"Yershuah" - A Short Story

Now is the time the caveat "mostly" comes into play. As some of you may know, I recently applied to graduate school, and I wrote a short story and excerpts from a novel to get in. Now that the process is over, I figured I'd share what I've been working on for the last six months.

“Yerushah” 

Faye pressed on the Magen David hanging from her neck and scratched out another run-on. Faye, like her Nana, was old school. Despite the pivot to a fully online application process, she printed out each essay to notate it with her favorite red pen. The denied students never saw the notes, nor the accepted; she simply did it to keep her senses keen. She wouldn’t work in admissions forever–she’d become an editor. She was too good a reader to be stuck determining the fates of faceless children. 

She tucked the necklace into her dress and continued reading. It was a fun batch. Some essays were clever, like one about the fear of pineapple. Others were flush with antediluvian allusions and clearly co-written by teachers with too much time on their hands. One really entertained her: it was by a student who, forced to play piano, desperately had her heart set on keytar. She saved her allowance and hid her instrument in the attic, playing it only when her mother was at work. The essay culminated in the student winning a local talent show that alienated her mom and brought her the greatest happiness in the world. Faye would have submitted a recommendation to the rest of the admissions board, but the writing was riddled with errors. She stretched and checked the clock.

“Di tsayt iz tayerer fun gelt,” she muttered.

Faye tossed the essays onto the ottoman, kicked off from her loving Eames, and hurried to ready herself for Shabbat: it would be her first since Nana’s levayah over a year ago. She enjoyed the work-from-home schedule the admissions office afforded her, but it occasionally led to lapses in time management. Nana never allowed her to forget the hour, especially when it was time for her Yiddish lessons. Now that she was gone, Faye had to remember these things on her own. 

She scoured the apartment for her favorite dress, a blue and white striped number that she used to wear to Friday night services. She’d lost track of her organizational skills since sitting shiva and did all she could to avoid Nana’s room.

It has to be there, she thought, and cracked Nana’s door open. 

She was right. There it lay, along with all the other clothes she threw on Nana’s bed to make room in her closet for the one impulsive shopping spree she allowed herself after her first conversation with Nana’s lawyer Felsberg.

The money was nice, but Faye missed Nana. She had relished the uninterrupted quality time they shared during lockdown. Nana, typically never one to look back, had started to open up. She told short anecdotes about her childhood marbled with Old World wit, and would even share on occasion her nightmares about being led into the gas chambers. 

Faye crossed Harvard Square toward Temple Beth Simcha–annual celebrations for Israel’s founding had been replaced by throngs of protests in favor of Palestinian self-determination. Faye ignored both, preferring to keep her religion separate from her politics. She learned that after Nana met Rabbi Gordon singing “Neighborhood Bully” at one of the jubilees. 

Rabbi Gordon struck an unconvincing balance between pop and Orthodox, but he possessed a Springsteenian star power that tugged on susceptible septuagenarians within striking distance; this included Nana, who had begun to sing along and within a week wrote a startup check for Simcha.

“A joyous home,” he called it, “for all wandering Jews this side of the Mediterranean.” 

 It was Nana’s one unattractive quality, her eagerness to philanthropize. 

Faye approached Zion Presbyterian Church, hiding itself neatly within Cambridge’s vaunted colonial infrastructure. It had been the temporary home for Temple Beth Simcha for so long, Faye could hardly imagine it moving: the only evidence of Zion’s original function was a small cross hanging adjacent to anonymous black doors. If one didn’t look carefully, one couldn’t tell it was occupied. 

Attendance was always light between the High Holidays and Hanukkah, and tonight was no exception. Rabbi Gordon, potbellied with pandemic weight and deep in thrall to his harmonica, threw his eyebrows up at her as she walked in. She hid under her tallis to recite the blessing. 

She sat at one of the many empty fold-out chairs flanking the bimah; this service was for the diehards. Hersh, perched at the unplugged keyboard he liked to play while Rabbi Gordon performed, waved at Faye. She shyly waved back. Miriam, an ancient Polish Jew with lavender hair, ignored her completely. Nana hated Miriam. 

Rabbi Gordon finished his song–“Hey Jude” reworked to sound like “Hey Jew”–and launched into a sermon.  

