Page 10 of Breakout Year

Akiva

The next day, Akiva woke up to the early morning sun slatting through the partially bent blinds of his bedroom window—and to a text from Sue saying she was going to skip her physical therapy that day.

No you’re not , he wrote back, then emailed his landlord about the blinds. Get better curtains came the almost immediate response, but hey, at least it was a response.

Still, it was morning, it was summer, the day not yet hot.

Akiva checked the level of coffee grounds in the canister—low—then checked his bank balance—also low.

So he brewed a single cup of coffee and sat on the tiny patio that constituted the backyard of his house: a two-bedroom on paper that was actually a one-bedroom with an ambitious closet, surrounded by a little yard that was more concrete than grass and not a lot of either of those.

Mist rose from the lawns around him. Light gleamed off the low chain-link fence that demarcated the border between his house and its neighbors.

His house, his own little patch of the universe, or at least Newark, for as long as he paid rent.

He allowed himself exactly an hour of this—he’d woken up early to have exactly an hour of this—but by eight a.m., he couldn’t put things off much longer.

So he ran through the morning air that was already heavy with humidity, rinsed off that humidity under his stuttering shower.

Checked his email, checked Sue’s email, checked the clock.

He had a little more time, and even if he didn’t, he’d find the time.

His tefillin sat in his top dresser drawer, along with his spare kippahs and clips, his prayerbook, and a single baseball card.

He pulled each tefillin from its protective plastic cover, whispered the blessing over them.

One tefillin went at his biceps, a black leather box containing a scroll, fastened by a trailing leather strap that extended down his arm.

He looped the strap: three times on his upper arm, seven on his forearm, a few times around his palm.

The other box he situated above his eyebrows, secured around his head by a single loop.

Finally, he finished the binding on his hand: three circuits around his middle finger.

He tucked the excess strap into the leather around his palm.

Once complete, he felt a highway of something , an emotion he couldn’t quite name: hand to heart, heart to mind.

He closed his eyes. Breathed. Thought of everything, and nothing, like he was standing at the edge of something impossibly larger than himself.

Stood that way and prayed, not thinking of the pace of the clock until its tick became unignorable.

He had to go: Email wouldn’t answer itself. Sue’s voice notes wouldn’t transcribe themselves. His phone chimed.

He unwound his tefillin, returned them to their cases. The strap had left slight red indentations on his arm. He studied them for a minute before he concealed them under a long-sleeved T-shirt, then texted Sue that he was on his way.

“Sue, I know you can see me.” Akiva knocked, knocked again, then knocked a third time.

Finally, she opened the door, not bothering to beckon him inside. At least she was dressed for PT: in athleisure wear and a pair of pristine white running shoes, both of which probably cost more than what Akiva’s car was worth. Though it wasn’t like a fifteen-year-old Prius was worth that much.

“Morning, Spencer.” Not his real name, which Sue knew full well. She was holding a coffee cup with both hands—and not her purse. So, it was going to be one of those mornings.

“Hi, Sue.” Which wasn’t her real name, either—a long-running joke between them. “How’re the hands?”

She tsked. “You worry too much.”

“We gotta go. They’ll charge you if you no-show again.”

“I already have a kid”—which she did, a son in his late thirties who Akiva had never met—“I don’t need another.” But she set her coffee cup down carefully on the table by the door.

“Where’s your purse?” he asked.

“Quit treating me like I’m infirm.” Her hands shook—tremors that had been getting worse in the five years he’d known her. She made a soft, pinched noise of frustration, then glared at him as if he was going to mention it.

He waited. Didn’t ask where her brace was or if she’d been typing when she shouldn’t.

“All right,” she said, finally. She picked up her mug, huffed down the hallway, lingered wherever she was long enough that Akiva wondered if he’d have to go after her, then finally returned, hands cased in the weighted gloves that were supposed to help her tremor and only sort of did.

Her purse rested under her arm. “We’re taking my car and not your deathtrap. ”

Her car was a hulking SUV that Akiva helped her into, arm out as she clambered up the running board, then slid into the passenger’s seat.

He had to move the driver’s seat back, way back—Sue was a full foot shorter than he was, despite her dyed black hair that got higher every time she went to the salon.

