Spin Doctor (28 page)

“Wait, I can't hear you.” She dashed out of the room like a circus clown shot out of a cannon.

“Gee, do you think it's good news?” I asked the other women.

A few moments later Alice returned to the laundry room. She was so excited that her entire body was trembling. “Well, don't keep us all in suspense!”

She whispered something in Izzy's ear, received an “Ohmigod!!” from her, and then murmured something to her friend about “saving it” until we got to the part of the Passover seder where the first of the Four Questions is asked:
Why is this night different from all other nights of the year?

“Well, in that case,” I said, “since I'm eager to hear your news—shall we all be seated?”

Amy immediately realized that she'd forgotten something, apologized profusely, and ran back up to her apartment, returning with a graceful goblet, a more feminine version of the Elijah's cup she'd already provided.

“Is that a Miriam's cup?” Naomi asked. Amy nodded, impressed that Naomi had heard of one. Naomi shrugged. “I've been to a lot of feminist seders.”

Faith looked intrigued. “What is a Miriam's cup?”

Amy explained its significance. “It's not part of the old tradition; there's nothing in the Haggadah—those books in front of you that tell the story of Passover. Naomi's right about the ‘feminist' influence, though. It's a ‘new tradition,' if that's not an oxymoron, that began a few decades ago, and it's meant to kind of accord equal time to the women who are the ones who prepared the seder meal and who, through times of trouble as well as those of prosperity, hold the family together. It honors the contribution of our foremothers, biblically and in real life, and is a toast to our own ongoing contributions as well.”

“I really liked what you said about it being the women who hold the family together in the bad times as well as the good ones,” Molly said, using Faith's mother's damask napkin to dab
her eye. “I know it's a little
Fiddler on the Roof
-y, but that is
so
true!”

“Where are the fathers and sons tonight?” Faith wanted to know.

“My William be back in de kitchen. One night only! I tell him. Just like de song. I be back tomorrow so don't chase away de clientele!”

“Ian went to his best friend's house for the second seder,” I said. “Talk about show tunes—the kid's father is a Broadway composer, and he's written original music for all the old Passover songs.”

“That's
so
Upper West Side,” Alice quipped.

Izzy clapped her hand to her heart. “Can you imagine! I bet the meal is practically like an audition. I wonder if you can get rejected from a seder.”

“I have to say, before we officially get started, that I love the fact that we are doing this,” Faith said. “I haven't been a member of a sorority in several decades, so it's been a long time since I spent an evening in the company of so many women, but I'm suddenly reminded this evening that something wonderful happens when women come together. There's strength and power and beauty and mystery—in our diversity as well as in our common bonds—and when we gather specifically to celebrate a religious ritual or tradition, to me that power is expanded multifold. It is, as I suppose Molly would say, although we don't quite mean it in exactly the same way: ‘awesome.'”

“That's a beautiful way to begin the seder, Faith,” I said. “I'm very touched by your words.” There were murmurs of assent from the rest of the table. “And since I have zero experience in leading one of these celebrations, I'm giving everyone fair warning: it may all be downhill from here.”

“Don't men usually lead seders?” Talia asked me.

“It's the custom for the head of the household to lead it,” Amy said. “And the people who devised that tradition assumed it would be a man, as it once was, and often still is. My father still leads our family seders. And Susan told me that Eli used to until…until he decided that he no longer wished to be the head of their household. Which—” Amy said, extending her arm as though she were presenting me to an audience, “gives Susan full and proper license to conduct her seder. Our seder.”

I asked my guests to open their Haggadah—it was Naomi who turned the book in Talia's hands, explaining that it's read back-to-front, like all Hebrew texts, even though our version was in English. I asked Alice to read the book's introduction, which explained the significance of the Passover seder.

“‘The story of the exodus of the Jews from Egypt is told and retold so that we give it meaning, context, and continuity for our children and our children's children,'” Alice read. “And isn't it cool,” she added, departing from the text, “that we've got two of our ‘daughters' here tonight for whom this is a totally new experience.”

“Oh, God, you're making me cry. That's
so
unfair,” Molly told her.

