Grand Army Plaza

By Reva Spiro Luxenberg

GRAND ARMY PLAZA



By Reva Spiro Luxenberg



Jamal Holden, an eleven year-old black boy, tries to cope with the death of his mother as he resumes his life in the home of a compassionate Jewish widow.



Jamal Holden, an outstanding present day childrens writer, is squeamish about his past. But when Mamie Carmichael interviews him on television she presses for the truth, and Jamal reveals what happened in his eleventh year. It was quite a year, he says.



Plunged into a nightmare of despair after his mother dies, Jamal faces a clash of cultures when his Jewish neighbor, pitying the eleven year-old orphan, takes him into her home. GRAND ARMY PLAZA deals with the stormy and loving relationship between a Jewish widow, Chaya Bloom, and Jamal Holden who has to adapt to a lifestyle that he had no idea existed. Its gefilte fish versus pork and beans. Its no television in the home, no bread on Passover, and matzo that tastes like cardboard. Jamal and Chaya encounter prejudice coming at them from all sides-- her neighbors who ask them to move--her daughter who advises her mother to let the boy fend for himselfblack and white children who want to see a black kid live with black folks.



Chaya introduces the depressed child to the beauty of books in the main library of Brooklyn. She hopes that the Grand Army Plaza library will eventually fill a void in Jamals life, helping him to grow and heal. Meanwhile the child remains traumatized by the murder of his father when he was five, and in attempt to capture the killer he agrees to assist detectives by exposing himself to danger. This causes Chaya a great deal of anxiety. Both Jamal and Chaya struggle with the question of whether the best place for him is with black professional adoptive parents or in the home where Orthodox Jewish laws reign. This book deals with a cultural clash that apparently defies resolution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 18, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462843749

Reva Spiro Luxenberg

REVA SPIRO LUXENBERG embarked on a writing career after she retired as a school social worker. She has written nineteen books—mysteries, dramas, non-fiction books, anthologies, and humorous versions of two of the books of the Bible. She is married to Dr. Edward R. Levenson, who has edited eight of her books. She is a member of Florida Authors & Publishers Association. Her hobbies are reading, painting rocks, and taking care of her puppy Sekhel and her tortoise Mordy. She is a proud grandmother of seven and great-grandmother of six and one on the way.

Book preview

Copyright © 2005 by Reva Spiro Luxenberg.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental with

the exception of the references to Rebbe Menachem Mendel

Schneerson and Mayor Ed Koch.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

28525

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

TO MY LOVING HUSBAND, JACK, FOR HIS SUPPORT,

KNOWLEDGE, AND UNDERSTANDING.

Acknowledgments

With my heartfelt gratitude to Dr. Phillipa Kafka, Donna Hanna, Alice Johnson, and the Write-Now Critique Group for the invaluable help they provided.

Chapter 1

New York, 2006

If only he could lie, he wouldn’t have to reveal his buried secrets to the American public. But he was never one for lying, except when he wrote fiction. This would be his first time on TV, and he hoped his last time. If he were white, his face would be radish red with embarrassment when he answered her questions truthfully. Whoever said being black didn’t have its advantages? He could blush all he wanted and nobody would know.

Did he really have to make a fool of himself by tripping over the TV cables on the floor? What was he doing in the first place in a studio in the lofty Rockefeller Center?

He sat at the kidney-shaped table, sweating profusely not only from the heat of the lights but also from jumpy nerves that snaked the length of his muscular six-foot frame. The cameras in front of him seemed like dragons with piercing eyes. Seated next to him in a Gucci designer dress was the top-rated show host, attractive Mamie Carmichael.

Yanking a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his three-piece suit, he wiped his dark brow. He attempted to return it as neatly as Yvette had folded it into three points when she had picked out the charcoal gray suit but it was limp from dampness. When he spoke at book signings where he was prepared, it went over as easily as his mother’s homemade lemon meringue pie. But revealing his secrets to the public on prime time was enough to tighten his throat muscles like a vise. What questions would Mamie ask? How much had her assistants dug up researching his past? Did she know about his background? He couldn’t lie if she asked him direct questions. It was easier to tell the truth. Momma always insisted upon the truth.

