“He never dated after your grandmother died?” Steven asked.
“No.” Adam said. “I don’t think he ever got over her loss. As far as I know, he never dated anyone even before my grandmother.”
“You know, that’s not exactly true,” Danny said. “He told me some stories . . . he had his share of wild times before he met your grandmother. He got into some trouble before Korea. He said the army helped straighten him out, you know.” Danny smiled. “He told me about one time, right after he got out . . .” He let his voice trail away. “Sorry, Adam. Another time.”
Adam couldn’t hide his surprise. “He never told me anything about that,” he said. “What did he tell you?”
Danny gestured at the grave. “It’s not for today. I’ll tell you some other time. It’s not a big deal, just kid stuff, but it was a funny story. I used to ask Hank for stories all the time when I came over. You know how I idolized him. I asked him about everything he did. I wanted him to teach me plumbing, but he pointed out that I’d probably be better off learning the family business. I could always hire a plumber, he said. When I found out he was a professional boxer for a while, I wanted to take lessons from him, but my parents wanted me to go to a dojo like every other boy in my class. He understood. ‘It’s a different world now,’ he told me. ‘But some things never change. Some time you might find yourself in a situation where violence is your only option, and you’ll need to know how to handle yourself.’”
“He was a boxer?” Steven asked. “I didn’t know that.”
Danny nodded, the pride radiating from his eyes. “‘Digger Drascher’ they called him. He got that nickname in Korea.”
Adam shook his head. “I don’t think it was from Korea, Danny,” Adam said. “It was probably just a play on the name. Drash means dig; like when you interpret a Torah story, that’s a drash. You’re digging beneath the surface.”
Danny fixed Adam with an incredulous look. “Do you think the guys in his unit spoke Hebrew? I doubt if Hank even knew that. He told me they started calling him ‘Digger’ when they saw how fast he could dig a foxhole. They said, ‘Look at Digger go!’ and then they put him on latrine duty.” Danny smiled. “Maybe that’s how he got interested in plumbing.”
Adam decided to let it drop. If he had a nickel for every time he’d managed to teach Danny something, he wouldn’t be any richer than he was now. “He taught me how to box,” Adam said. “He started when some of the kids were giving me a hard time in middle school. For a couple of years, we went to the gym every Saturday and once a week after school. He told me the same thing he told you: ‘A man has to know how to handle himself.’ He must have told me that a hundred times. He said just learning to take a punch would be good for me, because if I weren’t afraid of getting hit, my confidence would show and I’d be able to avoid most fights. He was right about that. I remember he once told me ‘When you box a man, after a few rounds you know how he acts when he’s tired and what he does when he’s scared. If you surprise him, you can see what he defends first, what he wants to protect.’ He said, ‘There are guys I’ve boxed and never said a word to, and in some ways, I know them better than I know anyone else. Better than I know your grandmother after all these years.’”
“Why did you stop?” Danny asked. “He must have been a terrific teacher.”
Adam shrugged. “We stopped before you started coming by. I didn’t like it. It changes the way you look at people, the things you notice without thinking about it. I’d walk into the gym and immediately start sizing people up. Their reach, how they stood . . .”
“That’s just what guys do,” Danny said. “You should have stuck with it.”
Adam shrugged. Maybe he and his grandfather would have been closer if he had. Maybe then Danny wouldn’t think it was his place to tell Adam what he should and shouldn’t say about his own grandfather . . . Adam cut himself off. He was working himself up over nothing, he told himself. All Danny had done was take better care of Adam’s grandfather than Adam had. Arguing with him wouldn’t change that. But when Steven asked if his grandfather had been a good fighter, Adam spoke over Danny’s quick assent.
“No,” Adam said. “He only had five fights. He was two and three. Thank God he stopped before he got hurt.”
Danny said nothing. The cemetery felt very still. Even the birdsong had quieted. A gentle breeze brushed Adam’s cheek and he watched his shadow play over the grass as he moved his hand back and forth.
Steven asked, “Are you going to work, tomorrow, Adam?”
Adam nodded. “I have to. I’ll go crazy if I just stew. Anyway, no one’s going to teach my classes if I don’t.”
“You can stay with us tonight,” Steven said. “Todd would love to see you. He’ll be done with his last patient in time for dinner.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Adam said. “But I need to prepare for class, and I’ve barely even been home.” He stood up stiffly. He realized he was going to be very sore the next day. “Look, guys, Thank you. I really appreciate your giving up the whole day like this, digging with me in the heat . . .”
“Adam, stop, please,” Steven said. “There was never any question.”
“Seriously,” Danny said. “Stop. Stop talking.”
Chapter 3
Adam woke up slowly and for a moment, he half-thought he was still in Tel Arad. He put on his glasses and then let his head fall back onto his pillow. No. He was back in his one-bedroom apartment, surrounded by his books, his framed maps of the ancient world, his CDs. His grandfather was gone. He checked his phone. It was six in the morning, Labor Day. He considered going to his grandfather’s apartment to get started on packing the place up, but he told himself he didn’t have time. His classes weren’t ready, and he had to do his laundry and go grocery shopping.
Adam got up sore and stiff. His limbs felt heavy, heavier than he remembered they’d ever felt, as if his grandfather had been buoying him up for his whole life and now he had been left to sink. He took a couple of ibuprofen, showered, and put on some clothes, including the Mets cap that, along with his unshaven beard, would mark that he was still in the earliest phase of mourning.
The cupboard was nearly empty, Adam saw, which saved him the trouble of making a shopping list. He started his laundry in the small washer/dryer he had in his apartment. Then he opened a can of tuna and ate it over the sink for breakfast before he settled in to try to get some work done. He sat with his lesson plans for a couple of hours, but made little progress. It was a relief when the ringing of his phone, his landline, interrupted him.
It was the rabbi at his grandfather’s temple, Rabbi Mira. Adam didn’t know if Mira was her first or last name. He had seen her only once, at High Holiday services with his grandfather.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” the rabbi said. “Danny Blumberg gave me your number and I wanted to call. So many of us in the community will miss Herschel. He was really special.”
Adam stiffened. Herschel, she called him. Everyone called him Hank. Adam pictured her sitting in her office, reading off a card, checking another mourner off her list for the day. “Did you know him well?” Adam asked. He just managed to keep the bitterness out of his tone.
“Of course,” she said. “Herschel was very active in the Temple Brotherhood and he was on the social action committee this year. He talked about you all the time.” She paused, but Adam didn’t respond. He was trying and failing to picture his grandfather selling raffle tickets and helping out at barbecues. “I wanted to let you know that we have a prayer group that visits houses of mourning,” the rabbi said. “Most of our congregants