“You're making me cry too,” said Izzy. “Now I've got Valentina's head all wet. The poor kid probably thinks it's raining.”

The blessings over the fruit of the vine and the fruit of the earth were made, and all the emblems identified: the roasted shankbone, representing the sacrificial lamb; the
charoses,
for the mortar; bitter herbs for the bitter life of slavery endured by the Israelites under the pharaohs; a dish of saltwater to represent tears; the roasted egg, a symbol of life; and the unleavened matzoh—representing the bread of affliction.

And then it was time for the section of the Haggadah that is
either every kid's worst nightmare or greatest chance to show off. Traditionally, the Four Questions—which openly ask what the whole seder ritual is all about and why the heck do we feast like this when we never do it on any other night of the year—are read (or chanted if the kid reads Hebrew and knows the tune) by the youngest son. Many modern Jews have reinterpreted the rules to mean “youngest child.” As Amy had mentioned,
every
kid in her extended family got a shot at them. “Since neither Valentina nor Jin can read this year—”

“Just wait'll next year,” Claude quipped.

We all laughed. “I'll expect her to know it in Hebrew too,” I shot back. “Molly, it's all yours.”

“I am
so
too old for this.”

“You're the youngest child who can read. Get over it. One day, you'll have kids of your own and you'll wonder how you got ‘old' so fast, and you'll miss being young enough to read the Four Questions.”

“Are you really talking about
you
, Mom?”

“Read, kiddo. Your leader has spoken.”

Molly sighed, then began the litany immediately recognized by Jews all over the world: “
Ma-nish ta-nah, ha-lai-lah ha-zeh?
Thank God for transliteration. Why is this night different from all other nights of the year?”

I help up my hand to stop her. “Okay. We'll pick up the rest of the questions and all the answers—at least the traditional answers—in a minute. We've all had a remarkable past several months, for better or for worse but one reason we're here this evening, beyond the significance of the seder, is to celebrate our achievements regarding the ‘better,' and our ability to overcome the ‘worst.' Now, I know that
Alice
has something to disclose that has made tonight different from all other nights of the year for
her.
”

Alice beamed. “The phone call I was waiting for all day? That's the one I got just when I walked in the door. It was from the casting director at Seraphim Swallow Avanti. And…I booked the Snatch job!”

“What?” chorused Claude and Naomi.

“It's like Swiffer, only British. I'm going to England next week to shoot the commercials
and
the print ads! I'm going to be their Snatch Girl!” She received a hearty round of applause from the table.

“And you were worried I couldn't keep a secret for more than ten minutes,” Izzy joked, leaning over to give her best friend a kiss on the cheek. “You go, girl!”

Alice looked at her watch. “It wasn't much
more
than ten minutes, you know! Anyway, that's why this night is different from all other nights of the year for me.”

“Let's go around the table and give everyone a chance to do this,” Molly suggested. I liked the idea and asked Meriel if there was something that made this night different for her.

“Oh, I had no idea daht we were going to do someting layk dis,” she said, a bit flustered. “I need to get my purse, first. Let someone else go ahead of me.”

Claude and Naomi agreed that the presence of their daughter Jin, especially after such a protracted and contentious adoption process, made the night special. Izzy referred to Valentina's presence, then added that although it hadn't happened that evening, her complete reconciliation with her husband Dominick was “nothing short of a minor miracle, all things considered. Not only that…I have something I want to ask my pal here…because Dominick and I are finally beginning to get our act together to plan Valentina's baptism.” Turning to Alice, she asked, “Will you be Valentina's godmother?” By way of a reply, Alice burst into tears.

“Okay, I'm ready now,” Meriel said, taking a newspaper clipping from her handbag. She unfolded the paper and announced, “Dis is just from de local Brooklyn paper—it's not de
New York Times
—but listen to dis: ‘A newcomer to Flatbush, No Problem, run by de mother-son team of Meriel Delacour and William Robertson, wit' Roberston out front and “Mama in de kitchen,” offers authentic and delicious Jamaican fare in a casual, yet classy setting. You cahn't go wrong no matter what you order, but don't be too chicken to try de curried goat and de oxtail stew, and deyr jerk chicken is a standout.'” Faith raised her wineglass to her. “‘For dessert, we recommend de black fruit cake, a dense confection daht will stick to your ribs, and if you're too young to imbibe one of de Jamaican beers on de menu, order de sorrel, a spicy-sweet beverage similar to ginger beer. For two dollars more, de proprietors will also spike de sorrel wit' a shot of rum. Reservations are getting hard to come by, so book well in advance if you want to hear de cheery words “No Problem” when you get dehm on the phone.'”