Yvette had been so proud of him when he was asked to appear on national television, but now that he was a nervous wreck, he was sure his wife would be disappointed in him. He remembered how he had laughed at the cowardly lion when Ma had read him The Wizard of Oz, but this minute he felt just like the trembling lion. Perspiration flowed from his forehead to his cheeks.

A make-up girl rushed over to wipe the streaks from his face. She replaced the wilted handkerchief with a fresh one.

Thank you, he said as he stuffed the damp cloth into his pants pocket.

My pleasure, she answered. Take a deep breath. We’ll be on the air in a minute.

He was going on as a guest on the number one talk show in the country, On the Air with Mamie. He noted that the camera crew stopped chatting. It wouldn’t be long now. He lowered his wide shoulders and avoided looking at the studio audience.

The floor director began the countdown. Thirty seconds to air.

He grabbed his knee under the table.

Twenty seconds.

His throat was as dry as the Sahara. He wouldn’t be able to talk.

Ten seconds to air. The theme song played softly.

Mamie looked at him with compassion and then smiled at the camera. "Good evening. This is On the Air with Mamie. I’m Mamie Carmichael. Tonight we are pleased to have Dr. Jamal Holden, a celebrity and a most fascinating guest."

Cued in, the audience applauded enthusiastically.

How are you feeling, doctor?

He plastered a smile on his face. Fine, thank you.

Mamie grinned at the monitor. What kind of doctor are you?

Not the kind who can cure a cold, but then again nobody can cure a cold, can they? I hold a Doctorate in English.

But that’s not why you’re on national television, is it?

Jamal breathed deeply. No. I guess my degree is just incidental to my book.

Mamie lifted the book and angled it toward the camera. "Your book, Dicky and the Dinosaur is now number one on The New York Times children’s best-seller list. It has surpassed the sale of any of the Harry Potter books and plunged you into the kind of wealth you probably never dreamed you’d achieve in this lifetime."

Jamal sighed. I didn’t expect such recognition. I’m truly overwhelmed with the response.

And even though you’re rich that doesn’t stop you from speaking at the local elementary schools in Brooklyn about the joy of literacy. Mamie paused. A week ago I was at the Grand Army Plaza library when you were conducting a story-telling session, and I was impressed by the fascinating way you read to the group of youngsters gathered around you. You put smiles on their faces. Mamie glanced down at the copy of Jamal’s book. When did you first get the idea for this humorous, science fiction story?

I didn’t try to make it funny. I guess it just happened. I was eleven when I first got the idea. Someone I knew showed it to a publisher and, lo and behold, she turned it into a short book.

That’s really something, Mamie said nodding. But obviously you expanded it. When did you write the current edition?

"Two years ago. My mother read the Harry Potter books, liked them, and said I could do better with Dicky and the Dinosaur. She felt it had less violence, was more entertaining and educational."

Mamie plunged right in. Do you always listen to your mother?

Jamal grinned, showing teeth as white as cotton. No, not always, but most times she’s right.

Your mother is white and Jewish, isn’t she?

Here we go, Jamal thought. I bet she knows every detail of my life. Yes, she’s a white, Jewish lady and a better mother you couldn’t wish for. His intelligent dark eyes darted toward the audience who seemed absorbed by what he was saying.

That must be some story. Did she give birth to you?

Hell, no. Excuse me. Jamal hesitated, almost forgetting that he was not to touch the mike on the lapel of his suit. In the nick of time he pulled his hand back. My mother died when I was eleven. My second mother then took over. I had lost my father when I was five.

Mamie raised her eyebrows. We break now for a word from our sponsor.

Jamal wiped the perspiration from his upper lip. He turned to Mamie. Do you have to discuss my whole life? I have nothing to be ashamed of. Certain things happened to me that I had no control over. It just makes me nervous to discuss them.

You mean how you uncovered the murder of your father? Mamie asked as the commercial was coming to a close.

Yes, that’s one thing.

The countdown began again. Mamie smiled sweetly for the camera. I’m sorry about your losing your father at such an early age. How old were you when it happened?

