18
The Rites of FallGrout sealed the corners of Rabbi Birnbaum's mouth. More precisely, his denture adhesive oozed from its artificial shell, then cruelly tossed in a sea of platitudes, and beached in the crotch of his lips. There was an odd mesmerizing white elasticity to it.
“What's that between your eyes?” asked Rabbi Birnbaum.
“What's what between my eyes?” I asked in return.
“That mark.”
“Oh, the scar. Sometimes I forget it's there.”
“It looks like Israel.”
“I know, it does looks like Israel. I got it in an accident.”
“An accident?”
“Yeah, my cousin Yudel got his fingers chopped off in a bread slicer. He owed the wrong people money. One day, when I was little, he tried to pick me up and, because he had no fingers, I fell right through and he dropped me on my head. So that's
