The Matzo Ball Heiress (25 page)

“Incredible,” Steve says on air. “I want to remind our viewers this is the Food Channel, not CNN.”

“I’m honored to have my aunt Gertie here,” Dad continues. “She is a reminder of how important our older generations were to our family. She is the sister of my gentle deceased father, Reuben Greenblotz.”

Gertie nods happily. She’s enjoying this charade.

What did I tell Steve again? That she was my father’s mother’s sister. To hell with it all. Why will he care now? We’ve jumped in the pool already.

When the camera is off her and on to Sukie, Gertie leans over to me and whispers, “I vas Reuben’s mistress.”

“Finally,” Dad says, “we have Sukie Cohen, a bright young woman who owns a new store next to our matzo factory on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.” Channeling Tom Brokaw, Dad goes on to explain that this is Sukie’s first seder and that it is an honor to have a Cohen at any Jewish ceremony.

Sukie smiles proudly, and Jared focuses his camera on her. “I am, like, so honored to be here.”

“One more,” my mother calls out.

Dad pauses. Did he really forget, or was he just stalling? “Yes, rounding out the table we have Pieter Eicken, a very good friend of mine from Amsterdam, passing through New York. It is a
mitzvah,
a blessing, in Jewish tradition to invite those away from home to the Passover seder.”

“Wonderful,” says Steve, looking relieved. “Shall we begin?”

“We shall,” Dad says with a nod. “We start the service with a blessing to sanctify the holiday. For this prayer, we will drink the first of four cups of wine. I’ll first explain to the Food Channel audience that during the seder four glasses of wine are poured to represent the four stages of the exodus: freedom, deliverance, redemption and release. After the meal we will pour a symbolic fifth cup of wine for the prophet Elijah, and at that moment we will open our door to let him in.”

Jared pans over to the still-closed front door.

At Dad’s instruction we raise our cups and recite the prayer.

“Good,” Dad says. “Now I will now read from a
Haggadah
, which literally means, ‘The Telling.’ It is best described as the book of instructions Jews have used to carry out this ritual celebration for thousands of years. I will first use the
Haggadah
to explain the seder plate. Although I am reading the English version, you may notice I am reading from the top of the right page. That is because we follow the traditional Hebrew
Haggadah
as a guide. Hebrew is read right to left, not left to right. Occasionally you will hear a bit of Hebrew here or there, but I will be sure to translate for you.”

He picks up the
Haggadah
. “Before us we have three matzos, commemorating the bread which our forefathers were compelled to eat during their hasty departure from Egypt. We use the three matzos to represent the three religious groupings of the Jewish people—Kohen—” here, Dad smiles at Sukie, who blushes and giggles “—Levi and Yisroayl. These matzos are placed together to indicate the unity of the Jewish people. In unity, we find our strength and power to survive.”

Through my peripheral vision I can tell Jared has zoomed into my face on the word
survive
. I nod my head with conviction.

“Another item on the seder plate,” Dad continues, “is
haroset
, a mixture of apples, walnuts and wine that represents the mortar the Jewish slaves used to assemble the Pharaoh’s brick. Next there is parsley dipped in saltwater—it symbolizes springtime and the tears of the Jewish slaves. And there’s a roasted egg on the plate…”

Dad pauses as he sees what I see from my seat: an empty spot on the seder plate where an oven-browned egg once was.

Roswell’s hand springs into view and slides a peeled egg with a small bite taken out of it.

I gasp off camera—don’t tell me Roswell fed his after-weed munchies with the seder egg! But Jared has shrewdly focused on a framed Von Gogh exhibition poster on the wall instead of the egg. Even so, Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “The egg is another traditional symbol of spring,” he says coolly. “And also of fertility.”

Dad takes a sip of lemon water before continuing. “Then there is the shankbone, symbolic of the sacrificial-lamb offering of days gone by, and bitter herbs to represent the bitter affliction of slavery.” Off camera, Siobhan sticks her tongue out at Jake. Siobhan had wanted to grind a fresh root instead of using the prefab Silver’s horseradish bottle. The way Jake nixed that time-wasting activity had made me laugh: “For a girl who speaks fluent Gaelic, you’re getting carried away with Jewish authenticity.”