This time Jamal didn’t hesitate. I was five. I was there when he was shot.

Jaws fell. Eyebrows were raised in the studio audience.

Was the murderer caught then?

No. I ran home and told my mother, and she advised me not to speak of my father’s death for my own good.

Mamie nodded. Then what did you do?

After my mother died I decided I would pursue the matter and expose the killer. Jamal suddenly felt relieved. Just revealing this information calmed him down.

Were you successful?

Yes. The man was convicted of manslaughter and received a thirty-year sentence.

I understand that his sentence was reduced for good behavior. That means he’ll soon be freed.

I guess so. Jamal bit down on his lips.

Mamie jumped in. How do you feel about this?

I haven’t considered it. You fool, he thought. It’s been on my mind every waking minute.

And, Dr. Holden, all that you’ve told us happened in your eleventh year?

Yes. It was quite a year.

Chapter 2

Brooklyn, 1991

Jamal, stiff with fear, ordered his legs to move, but they were glued to the worn linoleum in the kitchen. His heart raced like the heavy rain that was pounding against the window. Ma had just screamed, Jamal! from the living room and he couldn’t budge, not even to turn off the gas under the dented pot with the rice they intended for dinner. As a clap of thunder roared, Jamal trembled.

Ma seemed as comfortable as he could make her on the bumpy couch when he left her ten minutes before, but there was pain in her face. But no more pain than usual for the past four years.

He took a deep breath, wiped the moisture from his brow, and shut the gas, gathering his strength to race to the living room. He looked at the couch. It was empty. She had fallen off onto the scratched wooden floor where she was face up, clutching the blanket, eyes closed, and mocha skin dotted with a gleam of perspiration. Even unconscious she was pretty with those long, dark eyelashes. He wondered if she were dead, hoping against hope that she had only fainted, maybe from hunger.

Ma! he cried. She didn’t open her eyes. He knelt down and shook her bony shoulder through the faded housedress she had worn for as long as he could remember. She was as still as a limp teddy bear.

Ma! Ma! Get up. He shook her harder. She didn’t move.

He ran to the bedroom, grabbed a cracked mirror from the dresser and returned to put it in front of her mouth. It clouded over. She was alive. He had to get help. Maybe someone in the apartment house would come. If he didn’t do something, his mother was bound to pass and he’d be by himself with no one to put her arms around him, hug him to her chest, and murmur in that soft caressing voice that she loves him and that he’s a smart kid.

He jumped up. Like a rifle shot, Jamal raced down the corridor of the apartment house. He didn’t know a soul. They had kept to themselves ever since Pa died when he was five, and Ma had gotten sick two years later. They had to move from a nice apartment on Bedford Avenue to this gloomy rear ground-floor apartment on Eastern Parkway. His mother had no money for anything fancy, almost none for food. Relief didn’t give much.

Help! he cried in a voice an octave higher than usual. Not one door opened. He had to do something else. He thought quickly. I’ll make noise. He ran down the corridor, stopping at every door and banging with all the strength of a puny, eleven-year old child. It was dinner time; somebody had to be home.

As if in slow motion, a man opened his door. He looked like a grandfather with a beanie on his head and a face like a pock-marked English muffin plastered with a milk white beard.

Go avay. Vat you’re selling ve don’t need, he said in a crackly voice. He closed the door in Jamal’s face.

Jamal turned and ran to the front apartment. He knocked at the door and when there was no answer, he pressed his finger on the bell and kept it there.

* * *

Chaya Bloom’s cell phone rang when she was in the kitchen preparing the special dish that she traditionally made for the Sabbath. She was a short woman with a kerchief covering the hair on her head with the exception of wavy brown locks at the front. She stood at the stove stirring the tzimmes that was almost done. She was using her mother’s recipe from the old country: sweet potatoes, carrots, brisket, all mixed with brown sugar and prunes. She’d have to eat it by herself, but by now she was used to being alone, that is if you ever really get used to it. It had to be her daughter calling to wish her a happy Sabbath.