 “The problems we face as Jews today are so voluminous, it could fill a whole new Talmud,” he began, sending Hersh into a fit of wheezing laughter. “But these are serious times, are they not? We fight, we survive, we thrive, and still it is not enough. We need to be proud of our heritage. Dearly departed Rahel Grossman, she serves as a daily reminder of this for me. Today of all days, her yahrzeit.”

Faye bristled. Rabbi Gordon never mentioned congregant deaths outside of kaddish. Why bring up Nana? 

Rabbi Gordon broke out into song again. Coldplay. Acoustic, off-key Coldplay. “Fix You,” no less. In between verses he interjected ad libs about k’lal yisrael.

“Am Yisrael Chai.”

He hummed.

“Bring them home.” 

He sang another verse.

“Sing! If you know the song, sing!” 

Rabbi Gordon winked at Faye. She mumbled along. 

At the end of the service, Faye mouthed gobbledygook as the rest of Simcha said the prayer for Israel. Rabbi Gordon bee-lined toward her as Hersh played them out with plastic pitter patter. 

“Faye,” he said, “it’s good to see you again. Wait for me to lock up. I have incredible news to share.”

Faye watched Rabbi Gordon shake hands vigorously, slake thirsts for validation, and artfully clear the room before the end of the rental period. His broad, saccharine smile never dropped. 

He rested his hand on her shoulder as he nudged her up the stairs and onto the street. 

“I’m glad you came tonight, Faye: young Jews should daven after the High Holidays more often. And it’s been so long since–”

“I don’t want to talk about Nana,” she said.

He clicked his tongue.

“Look, I’m sorry I couldn’t Zoom in for shiva.”

”But you remembered her yahrzeit.”

The Rabbi pouted. 

“Faye, your grandmother–she confided in me in her final days. Many calls from the hospital. I know you couldn’t see her there because of the . . .” 

He shivered. 

“We talked about the past. We talked about the gas chambers. Her nightmares.”

“She told you?” Faye asked.

“She meant an awful lot to me, you know. An awful lot to this shul. It’s thanks to her generosity I can share with you that we have a permanent home for Simcha.” 

Rabbi Gordon turned the key on Zion and stomped his foot on invisible glass.

“Right here!” he yelled. “Your grandmother–of sound mind, Baruch HaShem–was kind enough to write Temple Beth Simcha into her will. I want you to be involved, of course.”

Faye flashed him a rictus smile and bit her thumbnail. 

“I understand needing to take some time away,” he continued, “but she’d want you to be involved. There’s a community meeting tomorrow night–talking next steps with the Reverend, discussing Hanukkah plans, a little kvetching.” 

Rabbi Gordon waved his hands in excited little circles.

“I don’t think–” Faye started.

His eyes dimmed. 

“It’s a formality, Faye. It would really be in your best interest to attend.”

He patted her on the back and started for his car, a freshly restored ‘62 Sabra. 

“We’ll have rugelach!”

He turned around and pointed at her neck.

“One more thing: take the Magen David out of your dress.”

The Sabra roared to life, and Faye obliged. 

Faye circumambulated campus to clear her head and dodge another protest. She heard distant shouts of “From the River to the Sea, Palestine will be free!” and tried to drown them out by blaring Mahler’s 8th in her headphones. She hated the suffering as much as the next person, but anti-Semitism was on the rise, too. She placed her Magen David back inside of her coat. 

She turned a corner and smacked into a metastasizing crowd of masked and hooded figures. She slipped, landing underneath two strangers. She shielded herself, fearing the worst: trampling, spitting, exhortations of “Sympathizer!” or “Kike!” 

Yet the strangers, a man and a woman, were quick to come to her rescue. The woman pulled her up and dusted her off.

”Nice necklace,” the woman said as she pointed to a Magen David of her own. 

Faye turned beet red—her necklace must have spilled out in the fracas. The man handed her a Palestinian flag pin. Dazed, Faye threw it into the bottom of her bag. 

 They marched away, chanting, “Jews for peace in Palestine!”

Faye awoke the next morning shaken. She called Felsberg’s office to see if he, as executor of Nana’s estate, could put a stop to the flow of funds into the Simcha Center. 

“Sorry Faye,” Felsberg said once she finally got through. “You know your grandma.”

Faye wondered if that was true. 

“She made it real clear in her will that no adjustments could be made. You don’t remember going over this?” 