“Next,” Dad continues, “we wash our hands. This is a spiritual cleansing.” At rehearsal, Jared instructed Siobhan and I what to do during this section, so we both jump up and circle the table with our assigned tasks. Siobhan has a small water jug to pour water over the hands of everyone seated, and I’m there to catch the water in a basin, and hand everyone a towel to dry their hands.

We’re all hot and sweaty under the lights, but Pieter uses the basin as an opportunity to wash his perspiration off his face. This time it’s Jared who gasps at the sacrilege as he points away at the wall again.

“We now pass out more
karpas
, which you will remember from the seder plate is a springtime symbol.” Dad says the proper prayer in Hebrew, and Jake translates it into English. “Over the years,” my father adds, “the Greenblotz family has found parsley is a good vegetable to use for
karpas
because when you shake the water, it looks like tears.”

After we have dipped our parsley into the saltwater, Dad takes the reins again. “Now we place three matzos on the table, Greenblotz Matzos of course, and bless them. The middle matzo is broken in half as a dessert matzo for the youngest to find. More about that later.”

Another sip of water. “Now,” Dad says, “we come to the big
magilla
as far as the seder is concerned. This part of our seder is the telling of the Exodus narrative. We start with the Four Questions. Traditionally the youngest person at the table asks questions, and we go around the table to answer.”

Jared had surveyed the room during our rehearsal to figure out who should ask the questions. Although Roswell is quite a few years younger than Sukie, he is off air tonight. So this is twenty-six-year-old Sukie’s big moment in the sun. She reads the questions in phonetic Hebrew before reading the English translation from her
Hagaddah
: “Why is this night different from all other nights of the year?” she begins.

Dad smiles broadly when she’s finished her questions and says, “Wonderful, Sukie. We shall now, together as a group, answer the four basic questions concerning Passover, which you have asked.”

Counterclockwise, we each read a passage marked
participant
in the
Haggadah
.

Soon, it is my turn again. I speak as clearly as possible: “‘There were but seventy people who arrived in Egypt, but, in time, their number increased. Soon they also grew in strength and became a mighty people. The Egyptians came to fear them for, they reasoned, in time of war they might join with enemy nations and become a threatening force. They, therefore, decided to subdue them with forced labor, and to reduce their numbers by casting male children into the river. Taskmasters were placed over the Hebrews, who whipped and tortured them, compelling them to make bricks and build great cities for the Pharaohs.’”

I skim ahead and gasp to myself. Will Mahmoud really have to read what’s next?

“You want me to read this?” Mahmoud asks with a pained smile.

“Yes,” Dad says, and there is a group laugh on camera.

Mahmoud coughs loudly and reads in his beautiful voice: “‘The task was inhuman and too great to bear. The Jewish people cried out to God, and he heard them cry. He called to Moses, charging him to appear before the Pharaoh and demand that the people be released. Pharaoh was obstinate and would not heed the word of God.’”

I wince as Mahmoud continues on about how Moses predicted the plagues God would rain on the Egyptians if the Jews weren’t released. I miss a bit, but when I tune in again, Mahmoud is saying, “‘When the tenth plague was visited upon them, the death of the firstborn sons of Egyptians, a great cry went up throughout Egypt, and Pharaoh finally ordered Moses to take his people out of the land.’” Mahmoud coughs again, and we all laugh again, a bit more uncomfortably.

I may be sated with Steve, but I have to give him kudos for his hosting. He knows this is a perfect spot to interrupt the ceremony with a bit of humorous but poignant commentary. “If the spokesman for the Egyptian consulate can respectfully read that passage, I think there’s hope for the Middle East yet.”

“Amen,” my father says.

Vondra touches Mahmoud’s shoulder as we dab red drops of ultrasweet Schapiro’s kosher Passover wine on our paper napkins (as Jared coached us to do) and read the ten plagues together first in phonetic Hebrew, then in the translation:

Blood. Frogs. Gnats. Flies. Murrain. Boils. Hail. Locusts. Darkness. Slaying of the firstborn.

