Paula and his sons had frequented this area, once; Stevie had made it his own as a boy. Had always turned west at this same marker, too. The zoo was nearby, and a pretzel stand, and that dirty pond, with its grimy swans. Bell had no idea, what lay beyond. To his own recollection, he had never kept walking.

Bertie Kahn had always sat here, too, whenever Selma had wanted to pray. Temple Emanu-El was right across the street.

Bertie might be found there later this week. The Jewish High Holidays are early this year. They start on Wednesday night.

SPLIT THIRTY is a god-soaked book. You might have to go back to On the Road or the stories of J.D. Salinger to find an ensemble cast with members so devoted to chasing the divine. That said, though, there isn’t much in the way of conventional religion to be found within its pages. Sal crosses himself whenever he passes a church, true, but he himself would call that superstition. Selma apparently went to services, but Selma is dead by the time this book opens. Not even Paula is interested in church.

How does that square with the story’s preoccupation, then? When its central question involves whether any of its characters ever succeeds in managing a single prayer?

I can tell two stories from memory to explain. Both come from Martin Buber’s Tales of the Chasidim; I simply can’t recall which rabbis they concern. And in retelling them, I’m sure I will change them. But that’s okay. It comes with the territory.

In the first, a young rabbi attends services with his new father-in-law. This wealthy man has been bragging about his son-in-law’s learning and piety. The whole congregation looks forward to seeing him preach. He takes the pulpit and stands in silence. A moment or two pass. Things turn awkward. Then he sits down again. His father-in-law is livid. “Why didn’t you pray for us?” he asks. “People expected more from you!” “I intended to pray,” the young man replies. “But I saw that pride had decided to pray with me. I could not pray myself without letting him pray, too. So I considered it best to keep my mouth shut.”

In the second, a great and learned rabbi stops at a small synagogue for evening prayers. He sits in the back so as not to disturb anyone. He finds that he can barely comprehend what is happening. He tries to pray, but it feels so wrong, he stops. He is so ashamed, he closes his book. He sits with his eyes closed. He barely manages to say “amen” at the end of the service. In a rush to leave after that happens, he is stopped by the local rabbi. “You must tell us your great secret,” says this man. “What secret is that?” “The secret of such powerful prayer. Your single word, amen, nearly toppled me over with its awful strength.”

To try to pray, and to fail, is prayer itself. Words to the wise, from Martin and his friends.