Fagele was a good girl, a little headstrong, but basically decent. She had married the principal of a school in Long Island where they had their own fancy, shmancy split-level ranch home with an indoor hot tub. Fagele now wanted to be called Florence. She no longer kept kosher or observed the Sabbath. She was a disappointment, but it could always be worse. She could have married a non-Jew. Chaya loved her as only a mother could, failings and all.

Chaya wiped her hands on her apron. Hello.

Hi, Ma. Chaya remembered sadly that when Fagele still lived at home in Brooklyn she wasn’t Ma, but Mama, but moving to Long Island did strange things to daughters. They start to call their mother Ma. So she had to accept that now she was no longer Mama.

"How are you, Fagele?

Please call me Florence.

How are you feeling Florence?

Wonderful. Just this morning the fifty-five inch TV was delivered for the rec room.

Chaya joked to herself. Was a rec room the same as a room that was wrecked?

The front door bell rang sharply. Just a minute, Fagele, I mean, Florence. Someone is at the door.

Going to the door and looking through the peephole revealed no one until she looked down. A little boy was pressing hard on the bell. He removed his finger and started to knock. She tucked the phone into the pocket of her apron, and opened the three locks, keeping the chain in place that was attached to the inside of the door.

For why are you banging? she asked gently.

Jamal raised his head, looking up into the face of a white woman with smiling eyes.

It’s my Ma. She’s sick. She fell off the couch. Her eyes be closed. I can’t pick her up. Please, lady. Come with me to Apartment 1F.

Chaya unchained the door. A little child held no threat. With the cell phone in her hand, she led Jamal into a foyer.

One minute, wait. Mit mine daughter, I’m on the phone.

The lady left him in the foyer and went into the living room. Jamal hopped from foot to foot, his eyes darting to the picture on the wall of a young woman in a graduation gown with a funny-looking flat hat on her head that looked like a plate.

Chaya sat down on a dining room chair. I can’t talk right now. A little kid needs help mit his mother.

Florence sighed. A Jewish child?

Chaya tapped her toe rapidly on the carpet. He has to be Jewish to need help?

Her daughter’s voice grew harsh. If he’s black, mind your own business.

Chaya wasn’t going to listen any further to this sacrilege. What color he is I didn’t notice. Have a good Shabbos. So long. She pressed the button on the phone ending the call and hurried back to the small black boy in the foyer, grabbing the key to the apartment from a hook on the wall.

Taking the boy by the hand, she led him outside the apartment. Quickly she locked the door.

Let’s move fast. The Shabbos candles, I have to light in fifteen minutes.

Yeah, let’s go. My old lady she’s in deep . . . uh . . . dirt. She ain’t got nobody to care for her, but me. Jamal wrung his hands.

Chaya looked down at the boy who wore a faded white T-shirt and short, patched jeans that showed his thin ankles. A good son you are. What’s your name?

The boy took a deep breath. Jamal Holden. My Ma be Lily Holden.

I’m Chaya Bloom. You can call me Mrs. Bloom.

When they reached Apartment 1F the door was partially open. Jamal pushed against it and they hurried into the living room to find Jamal’s mother sitting up on the floor, leaning against the bottom of the sofa, her eyes brimming over with tears.

Jamal bent down and whispered in her ear. Ma, this here’s our neighbor, Mrs. Bloom.

Lily Holden looked up at Chaya and smiled faintly. She had large appealing dark eyes. I’m okay. Yuh can go now.

Chaya shook her head. She put her hands on her hips. You look like hell.

I don’t need help, Lily protested. She began to cough. The coughing increased and seemed uncontrollable.

Can you get up? Chaya asked as she moved closer to Jamal’s mother, offering her hand.

Lily nodded. Instead of reaching out she put both hands on the sofa, but as she pressed down with the little strength she still had, she tumbled backwards, face up, her eyes closed.

Mrs. Holden. Are you all right?

Lily didn’t answer. Chaya felt helpless. She encircled her face with her hands and shook her head. Jamal dropped down to his mother’s side and took her hand in his. Lily didn’t move.