There are more prayers for Dad to read, but soon it’s time to eat our meal, and time for Steve to make another on-air appearance.

He sticks a microphone in front of my face. “Pop quiz. What’s murrain?”

I force a laugh. “No clue.” Was that an olive branch or on-air provocation?

“A cattle disease,” Bettina says from off-camera. I’d forgotten she was there.

Steve picks up my vibe and smartly moves far down the table to Gertie. Ever the faithful employee, Gertie tells the world how proud she is of her “nephew” Sol.

“Every year, such a beautiful seder,” Gertie says. She smiles in my direction after Steve has moved on to Greg and Amy, and Sukie.

“This is an emotional evening for me,” Sukie says. “I’ve reconnected to the half of my ancestry I knew nothing about.” Sukie has tears in her eyes, but even red-eyed, she is cute as a button.

“Closer,” Steve mouths to Jared. “Money shot.”

Jared zooms in.

Amy nudges Greg. “Where’s my close-up?” she whispers.

Jesus. I hope no one heard that in their living rooms.

Amy calls out Steve’s name, which forces him to come over with an artificial smile. “I think America should know what a beautiful, loving family the Greenblotzes are,” Amy says, as sweet as German chocolate cake.

Greg nods his head to her in approval, but Steve motions Jared to move on quickly to Pieter in purple mesh.

“And our visitor from Amsterdam,” Steve says to Pieter. “Any thoughts?”

“Don’t buy any of what Amy said. The Greenblotz family is crazy as a fruit loaf.”

Everyone at the table laughs loudly.

“But despite that,” Pieter adds, “I’m having a
fabulous
time.”

“The matzo ball soup is wonderful, Shoshanna,” Mahmoud says.

“That’s Greenblotz Matzo Meal in the matzo balls,” Jake trumpets.

Considering how mortified I was at the start of the broadcast, I’m amazed how quickly and smoothly we got through this night. Could it really be time to drink the final cup of wine?

I look at my watch. Eighty minutes exactly. Dad’s pacing was perfect. There’s just enough time for a follow-up prayer and a traditional after-meal song, which we sing together phonetically, following along in our
Haggadahs
.

Finally, my father reads the very last prayer: “‘As we have been privileged to observe the seder tonight, may all of us be privileged to celebrate it, together, again next year. May it be God’s will to preserve us in life and good health.
L’shna haba-a bi-Y’rushalayim!
Next year in Jerusalem!’”

“Next year in Jerusalem,” the seder table echoes.

“I’m Steve Meyers, and you’ve been watching a special presentation of the Food Channel.”

We smile like contestants who have performed but have not yet been judged on a talent show until Kev says, via walkie-talkie from the remote truck, “Steve, we’re off the air.”

Steve and Jared may hate me now, but they would both have to admit that the Greenblotz
mishpucha
did their company proud. I can’t look either of them in the eye.

Steve sits down in an empty chair. He rests his face in his palms. Jared puts down his camera on the floor and claps.

Jake smiles big, stands, shakes Jared’s hand, and walks over to embrace my mother. “Thank you, Aunt Jocelyn.”

“For what, Jake?” Mom says.

“For everything. Thank you, everyone.”

“I should be saying the thank-yous,” Steve says awkwardly after he removes his face from his hands. “That was excellent.”

Mahmoud gives Vondra a kiss on the cheek. I survey the rest of the room: calmed and happy faces. Except for Roswell’s: the joint has put him to sleep on the couch.

Bettina is gone. Before I can ponder her absence further, Jared sneaks up behind me and kisses me on the neck.

Elastic Marriage

“Y
our father and I are getting back together.”

I believe the word here is
dumbfounded
. Did I hear correctly? “What about Pieter?” I sputter when my voice works again.

Mom takes another forkful of her tuna and arugula salad. We were lucky to get a lunchtime seat in Café SFA, the tucked-away but very crowded restaurant on the eighth floor of Saks Fifth Avenue.

