The Ghost of Hannah Mendes (54 page)

She turned the corner into Harvard Square. The students who rented out the smallest apartments had already taken up residence. They crowded the streets, their trim figures still in shorts and sleeveless tops, as if their defiance was enough to keep winter at bay.

She had been teaching high-school English for close to thirty-five years now. She liked young people. She liked looking at them: their bright, smooth, open faces, their supple, shapely bodies, their smiles. She liked their intelligent rebellion against forced compromises with conventional wisdom, often thinking that she learned as much as she taught. That, perhaps, had been her greatest fear about her profession: the
bloody-mindedness
as D. H. Lawrence—that rebel against hypocrisy—had called it; the repetitiveness of it all. The need to “cover material,” dulling the senses of the fresh enthusiastic human beings who, for the first time, were about to encounter a world of infinite wonders.

That had not happened, at least not too often. When she assigned Willa Cather’s
My Antonia,
or Steinbeck’s
Grapes of Wrath,
or
The Diary of Anne Frank,
she felt like a bystander to a thrilling event about to unfold before her very eyes. Sometimes, she admitted to herself sheepishly, she even felt a little like she’d coauthored the book, deserving part of the credit for its wondrous qualities.

The kids were always such fresh challenges—not unlike the books themselves. At the beginning of each new school year she felt as if she were peeling back the covers from their stiff bindings, each one a unique and fascinating story. She’d begin her relationship with each one hopefully, hanging in there, looking for the good things until forced to admit otherwise. That did not happen often. If you looked hard enough and refused to give up hope long enough, you could always find something.

How lovely to be young and unwrinkled, with so many unspent days and months and years ahead! How lovely to have strong bones and white, glistening teeth straightened to perfection by expensive orthodontia. Her tongue navigated her own less-than-perfect smile. Some women her age got them straightened—there were invisible braces nowadays, and porcelain veneers…But it seemed so vain and extravagant, not to mention bothersome. Besides, she had a man who had been telling her for the last forty years she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

She smiled to herself, waiting on the corner for the light to change.

The Body Shop window had cranberry-scented candles in little straw holders. But might it be too obvious to use a fall decorating scheme for the party? Pumpkins and squash, cranberries and apples? Adam would love it. Orange was his favorite color—any shade. The kids often poked gentle fun at him for wardrobe disasters that could be chalked up to this enthusiasm. Since he never shopped unless forced to by dire necessity—like running out of socks—his purchases were often spontaneous impulses that overtook him when passing outlet stores with signs that read everything reduced 70%. Inevitably, those drastic reductions included some article of men’s apparel dyed a shocking—and consequently unsalable—shade of unbelievable orange: jackets, shirts, vests, ties, raincoats, even boots.

She shook her head. Goodwill always had a supply of excellent high-quality items in those shades courtesy of Adam Samuels. They hardly ever sold. Even poor people had some standards.

She walked into the shop, fingering the waxy shapes, breathing in the spicy smells. There was still time to make these decisions. So far Kayla had been very breezy “whatever” about the engagement party, except for defining the absolute parameters: Evening. Black tie. Top-notch catering. And one-twenty to one-fifty guests, max.

“Abigail?”

She turned her head. It was Sandra something, a woman she knew vaguely from synagogue functions; someone who wore strange, baggy designer clothes and had her hair cut brutally short. She and her husband were the kind of people who always wanted something: free tax advice, investment tips, donations for obscure causes, or to enlist you in time-consuming volunteer schemes that would make themselves look good. She smiled.

The woman put her arms around her, kissing her cheek: “
Mazal tov!
I just heard. Wonderful about your daughter’s engagement!”

“Oh, how did you…?”

“Your friend Doris told me. So exciting!”

Doris? “Yes, thanks so much,” Abigail said with an inward sigh, mentally adding her name and the vaguely remembered Doris’s to a guest list already bloated with people she had to invite or risk insulting. Suddenly, when a party was in the offing, people seemed to sniff it out, ratcheting up their friendliness quotient to be included.

“Well, see you in
shul
!” Abigail waved, hurriedly leaving the store.

As she walked toward the caterer, Abigail felt herself tense. She hoped there wouldn’t be a fight with Kayla, but there was no way she was going to insult Arthur Cohen (who was, after all, a fellow synagogue member and an old friend) by going elsewhere.

She remembered Adam’s fiftieth birthday bash. Even though Abigail had done all the work, Kayla felt she had a right to decide the guest list. “You don’t want them. They are so boring,” she’d said, putting a line through Henrietta and Stephen.

They were old, old friends, people she and Adam had known from the first week they’d moved to Boston. They had been to all each other’s milestone celebrations, shared Sabbath evening dinners, planned joint vacations. They were like family.

“But we were invited to Stephen’s fiftieth!” Abigail protested.

“Oh, he’s such a bag of wind. And she’s even worse…” Kayla scrunched up her pretty nose in distaste. “I thought we would just have—you know—the family,” she continued, crossing off another two of their oldest friends.

Abigail said nothing but invited whom she pleased.

It was a surprise party. She’d expected all the kids to arrange something special for Adam. Joshua, of course, did, preparing a heartfelt video in which he interviewed all their friends and relatives, putting together a lovely tribute. And Shoshana, even though she was eight months pregnant and had a toddler of two to look after, made all the flower arrangements, handwrote all the place cards, and baked hundreds of those sugar cookies she was famous for. Kayla, in contrast, breezed in the night of the party, an hour later than Abigail had asked her to come, wanting to know how she could help.

“Nothing, darling. It’s all been arranged. I’m just so happy you’re here.” Abigail smiled at her sweetly, swallowing hard. “Daddy will be here soon. Would you be an angel and answer the door?”

