” her father said, looking at her.
“Should we try to help those who are being murdered out there?”
We all three turned and stared at the door.
We went to the kitchen. I climbed up on the sink and peered out a lower corner of the kitchen window, expecting a feathery spider leg to ram through the glass the moment I lifted my head into sight, picturing it plunging a hook into my eye, digging for my brain. But the creatures on the balcony were immobile, maybe dormant.
The city below was reeling from the invasion. It made me think of footage I’d seen of the bombing of Kabul in 2007: dim, smoke-shrouded canyons of streets lit only by random bonfires and burning cars and now and then a burning storefront.
Below, figures darted for cover. A car careened, something clinging to the roof, flailing at it; the car piling into a hydrant, water geysering, the door torn aside, a man scooped out like a sausage from a can.
Above . . . was that a passenger jet, just under the lowering cloud cover? Was it veering in the sky? Was there something that ravaged, aboard it?
I climbed down, my mouth gone paper dry again. Melissa looked the question at me. She was hugging herself to keep from wringing her hands.
“It’s not good,” I said. Meaning, it was still going on, out there—so it was going on in the building, in the hall.
She nodded, biting her lip.
The
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