“A toast to Meriel!” Faith proposed, and we all raised our glasses.

“Bravissima, Meriel,” Amy said. “I may have to start saying ‘I knew you when!'”

As Meriel carefully restored her precious rave review to her handbag, I asked Amy what made this night different for her from all other nights of the year.

She laughed. “On all other nights of the year,” she began, echoing the next sentence of the Haggadah's Four Questions, “my husband Eric is working late and leaving me the entire responsibility of taking care of our son Isaac. But on this night he has taken our son to his mother's house for the seder without ever giving me a single word of complaint about it. He took Isaac's extra didies and his bottle and his four favorite squishy
toys—Isaac's toys, not Eric's—and headed across town without once fussing about wearing an Armani suit and tie while juggling a squirming baby and a huge quilted diaper bag with pictures of Grover all over it.”

We toasted Amy and I turned to Talia.

“Can I dance it?” she asked.

The guests exchanged glances. “Why not?” I replied.

Talia rose and began to twirl about the room in her flowing chiffon tunic and skirt. “Well, I said I was never going to teach dance, because of that whole ‘those who can't
do'
adage—y'know? It's not like I'm quitting dance—believe me, they're going to have to carry me off the State Theater's stage in a wheelbarrow—but I have a friend who runs a community center in Spanish Harlem, up near Mount Sinai Hospital. So I'm going to teach dance classes part-time in the afternoons at the community center; and once a week, I'll conduct a class in the hospital's pediatric orthopedic wards. I'll be working with kids who are recovering from an operation, teaching them dance moves and exercises that they can use in their rehab. Twice a year, my fully recovered kids are going to return to the hospital to give a dance concert for the kids who are recuperating at the time. I haven't started yet; we just settled the details today. It's not about the money, obviously. Susan knows what I mean when I say I'm being the ant and not the grasshopper. And I'm really looking forward to giving back, as they say.”

“Hooray for you!” Izzy exclaimed. Valentina began to fret. “Oops. I think I just woke her up. Does being a mother ever teach you to be less loud?” she asked the table.

I grinned and looked at Molly. “Just the opposite, I'm afraid. A lot of the time, anyway.” Molly gave me a dirty look and I decided to disengage and offer Faith the chance to tell us what
made this night different from all other nights of the year for her.

“Oh…I'm not ready to say anything yet. I mean this night
is
different from all other nights of the year for me, but we're having such a beautiful celebration…I don't want to ruin everyone's appetite after we've all worked so hard to make such a special meal…”

Her words spread a pall over the entire room. Given Faith's age, although illness can strike anyone at any time, I feared the worst. I leaned over and whispered, “You're not…sick…or anything, are you?”

“Oh, no, I've never been better,” Faith assured me. “But you know me…one toe in at a time; baby steps. I'm just not ready to share my news yet. I'll do it after dinner; I promise.”

“Then it's my turn,” Molly said. By this time she was unable to suppress her gloating.

“Molly, I've known you all your life. And I have a feeling you orchestrated this entire share-fest because you had something to announce.”

“O-
kay,
o-
kay.
You're right, Mom. As always. No, not as
always.
As
often.
You were too busy cooking today to go downstairs to the mailbox, so I picked up the mail when I got home. And as everyone with a child who applied to college knows, the colleges mail out the regular decision letters on April fifteenth. Which means that any day after that, there might be a little present in the mailbox. A nice fat one or a depressing thin one. And, Mom, you'll be happy to know that your daughter is not a total slacker, goof-off, fuck-up, failure…”

And before I had the chance to interrupt with, “I never said you were,” Molly added…

“She is going to be a Bennington freshman in September.”