People expect mystery writers to have black hair , she liked to say.

Akiva’s hair was the blondish side of brown, but hey, he was wearing a black kippah today so maybe that counted.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the building housing her physical therapy office; he pulled up to the front to spare her the walk across hot parking lot asphalt.

Except after he’d gotten to the main entrance, she remained in the passenger seat, seat belt buckled firmly. “Thinking I might skip this one.” She held up her hand, still in its glove. “Really, I’m fine.”

The SUV was already in park. Akiva punched the button to activate the hazards, then climbed out.

Went around to Sue’s side. Stood on the sidewalk and didn’t knock or insist. He was paid by the hour.

He could wait as long as she wanted to, even if the PT office would be calling him any second to see where they were.

Inside the cab, Sue shifted around, then levered herself over the center console and settled in the driver’s seat like she might just take off. Akiva rapped once on the window, then held up her car keys with an explanatory jingle.

“Fine,” she called. “You win this one.”

As if getting her to actually take care of herself was a contest. “I have to park,” he said, once she was on the sidewalk.

“You think I might make a daring escape?” she asked. But when he got back from parking, she was waiting in the lobby, fanning herself with a paperback at the heat.

They elevatored up to the eighth floor together, Akiva frowning over his phone as Sue did the same over her glove.

“Didn’t think you were coming, Ms. Sue,” the receptionist said when they arrived.

She went by Linda to Sue and Miss Linda to everyone else.

She was somewhere north of fifty with slate-gray hair.

In Akiva’s experience, she ran the paper filing system behind her like it was the Library of Congress, and everyone else fell in line accordingly.

“This one”—Sue poked a bony elbow at Akiva—“is very stubborn.”

“I’ll be here if you need me.” He pulled his laptop from its bag, then seated himself in the padded lobby chair closest to the door in case Sue decided to make a break for it mid-session. Again.

“If you keep typing like that, you’re going to end up like your mom—in here with us.”

It wasn’t the first time Miss Linda had said that during one of Sue’s appointments, or the first time she’d referred to Sue as Akiva’s mother. Obediently, Akiva elevated his wrists. He also didn’t correct her assertion, even if he and Sue didn’t exactly look alike. Family sometimes didn’t, anyway.

Emails answered, he toggled to his least favorite task— The Spreadsheet. It wasn’t a complicated document, worse for its simplicity: a ledger of how much he owed and to whom with a red-yellow-green color-code of if he was paying it back.

Mark : The palest of yellows, a loan he’d been paying back in fives and tens when he had enough to spare.

Student loans: Fluorescent yellow, a debt that had the feeling of chipping away a mountain with a dental pick.

His parents’ house : A single red square, like a traffic light stopping his life.

He pulled out his phone. Rechecked his cash app.

The money from Eitan was still there, somehow, magically, a private payment with an illustrative emoji.

Akiva had been expecting something weird or silly or obvious: an eggplant, no matter what Eitan had claimed this was about, or a kissy face.

Instead, a calendar emoji. Because of course, a date .

Eitan had transferred him enough for Akiva to pay back Mark—to toggle that square from yellow to a bright, unquestionable green.

It spared Akiva from having to pick up any end-of-month modeling gigs of the kind he didn’t loathe, but didn’t love, either.

He’d wait until after his date with Eitan to give Mark the money, if only so he didn’t spend money he hadn’t technically earned yet.

A lesson from baseball he’d learned once but learned well.

Along with the money, Eitan had sent a series of texts late at night.

Eitan: How about Tuesday?

Eitan: Wait, I have a game on Tuesday.

Akiva considered a variety of replies—cold to set a boundary, flirtatious because that’s what he was being paid to do—before he responded.

Akiva: You know they make schedules for this kind of thing.

Given when he’d sent those texts, Eitan should probably be asleep. Still, his reply came less than a minute later.

Eitan: Yes, and I’m sure to look at them the day of the game. How about Monday? It’s weekday Shabbat.

Akiva: …weekday Shabbat…

Eitan: You know, I get to rest. What’s your schedule like? I should have asked.

Akiva: I’m flexible

Not meant as innuendo: it was barely eleven a.m., which was categorically too early for innuendo.

He got an eyes emoji in response, followed by a sorry .