The Matzo Ball Heiress (20 page)

“Oh,” Jared says after a second glance to see if I’m shitting him. “That’s why you went to Amsterdam?”

“Yes, oh. And yes, that’s why. At least he’s coming. Before that we were scrambling for anyone who’d been at a seder after they were ten years old. I know I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you, but you should see the rest of our guest list. My mailman. An Arab diplomat—”

“You better tell me more about this, uh—”

“Waterloo?”

Jared struggles with the little nail knick on his Swiss Army Knife, but finally gets the corkscrew out for the kosher Chardonnay. Surprisingly, it’s not bad. He puts a different CD on. Nina Simone. The same one I used to seduce Steve.

“Do you mind if you change that?”

“You don’t like Nina Simone?”

“I love her. I just have some funny associations that are too distracting.”

“You can pick something if you like, or just forget about the music.”

“No, I think music might calm me.” I reach for the neutrality of John Coltrane’s
My Favorite Things
.

“So your father is gay,” Jared says as Coltrane’s sax begins to spell out the melody. “These are new times, right? That information doesn’t affect my feelings for you in the least. But it seems to be messing with your feelings.”

“Dad’s homosexuality doesn’t bother me.”

“Are you sure? You don’t sound so convincing.”

“What’s disturbing me is the focus the media is giving us. If his homosexuality comes out it will ruin us with our more traditional customers. Dad’s agreed to come as long as Pieter can come as well. ‘That’s who I am now, Heather,’” I say in Dad’s low register. “He said he’ll introduce him as a friend.”

“So his boyfriend will be there incognito.”

“Flamboyant boyfriend. One look at him and America will know.”

“My mother still maintains Rock Hudson was straight—even after she watched
True Hollywood Story
. I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Do you think I should tell Steve what’s going on?”

“Why, so he could provide some coaching?”

“No one in my family can follow a seder, and with all these trumped-up guests—”

He thinks hard. “When does your dad get in?”

“Tomorrow. Late morning. He and Pieter are staying at my apartment.”

“We’ll have a dress rehearsal before Steve and Tonia arrive. Can you get all your guests to come earlier for that?”

“I’ll try.”

“You better start trying now.”

“Steve said you would work, but don’t you have your own family seder?”

“I’m going to be right there with you, bubby. You need me. I’m going to take charge without Steve knowing it. I can shut off the camera, after all, if anything goes wrong.”

“You don’t have any problem pulling one over on America?”

“You mean as a good Jew?” He smiles playfully.

“Yes.”

“No, because you’ll be introducing Judaism to many families. And if it gets me the girl—”

“I’m not converting.”

“You don’t have to convert. Your mother’s Jewish, so you’re Jewish.”

“I mean I’m not going kosher.”

“We’ll see,” Jared laughs. “Go make your calls.”

My drowsiness is hard to fight anymore, so I start by phoning Jake.

Jake’s voice drops in and out from his low-battery cell phone. “A rehearsal is a great idea. I’ll get Gertie on the line. You want Greg to pick up that Tibetan girl? I’m assuming she’s from Manhattan, so she doesn’t have a car.”

“I guess. She’s bubbly like he likes them. It makes me a bit worried for her.”

“She’s safe. He’s bringing a new girlfriend.”

“A new one? What happened to the last one?”

“Really want to hear it?”

“Go ahead.”

“Said she was beautiful in every way except her thighs were two large balloons. He couldn’t get past them. If a woman is not a hundred percent fit, he doesn’t want her near him.”

“Greg needs to be hit sometimes.”

“He’s come a considerable distance, so I didn’t go on about it.”

“What’s the new girl’s name?”

“Uh, Amy.”

“Does Amy read Hebrew?”

“This is where it gets entertaining. Her last name is Hitler, apparently her family is German and they were here before World War II—”

“Wait a fucking second! Greg is bringing a woman named Hitler to our seder?”

Jared is on the floor laughing when I hang up with Jake.

I scrunch up the napkin my wineglass was resting on and throw it at him. “Yeah, very funny. He’s got to be fucking with me. How could anyone in America still have the name Hitler? I find that about as likely as running into Siamese twins.”

“If it’s true, it’s hilarious.”

“It would be funny if it wasn’t another mark America will have against my family.”

