Reading and Writing

“What was that?” Mr. Cohen glanced up briefly from his newspaper.

“Nicodemus,” he said.

“Yes, that’s your name.” Mr. Cohen returned to his perusal of the Wall Street Journal.

“That paper over the fireplace,” Nicodemus said. “It says Nicodemus.”

“Yes it does,” Mr. Cohen said.

Jonathan blinked and paused, a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “You can read?”

Nicodemus nodded. “Yes. That paper – it says Nicodemus Matthias Cohen. Nicodemus is a very long word. I don’t like it.”

“It’s your name,” Mr. Cohen said. “Whether or not you like it is irrelevant.”

Jonathan goggled at his father, then at his little brother. “Nicodemus, how old are you?”

Nicodemus blinked and looked down at his hand, then held up four fingers.

“Say it,” Jonathan said, because for the first three years of his life, Nicodemus had been reluctant to say anything at all.

“Four,” Nicodemus said.

“How do you spell it?” Jonathan asked.

“I’m not sure,” Nicodemus said. “It could be f-o-r, f-o-r-e, or f-o-u-r.”

“Dad,” Jonathan said. “Nicodemus can read.”

“As can you and I and the maid and the miscreant who washes our windows,” Mr. Cohen said.

Jonathan reached into his pocket for a pen and notebook, and he scribbled out four letters. “Can you read this?”

Nicodemus leaned forward in his high chair and peered, nose scrunched up in concentration. “Um...does it say yahweh?”

“Where did you learn to read Hebrew?” Jonathan’s eyes were wide with excitement and awe.

“You have a book,” Nicodemus said. “Beginner’s Guide to Hebrew. You left it in the toy room.”

Jonathan twisted around in his chair. “Mama, Nicodemus knows how to read!”

Mrs. Cohen glanced up from her folder full of complicated papers about a party she was planning for some of the other wives in the neighborhood. “Really, Nicodemus?”

Nicodemus said, “I don’t like my name. Too long. I want to be...Cody. It’s short.”

Mr. Cohen said, “Absolutely not. It’s a terribly plebeian name after a charlatan who made a living off of racism and genocide.”

Mrs. Cohen raised and eyebrow at Jonathan and said, “What have I told you about telling tales? Now eat your breakfast. The driver’s already got the car warming. You don’t want to be late for school.”

Jonathan tried to protest, tried to explain that Nicodemus could read, but then Nicodemus got his pen, and his pen met the fine white tablecloth.

(400 words)