She had a hard time admitting that no, she didn’t remember going over it. Amidst the flurry of virtual memorials and outpourings of condolences, all she could remember were the books she read to keep her company. 

“I do.”

“You’re in touch with Rabbi Gordon?”

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Then you know how much the Zion acquisition cost.”

Faye hung up and plopped down on the Eames, steaming. She reached for an essay at the top of her stack to cool down. 

My whole existence is a challenge of beliefs. This is exemplified by my name: Solomon Tariq. 

How many more onomastic essays would she need to read?

Solomon was the third king of Israel, and it means peace. Tariq means visitor. 

Another spiritual awakening piece. 

My dad is Palestinian. 

She looked out her window, listened for a dull roar, and continued. 

My mother is Jewish. That’s Dearborn for you. But they didn’t live happy ever after. 

Happily ever after. 

Both of my parents love their homeland. It makes me wonder how they ended up together in the first place. My dad won’t talk about it, and my mom–well, she made aliyah when I was a kid. 

Faye’s parents made aliyah when she graduated high school; she stayed behind with Nana. 

But he tries to make it easy. He tells me that knowledge is power, so even though he’s Muslim, he goes to temple with me. Our old rabbi would sing famous songs and talk about their meanings, and we both loved that. My dad always left a couple minutes early, though, because at the end of every service we would all stand and say a prayer for Israel. I didn’t like seeing my dad so upset, so one day I asked my rabbi a curious question.

“Why are we praying for a country? Isn’t Judaism a religion?” 

Faye leaned forward. 

“Do you know the story of the Wandering Jew?” my rabbi asked. “It’s about a Jewish man who has to roam the Earth for all eternity.” 

He thought it was wrong. He thought there were too many wandering Jews, and that they deserve a home, a place for Jewish joy. He said he’d try to create one for–

“All wandering Jews this side of the Mediterranean,” she said.

That kinda ticked my dad off after I told him. They got into a huge fight, and my dad yelled at him about ripping old people off. My rabbi had a nice car, a nice house. I’ll never forget what he said to us after the fight. 

“Shalom Aleichem.”  

It’s Hebrew for peace be with you. 

“Wa alaikum assalam,” my dad responded. 

That’s what Muslims say. “And upon you be peace.”

My rabbi left Michigan after that. 

All this really got me thinking about my name, and about who I am. I’m not a bad Jew because I’m Palestinian, and I’m not a bad Palestinian because I’m Jewish. We have a lot in common, actually. We both suffered, and we both survived. We both stand up for what we believe is right. We have the same inheritance, we just gotta figure out how to share it. 

Faye drafted a recommendation for the boy and shot her boss an email couching it in explanations for why, in spite of a little verkakte usage, such a student should be admitted.

 She got up from her desk and burst into Nana’s room, looking for something to connect Rabbi Gordon to the essay. If she could prove that he had practiced some sort of malfeasance in his previous post, she could stop the deal from going through. She found nothing relating the two of them together, but she kicked herself for not taking a good look sooner. Nana’s room was full of fascinating detritus: newspapers, family photos, books on the art of senior dating. Faye cleaned Nana’s room out; she would have wanted that eventually. 

Faye found a stack of disorganized yellow pages shoved in the back of Nana’s closet. She flipped through them and discovered that they were immigration papers. Nana never shared the story of her trip to America, only the ones about life once she got there–Faye assumed she fled Germany sometime in the early 1940s. But double and triple checking the documents, it became clear: Rahel Grossman, at the age of three, immigrated to the United States in 1937. 

Faye heard a ping from her phone. She scrambled to the living room to read it.

Faye,

This is an unusual lapse from you. You’re our grammar girl! The essay is too informal and doesn’t align with our ethos. Let’s talk next week. 

Faye’s boss never signed her emails. 

Furious, she followed the Charles toward Zion until it bent toward a protest held in John F. Kennedy Memorial Park. She looked around to ensure her anonymity and melted into the crowd. 

“Free, free Palestine!”  

She joined in.

“Ceasefire now! Ceasefire now! Ceasefire now!” 

She chanted. She wanted peace. Didn’t everyone want peace? 

“End the genocide! End the genocide!”

She saw Orthodox Jews walking arm-in-arm with Arab-Americans. She saw seniors holding their grandchildren. She saw people passing out water and snacks. She rooted in her bag and placed the pin on her coat.