“I’ll do a national Verizon search and see how many there are.” Jared goes over to his computer and hits the little apple key to jog his iMac out of standby mode. “Diana Hitler,” he says a minute later in delight. “George Hitler. Millie Hitler. It’s very possible. There’s a whole bunch of them.”

I sway my head in disbelief as I lift the receiver to call Sukie at her store. The answering machine is on, and her perky voice trumpets a spring sale at Upsy Daisy. I leave a message for her to call me ASAP.

Greg’s girlfriend’s last name hits me again as soon I hang up. I burst out laughing.

“What?” Jared says with a grin.

“Hitler. Her name is
Hitler
.” I look at the clock. It’s 9:00 p.m. on a Sunday. No wonder there’s no answer at Upsy Daisy. I remember Sukie gave me her home number too.

“Ohmi-
gawd
, I was thinking of you, Heather. I’m just so glad you called. I’d like, so love to come.”

While I’m on the phone getting Sukie’s details of where Greg should pick her up, Jared checks his e-mail. He types a bit and opens Microsoft Paint. He draws a circular smiley face, fills the big circle with yellow and fills the eyes with red.

“How’s it going?” Jared asks when I hang up. He clicks his artwork closed and cops another feel of his bare chin.

“Almost done. So far, so good,” I say. “Done playing with your Colorforms?”

“All done.” He laughs.

Jared shows me a few photos of his family on the bookshelf, and one of his teenage self with windblown hair. “I couldn’t even grow a beard then.”

We have now spent over ten hours together and I am exhausted but not bored. With more kosher Chardonnay in our bloodstream we leave the seder behind and find we still have more to talk about.

He’s very interested in the fact that my mother sips coffee out of a straw so her teeth won’t turn yellow.

He’s as disgusted as I am over the way most of America’s chickens are confined to little crates.

“You’re so sparkly,” Jared decides after our next exchange about how anytime I see a new product in the supermarket—like single-serve coffee bags meant to rival tea bags, or even ice cream cone–shaped cereal—I have to buy it.

Me, with the sour aura—sparkly? Now
that
is a laugh.

“You’re so refreshing from the rest of the women in Manhattan. I don’t think I can handle one more conversation about clothing sales and how much weight so-and-so has lost.”

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I stretch out in Jared’s funky armchair. I should be going home to my new double-glazed windows, but I’m so tired that the act of getting up and walking frightens me. “What time is it?” I say reluctantly. “My phone’s in my bag.”

“It’s 11:00 p.m.”

“Early morning, Amsterdam time.”

“You’re welcome to stay over.”

“Just because I shaved your beard doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you,” I say with a yawn.

“Did I say you should? I have a sofa bed for my friends.”

“Do you have anything I could sleep in?”

Jared stands up with a smile on his face and a minute later returns with an oversize
Iron Chef
T-shirt. “From the competition. If memory serves,” he says, “this shirt has never been worn.” I change in the bathroom as Jared opens the sofa bed and fits it with burgundy sheets and a pillowcase. I’m secretly impressed—they’re from the better linen shelves—they’re probably 300 count.

Jared sits on the edge of the bed with me. “Should I give you a hug or a kiss good-night?”

“Both.”

He gives me a quick peck and a stagey hug.

“Can I ask you a slightly nutty question?”

“Of course,” he says.

“If you were gay what would you be into?”

“Into?”

“Leather? Drag queens? Effeminate men? I’m just trying to understand what appeals to my father. What makes him cross the line?”

Jared thinks and smiles. “I’m with Eddie Murphy. I’d like her to look as much like a woman if possible.” He adds dryly, “Breasts if possible.”

I trace circles in his palms.

“What do we have here?” he whispers. “A hand fetishist?”

I smirk.

“What is it? Hitler again?”

“Did you ever see
The Piano
?”

“There isn’t a man over thirty whose girlfriend didn’t drag them to that film.”

“Well, I liked it.”

“Because you’re a woman.”

“Yes, I am.” I smile. “You know that scene where the husband, what’s his name, the Aussie guy from
Jurassic Park—
”

“Sam Neill—”

“Yeah. He’s enraged that his wife is in love with Harvey Keitel’s character, and he wants to have sex with her. She gives him a mercy fuck, but she’s on top. She controls her husband through her hands. A woman had to have shot that. Women have sex with their hands. A sex scene directed by a man is all grunting and moaning.”

