The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (10 page)

“What did I do?” I look from Jon back to my father. “Daddy, make him apologize.”

“For what? Having a conversation? What is it with you? What are you so nervous about?” asks my father.

“You finally noticed,” says my mother.

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” says Jon. Feeling in the right, he is now able to come to my rescue. “I think you’re gangbusters at your job. It’s just that I think sometimes your work has the tendency to create—”

Here we go.

“Okay, that’s enough,” says Maddie, catching my eye. “We’re eating. We’re done talking about work. Stop it now. The both of you.” My mother is hardly annoyed as her place in the family structure, once again clear, makes her happy.

Jon and I look at each other and go back to our steaks. He knocks his knee against mine under the table. I chew a bit, then use my knee and knock his back.

“Ma-a,” he sing-songs like a ten-year-old. “Tell Aimee to stop knocking my knee.”

“He started it,” I say, and look at Jon. This is our way of making up. Sometimes I think we bring on our regressions just to feel young. The outburst, however, also helps me to let off a little steam.

“You know,” my brother says under his breath, “I really didn’t do anything, except maybe point out the obvious.”

“Well, if you want to know the truth, the budget sucks so a big celeb is tough. Besides, I wanted someone based here because I need the launch to be in the city. L.A. means rental cars. And Jay is leaning on me again.”

My family exchanges knowing looks.

“Aimee. There is no evil eye,” my brother explains. “Let go. It’s time to move on.”

“That’s what I always say,” says Maddie.

I look to my father for support, but he’s cheering the other team.

“Go online,” says Jon, “and download the manual to study and take the test for a learner’s permit. You’re going to have to get an eye test and stuff too. When you get the permit, you can practice or take real driving lessons.”

“If you want, we can practice on Sunday,” says my dad.

“I thought you liked staying alive,” Jon tells him.

“What’s this I hear about Sunday?”

Everyone looks up from the table and happily shouts Krista’s name. At this moment she couldn’t be more welcome if she were the Messiah.

“Join us,” says my dad. “What do you want? Order something.”

A passing waiter adds a chair to the head of the table. Comfortable with my family, Krista sits.

“Thank you, Sid, but I’m meeting my boyfriend later for dinner,” she says, her eyes wide as she not only lets the cat out of the bag but makes sure the opening’s large enough for him to jump. “He plays tennis some nights after work.”

And the conversation turns back to boys. But it’s Krista’s boy, and all the Alberts are excited to hear.

“Aimee didn’t tell me about this,” says Maddie. “You look happy. Good for you.”

“He’s a dream,” says Krista. “And guess what? He’s Jewish!”

My parents practically applaud. It’s always been a phenomenon to observe. When I told them Peter was Not, it wasn’t a problem, but it also was not a reason to raise your glass in merriment. Conversely, however . . .

“Whoa,” says Jon. “Go, Kris.”

“What does that mean?” I ask. But I already know. It means Jon thinks her guy is cool. Hunting outside his tribe, he brings back the coveted prey. Even without having met, Jon has more kudos for Matt dating Krista than if he was dating me.

“Well, it’s really because of all of you I was even interested in dating a Jewish man,” she says.

“You mean the neurotic Jewish family is a turn-on?” asks Jon, making my father laugh.

“I think it’s lovely,” says Maddie. “Isn’t it?”

“Whatever,” says my brother.

“You know, her boyfriend’s kind of into it, Jon,” I tell him. “He’s pretty knowledgeable. Observes traditions. Krista goes with him some Friday nights to services. Matt’s not like you.”

“Oh,” says Jon, and I see he makes a slight adjustment. Perhaps the guy’s not that cool, after all. “Well, just don’t go all Jewish on us now, Krista. You know how sometimes when non-Jewish women convert they get superreligious,” he says, the idea not at all appealing.

“And what if she did?” I ask, both of us jumping Krista’s conversion gun, talking about her as if she isn’t there. “Why would that be so bad?”

Krista blushes. It brings up things she is mulling over but not ready to discuss in public. Things personal. And things private.

“All right, I see where this is going,” says Maddie. “I’m a referee tonight,” she confides in Krista. “Everything is an argument.”

“So”—Sid turns to my friend—“welcome to the Jewish family.”

I
nside and
O
ut

J
ON HAS HIS CAR
in a garage nearby and offers to drive everyone home. My parents jump on it, but Krista has not done her food shopping and I have yet to do mine.