Chaya took the cell phone from her pocket and dialed 9-1-1. I need an ambulance at Apartment 1F, 2259 Eastern Parkway. A woman just fainted. Very sick she is. I’m her neighbor. Until the ambulance comes, I’ll wait.

Sitting on the floor, his arm around his mother’s shoulder, Jamal looked up at Chaya, looking for reassurance. Will my Ma be okay?

"Sure, sonny. In minutes the ambulance will be here. Efsher, maybe, if I put ice on her forehead, it can help." Chaya moved quickly into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was almost empty except for six Hershey bars, two apples with dark spots, and some bologna that had turned a sickly shade of green. She looked in the freezer for an ice tray and found it half-empty. She took the tray to the sink and opened the faucet, running water over the tray to loosen the ice cubes.

Jamal, come here.

Jamal jumped up and ran to the kitchen. What!

Get me a towel like a good boy.

The child opened the cabinet next to the sink, reached in and handed Chaya a kitchen towel that she used to wrap the ice. Both of them raced back to the living room. Lily hadn’t stirred.

I’m putting the ice on your Momma’s forehead. Maybe it’ll help.

Chaya held the towel with the ice against Lily’s smooth forehead. She moved her lips.

Her eyes, they’re opening, Jamal said hopefully.

Lily looked questioningly at Chaya. What happened?

You fainted. An ambulance comes to take you to the hospital.

Lily gritted her teeth. I ain’t going to no hospital.

Chaya felt confused. The woman was obviously very sick and yet refusing medical attention. Why not?

Lily looked at her son with an electric kind of love. How will Jamal git along?

She had given Chaya no alternative. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him.

They heard the screeching of the ambulance siren coming closer. Almost as soon as it stopped, the paramedics strode in. They were tall men who looked like they would be more at home on a football field than bending over a prostrate woman starting an IV.

Jamal watched, his hands quivering, as they placed his mother on a gurney and carried her out the door. At the threshold she raised her head. You stay with this here lady, Jamal, sweetie. I be home soon.

Goodbye, Ma. I love you.

Bye now. Take care. I loves you, too, baby. And in an instant she was gone. Jamal looked at the ceiling. Chaya knew he didn’t want her to see the tears in his eyes.

I ain’t afraid to stay here by myself. His voice cracked.

Chaya took his hand. There’s no food in the fridge and plenty I have. You can sleep on the sofa in the living room. Take your clothes and school things and come to mine apartment. I have to light the Shabbos candles now.

Jamal hesitated. Okay, but my Ma will be home soon and I be leaving you.

Chaya put her hand on the doorknob. By me, that’s okay. Chaya left.

Chapter 3

Jamal dropped down on the sofa where the impression of his mother’s body still remained. He touched the blanket that she had held, kissed it, then ran to the kitchen, grabbed the pot from the stove, walked into the bathroom and tossed the rice into the toilet. It was heavy and sank to the bottom. He flushed it, and watched it disappear in the swish of the water; feeling as if he were going down the drain. In the kitchen he took a paper bag from the drawer. He had no suitcase in which to pack his clothes. A bag would do.

In the bedroom, Jamal let the tears roll down his cheeks as he stuffed the bag with his clothes and schoolbooks. As he wiped his eyes with his fist, he saw his parents’ wedding picture on the dresser. His mother wore a white dress that showed her dimpled knees. She held a bouquet of roses while next to her his father stood with a carnation in the buttonhole of his suit. Both were smiling with shiny, even white teeth. It was a happy time. If only his father were alive, he would take charge and make his mother well, but he would never come back from Heaven or wherever he was. Jamal clutched the picture to his chest, held it there momentarily, and then placed it on top of his clothes in the bag. He sat down again on the sofa and couldn’t move for a long time. Finally, he forced himself to lock the door of the apartment and walk the length of the corridor to Apartment 1A. Although the house was built in the forties, it was maintained well. The corridors were well lit and the marble floors were mopped weekly by the black janitor, but the lobby lacked its original oil paintings and overstuffed furniture.

* * *

Chaya stood at the dining room table and lit the candles on the candelabra making a circle with her hands three times. She covered her eyes so that when she opened them