A Town of Empty Rooms (21 page)

BETTY CALLED SERENA AND ASKED her to meet her at the Waring Country Club for lunch. “We need to discuss the whole — situation, face-to-face,” said Betty. “I'll treat you. The food's good.” The club had been established in 1882, and, like other edifices of the era, it was constructed with white marble, columns, and an elaborate system of fountains in front. The entrance featured the requisite stone sculpture romanticizing the Civil War — the Confederate War soldier crouching beside a bush with a gun, a child bugle player nobly saluting the air, the inscription
To all the brave who gave their lives.
It was as though the war had not been fought over one human's right to enslave another but over the right to engage in leisure activities, whether golf or tennis or swimming. Once you walked in, maroon-shirted employees, all pert and attentive, were on hand to guide you to whatever sports experience you wanted to take part in, with a pro shop to the left and a café to the right. There was a sense of quiet there, the windows overlooking the artificially peaceful green landscape of the golf course. Members floated in and out, sunburned pink men in golf caps chuckling, young mothers herding children in bathing suits to the swimming pool. No one shouted. Piano music was piped in. She waited for Betty to arrive.

Betty walked in, her face blooming in a large smile. “Hi, sweetie,” said Betty, hugging her. Her silver hairdo had the frothy consistency of meringue. “So very glad to see you.”

They were seated at a round table with a perfect view of the sixteenth hole. Betty was apparently a regular.

“How long have you belonged here?” asked Serena.

“Not long,” said Betty. “A couple years. They didn't admit Jews till the 1970s,” she said. “Then they had a Jewish mayor, Fred Goldstein, cousin of Sharon, you know her? First one. Jews weren't allowed to hold public office until 1868, did you know that? They couldn't exclude the mayor. She was the first. Until then, you had to have family roots here to become a member. Unless one was, of course, asked.” She had brown arms splotched with pink stars, which advertised her affinity for outdoor leisure activities; it was the mark of money. “ The ceilings were cracked. I helped smash them open. As a Jew and as a woman asked to join on her own.”

Her expression sharpened.

“I've always been a trailblazer,” said Betty. “I was the only Jewish girl in my high school. If girls were after a boy who liked me, they'd say, ‘Do you know what she is? She's a Jew.' I was thin then. Pretty. It happened often. Some boys I lost, some I didn't. I was the valedictorian, sweetheart. The head cheerleader. I won it all. I was the first girl at Temple Shalom to get a Bat Mitzvah. I was the first Jewish girl allowed entrance into Tri Delt at UNC, 1972. That doesn't include what I've dealt with as a woman. I was in the workforce before any of the feminist stuff. Do you know that when I got out of college, the newspaper had two separate columns for jobs, one for men and one for women?” She took a long sip of water, closing her eyes.

Serena's mother had told her the same thing. That fact had fed into her mother's fears and had the effect of making her withdraw from the workforce. She could not stand up to the idea that others might not take her seriously, but she fiercely wanted her daughters to succeed.

“No one tells me what to do,” Betty said. She sat up very straight. “Woman to woman — that has helped me create my business. One point two million in sales last year. I did that! Can you believe it, Serena?”

“That's great.” She admired this; how had Betty known how to do this? How did some people shuck off the slights the world threw them and rise to success? Was it something they knew innately, or was it just luck? How had her father had the foresight, as a small child, to know that the storm gathering in 1930s Germany would not disappear? How had he convinced his parents to leave when they did? And how had her mother been, as a child, overwhelmed by the playground in Fresno? Her own parents had admired people like Betty and not known how to emulate them.

She looked at the careful way Betty spread her roll with butter; Betty set her knife on her butter plate gently, the way Serena's mother did. How long had it been since she had spoken to Sophie, her mother? It had been months, since the funeral, since she had had a real conversation with Sophie or Dawn, and she missed them. Sometimes, when she picked up the phone, she heard only a breath on the line — then the other party hung up. Who was there? Was it her mother? Her sister? The rabbi? In some alternate world, her father?