“I’ll take them now and come back for both of you. How’s that?”

After I get my license, I wonder if I’ll get a car and drive around the city like the characters in
Seinfeld.
Even though it takes place in Manhattan, they drive everywhere as if they live in the burbs. Most people in the city don’t do that. Although Jon, now, does. Living downtown, he often teases that he has to renew his visa in order to come uptown and visit.

“He knows,” I tell Krista, pushing our carts down the meat aisle. “I can see it in his eyes. Jon knows.” Krista immediately heads to the kosher section. Something I never do.

“I want to cook Matt a Shabbat meal,” she says, I note correctly. She picks up an uncooked kosher chicken and throws it into her cart. “What makes you think he knows?”

We continue on as I pick up a package of pork sausages. Both bypassing the blintzes and heading straight to the soups.

“He was awfully testy with me tonight,” I say, putting two cans of Campbell’s New England clam chowder into my cart.

“Isn’t that just the way you guys are?” Krista asks, and takes a can of Manischewitz chicken soup off the shelf.

“So you know,” I tell her, “it also comes with matzo balls.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m going to make my own.”

“Impressive. Look, tonight was different. I’m really worried about him talking with Daphne,” I say, and watch Krista reach upward for a package of matzo meal. “You’re learning so fast?”

“Well, Matt told me his grandmother used to make the best knoodles.” She glows when she says this.

“You mean
knaidlach
?” I ask, never having made them myself. After the kugel, it was the next recipe I was going to try in the cookbook I got from Peter.

“No, this time I mean knoodles. That’s what Matt and his younger sister used to call them when they were kids.”

“Sweet.”

“I don’t think he knows,” she tells me. “I just think you’re paranoid. Oh!” Krista reaches across the aisle and drops a box of Minute Rice into my cart. “You’ll need this.”

“Huh?”

“For your hearty sausage-and-rice casserole,” she explains, pointing to the contents in my cart. “Perfect for after work. Recipe should be on the can of the soup. Takes only fifteen minutes to prepare. And you can fool around for the hour it takes to bake.”

This from a shiksa. Ice princess, my ass. What does Josh think he’s talking about?

Krista and I both check out and then go outside to wait in front of the store. Jon has phoned and is on his way down from Ninety-sixth Street to pick us up.

“So that part’s good between you guys?” I ask. Fishing for more.

Krista, usually an open book, is unusually quiet about Matt. This is the first time she has really been discreet. I respect that, but I miss her stories. My favorite was about the guy who was lying with her in bed, hands at his sides, and was leaning over to kiss her. The whole thing not going anywhere and not quite knowing what to do, Krista took his hands and began moving them across her body. “Oh,” he finally said, perking up. “You mean you want me to touch you?”

“God yes,” she exclaims now, referring of course to Matt. “It’s definitely good.” She checks her watch. Counting the hours until he’s back from tennis and they have dinner. “Believe it or not, Matt was my very first Jew,” Krista confides.

“Really?” This tidbit is juicy enough to make up for all that privacy. “But what about Scott Solomon, and Kenny Something-berg—oh, you know who I mean.”

“Nope. Never. They were only one or two dates.” Krista giggles and reflects. “Are they all that good?”

“I usually don’t have any complaints,” I tell her. I quickly think through my past boyfriends and see I am right. As great as it was with Sam, in a completely different way it was incredibly wonderful with Peter. I don’t think of sex exactly as a religious or cultural activity. It’s really just the personal chemistry. But chemistry does start in the brain, and I’m seeing the potency of the power of belief.

“Matt says that Jewish women are uptight, but us Catholic girls are really wild.”

“Oh he does, does he? Well, can’t say I’ve ever been with one, but I’ve always heard Catholic girls are repressed. And I can tell you, firsthand, Jewish women are wild.”

So put that in your hat!

“Oooooh,” says Krista. “Sounds like you guys are having fun.”

“Not yet. I’ve been a
bisel
uptight.” I look at Krista, pleased to not have to state the obvious as to why. “Now Josh thinks I’m a Waspy ice princess.”

Honk! Honk!

“A
bisel
?” she asks.

“A little,” I translate.

“A
bisel.
I’ll remember that. Icy or not, is a Waspy princess hotter than a Jewish one?” asks my friend.

