In his dreams, Shlomo Bass had envisioned a rebbi figure who would step in and save him
T
he light blue mug on the table was sitting in a little pool of dry coffee and it was getting Shlomo Bass edgy. He had to control himself from reaching out and lifting the Rosh Yeshivah’s cup in order to clean up the mess.
Rabbi Wasser was sitting next to Shlomo, on the same side of the table, leaning back in a cheap fake-leather office chair, his legs crossed and the skin on his right leg showing over his sock. Shlomo Bass wanted to feel disdain, to water the seeds of scorn within him, so that he could write off Rabbi Wasser like he’d written off so many others.
But there was something stopping him.
Shlomo Bass had known people like the Rosh Yeshivah. His old neighbor Peretz (and now Shlomo felt a twinge of pain, as he did whenever he remembered childhood friends, people who’d filled his life before the divorce — all day long, little twinges in his heart, so painful and so constant he didn’t even pay attention anymore) was that sort of kid: You asked if he liked your new suit and he would tell you the truth, earnestly suggesting that maybe a darker color would look better. But the honesty came with something else, a feeling of being taken seriously.
The Rosh Yeshivah had questions, and he had no problem asking them. But it was clear to Shlomo that the Rosh Yeshivah also wanted answers, that he cared. It wasn’t the “How did that make you feel?” of a million therapists over the years, but the “How can we help you pull it together so you can come out stronger?”
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
