The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (14 page)

“Ooops,” I say. “Guess we were just having too much fun.” I stand. “Excuse me, Josh. I’m just going to the ladies’ room to wash it off.”

“Want me to get you some club soda?” he asks.

“That’s okay,” I say, giving Josh a kiss on his head as I pass him.

“I’m kind of a mess too,” Peter says behind me. “Be right back.”

Hearing that, I speed to get to the bathrooms before he does. Unoccupied, I turn the knob to the ladies’ room and step right in. But before I get to slide the latch, someone stronger pushes through. Peter locks the door behind us, then turns and makes me face him.

T
he
S
mear

S
CRANTON?
T
HIS IS RICH
,” he says, his back up against the door. I notice for the first time Peter wears the gray cashmere scarf wrapped around his neck, falling down onto that black Gap sweater.

“Looks nice,” I say, pointing to the clothes.

“Why, thanks,” he says, coming forward.

“So if you can just move.” I try to step past Peter as he blocks the sink in the tiny bathroom.

“Aimee, knock it off.” Peter pauses. “I’m sorry. I mean
eMay
”
—
he cracks up—“knock it off.”

“It’s not funny,” I say, turning on the hot water, reaching into the stall, ripping off a big piece of toilet paper, and then soaping it up. “And look what you did to my new pants.”

“Look what I did to your—?” Peter turns me by my shoulders to face him. “Okay. Let me get a look. A good one.”

He studies me. And in that moment I feel it. The penetration of those intense blue eyes. Piercing into me, as if he can see inside and out.

“You look different.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning from him to try to deal with the coffee stain.

“Wait a sec.” Peter gently grabs my wrist, not letting me near the sink. “What makes you think that was a compliment?”

“Excuse me?” In the last weeks, and for the first time in my life I might add, I have gotten nothing but. “Everyone thinks I look terrific,” I find the gumption to say.

“You’re slimmer, it’s cool. But you were always sexy. Voluptuous.”

I try, but can’t move. It’s like he’s casting a spell on me.

“The hair.” Peter shakes his head. “Now you look like every other woman in the city. Like every woman in New York who’s trying to look like someone in a magazine. It’s pretty, Aim. Don’t get me wrong. But I’d be afraid to touch it, you know. To mess it up. But
your
hair,” Peter recalls. “That long dark beautiful curly mane . . . Now I could get lost in that.”

He did. I remember that he did. And I remember how.

“Everyone’s allowed a new look once in a while.”

“A new look,” says Peter. His voice brings me back; his fingers push the ends of my hair behind my shoulders. “A new birthplace. What happened since we broke up? You went undercover for the CIA?”

Guilty of some things, I don’t want to admit to anything. I push past Peter to the sink to get the stain out of my pants.

“Give me that,” he says, taking my soapy white paper to toss it away. “If you’re not going to go straight to the dry cleaner, just dab it with cold water. This would only make a bigger mess.” He pulls me in. “Come ’ere.”

Peter lifts my left leg, leaning it up against his right thigh. My back rests against the side of the stall. He reaches over me and pulls a brown paper towel out of the metallic dispenser. A lock of his blond hair brushes past my forehead. Holding my leg, he uses his other hand to run cold water onto the towel.

“Now all you want to do,” he says, “is dab. Very. Very. Gently.”

He does. Peter dabs, and the wetness grows. The wet circle on my pants expands. The fullness of the expansion not completely seen. Well . . . not on
these
pants anyway.

“What about you?” I ask, indicating Peter’s.

“Was just your water. Let’s take care of you right now.”

The familiar words bring back familiar feelings. Forcing me to compare them to my feelings of last night.

“See how it’s coming?” Peter asks, holding my leg oh so carefully as he dabs, dabs, dabs.

With each dab I can taste the missing ingredients of Josh. But last night was on a better track, evidence that these things do grow. There was more abandon, more intimacy. And besides, how can I expect those qualities with Josh when they are the very ones I am withholding? Time will take care of everything with us. Just because I may still have feelings for Peter doesn’t mean I can have a life with him.

“Thank you.” He has finished the job, though he has yet to release my leg. “We should get back.”

“What’s the rush?” he asks, moving closer, testing the water.

“Hello.” I put up my hand to stop him. “But aren’t you in a relationship?”

“With Court?” Peter laughs. “We’re just having fun. I think she might be a little too young.”

“Actually I think she might be a little too dumb.”

“Hey, Aimee. That wasn’t nice. Whatever weird thing’s going on with you and the bread dude, don’t take it out on her.”

“Nothing weird is going on.”

“Good. So let’s get out of here before Josh boy asks her out.”