“He’s moving in too.”

“What? Are you out of your minds?”

“You and I haven’t discussed my marriage with your father in depth, I know that, Heather. But after how we all teamed up on the seder, don’t you think we should continue to open up to each other a bit more?”

“How did you go from a night’s cooperation to a full reconciliation? In one week?”

“The U.N. is out of session this week—so Mahmoud has been counseling us in his office. He’s better than all of our therapists combined.”

I’m mute. I pick up a fork and stare at its tines. What can I say to this insanity?

“Heather, listen to me good. I love him. He’s—gay, but I want to be with him.”

“I don’t get it. If he doesn’t want women, why would you want to torture yourself like that?”

“He’s the smartest man I’ve ever known. I used to read literature when he was around. He used to clip book reviews for me, to challenge me. Now I read
dreck
to pass the time. That’s my life now. Mysteries and
TV Guide
.”

“Mom, you love mysteries. Don’t let Dad tell you what to read.”

“I’m not going to stop reading them. I just want your father around to push me to read more.” She stops to smile a bit kookily, and says, “I’ll tell you a secret. I’m under a growing suspicion that he was looking for a male version of me. Pieter is like a kid in a candy shop when it comes to New York shopping—and he may be a trendy photographer, but he brought three junky Dutch mysteries in his suitcase. His taste and mine are not so far apart.”

I move the saltshaker closer to the pepper shaker. “Not to get ugly, Mom, but, um, are they going to be sexual in your apartment?”

“They’ll have plenty of privacy for that sort of thing. You can’t hear a thing from the guest bedroom.”

I whistle softly. “This is too much.”

“If Dad holds me and makes me laugh, shouldn’t that be enough?”

“What about your needs?”

“What, sex? Not for me. And what am I getting now?”

“What about Angela and Wilson? Aren’t you two worried about the backstairs gossip leaking to the press?”

“They’ve always been discreet. Your father paid them well, and I kept up the big checks. They know we’re not kosher, and that alone could have ruined the business. So what’s a little queenie Dutchie to them?”

“Tell me, what’s Pieter to you?”

“At Mahmoud’s suggestion, your father went to see a movie yesterday so Pieter and I could have a private coffee in my apartment. He’s a bit flamboyant—”

“A bit? He dresses in purple from head to toe.”

“I’m surprised that you’re so hostile to this. You, the big activist in our family.”

“I’m not hostile,” I say with great hostility. Why does this disturb me so much? Even I’m not sure.

Two ladies who lunch sneak a look at our table to see who is going at it in such a classy place.

“Sol looked wonderful at the seder, don’t you think?”

“It was a nice suit,” I say quietly.

“Pieter’s doing. Next he’s going to talk to your father about that smelly horse blanket your father still wears for a sweater. Pieter and I are plotting a fashion intervention.”

The humor of this situation is sinking in. “Dad scuttling around your designer house in his batik-wear and moccasins won’t do?”

Mom smiles. “I think with two of us on the case, he may very well change. We’re going to tag-team him. Drag him to see a stylist kicking and screaming.”

“Why can’t you or Pieter just go with him to a couple of suitable stores?”

“Honey, everyone has a stylist these days.”

Our waitress plunks down our grilled-chicken Caesars. Mom checks her lipstick with a glance at the wall mirror and asks, “So, what’s new with you?”

“Other than my mother and gay father getting back together? Nothing new, except people keep stopping me on the street. You can’t believe the ratings the seder got.”

“I’ve been stopped too. I know. Tell me, what’s going on with Jared? I’m glad you two were talking after the seder.”

“We talked, but trust me, nothing’s happening there. Jared has moved past what Steve said about me, or a least he says he has. But we couldn’t get past the kosher issue.”

“Maybe he’s more bothered than he’s letting on about your date with Steve. I have to tell you, I don’t blame you. Steve behaved despicably, but that man is so dishy—”

“Please, not you too, Mom! Trust me, he’s an arrogant world unto his own.”

“That’s a shame about Jared. He’s a nice man, and very handsome too. I love the cleft chin.”