“Tell me something,” said Betty. “Do you think you are worth the best, Serena?”

“Sure,” she said, playing along.

“I sound like the L'Oreal commercial. But it is true. We women especially need to remember this. Have you ever felt that you are putting up with something bad just because you feel you don't have an alternative?”

Serena glanced out at the golf course, the unreal, velvet surface of the greens. “Sure.”

“We have to expect more. Of the world. Of others. And of ourselves.”

They had each ordered salads, and the lettuce was pale and lacy, with edible purple flowers ringing the plates. Betty took a deep breath and set down her fork.

“I wanted to meet with you today,” she said, “because we can expect more of our spiritual leader. I have had countless discussions with that man about his behavior. I have tried, I tell you. He's supposed to be helping us!”

She had ordered a complex and decorative salad and began to eat it methodically — all the olives encircling the plate, then the slices of cucumber.

“I like him,” said Serena, before she could stop herself.

Betty looked up. “Why?”

She tried to make her voice even, reasonable. “He's helped me a lot.” “How has he helped you?” asked Betty.

“With a neighbor we're having trouble with. He somehow solved it! He's . . . never said anything hurtful to me.”

“And why not to you?”

Serena looked at the table. “I don't know.”

Betty slid back her chair as though she wanted to move far away from this statement. “Because it hasn't happened to you,” said Betty, “doesn't mean it can't happen to someone else.” She paused. “I didn't think my husband would cheat on me. On
me
?” She laughed, a short, cheerless sound.

“I am sorry,” Serena said.

“Don't be. I survived it,” said Betty. She sat very straight and flapped her napkin out on her lap with the rustle of a little sail.

“Look,” said Serena. “Some people think he has also — done a lot of good. What are we going to do without a rabbi? Who's going to lead services? Aren't we going to lose members?”

“Don't you know, hon,” said Betty, clasping her hands, eyes bright, “our Temple is chock
full
of wonderful people who will come together.”

“Who?”

“Look at the talent in our Temple,” said Betty. “Arnold Rosenbaum can tutor in Hebrew. Genevieve Shapman is a published poet. She can write sermons. The Ritual Practices Committee is ready to go. We are important, Serena. We count. Maybe we won't even need a rabbi! We can save money! Do you know how much we contribute to his pension alone? A man who has bullied numerous old ladies when they have sought spiritual counsel from him?” Betty leaned forward. “In this situation, I believe we have to protect the weak. What did Rabbi Hillel say? If not me, who? If not now, when?”

Serena leaned forward. “Where is he going to go? Have you thought of that? What will he do without
us
?”

Betty put down her fork. “Who cares?” she said. “What is going to happen to us if we keep him? Next time he makes someone cry, it's blood on our hands.”

The waiters glided across the room so graceful and precise they seemed like actors. There was the soft clink of silverware. Betty pulled out a list. “I want you to look at this,” she said. “People who have filed complaints. Call them.”

She handed the list to Serena. They sat in the silence, the members lumbering across the golf course, the false grass shimmering in the sun.

 

 

 

SERENA OPENED HER FRONT DOOR to Forrest Sanders two days later. There was a militaristic air to his stance, as though he were leading a large, invisible army behind him, in service of some great cause she did not know. When he saw her, she could tell that she had loomed large in his imagination as well, that the fact of her own human presence was troubling; his face turned pink.

“Hello!” he said, a little too brightly. “I'm dropping off a flyer.”

“Oh,” she said.

“We've had some hard times,” he said. “You may have heard. My wife was sick. Her heart. They got to her just in time.”

He looked at her, closely, as though he believed that her animosity had played a part in this. She knew suddenly, despite their differences — their varying thoughts on Jesus, creationism, magic, evolution — that they shared the ancient belief that their actual thoughts were powerful and could do damage. “I hope she feels better soon,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “ They say she'll be just fine.”

“Well,” she said. “That's good.”