“Josh is with me,” I say sharply. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

“Josh is with someone,” says Peter. “But believe me, it isn’t
you.
”

I try to pull my leg away, but Peter won’t let me go. “Come on, P. Cut it out.”

“When you tell me what’s going on.” He extends my left leg and places it across the edge of the sink, holding it tight. Thank goodness for those years of ballet. “You know I’m not letting you go till you tell. Fess up.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I try to move, but he’s got me cornered. “Let me go.” I try to move again. “Come on.”

“I’ve got nothing to lose here, so the ball’s in your court,” says Peter, holding on to my leg.

“Stop.”

He doesn’t. Like a boy in a schoolyard who beats up girls on whom he has crushes, Peter holds firm.

“Ready to spill?” he asks.

I try to remove his hand, but he’s stronger and doesn’t budge.

“Peter, I said stop it.”

“What was that?” Peter doesn’t hurt me but presses down hard enough to show just who’s in control. “You mind repeating that?”

“Stop.”

“Say uncle?”

“No.”

He tightens his grip.

“Do I hear uncle?”

“Peter—!”

“ Uh-Oh. Now look what’s going to happen.” Peter makes a play to reach for the other leg. As if he might pick me up and sling me over his shoulder like a caveman.

“Okay! Stop! You win!” I say, putting an end to this. “Josh likes shiksas. Happy?”

“So why’s he dating you?”

I try to move before he gets it, but Peter gets it in a flash. In fact, he lets go of my leg so suddenly, I practically fall.

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me. Oh, man, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Peter howls. I shove my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

“I figured you were just playing this guy. Someone maybe you met online and you didn’t want him to know too much about you. But you’re . . .” He puts his hand on his forehead. He can’t quite believe it. “Yeah, you’re playing him, all right.”

I don’t answer.

“He doesn’t know you’re Jewish? That’s it, right? That was the farce in there? He thinks you’re a
shiksa
?” Peter knows the word and hits the syllables so they hit me on my head.

“Yes,” I say. Quietly.

“Why?”

I can’t answer him. Krista is one thing. And Daphne is another. Jon really doesn’t bother me. And Tova. Well, that just makes me feel foolish. But Peter. I have never felt so ashamed, and I have never wanted him more.

“When we met, I could tell Josh liked non-Jewish women. I was with Krista, and he thought we were the same, so I kept it that way. It’s not such a big deal.”

“Of course it isn’t,” says Peter. “We broke up partly so you could be with a Jewish man, and now you’re pretending not to be Jewish. Makes sense to me.” He quickly grows beyond disappointment, past betrayal, and well into anger.

“It’s just till I get him. Which is working very well, by the way.”

“I can see. And once you get him, then who are you going to be? How far do you think you’re going with a relationship built on a lie?”

“God. You’re turning it into such a
thing.
” I see myself in the tarnished bathroom mirror. Unrecognizable. No longer feeling tempted or sexy. Only silly. And a little sick.

“It was a big enough
thing
for you to leave me,” Peter says. Turning on the water. Washing his hands. I believe of me.

He unlatches the door.

“Wait!”

I don’t know what Peter will do if he walks out now. And I don’t want him to be the one to blow my cover.

“Look, Peter. We had our chance. We don’t want the same things. But Josh and I do. We’re just getting there in a slightly unconventional way. Okay?”

With his hand on the door knob to show he’s on his way out, Peter’s eyes also show he is hurt. But like Krista and Daphne, Tova and Jon, he will allow himself to be woven into my tangled web.

“Just get this,” Peter says in a commanding voice I never have heard. “You are deceiving him that you’re his—oh, what do you always call it?—oh, yeah . . . his Shiksa Goddess. And you think he’ll fall so in love with you he won’t care you betrayed him?”

“Something like that.”

“Go back to the table. I’ll be there in a minute.” Peter opens the door and lets me out. “You know, Aim, if you tried this hard with me, you could have been my goddess and gotten to still be you in the bargain.”

I must have fallen down the rabbit’s hole, because I walk back to the table smaller than ever. I take my seat and smile at Josh. Shrinking. The food has arrived, and Courtney’s pretty happy. I grab a bagel for comfort, put a wad of cream cheese on my knife and give the bagel a big smear. Peter comes back to the table.

“Happy, babe?” he asks.

So out of it, I must be on automatic pilot because I face Peter as if his question is directed to me. Of all the embarrassments of the day, gratefully only I am aware of this one. In some ways, though, it is the worst one yet.

“Delish,” Courtney happily replies, munching. “I’m glad you brought me here, after all. Did you know this place from your ex?”