“Globalize the Intifada!” someone shouted, bumping into her.

She began to feel claustrophobic. Her pulse quickened, and her throat tightened. She pinballed among the crowd and into a friendly mask.

“It’s Magen David!”

“You’re–yeah,” replied Faye, catching her breath. 

“Dina.”

“Dina?”

“My name.” 

“Faye.”

“You’ve got the pin on.”

“Yeah. It’s–”

“Pairs nicely with the necklace, don’t you think?”

Dina struck a quick pose. Faye walked backward away from her. 

“Got somewhere to be?” Dina shouted over the clamor.

“I do.” 

Dina moved on, and so did Faye. 

It was another small turnout. Hersh, giddy as usual, and Miriam, silent. Stationed at a circle of fold-out chairs in heated debate, Rabbi Gordon was in the middle of an appeal to Zion’s Reverend. 

“We need the sanctuary in time for Hanukkah,” he insisted. 

“We need time to move into our new space,” the Reverend responded. 

“Look, Reverend Dromgold. Dromgold–that’s basically a Jewish name. Like Goldfarb or Grossman.”

Rabbi Gordon turned in his chair to see if Faye had made it. Noticing her standing in the doorway, he gave her a thumbs up.

“Your point?” 

“Isn’t there some shared sensibility between us? Jesus won’t come again until Jews return to the land of Israel?”

“Not all Presbyterians are Evangelical, Rabbi.” 

“How many temples are there in Cambridge, Reverend?” 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“Ten. And they’re all highly sectarian. What we want is a democratic space of our own,” he continued. “A joyful home for all Jews this side of the Mediterranean.”

“Next year in Jerusalem!” Hersh yelped. 

Faye remained in the doorway and crossed her arms.

“I sympathize, Rabbi. But though our congregation is small, we still need a sanctuary in which to celebrate Christmas.”

“What if I can guarantee that you’re set up in Chelsea in time for Christmas?” 

“It wouldn’t be cheap.”

“Don’t worry about that. Do we have a deal?” 

The Reverend brushed his pants. 

“I don’t see why Hanukkah couldn’t be in the basement this year like it has been every year since you arrived.” “A 21st century Jewry must be proud, Reverend. It must be joyous! We can’t hide in basements and attics anymore.” 

Applause rippled around the circle. 

“We have survivors here,” Rabbi Gordon continued. “We have descendents of survivors.”

He craned his neck to acknowledge Faye again and tossed his head to beckon her over. 

“Faye Grossman, her grandmother was a survivor.”

Faye sat across from Rabbi Gordon and straightened her pin. After a flare of gooseflesh-raising recognition, he barreled forward. 

“As a survivor she’d understand the need for a Jewish home, right Faye?”

“I don’t think she’d want to kick someone out of their place of worship,” Faye said.

“She did donate the money, Faye.”

“Not for a hostile takeover,” she retorted. “I read an essay about a boy–Solomon Tariq.”

She waited for Rabbi Gordon to break. If he knew the name, he didn’t show it. 

“He’s Palestinian-Jewish. He wants to honor both parts of himself. I’ve been going to the protests. There are Jews there. I think there’s a way to–”

“That’s very sweet, Faye,” Rabbi Gordon interjected. “But this boy, he’s an individual–anyone can see HaShem’s light in the eyes of one person.”

“And that’s not enough?”

“No.”

They listened to the radiator stomp against the wall. 

“I think that’s important,” Miriam said, “to see the light in everyone’s eyes.”

Those were the first words Faye ever heard Miriam speak.

“My Nana taught me a phrase. Di gantse velt iz eyn shtot,” Faye said to her.

“Yes, I know that one,” Miriam replied. “The whole world is one town.”

“So we need to bring awareness to the suffering in Palestine by Jewish hands,” Faye said. “I’m not Israeli. I’m not even an expert on American politics–I like to read.” 

“Might be why you have such an overactive imagination,” Rabbi Gordon grunted.

 “But if my grandmother is a survivor, so is Solomon.”

“What?” 

“My Nana did leave Germany.”

“Right.” 

“In 1937.”

“When?”

“1937.”

 “When was she born?” 

“1934. Kristallnacht was in 1938. German Jews were deported to Poland in 1938. Poland was invaded in 1939. My grandmother was not liberated from a concentration camp.”