“So now you
are
sleeping with me?” Jared whispers. “I’ll take a mercy fuck.” He tries to kiss me again, and I purposely miss his lips.

“Ay yae yae, Jared Silver. Why can’t you love lobster and staying in bed Saturday mornings? Lobster rocks.”

“I’m not giving lobster short shrift. I’ve only been seriously kosher since Israel.”

“Wasn’t that right after college? How can you remember what it tastes like?”

“You don’t forget lobster. I also really miss scallops.”

“Scallops too? But they’re so good. Is it so offensive to God to eat one scallop?”

“No shellfish. No scallop parmesan, no sautéed scallops. I think veal scallopini is off limits because it sounds so much like scallops.”

I laugh at that last bit. “How do you keep track of everything? You must need a guidebook.”

“You know, I actually bothered to read Exodus once. It’s very specific. I bet you didn’t know that you are allowed to eat bugs, but only certain types of bugs, with their knees bent a certain way. I think only grasshoppers and red locusts.”

I smile dolefully. “You said it before—these are new times. I don’t want biblical restrictions on my life—or my bugs.”

He leans over and kisses me on the neck. “Thoroughly Modern Heather, let’s just get past your seder. I’m not being piggish here, but you would be way more comfortable in my bed. I wasn’t going to tell you, but my cousin from California pretty much ruined the sofa-bed mattress. He’s even taller than I am and sixty pounds heavier.”

“Whatever mattress you show me, I’m there. But soon please, I’m about to collapse.”

I follow him to his bedroom divide. I’m too lethargic to check out his decor. I spot a pillow. My friend the pillow. Give me, give me. Jared removes his shirt and leaves his white BVD jocks on. Good, I hate pretentious boxers, they remind me of Daniel. The jocks are just tight enough for me to be sleepily impressed with a nice kosher package between his legs. What am I thinking? Not getting involved. A mature woman.

He pulls back the comforter and notices my pained face. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“Just tempted as all hell.”

“Remember, we don’t believe in hell.” Jared gets up and slips on a pair of black Old Navy sweatpants. As he lies down next to me, the agreeably musky scent of his chest and arms further jumble my emotions.

A Second Opinion

I
n the untidy heap of events last night, Jared forgot to set the alarm. He nudges me awake. He has to run out to meet Steve at the office to go over the Passover shoot.

“We don’t have time to shower.” He chucks me a wet washcloth for a birdbath.

I wipe my underarms as I leave a message for Vondra that I’ll be in a bit late. She’s so used to my double duty at Passover that I’m sure she won’t mind.

“I can lend you my deodorant,” Jared continues. “Not that you need it. But you’ll be set for three days.”

I take a sniff of his Mitchum roll-on and decline. “I’m going straight home anyway.”

“Ready to go?” he says.

“Let’s hit it.”

We share a cab with a driver who has blacked over his name under the back-seat photo ID. Not only is that a risky move, it’s illegal. I sneak a look at his skin-tone and facial hair. He must have an Arabic name and is worried about bad tips and accusatory words in an angry world. The cab rolls up outside the main office for the Food Channel on Sixth Avenue and Forty-fifth Street. Jared gives me a very sweet kiss on the lips and says, “I’ll see you at the rehearsal.”

“Yes,” I say. “I hate to sound neurotic, but please don’t tell Steve about my family’s dark secrets. Or about us. I want to appear professional.”

“Please, not a peep, I promise. Anyhow, I had a great time.”

“Me too,” I say a little self-consciously—I notice in the rearview mirror that the driver is listening.

“Can you avoid Forty-seventh Street?” I ask through the open space in the Plexiglas divide. “I always get stuck on that street.”

“New boyfriend?” the driver asks at the first traffic light.

“Maybe,” I say.

“May I ask what your hesitation is?”

Should I ask this? “Do you keep
halal
in your home?”

“You think I’m Arab?”

I catch his eyes in the mirror. “Yes. Isn’t that why you’ve covered up your name?”

He smiles like someone who has been yelled at by an Iraqi-hating sailor during Fleet Week. “Very observant. I love America, you know. It’s given me an opportunity I never had before. I’m scared of some passengers though. They beat up my cousin.”

“I’m sure you are a fine man, and that you love America.”