We look up and see Jon illegally double-park his new navy blue Maxima in front of Fairway. He gets out of the car to help us with our bags, lined up on the ground near the curb.

“I don’t know. But I think we’re on the way to finding out.”

Jon steps onto the sidewalk to help carry our bags to the car. Between us, we have five. Krista did more shopping than me. Not terribly interested in cooking, I’m more of a binge chef. I hope Jon doesn’t think anything of the sudden stock-up.

“Okay, whatcha got here?” he says, and takes three bags at once. Krista and I follow behind and watch as he opens the trunk. Our remaining bags rest on the street. “I’ll separate them so you don’t get them mixed up when I drop you off.”

Even though he’s a creative, I always appreciate my brother’s organizational skills.

“Okay,” says Krista. “I’ll show you which ones are mi—”

“It’s okay, Kris. I can see for myself,” Jon says, and laughs. He peeks inside a few of the bags, overflowing with Jewish food.

Manischewitz mixes, matzo meal, and matzo ball soup—backup in case the homemade ones don’t turn out well. A jar of gefilte fish, another of horseradish. A round challah, a dozen chocolate
rugelach
cookies, a separate bag for the uncooked chicken . . . and that’s just for starters. Potato pierogi, sour cream, a bottle of borscht; even I can’t believe she bought that.

“Now really, whose would these be?” Jon says, and winks at me.

“Actually”—Krista actually gets the word out before I jab her with my elbow.

“We’ll put these on the left,” says my brother, “and I’ll grab them when we get to Aimee’s.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him. “Willie will get them for me.”

“And risk having you tell Dad I made you carry?” says Jon. “No way.” He picks up the remaining bags to put in the trunk. “Boy, you two can shop. The women I date wouldn’t even eat if not for me,” he continues, but first looks into the bags.

He’s now into mine. I look at Krista. She waves her hand in such a way that tells me not to worry about it. But I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get to my apartment and he goes to get them. And I don’t want to wait till we’re there to find out.

“This is more interesting than going through a woman’s purse,” says Jon.

He is baiting me. Boy, is he ever. I appeal to Krista while a nosy Jonathan makes his way through food bags filled with the American dream, complete with a package of ham, Kraft macaroni and cheese, Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits, Ronzoni spaghetti, Mrs. Paul’s fish sticks, and a quart of homogenized whole milk.

“Krista. I think the Shake ’n Bake era is over,” he says, and presses down to close the trunk.

My good friend good-naturedly laughs. With her eyes she urges me to do the same. I chortle.

“Okay, everybody. Get in.”

Krista moves forward. Walking a few steps, she opens the door to the backseat. I don’t move at all. I’ve got to figure out how to get me and my food away from this car and into a cab.

“A, get in,” Jon calls from the driver’s side of the car.

“You know what?” I call back. “I just remembered I forgot something. Or maybe it got mixed up in Krista’s bag. Can you pop the trunk?”

Jon pops open the trunk, and I see our bags neatly placed on opposite sides. Opposite sides. If that’s not a metaphor for my life. Okay, I can take my bags out and make an excuse to not take the ride, but then when he gets to Krista’s he’ll realize those American dream ones were mine. I should have just said they were. We grew up eating ham and macaroni and cheese. For God’s sake, we drank milk. What is my problem?

“Aimee, come on,” calls Jon. “I don’t have all day.”

I hear the back door open and close. Krista now stands beside me. She looks at me with exasperation. She does not like having to constantly cover for me.

“Just take yours into the backseat, okay?” I urge. “And I’ll take mine. We’ll say we were afraid that things would break in the trunk.”

“And when he goes to help me?” Krista asks.

“Put the eggs or something on the top to cover that other stuff. Look, he’s not going to look in there anymore. This is all Daphne’s fault. I know she told. Maybe not the whole thing, but enough to make him suspi
—Aaaaaah!
”

I jump, as suddenly Jon is behind us, a policeman standing next to him.

“See, Officer, we’re leaving
now.
Aren’t we?” He brushes past me and Krista, slams down hard on the trunk, and practically pushes the two of us into the car. “That was close,” he says when we pull away. There’s a red light so we don’t get too far.

“Makes you appreciate the suburbs,” says Krista from the back. I instantly turn my head. Knowing everything, how dare she talk about the suburbs?