Josh looks at Peter.

“I dated a Jewish chick for a while,” Peter tells him with a subliminal dismissiveness I know is meant for me.

“Things end,” says Josh. “Better ones begin.”

“You got that right,” says Peter. Then he takes his fork and stabs it straight into a chub.

M
atzos,
M
others, and the
R
eal
M
essiah

W
E’RE NINETEEN
here for the first night,” says my mom, busy at work in her kitchen, giving me the platter to dry. Whenever it’s nearing Passover, she breaks out Grandma Frieda’s dishes, hand-washing the set to use for the seder. Arriving into the world before dishwasher safe was even a concept, my mother will not risk them in anything other than the kitchen sink. Over the years, the white background has become discolored, but the bright green and yellow floral design remains vibrant. The very sight of the dishes announces both the holiday and spring.

“Hand me that?” I point to the cover that fits right over the large, round serving bowl. Maddie uses her mother’s recipe and always fills it to the brim with tzimmes. The aroma of sweet potatoes, carrots, and prunes melding into one will fi ll the apartment. Requiring a head start, the side dish gets time to slow-cook the day before.

“Your father wants to use a different Haggadah this year,” she tells me, soaping up several dinner plates at a time before placing them all in the dish drainer.

“Which one?”

My father, somewhat of a raconteur, enjoys finding new ways to tell the Passover story. He will liken the Jewish people’s struggle for freedom to modern times, asking all the guests to relate a personal story. Last year when Hannah’s turn came, my niece told everyone she was still a slave. Forced to wear a dress she didn’t like for a class picture and unable to decide her own bedtime were her examples of torture.

“Something he read about in the
Times.
I don’t care what it is,” says my mother. “So long as he likes it. I have enough to think about. We’re a lot of people. I invited Daphne’s in-laws, so I’ll need you to help me serve and clear.”

Assuming Josh would be with his family, I figured I’d go to mine and tell him I was having dinner that night with friends. We’ve been spending a lot of time together these last weeks and most weekends. Divine dinners, driving lessons (I’m definitely improving), and debauchery—though to a much lesser degree. But the absolute best happened when, last night, he asked me to go with him to Passover at his parents.

Finally.

Josh, finally, is including me in a Jewish ritual. It is a start. An opportunity. And one I do not plan to miss.

“Sure,” I tell my mom. “I’ll help.” I feel horrid lying, but I don’t want to bring up Josh. Not yet. She’ll be okay without me. Daphne will help her, and so will my cousins Marni and Shawn.

“Good. You’ll come over early?”

I nod as I open the stepladder. Placing it on the floor in front of the bold blue cupboard, I climb up and put the clean dishes back whence they came.

“And the next night we’ll go to Daphne in Jersey. I’m so glad this year the holiday falls at the beginning of the week. This way, I can prepare all weekend.”

“What weekend?” I ask. “Beginning of what week?” I know I know this, but suddenly I’m aware I’m not cognizant of the dates. “You mean a Monday night and a
Tuesday
?”

“Yes,” says Maddie. “That’s usually the beginning of the week. The second and the third.”

The third? Tuesday, the third?

“Second seder on Tuesday is the third?” I confirm.

“Yes,” my mother says, having stacked the last of the dried dishes on the counter, making it easy for me to put the rest of them away. “What’s the difference?”

Almost every day for the last few weeks Josh has told me to save the first week of April. Tuesday, the third. He’s been on cloud nine ever since receiving the invitation to the grand opening of Copioso. The Mexican restaurant is from the same people who own the elegant Tocqueville and 15 EAST off Union Square. Josh’s bread is such a hit, he developed a personal relationship with owners Marco and Jo-Ann, scoring an invite.

In all the nonstop talk about the event, Josh never said a word about it being the same night as the second seder. I suppose his family doesn’t do two. I believe in Israel it is the custom to do only one. At any rate, from his point of view, I do none. This opening is very important to him. And I don’t see any way I can’t go.

“I can’t go,” I muster the guts to tell my mom, regretting the words as soon as they’re out.

“You can’t go where?”

“To Daphne’s. For the second seder.”

The words quite clear about the second night, I am even more uncertain how I will get out of the first. Not to mention I always keep Passover to the extent I don’t eat bread. Since I’m not kosher to begin with, I don’t strictly adhere to eating only foods labeled
KOSHER FOR PASSOVER.
But since unleavened bread is symbolic of the Jews fleeing slavery in Egypt, I eat matzo during the eight-day holiday. And
never
eat bread or flour products. How will I navigate my way around that at a Mexican restaurant? Is it too late for me to give up bread for Lent? Does my religion even do that?

