Yesterday afternoon, after the longest break in our phone conversations in more than fifty years, I called Chetan in Fargo, North Dakota. The lines are often down on the reservation, but this time, after only two rings, the phone was picked up and Chetan’s daughter informed me that her father had died the previous evening.
Two hours after the call, late evening here in California, I stood on the deck of my house, sheltered by the giant redwood that Chetan had once admired, and I watched the sun, looking as if it had decided to descend no lower, settle on the horizon.
I do not own a weapon, but I imagined myself raising a rifle to my shoulder and firing a shot into the sky for Chetan.
Were my wife alive, she would have scorned the rifle image and offered a prayer in Hebrew.
During our forty years together, Netty had heard many stories about Chetan, but had met him only once. That was the time, about ten or twelve years ago, when, unannounced, he flew out to San Francisco, rented a car, and drove north to visit us at our tiny farm. Now my tiny farm.
The three of us had dinner on the deck that evening. Netty had made tzimmis (her mother’s recipe) and I’d made potato latkes (my mother’s recipe.)
“Tribal food,” Chetan said.
After two helpings of Netty’s cheesecake (her own recipe), Chetan, standing at the railing of the deck, studied the birds cruising the sky. His long arm, a finger pointing, went up twice. “Sharp-shinned hawk,” he said, his soft voice...
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