“Close enough,” Hersh said in a small voice. 

Miriam shifted her gaze away from Faye. Reverend Dromgold sat stiff as a board, but Faye could see the twinkle in his eye; he enjoyed this.

“Either way, Reverend,” Rabbi Gordon said, “her family has done a lot for this community. Rahel could vividly recall the images of the concentration camp, even if she hadn’t been there herself. When I think of what’s happening in Gaza to these hostages, I can’t help but think her visions are our visions. The horror of the Shoah–we can’t let that come to pass in America.”

“You’re a schnorrer,” Faye interrupted. “You take money from good-hearted people. You had a shul in Michigan, didn’t you? And you packed it up when Solomon’s dad called you out. You’re taking my grandmother’s money now.”

Faye stood up and pulled Solomon’s essay out from her bag. She pointed at it with her red pen more violently than she knew, poking a hole in it.

“This is robbery!” 

“Enough!” Rabbi Gordon thundered. 

Faye sat down and shrank in her seat.

“Yes, Faye, I was an associate rabbi at a shul in Michigan. Many rabbis start in one place in the country and move to another.” “Wandering Jews.” 

“It’s an analogy I’m fond of for elucidating the rootless, self-pitying proclivities of American Jews. This is why we need Zion.” 

“Why right here?”

“Why is it, precisely, that you don’t understand the miracle of it?”

“So many people are dying.”

“It’s a war,” he rebuked. “People die. It’s a sad fact, one we must–” 

He straightened his back.

“Israel will be gone in ten years, Faye. Gone, or it will be the grandest empire the Jews have ever known. A home. For us. All of us. Is that not what you want? ‘To your descendants I have given this land—from the river of Egypt to the great river, the Euphrates.’”

He approached her. He placed his index finger and thumb on her pin, plucked it, and fiddled with it in his hand.

“Sinai’s not in the cards, I suppose.”

He sighed.

“I don’t want to see you with a pin like this ever again, do you understand? I don’t care what you think about your grandmother, she’s one of us. You got something to say? Say it about the six million.”

He turned to the others in the basement. 

“Let’s sing ‘Hatikvah.’ Do you know that one, Reverend?”

Faye ran out of Zion, swearing never to return. She wandered the streets until she found another rally in Raymond Park. She chanted, she locked arms with strangers, and she screamed for justice. Tiny globes congealed in her eyes. 

“Everything alright?” a voice asked.

A robust man wearing a keffiyeh approached her. 

“Yeah,” she said, sniffling. “Just tired.”

“Waris,” he said, offering his hand.

“Faye.”

“Faye? I gotta get my wife. Stay right there.”

She stood still and rubbed her hands together to drive away the cold.

“Faye!” Dina screamed.

She wrapped Faye in a hug. Dina noticed her ruddy, tear-soaked face. 

“What’s wrong?” 

They stepped out of the protest line and sat under a dead tree. Faye explained what had happened at Zion. 

“If the Holocaust is an excuse for Palestinian murder,” Dina responded, “we should all be wearing Jude patches.” 

Faye laughed for the first time since her grandmother’s death. Dina and Waris took her home, and Faye grew more comfortable each block they walked. At the front door of her building, she opened up about Solomon.

“A lot of us feel that way,” Waris responded. “I’m Palestinian-Jewish, too. A little Streisand and a little Arafat.” 

He leapt in the air and did a small twirl. These two were perfect for each other. 

“You read essays?” Dina asked. “We’re working on one. Would you take a look?” 

Faye nodded. Dina and Waris gave her a half-salute and held each other close as they walked away.

On Monday, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Faye Grossman?” 

“Yes.”

“This is Reverend Dromgold. From–”

“Yes,” Faye said and pinched her forehead. “I just thought you should know that I signed the paperwork with Rabbi Gordon this morning to complete the sale of Zion.”

“Why are you telling me this?” 

“Ephesians 6:12: For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.”

“Then why did you take the money?”

“It’s better to keep God’s light shining, Ms. Grossman. I still don’t agree that he should’ve taken your pin away.”

Faye hung up on him before he could pontificate any further, but the conversation inspired her. She called every Holocaust Memorial in New England to ask if they would sell her a Jude patch. They all thanked her for her enthusiasm and respectfully declined. In a last ditch effort, she called a Civil War museum in Pennsylvania known for harvesting occasional WWII artifacts. 