“So why do you care if I keep
halal?
”

“Because I’m Jewish, but I don’t keep kosher. I really like that man, but I think to marry this man I would have to drastically change my lifestyle. I like my current lifestyle just fine, but I don’t like having to say goodbye to someone who makes me happy.”

“You should follow your heart,” the driver says. “Only now I follow my heart and bought my medallion license. I’m my own business now. No more boss. For the first time I am happy.”

My suggestion for the quicker side-street route backfires when we’re stopped cold in traffic by men unloading a moving truck. According to its back-panel logo, which we get to know very well in the gridlock, the truck is part of the trusted fleet of
The Official Movers of the Ladies Pro-Golf Association
.

Back at my house I set off to finish the round of seder-rehearsal invitations I began the previous night. Following Jake’s request, I call my branch of the U.S. Post Office. “You want to talk to your postman?” says the amused mailwoman who answers the phone. I wait as she gets Oleg on the line, Oleg who is just about to leave for his route.

He is amazed. “The Matzo Ball Heiress? On the phone with me?”

“Yes. I know it’s a bit unusual for anyone to call you at the post office—”

“You are my very first call I have had here in twelve years.”

“Yes, well, I was wondering if you ever watch the Food Channel?”

“Yes,” he says with a confused laugh. “Did you see how they make salami in Italy? Unbelievable. That’s why you called?”

“Well, that’s the channel that wants to broadcast my family seder. And since you have a true appreciation of what it means to be able to hold one, I’d love to have you join my family.”

“Really?
My family
? We’ve only been celebrating for maybe ten years, since we left Russia.”

“It’s because you relish it that it would be such an honor to have you join us.”

He muses and says, “You are in luck. We are having a big seder the second night only. My cousins can’t get away until that night. My kids would love it.”

“Oleg—you may have to leave your kids at home. The network wants us to show a big family, so we’re kind of faking it that way. You’d have to pretend to be my newly emigrated Russian cousin. I’m not sure if your kids could fit in with the story.”

“Maybe it’s my English, but I’m not sure I understand. You can explain this all to me when I get to your building. I’ll be there in a half hour. Can you come down to the lobby?”

“Of course.”

Vondra. I have to call Vondra. Surely Mahmoud laughed her out of the room when she brought up the seder. I just need to be sure.

“Mahmoud is thrilled to be going!”

My God. I let it be and ask them both to come to rehearsal. If he’s offended by the Death to Ancient Egyptians rhetoric, at least we’ll find out in the dry run.

The phone rings again. “Hello,” I say brightly. How the hell did I get in this good mood?

“You sound chipper,” Steve says.

“Hi,” I say after a delayed start.

“I just finished a meeting about you and yours. The techies are still talking it out, so I’m checking in, making sure you’re comfortable. Is your family ready for the seder?”

“They will be.”

“Terrific. I was just calling to see if I could ask you another small favor regarding the broadcast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We didn’t get as much budget on this as I wanted. My boss wants me to use the interns at the Food Channel, but this year most of them are Jewish and don’t want to give up going to their own seders. Jared of all people said yes, though, right away. Frankly, I’m shocked. I don’t think he’s ever missed his family seder.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s the favor?”

“Well, Jared was telling me he met your intern at the Museum of Natural History, and I was wondering if he’s available. Is he Jewish?”

“Roswell? I don’t think so.”

“Great. Do you think we could borrow him? He already knows Jared. We need someone to help with the cords.”

Jared’s words of faith in Roswell spring to mind. “He’s not the most reliable person, but you’re right, he likes Jared. He might come through. And I’ll ask my cousin Jake if his intern could come too.”

“A matzo factory has an intern?”

“Why not? In fact, our intern and my cousin’s intern know each other. They’re both Stuyvesant High School students, and part of the City as School internship program.”

“Great. So that was fortuitous that you could use Jared on your shoot, huh? He’s a nice guy.”

Do I detect a note of jealousy? “Jared is a lovely human being.”

“Yes, who wouldn’t like Jared, he’s so—likable.”

I have to come somewhat clean, as least as far as my romantic interest lies. What if the two of them talked? “Steve, since this is coming up now, I have something to tell you. I don’t know about you and me. I think I’m more compatible with Jared. Not that we’re in a relationship. I mean we haven’t gotten physically involved, but we seem to be going in that direction.”