I don’t want to think about Jared. It just makes me sad. “Mom, I want to get back to what’s going on with you and Dad.”

“There’s not much more to say. They’re moving in tomorrow and we’re going to give it a shot.”

“So how open will you be? Are you going to announce to the Jewish press that Dad is gay?”

“Are you kidding? I’m dumb but I’m not stupid. What can I say? I’m lonely—miserable—without him. Am I that nuts?” She looks at me with an exposed face: a woman, a mother, a wife with palpable fear. Her voice quivers as she continues, “Do you know how your mother gets to sleep at night?”

“How?” I’m finding it impossible to look directly at her eyes when she’s spilling her guts to me. After years of wanting just this kind of emotion from her, I’m not ready for it. I push a piece of oily lettuce to the side so that the SFA logo appears on the plate.

“I’ve bought out the entire New Age CD section at Tower Records. Waterfalls. That’s how I get to sleep. Otherwise I dread my dreams. I’m always stuck in a pit or I’m falling down a cliff.” She kneads her hands together as she continues, “Once, just once, I was naked and I soared over my high school and I soared over my college and I soared over my apartment building. I didn’t care I was naked because I was flying and everyone else wasn’t. I flew over the world and I landed on the ground in a green airstrip. There was your father to greet me, naked, and welcoming.”

I have to look at her, even though the tears are welling up inside me. I do. A voice inside me commands me to grab her hand before she bawls. “You’re not dumb if it works for you, Mom—”

When she can breathe steadily again, she smiles as best as she can. “I should have known what I was getting into at that Cornell-Ithaca social where we met. He was reading
Auntie Mame
when I sat down and said hello.”

I laugh as my first tear drips down my nose.

And she laughs that I laugh.

I’m in the bath when I remember that the last Grand Lady of Sex we filmed, Rina O’Riley, is leaving NYC for the summer in a few days. I desperately need to get her all-important release form that schmucko Roswell left in the bathroom of the Museum of Natural History. Rina also has to do an ADR for us, which means the additional recording of a few words that were drowned out by background noise. Like every good cameraman, Jared took plenty of pick-up shots. With the addition of an ADR, our editor can make the film seamless with a spare visual of the cavemen while only Rina’s rerecorded voice is heard. Mixed in with the words that are actually coming out of her mouth in the museum, the effect will be seamless. And like most documentarians, except the annoying purists, I don’t think using ADRs is cheating. Rina won’t be dubbing in new thoughts, she’s just repeating words she’s already said.

“Sure,” she says cheerily, even though it’s 11:00 p.m. “Tomorrow morning would be fine.”

I check the equipment in my living room. “Two. Two. One. Two.” I play it back, and it sounds okay, I guess. I hate recording ADRs without a proper sound person, but who am I going to get at this hour? I’m certainly not going to ask Tonia after she called me a slut at the seder.

I am fascinated by Rina’s apartment, a testament to a life well lived. All around the living room are anthropological artifacts and unusual souvenirs from her many travels. The far wall houses a terrific tribal-mask collection. In one photograph on prominent display in her living room, there’s an attractive professorial type with his arms around a much younger Rina.

I point to the photo after I’ve finished my recording. “Is that your husband?”

“Yes,” Rina says quietly. “Frank died almost fifteen years ago.” She coughs a bit sadly and adds, “By the way, I saw your family on television last week. I’m not Jewish, but I found the whole ceremony fascinating. You seem very close to your family. That’s wonderful.”

I’m on safe ground, and I desperately need to vent. Of all the people on earth, Rina O’Riley, the woman who cocoined
Elastic Marriage
, is sure to understand an unusual family structure. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly honest.”

“How’s that?”

“Nobody was talking to each other. That nice old lady is an employee who works in our shop, not a relative. My parents hadn’t seen each other for ten years until thirty minutes before the seder. My father flew in from Amsterdam with Pieter, his new gay lover.”

Rina seems unfazed.

