“Forgive me, Father,” the boy began inside the confessional, his words pushing against the darkness that enveloped him. “I’ve stolen.”
The priest’s silhouette, framed against a square of pale-yellow light, nodded solemnly. “What did you take, my son?”
“Rabbi Klein’s menorah,” the boy whispered.
“The life-size menorah reported in The Independent?’
“Yes.”
“Can you return it?”
“No, Father,” he sighed. “It was damaged, accidentally.”
“Oh,” the priest grimaced. “Then you must go to the rabbi.”
The boy cast down his eyes. A thin strip of light pointed an accusatory finger at him as it pushed past the thick velvet drape into the box. He turned back toward the screen, the priest’s face now staring directly at him.
“I can’t,” he croaked. “Rabbi Klein…he’ll kill me!”
“I understand your reticence, but he’s a forgiving man. Surely you know this.”
“Surely,” the boy mumbled. “But I don’t have the courage.”
The priest pressed his face toward the boy’s ear, his breath warm as he replied, “God provided eight nights of light from a day’s worth of oil; He can provide you courage. Now say an Act of Contrition.”
Cory stepped from St. Francis’ narthex into the gathering dusk of the December afternoon. Mounting his bike, he pedaled toward Main Beach. Bobby would be waiting, angry.
“You’re late!” Bobby yelled above the traffic as Cory crossed the Coast Highway..
“Sorry, had to do something,” Cory mumbled upon reaching Bobby, who leaned indolently against the lifeguard tower.
“Important enough to make me wait?”
Cory brought his face level with his friend’s. “I confessed about the menorah.”
“What?” Bobby straightened, his face ashen. “To Rabbi Klein?”
“No, but we should tell him we took it.”
“Hang yourself if you want,” Bobby hissed, “but breathe my name and I’ll deny everything!”
Cory faced the ocean. Gray waves washed Laguna’s shore; the amber sun retreated toward the horizon. Dusk drew close now like a drape over the deserted sand.
“We did wrong, Bobby,” Cory said firmly. “We have to make it right.”
Bobby mounted his bicycle in silence and pedaled off.
“We have to make it right,” Cory mused, alone. Damp breezes matted his hair and moistened his eyes. Faint points of gold, flickering like flames before his sight, pierced the evening’s veil.
“Eight nights of light…,” Cory smiled. He’d make it right.
Rabbi Klein waited at Greeter’s Corner, as the caller instructed. A boy wearing white would approach; he was to follow.
Hanukkah’s last nightfall was rapidly approaching; he should be with his family lighting the menorah’s final candle. But the caller was adamant—the menorah he sought “would be found at Main Beach.”
“Rabbi,” a soft voice roused him from his reverie.
A boy in white pressed a candle into his hand, then darted toward the beach. Rabbi Klein followed past vacant tables and around eddies of people gathered before a living nativity, until they reached nine figures standing atop a line of blocks set in the sand. Eight, dressed in blue, held unlit blue candles; the ninth, positioned in the center, wore beige, his hands empty. Rabbi Klein felt the shamash in his hand and understood.
The first star appeared; the boy in white offered a lighter. Accepting it, Rabbi Klein lit his candle, said the blessings, and then ignited each blue candle from left to right. The remaining figure stepped forward, hand outstretched. The Rabbi approached him.
“I’m Cory,” he began, as Rabbi Klein handed him the shamash. “I stole your menorah. I’m deeply sorry. I resolve never to steal again.”
Rabbi Klein gazed at the lights of the living menorah. Its gold flames burned radiantly against the florid Laguna night. “I forgo your debt,” he beamed. “Let us now recite the Haneirot Halolu.”
John Tynan is a lifelong storyteller, most often while announcing swim meets or when writing about his daydreams. A member of Laguna’s Third Street Writers, he lives with his wife, Mary Ellen, in Irvine.