Steve pauses a while, perhaps more stung than I ever thought he could be. “I knew he liked you, but he said nothing to me about this.”

“I hope this doesn’t affect the broadcast. The balloon ride is very tempting, but, well, I guess we won’t be doing that now. But I’m really looking forward to the special.” I feel good now that I got it all out. This is Heather Melissa Greenblotz at the steering wheel,
chickie
.

Steve is silent again. I smile to myself. Hit me with your best shot, Mr. Teflon.

He does. “Jared’s ultrakosher, did you know that? Are you kosher?”

“Do you think I am?” Yes, what does Steve think I am? Doesn’t he remember the oysters we had at the Union Square Café? What goes on in his self-centered brain?

“I wouldn’t ask if I thought you were. You don’t give off that vibe.”

“Really? And what vibe do I give off?”

“I can’t figure you out. You wanted to go on a romantic balloon ride with me, and now you’re flat out not interested. I think you are a young woman who is still rather mad at me.”

“Maybe I’m still smarting from that night at my apartment. But we need to do this seder, so let’s just forget about it.”

“Heather, maybe I haven’t apologized the right way.”

“You sent flowers, it’s okay.”

“Flowers aren’t the same as genuine regret, right?”

“Right,” I peep.

“I do feel awful about the way our first date fell apart. If I weren’t doing this special, I’d still have asked you out. I’ll be a hundred percent honest this time. Maybe I wouldn’t have pushed so hard to meet the same day if I didn’t need an urgent answer for my boss, but I would have asked you out for that weekend. I’m sure of it. I was and am very smitten with you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” I say. “So why do you think I’m not kosher?”

“Are you?”

“We’re being a hundred percent honest here?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell you the truth if you promise not to say anything on air.”

“Of course.”

“No. I’m not at all. Remember those oysters we had on our date? I ate mine faster than you ate yours.”

“Oysters aren’t kosher?”

“They’re shellfish, so no. But, uh, Jake is kosher and the factory is kept kosher, so we have to act like I’m kosher for the special.”

“That’s fine. No skin off my back. I have to tell you, chickie, I’m kind of relieved you’re not kosher. I really think it’s ridiculous in this age. I think these special holidays are great, but I draw the line at rules that mess up everyday living. Jared and I have had some heated discussions about this.”

“He didn’t mention that.”

“Don’t get me wrong. He’s a modern guy in every respect. I called him a hypocrite because he keeps kosher but won’t wear a
yarmulke
. Then I told him to own up to the mess organized religion has gotten us into. Maybe in India where the untouchables are born with no hope it’s needed to get them through an otherwise unbelievable life. But here in America? Stop me if I’m ranting here, by the way—”

“Maybe you are a bit too keyed up for ten in the morning. I haven’t had any coffee yet.”

“Okay.” Steve laughs.

“Much food for thought.”

“My biggest fight with Jared was when I said I pity the women who have to keep a kosher home. Why add that to their day? Traditions are good for once in a while. But why would any free-thinking woman go backward? What would be so bad if some major rabbi in the mainstream with common sense came along and said, no, we won’t make women do this anymore?”

“I’m sure the reform rabbis don’t ask their female constituents to keep kosher.”

“Then what’s holding back the orthodox Jews?”

“Fear of losing our heritage? Look, Steve, exactly what religion are you anyway? I didn’t understand your answer in, uh, my bed.”

Steve chuckles. “My mother is Jewish, raised atheist. My father was raised as a Jehovah’s Witness until he was older and saw the light, so to speak, that it was fucking him up. So we were a neither-nor religion. When I was younger, I thought they both got it wrong. I craved religion, big-time. People who’ve been raised without it usually do. I became a religion major and that’s when my real education began. For as long as there’s been religion, fear and panic have ruled the world. Perhaps with science, now that we can find out that everyone on the planet is virtually indistinguishable except for the level of melatonin, we can finally move ahead.”

I’m not as Angry with a capital A as Steve is. But if I’m honest with myself, he’s breaking through to me, and that fantasy of life with Jared that’s forming in the back of my mind starts to lose its momentum and feel ridiculous again. Keeping kosher and going to synagogue is just not who I am. Who would think it would be slick Steve Meyers who could snuff my enthusiasm for more dates with Jared?