“It’s ironic that we filmed a segment with you about Elastic Marriage just before the seder, because as of today, my parents are going to be living with Pieter in just that, an Elastic Marriage, although the world can’t know about the happy arrangement.”

She smiles kindly. “You seem unnerved about this turn of events.”

“I am.”

“When I was your age there was a popular expression, ‘The marriage is on its second bottle of Tabasco.’ That meant the marriage has lasted, through better or worse. Marriage is about negotiation and compromise. Whatever gets two people through.”

“But can I confide in you a little more, Rina?”

“Of course you can.”

“My mother doesn’t care about sex. She just wants my father there for the companionship. Now she can also tap his lover for a second opinion on her shopping sprees.”

Rina laughs. “A need for companionship is a very common scenario. And this is a pansexual moment in history. I know many gay-straight marriages that work.”

“You do?”

“This is my business. Trust me.”

Rina has helped me isolate the reason behind my discomfort—my anxiety that we could be the only family in the world with such a fucked-up structure. To hear that there are other households like this that work—that
does
sink in. I already feel less animosity toward my parents’ reconciliation. I sigh. “It is their life, not mine. I guess they have to try what works for them.”

“Love is a hard puzzle to crack.”

“Yes,” I smile sadly.

“Ah,” she says, “having some troubles solving your own love puzzle?”

She’s good. “Yeah. I actually found a puzzle worth solving, but I didn’t like the way it turned out.”

“I’m not following you,” Rina says.

“Remember the cameraman you met at the museum? Jared Silver. He’s handsome, kind, funny, smart. In fact, he has every quality I’m looking for in a partner, except for his religious beliefs.”

“He isn’t Jewish? Isn’t Silver a Jewish name?”

“Yes. I finally found the Nice Jewish Guy of my dreams, except he’s
too
Jewish for me. He’s kosher and I’m not. He sees no problem with so many aspects of organized religion that bother me.” I sigh again. “It’s a dead end.”

“Darling, sometimes you have to get creative. It’s
very
hard to find love in this world.”

Rina bids me goodbye with a handshake and a motherly peck.

Downstairs in her lobby, my cell phone rings.

“Hello?”

“It’s Bettina.”

“Finally. God, where were you?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I wanted to talk to you about what happened at the seder. What happened to you? I’ve been calling you for almost a week, Bettina.”

“It went very well, don’t you think?”

“You crossed some big boundaries. It’s one thing if you push me to make a phone call from your office. But I think it’s completely inappropriate to have lassoed my mother into coming without letting me know. If we hadn’t had Mahmoud there, we could have had a disastrous event on our hands.”

“I had faith in you.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that. My first instinct is to say, “You did?”

“Heather, this is what people hire me for, what can I say? Perhaps it’s time we part from each other.”

“Wait a second! I’m not firing you! I just want to talk this out. I need to talk to you about my conversations with Jared, about what Rina O—”

“Jared is the cameraman?”

“Yes. We talked after the seder. We have a great connection and a deadly disagreement about religion. I just don’t see how it can work, but I feel nauseous about giving him up.”

“This is where I leave you, love.”

My stomach tightens. “What do you mean, leave me?”

“The best thing I can do for you is let you decide what to do.”

“Hello?” Jared says over an incredible din.

“Where are you?”

“Heather?”

“Yes. I can hardly hear you. Where are you?”

“We’re filming in Chinatown’s largest dim sum parlor.”

“Can you meet me? To talk more?”

Jared is silent for the space of two breaths, and then says, “Can you meet me outside the Chinese restaurant on the southeast corner of East Broadway and Rutgers? I think it’s called Wing Shoon, or Wing Shine, something like that. You can take the F train down there, and get off at East Broadway.”

“I’ll do that,” I say, although I know I’ll grab a cab instead.

“I wanted you to see this place,” Jared says after a careful kiss on my cheek outside of Wing Shoon. “This was once the Garden Cafeteria. It’s where Emma Goldman and John Reed used to eat. You know who they were?”

“I know. I had the hots for an anarchist once.”

He smiles. “But of course you did.” He coughs uncomfortably. “So. Has it been a week already?”