Descending into the subway, Jeremy’s eyes darted, as they always did, to the people nearby, none of whom were looking anxiously around. Was he the only one who still worried about being stranded too far above ground or trapped too far below? So many years later, Jeremy still felt a quiet swell of panic upon entering his office in the Citicorp Building. Its sloped peak was the tallest in its immediate vicinity, and as planes flew up the East River, visible from his window, he worried that his fear would guide them like a light-stick toward his building.
As a child beset with a nightly assortment of fears, he’d made bargains with God, trading obedience for protection. He had been raised in an Orthodox Jewish family, and though he no longer was observant, a part of him still believed that he could bargain his way to safety. One night, he’d lain awake in fear, and his father came into his room, sat beside him and took out a prayer book. The words his father pointed to were ones he knew well: The Lord is my light, whom shall I fear? He’d said the psalm, but what really comforted him was his father next to him, and the wish that he would stay there the whole night through.
His father had often talked of those who left Orthodoxy in anger, forging fiery trails of rebellion as they wandered foolishly, recklessly from the path. Now Jeremy was among them. For months after he’d stopped wearing a yarmulke, he had expected to put his hand to his head and feel the small crocheted circle there. For far longer he was sure that its imprint...
Subscribe now to keep reading
Please enter your email to log in or create a new account.