It was Stephen and Henrietta, followed by Arthur and Helen, and a few more of Kayla’s cross-offs. Kayla gave them a bare smile, then sulked the entire evening, until finally she left early without saying good-bye.

“Her Majesty is not happy with her subjects,” Adam murmured dryly, when Abigail filled him in on the details.

The next day, of course, Kayla was contrite and apologetic. “I just had something really private and special planned for Daddy. I had this whole speech….”

Abigail felt a pang of guilt. Perhaps she had ruined some lovely, special moment between father and daughter? Perhaps there had been an excellent reason for her bratty behavior? Perhaps Kayla was on a higher level—a place Abigail couldn’t see even in her imagination?

Or perhaps not.

As always, they both apologized, hugged, and let it pass. What was the name of that organization founded by a billionaire to help Bill Clinton out of the Monica Lewinsky morass? Getoverit.org? Or something like that. Exactly.

For a moment, she thought about discussing this openly with her daughter. She rummaged through her purse for her cell phone, then suddenly remembered it was on her desk recharging.

Just as well. She just wouldn’t bring the subject up. Kayla wouldn’t remember anyhow, she thought, recalling her sweet sixteen party. For months, every time the subject had come up, she’d feigned disinterest, saying it was silly and childish, like kids’ “theme” parties. And so Abigail had ordered a cake and invited the family and a handful of Kayla’s friends. But then after attending a friend’s sweet sixteen in a theme park, with a party held afterward in the Hilton ballroom in Back Bay, with a live performance by a popular local band, Kayla had changed her mind.

Of course, things were arranged: the band, the hall, the works, all at the very last minute. Kayla had been adorably grateful and happy. She had enjoyed every minute. And Abigail, exhausted, had spent the next week in bed. Now, except for the caterer and the guest list, Abigail was perfectly happy to do anything her daughter wanted—if only Kayla would say what that was. On time.

Oh my goodness, she scolded herself.
The bride is too pretty
. Was this stuff worth worrying about? You have a beautiful daughter. A Harvard Law School student. A girl who is engaged to a Jewish mother’s dream. A
nachas
bonanza. Give it a rest!

Maybe she’d just buy a few cranberry candles and show them to Kayla.

But first—she wanted to settle with the caterer.

“Hi, Gayle,” she said, walking into the catering and takeout shop. “Is your dad in?”

“Oh, Mrs. Samuels!” The girl looked up from her computer, hastily slamming it shut. Her face turned the color of the tomato salsa featured in the refrigerator case, Abigail thought, wondering if it had been that color when she walked in, and she just hadn’t noticed. She stood staring in wonder, watching the color deepen to scarlet. “Oh, I’ll…just get Dad,” the girl said, fleeing.

A tiny stab of unease suddenly pierced Abigail Samuels. A prescient moment, absolutely baseless, began to send a wave of nausea and nervous tension through her body. She was the kind of person who always unconsciously identified with the person she was with—a remnant of her childhood inferiority complex, which insisted she be a chameleon to court favor. Everyone had to love her. And if you were just like the person you were with at the moment, it helped.

“Oh, Albert.”

His face was pleasant but not welcoming, with a strange crease of discomfort between the brows. “Abigail.”

There was an awkward silence as she tried to figure out where she was and what had happened. Did she owe him money? Adam always paid the bills and paid them promptly. Perhaps Kayla had slipped and told one of her friends about the outside catering, and word had gotten back to him? But she was here now, ready to order…

“I’m—so sorry,” he finally said.

Like a character in a bad play, she looked behind her to see who he could be talking to. There was no one there.

“What’s wrong, Al?”

His face took on a sense of shock. “It was on the Internet. Gayle showed it to me…” He paused, horrified as the realization struck that he would be the one breaking this kind of news to a person he knew and liked, the kind of news that should be heard among your own people, in your own home, surrounded by people you loved.

POWERFUL AND MOVING FICTION from Naomi Ragen

Acknowledgments

I am deeply indebted to the late, great historian Sir Cecil Roth, whose wonderful book,
Doña Gracia of the House of Nasi
, first brought the story of Gracia Mendes to my attention. I would like to thank the Jewish Publication Society for granting their permission to use material from this work, both verbatim and as background material, for the historical sections in this book.

The full text of the Edict of Expulsion, along with de Gois’s description and other accounts of the misfortunes of the Jews in Portugal, can be found in the excellent anthology
The Expulsion 1492 Chronicles
, edited by David Raphael and published by Carmi House Press, P.O. Box 28104, Seattle, Washington 98118.

Information about the medieval pepper trade, used in Chapter Twenty-four, was found in Anthony Disney’s
Twilight of the Pepper Empire. A Medieval Home Companion
by Tania Bayard—an authentic list of instructions written by an elderly medieval husband to his inexperienced young bride—was the source of the medieval recipes and housekeeping hints in Chapter Fourteen. The
converso
prayer in Chapter Twenty-one was taken from Professor Haim Beinart’s wonderful article, “The
Conversos
in Spain and Portugal in the 16th to 18th Centuries,” included in his anthology
The Sephardic Legacy
.

In addition, I would like to thank:

Rabbi Mitchell Silverstein of Hebrew University; Dr. Steven Harvey, professor of medieval Jewish and Islamic philosophy at Bar Ilan University; and Dr. Abraham David, senior researcher of the Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem, for sharing with me many scholarly insights into how rare manuscripts have been hidden and discovered.

M.B.E.R., the mysterious manuscript hunter (who, true to character, has asked to remain anonymous), for allowing me the unforgettable glimpse into the real world of rare-book hunting I could never have seen without him.

Dr. M. Orfali, professor of Spanish Jewry and the Sephardic Diaspora at Bar Ilan University, for his invaluable help in sorting out the Spanish, Ladino, and Portuguese words in this book.