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” says my brother. “But Daph loves it in Jersey. She said she ran into you the other day, A. Mum’s the word? Or is it Mom?” He laughs.

I knew it. I’m going to kill her. If I could drive, I’d be flying across the George Washington Bridge, ready to do it now.

“Pull over,” I say to Jon as the light changes. “I’m getting my stuff out, and I’m getting a cab home.” Not paying any attention, I open the passenger door just as he starts driving. Quickly making a sharp right, Jon instantly veers the car over to a space near a hydrant. He slams hard on the brakes, and we hear a horrible sound. Like an accident in the making, except it doesn’t happen.

“Are you crazy?” he screams.

What!!??

Are you crazy? Are you crazy?
r u crazy?
I knew it. I KNEW IT.

“How could my own sister betray me like that? So I’m pretending to be a shiksa. So kill me.”

“You think I’m going to take you out driving? Opening the door when the car’s in motion? What’s up with you tonight?” Jon hollers. My head is down; I have to get away. “All Daphne said was that you had a new guy. No one said anything about pretending to be a—”

Silence. There is silence in the car. I can feel the thought absorb itself into Jon’s brain faster than the borscht can get into your bloodstream. He looks at me. First in disbelief. And then delight.

“This is priceless.” My brother laughs. He laughs harder. He laughs so hard, he has to hold the side of his stomach as his head falls down over the dashboard.

“Jonathan,” I cry. And I do mean cry.

“Aimee, this is better,” says Krista. Consolingly, she thinks.

“You know about this?” Jon turns to her. “Of course you do! You two are in cahoots. You have a Jewish guy, and you have . . .” He turns and faces me. “What
do
you have?”

“A Jewish guy,” I answer. “Not one like Sam, though. A guy with shiksa syndrome. Like you,” I say accusingly. If it weren’t for men like Jonathan, I wouldn’t have to go through this charade, now would I?

“Shiksa syndrome?” My brother laughs even harder. “Wow, I never realized just how creative you PR girls really are. Now there’s a spin for ya.”

“Fuck you!”

“Hey—watch your mouth, Aimee.”

“I’m sorry, Jonathan,” I instantly say. Embarrassed I cursed. Sorry I’m not calm. Or composed. And really sorry I lost it. Lately I am losing it so much, I begin to wonder if I will ever find it all again. “I’m so on edge,” I try to explain. “Forgive me. But he’s a supernice guy, and it’s working. So . . . do me a favor and just don’t tell. ANYBODY. Okay?”

Jon looks at me as if we never met. “It’s weird because I obviously know you
very
well. But”—he studies me before he finishes—“you can sort of pass.”

“Really?” I lighten up. These words give me so much confidence, this whole car thing was almost worth it. “Well, it is in part thanks to you,” I credit my brother. “It started the night Jackie gave me the makeover. Standing next to Krista at this Jewish singles event, I was mistaken. For Not.”

Jon nods his head. He gets it. Then he turns to Krista. “Wait, does the guy you’re dating think you’re Jewish?” he asks.

“No. My guy knows I’m Catholic. But I might become Jewish.”

“Ah yes,” he says, remembering the grocery bag with the kosher chicken and all its Hebraic trimmings. “And your plan, A? To become Catholic?”

“Very funny. First of all, I’m a Protestant. Just so you know. And I’m waiting for Josh, that’s his name, to start introducing me to becoming Jewish. Which I imagine will happen very soon.”

“I see,” says my brother. Highly amused. “Well, then . . . don’t let him take you driving until you convert. You don’t know what Yiddish expletive might pop out of your mouth when you’re behind the wheel.”

More time having passed than planned, I suggest Jon go ahead and drive Krista downtown so she is not late to meet Matt. I take my two grocery bags and decide to walk on Broadway a few blocks to chill before I hail a cab. Passing Fairway, I see a few dancer girls exit from Steps, the dance school whose door is practically hidden between Fairway’s outside stands of berries and grape tomatoes. I duck inside and take the stairway upstairs.

The moment I walk inside, a sense of calm overtakes me. The sight of dancers transports me. Beautiful bodies in colored leotards walk by. Capezio shoes, footless tights, bare feet, ballet slippers. I walk through the reception area, noting the night’s classes written in red on the big white magnetic marker board. In the studio to my right I can look through the glass window. I put down my grocery bags and watch the class called Advanced Beginner Ballet.