“It gave me a scare,” he said. He shifted onto one leg and rubbed his eyes. His hand trembled; she felt, for a moment, sad for him. Was he here to make amends? Was he making an effort at reconciliation?

“It got me thinking,” he said. “Our lives are short.” He seemed desperate to sum it up for someone. “I got to thinking about the meaning of life. I got to thinking about this.”

He handed her the flyer. It was a red piece of paper with a picture of the Virgin Mary cradling a baby in her lap. It said:
Let's have a meeting to bring Christmas back into our children's schools! December 7, 7:00 PM, Oakdale Elementary School Auditorium.

“What is this?” she asked.

“I'm doing a little organizing,” he said. “My grandson's teacher said they couldn't have a nativity scene in their classroom. Or angels! Or crosses! I'm going to fight it.”

She stared at him, the embattled Confederate, the near widower, gleeful in his desire to spread the cause of Christianity. It was not reconciliation. Things had not gone in this direction.

“You're going to fight
what
?”

“Things have tipped too far the other direction . . . we need to give Christmas the respect it deserves,” he said. “We are one nation under God. Bring the Christ back into Christmas. We're a Christian nation. The founding fathers said it is so. We've been persecuted, too. Our values trampled upon, ignored!” He was a little gleeful now; he heard something fearful in her voice, and he was clearly enjoying it.

“But why?” she asked.

Her son had walked into school by himself today, calmly, chatting away about YuGiOh cards. It was the first time in a week that he had done so since the incident with the pennies. She did not want anything now to interfere with that.

“I saw something that disturbed me last week,” he said. “My granddaughter's school schedule. Did you know that the public school calendar now says Winter Break instead of Christmas Break? And Spring Break instead of Easter Break?”

“I think that's all right,” she said. Gently.

He blinked and stepped back and made a sort of laugh-cough that was supposed to be a scoff. “Well, you shouldn't. We're one nation under God. You take away a name, you take away the spirit of the holiday.”

He wanted to talk — that was half of what was happening here. It was touching, actually. He had to talk to someone, even if it had to be her.

“I have to go,” she said, and stepped back inside.

A small smile crept across his face, as though she had confirmed his suspicions. “Well, Miss Serena,” he said. “Have a fine day.” Clutching his flyers, he turned and walked carefully to the next house.

Chapter Twelve

FINALLY, THERE WAS THE CALL she had been waiting for. It was not from the rabbi; it was not from Dan. It was not from Earl Morton or anyone who had dismissed her in New York. She was not aware of the way she was waiting for this call. She understood it when she finally heard her sister's voice; a pain, an ache, she had not been aware she contained, vanished. There was a short, cheerful message: “Serena. Miss you! Let's talk. Dawn.” There were two more of these over the course of an afternoon, and then more emphatically: “Serena. Please! Get on the phone, now!”

She dialed Dawn's number, and there she was.

“Finally,” whispered Dawn.

“Finally?” asked Serena. “I've been calling you. Where have you been?”

“Here and there,” said Dawn. “I don't keep track. I've been totally swamped. You know, working.” She let that dangle in the air a moment and added, “We're coming.”

“Where?”

“To visit you.”

Serena held the phone, her throat cool with relief.

“Well. Great! When?”

“Tomorrow. Well. Just for a moment. We're on our way to France.”

“Oh.”

“I mean,
we're
not,” said Dawn. She paused. “I'll explain. We'll be there at ten. It will be good to see you — ” There was static. Dawn hung up.

 

 

THE NEXT DAY AT 10:00 AM, Serena stood at the security gate waiting for Dawn and Sophie, her mother, to come off the red-eye to Waring. Her mother and sister headed down the stale white corridor,
Dawn in sunglasses, limping but wearing high heels, and their mother beside her, her face pale with exhaustion but her wearing a sweater with French phrases —
bonjour, merci, comment allez-vous
— written across it in gold script. The sight of them made Serena feel buoyant. They were all related. They knew her; there was a primitive value in that. She loved them with immediacy and optimism; it was as though family was merely this, the place where your private strangeness could be understood.