How it’s been said — openflap whispers, in sleepingbag beddowns, this strawstuffed, stickstuck, muddying campfirelore — that Ben, though others hold it’d only been one of His Hims, you never know which, had healed a cripple, attempted to heal…Him attempting, then failing; this reportedly outside the Laz-R-Us department store, its location franchised, however, a borough away, Brooklyn’s King Plaza, or the Queens Boulevard Center — according to reports if not reliable then official — at precisely the moment He’s being evacuated from Times Square amid the progress of a riot still not contained and fast coming east. Martial law declared from the mouth of a gun. Don’t tread on me tanks through the tunnels. A pyramid of canteens without water. A command post nested with gulls.
It’s told: how Ben or another Ben finds Him or himself confronted, according to only the most salaried of our witnesses, that is, coincidentally the most memorious, too, He’s cornered, no choice or the alternative; how the goy rolls himself up to Him or him, demands an audience, airing grievance, entitlement, the lonely disgruntled, and how Ben or another just grabs him, lifts the babbling form from his wheelchair, dangles him in the air from his pits, then lets go; the goy geshrays a menschlike Oy, falls down to the sidewalk fronting the mall, a writhing heap of howl, still crippled, now worse.
It’s been asked: who tried to cure you? that’s what a lateshift nurse wants to know, later that Shavuout at the hospital (it’s related, too, named after Mount Sinai) to which the cripple’s been transferred for examination by a specialist who’s courting his daughter…God, she says, what a schmuck, but still the following day this nurse — who the night previous leaks to the press this particular story (and’s also a mother to twins), having been invited by agents of the Garden and with the flatter of media exposure for her and her easy-eyed, promising kinder, the promise of reward if not financial then that of the spirit, of hope — how she takes her older than previously reported daughters the two of them dressed alike out of their kindergarten early, schleps them but privately sleighed from island Staten to island Long and its Five Towns, which are not so much less than or equal to five than they are, factitiously, the same — in one of which Ben’s said to be dedicating a new synagogue, Beth Israelien its name, a shul, it’s preferred, and how she stands with them there, huggingly bundled babes they’re smiling gapped and waving at the wrist, their mother making her revisionary rounds through three hours, four, five of hard interview snow in the line that’s been designated for kisses.
From Newark out to Westchester, from White Plains on down to Wishniak Hill, from synagogue rededications to fundraisers for yeshivas and day schools, from mikveh grand openings to sales spectaculars at hat and haberdashery outlets and superstores for discounted furs, Ben lately in promotional mode’s been doing a lot of this, or His standins have, this smooching of infants, the laying of brunch, the breath of only, upon a profusion of cheeks both upper and lower, on foreheads then even on lips, the face of all flesh. The Bens, they’ve been coached as if birthing, coddled through the criteria: righthand handshake with the mother or father, lefthand holding the head of the infant, without any pressure applied, minding the softspots, the give of the skull not yet fused; then, the lean in for the kiss, under the veil, this the scariest aspect for the infant, the approach of this hairy toothed monster, him looming, descending Him, beard brushing skin not to tickle a giggle but to irritate, chafe, while he, she, clutches at curls; how they shriek then soil themselves as they pucker a suckle at lips His or theirs, twirl hairs around their littlest fingers, tugging and how He or they just has to laugh it off, at the same time applying enough, pressure; not enough to smash hands, crush tiny bones, just enough to make them let go; fingers leaving a honey’s stick or other icky substance behind for a Mary to shampoo, condition, comb out; rinse and repeat. Imageconsultants, brandmanagers, remind: never let them tear at the veil, God forbid; revelation’s disallowed, verboten, no peeking.
And then, this, just what the I’s need: a woman at that retirement home gala linner out in Mass., He thinks come Connecticut…a woman He’s never known before, never known in any sense how she stands up for herself to announce, to the press and the hysterical rest: Ben Israelien the Messiah is the father of my daughter! and then, hymn, what do you know (from want, from accusation, from the hurt of denial), another woman from inside the receiving line in the parkinglot she stands just outside it, removed, holds her kid if it even is hers up in the air under the weather as if praying for lightning to strike them both down how she booms…mine, too! He’s the father of mine, just as much! Mister Israelien has never had relations with that woman, Gelt says. Sadly, He thinks. Unfortunately no, is maintained. You’re goddamned right you’ve never slept with me, she says into a mic, proferring — pardon. As if I would sleep with a God poo poo poo — the mothers hock at once, spit to ice. This kid’s immaculate, she goes on…as a wad of photographers press in to shoot her; for the sake of circulations (panting), she’s milking the kid at a scandalous teat, deviatorily distended, bared. And so the paternity suits begin pouring in, allegations of daughters, too, but predominantly of heirs, sons alleged prodigal, their birthrights assumed: their papers always served late at the partner hotel, after roomservice brunch or lunkfast but before its dessert, as if cream for His coffee, a sapping stir. A third woman big with His issue datelined the opposite coast, then an oviferous fourth from overseas where Ben’s never yet been; a fifth with issues with a sixth with problems and more, seeking a degree of enablement, and that materially as much as of the soul we should hope; some alleging two kinder by Him, others three, though even if these offspring would be acknowledged, and let’s be clear, none of them are, “none would be Affiliated, as such transference must be maternal,” reads in part the Garden’s statement — which doesn’t mean these women won’t be bought off. Envelope stomachs, a womb flush with coin. A Maggie Dalene, 26, of Mittel Albany who’s swollen with daughter; a Christiana Eleison, 18, of Kfar Echo Lake, she’s worrying twins; an A. Leah Capitolina, age and whereabouts withheld or unknown, who she’d suffered a miscarriage of triplets she claims had been His; an Agnes Day stunned at the virgin birth of her son one David Stern last name and the eyes of her husband now ex; one Polly Esther suing Miss Day for partial custody of the boy, willing to let judgment decide, seeking a severance Solomonstyle, perhaps; even and for the ennobling edification of none a Bea Titude of Kiryas Joe alleging rape, a night spent in the stairwell of a motel outside of what’d been Goshen, violent and apologetic and altogether pathetic (the pleading, the please) while the lobby hordes were kept waiting for moments; though rumors of a legitimate son will prove unfounded, what won’t, and even amid the handling of this issue misplaced deftly in how furious, fierce, they manage never to make public His, how to say — operation: His procedure’s never leaked is what, and Miss Shade is overtimes reassured of the purity of her bridegroom-to-be.
Another offday, downtime of sorts and this despite its appearance worked only in public defense: up in Cambridge, Ben’s squeezed into a suit of tweed the kind with the leather spleenshaped patches on the elbows to protect Him in His wriggling grovel. A deserved sabbatical upon a Monday spent pent within the ivy walls and ivory towers of this university turned kollel of late, He’s here to accept an honorary diploma, an nth degree in theology, it’s decided, demanded, its presentation followed by a turn at hightable, leading Kiddush at a private faculty oneg — the intelligentsia supporting Him more for what He represents, less for who He is, suspecting such when this dean promoted to Rosh hands Him His sheepskin unframed and unsigned. Campuseswide, lectures have been forsaken in favor of sermons. Higher homiletics; the week following newspapers carry columns Ben signs, never reads. Maui offers Him a pulpit. Nome counters to name Him Chief Rabbi. Elite me nothing, snub me no snob: He’s both pop and not, His cult a movement of mass and a stilling of One…the namebrand, the Name.