An early absconder from the shul opened the door and came out, glancing at the boy leaning up against the wall, one knee bent. The man’s expression was of pure disgust, as if he had happened across a piece of unpleasant garbage left to rot in the street.

Oved’s face burned. How dare Mr. Cohen look at him like that? Was he so great? Wasn’t he leaving shul before the end?

Slowly the others began to emerge from the shul. Some glanced at him and then looked hurriedly away, as if he was visibly contaminated or covered in lesions. Others avoided looking at him completely, as one might avoid an unsuitable advertising flier at a bus stop. Even though he had set himself up for this, almost craved it, Oved felt humiliated by their contempt.

He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t one of them. He was an outcast, a misplaced person. Where did he belong?

He had a sudden vision of himself as an astronaut, suspended outside his own spacecraft, connected to it by just one slim cable nourishing him with oxygen. The cable was wearing thin in the center and could snap at any moment, leaving him to die a slow death by suffocation. Leaving him to drift forever between worlds. Before that fragile lifeline gave way, he had to reach another craft, or another planet, different from the one he had left behind. A world with a different type of life support system from the one he had left behind, but one where he could escape his inevitable fate if he just hung around there, suspended between two worlds, nourished by neither.

That vision, captured in an instant, flashed before him as his father and brothers emerged from the shul.

“Oved!” his father said, shocked. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong at home? Are Mummy and the girls okay?”

He stared at his father. At that moment he knew the truth. His presence there meant only one thing to his father. For him, it wasn’t a statement to shock or horrify. It didn’t even mean a desperate cry for help, for a chance to be acknowledged and validated for what he was. No, it meant only one thing: that something had happened to his mother or sisters and they had sent out their “Shabbos goy” to tell Dad the bad news. That he was a mere carrier, not a person in his own right.

“No, Dad, nothing’s wrong at home. Good Shabbos,” he said contemptuously.

He walked off, in the opposite direction from home. Oved Moller would not be spending this Friday night eating his Shabbos meal up in his room watching TV. This would be the first time he would not be spending Friday night with his family. He would be spending it in a pool hall attached to a pub, drinking beer and shooting pool. He would let himself in with his own key, carried in his pocket, later that night, and slip upstairs to bed, ignoring everyone in the house, hoping they would already be asleep. He doubted he would be missed.

Oved’s father and brothers looked at each other.

“What did we do now?” the younger brother asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t understand him anymore,” his father said with a sad shrug.

“Maybe you should have said ‘good Shabbos’ to him,” said the oldest of Oved’s siblings.

“Why? And make a point of the fact that he couldn’t care less whether it’s Shabbos or weekday?” his father said hopelessly.

“Maybe it was what he wanted,” the boy said with an insight far beyond his thirteen years. “Maybe he just wanted to know that we still love him no matter what he does.”

His father was silent. “He has to know we disapprove,” he said at last.

“Yeah, but you do still love him, don’t you, Dad?” the boy persisted.

“Of course,” Oved’s father said quickly. Too quickly. Deep down he knew it was true, though. He did love his eldest son. Oved was his flesh and blood, after all. But he hated him for causing the family such pain. And, most of all, he hated himself for not knowing what to do about it.

Helplessly, he shrugged.

“It will be a more peaceful Friday night without him,” he said at last, as he and his sons began walking home. “We won’t have to hear his music or television while we eat our Shabbos meal.”

All the boys knew that Oved never kept the volume up high enough to disturb them. He had enough respect for the family not to do that, at least. But they often felt the vibrations through the ceilings. None of them could deny that it would be more Shabbosdik if Oved wasn’t at home.

The walk home was quiet, sad, full of what-ifs.

Oved drank two beers and played pool, trying to forget home. Thoughts drifted across his mind like clouds across the face of the moon. Images like a collage, shifting, changing. Silver candlesticks on a snowy tablecloth. His mother, touching the tip of the candles with fire. The fire reflecting in her eyes as she smiled at him over her hands. Rocking slowly, reciting the “Yehi Ratzon” prayer from a small silver plaque.

Oved wondered if she would cry or if her tears were all cried out and only bitterness remained. Bitterness and a growing hatred for him and what he was doing to his family. He preferred the latter scenario. It helped assuage the guilt. Let them hate me. It gives me a reason to hate them back.

Oved’s father and brothers told his mother and sisters of the meeting with Oved and asked if he had come home since. His mother shook her head sadly.

“There’s been no sign of him,” she sighed.

“That boy is getting worse and worse,” said his father, getting ready to make Kiddush.

“I don’t know what to do about him. I don’t know what we have done to deserve this. Maybe he’s better off not coming home if this is how he behaves on a Friday night.”

As he and his sons sang “Eishes Chayil,” the song about women of valor, Oved’s mother’s eyes misted.

Good Shabbos, Oved. Wherever you are. I still love you. Please, come home.