“I can give you a great deal on a German Iron Cross,” a hearty voice on the other end told her. “Veteran brought it home.”

She pondered the idea of wearing one of those instead, perhaps for a moment longer than she should have. 

“You don’t sell Jewish items?” she asked.

 “Got a Goebbels Christmas card signed by the man himself.” 

She shuddered.

“And Nazi-themed gift wrapping.”

“You don’t have a Jude patch?” 

“Keep one on display here at the museum, but–”

“Theoretically, though–”

“It’s our only one, and it brings in lots of customers.” 

 “Can I call you back?”

“Always getting new inventory.” 

She hung up and dialed Felsberg’s office.

“How much is left in the estate?” she asked. 

“Including the apartment?”

She looked around. She loved her home.

“Has the deal with Zion gone through?” “The money hasn’t been wired yet.”

She dialed the museum again.

“I’d like to make a donation to your museum in excess of the amount of business that patch would bring you.” 

She heard a whoop of joy from the other end of the line. 

Hanukkah arrived. Zion’s exterior changed little but for a mezuzah in the place of the cross which had haunted its entrance. She kissed it and entered, rubbing the patch she sewed on her jacket where the pin had been.

Inside, a fresh coat of paint drew her eye to a triangular chandelier reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright’s for Temple Beth Sholom. This one, however, had her grandmother’s name on it. The congregation chanted as she approached. 

“Halelu halelu halelu,” they hummed. “Halelu halelu halelu.”

Nobody noticed her. The Simcha community had grown, but it was still too small to accommodate the space. She squatted in a secluded pew. 

“I’ve always been more comfortable hiding behind a song, but I am a rabbi,” Gordon began. “It’s my responsibility to try to change the world. It’s everybody’s responsibility, really. So this one is for the people who want to change the world and feel they can’t.”

Faye fell, momentarily, under the tingling, sedative spell of a rabbi who is good at his job. 

“We all need to be good examples for our children. We need to call out injustice where we see it. We need to stand up for our homeland. This is our sacred mission as Jews. They are my people . . .” “Their quest is mine,” the crowd refrained.

She snapped out of her hypnosis. 

“Bring them home,” he intoned. “I read news of these hostages–I follow it too closely for my heart to take. I’m sure some of you do, too.”

Faye rose. Rabbi Gordon steeled himself against the pew.

“Not now!” he roared. 

The congregation looked back at her. Rabbi Gordon scratched the bald spot underneath his kippah and changed his tone. 

“It doesn’t matter what you say, Faye. The deal is done.”

He opened his arms wide.

“We’re here. Needed a little nose job, but we’re here.” 

Faye heard knowing chuckles.

“I spent it all,” she said. 

Rabbi Gordon howled with laughter. 

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I did. There’s no money left for you to spend. I donated it.”

“That’s not how it works, Faye. The deal is through. Want to be in debt the rest of your life? To a Presbyterian? That’s your business.”

“What is that?” Hersh interjected, and pointed at the star on her jacket. “What is that?”

“‘Say it about the six million?’” 

“Oh, that’s clever. One of your Palestinian friends put you up to that?”

“We are abusing the memory of the Shoah,” she began. “We are acting out our trauma–”

That was all she could get out. The Rabbi’s voice swallowed Faye’s. 

 “May the Torah guide us as we reflect on a Jewish past and secure a Jewish future,” he bellowed. “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” 

The Rabbi warbled from chant into sing-song. 

“A time to be born, and a time to die. A time to kill, and a time to heal.”

The congregation joined in.

“A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”

It was magical; Rabbi Gordon had finally found his voice. Not the Byrds, which she expected, and not moribund zemirot. It was the perfect blend of old and modern—a new song for a new Jewish age. It was a song she would not sing. 

The apartment sold within two weeks. She moved to Chelsea, not far from where Reverend Dromgold relocated his congregation to a hole-in-the-wall that had been converted from a Tasty Burger. She liquidated nearly everything she owned to afford the donation, but she couldn’t let go of the Eames. She plopped it right in the middle of her empty studio, and she slept on it until she could afford a mattress. 

Not long after settling in, she received a package from Dina and Waris: it was the essay they had told her they were planning. The writing reminded her of Nana–her passion, her moral compass, and her humor. 

Faye clicked her red pen.