“What do you mean you can’t go?” asks my mom. “Why not? What are you doing?”

“I . . .” What have I done? “I . . . uh, made other plans.” The business of stepping up and down with the dishes keeps me busy, enabling me to avoid my mother’s eyes. “I’m going to Krista’s,” I blurt into the gravy bowl. “She and Matt are having a seder at her place the second night.”

“I always liked Krista. I’m happy she found someone. I’d like to see it happen for you.”

But it is, Mommy. It
is
happening for me, and I wish I could tell you. I so want to share my news, but I can’t just yet. I know my mother would somehow find out and ruin my plan, so I plan to wait.

“Well, I kind of promised her I’d go. But I’ll be with everyone here the first night.” There is a decidedly uncomfortable silence. “You understand?”

My mother, surprisingly, does not react. Remaining quiet, she helps steady the stepladder as I make my way down. When my feet safely touch the floor, she looks me in the eyes. “I understand a lot more than you give me credit for,” she says. “So if you want to talk to me, Aimee, I’ll understand. We all notice you’re not yourself since you and Peter broke up. Do you ever hear from him?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, walking out of the kitchen into the dining room. I can picture my family gathered around this table and am sorry I can’t join them. Plus now I realize I have to figure out what to do about Easter.

“We ran into each other,” I tell my mom. “It was cordial. We were both with other people. On dates.”

This raises an eyebrow high enough to almost let me off the hook.

“Anyone nice?” she asks.

“Could be,” I say, “but I don’t want to jinx it so I don’t really want to talk.”

“Okay,” says Maddie, allowing this mystery date to explain everything away. “Will he be going with you to Krista’s?” she asks. Hopeful.

“He’ll certainly be invited,” I say, making a mental note to ask her if Protestants are the same as Catholics in observing Lent.

But come the afternoon of the first seder, I’m not quite so la-di-da. Josh calls to say he will pick me up at four o’clock to avoid the traffic out to Long Island. He is excited for me to meet his family. I am too, but I am already missing mine.

My mother expects me after three. Around two, I return to my apartment. I’ve been manicured and pedicured; my hair, too, is fresh from another cut, color, wash, blow-dry, and flat iron. (The money I’ve spent on my hair since February would certainly have bought me a week’s vacation in Jamaica.) A dozen white roses and a good California merlot seem appropriate hostess gifts. I was going to buy a bottle of Manischewitz or a bakery cake labeled
KOSHER FOR PASSOVER.
But I was afraid it might appear too eager and a bit too in-the-know.

Opening my closet, I unveil the silky new babydoll dress. Yellow with tiny green dots, it has a ruffled cap sleeve, and in a V between the breasts a dark green satin bow. Suede bag and shoes, that green cashmere cardigan, and, in honor of today, a headband. Brushing my red hair back, I stretch the thick green-and-yellow-striped band tightly over my head. Mascara, then blush. And after the finishing touch—pale pink gloss on my lips—I only wish I had looked like this all my life. Speaking of all my life . . .

1–212–555–0421.

“Are you on your way?” my mother says instead of hello. “I’m ready for you.”

“Aaaaaa
—choo.
” There is no response from Maddie, so I do it again. “Aaaaaa
—choo.
” I fake-sneeze. “Aaaaaa
—choo.
Aaaaaa
—choo. Aaaaaa—choo!
” I repeat into the phone, thinking I might have made a pretty decent actress.

“What happened to you? You sound terrible.”

I sound terrible? Good. Now I have to really sound terrible.

“I’m very, very sick,” I say, sounding as terrible as I possibly can. “I can’t move. I’m so sorry. I never missed Passover, ever. But . . . I just can’t come.”

“Do you have fever? Did you take your temperature?”

Shit. My mother sounds worried.

“I think I just need to rest. Working. So hard.”

“What’s the matter?” I hear my father’s voice in the background. “Who is it?”

“Aimee,” my mother calls to him. “She’s sick.”

“What’s the matter?” He’s closer to the phone now, so I also hear his concern.

“She’s overworked. I’ve been telling you something’s wrong for weeks.”

My parents carry on a whole conversation, despite the fact I’m on the line. Too busy talking about me to talk to me. I sit down on my bed and pick up the remote for my flat, little TV. After a few clicks, I get lucky with HBO. I watch
Tootsie
while holding the phone to my ear.

“You still there?” Maddie finally asks. Click. My father picks up, too.

“Yes.”

“I’m coming to get you,” says Sid.

“No!”

“We’ll take a cab, and you can stay in your room and sleep if you’re still not feeling well.”

“Don’t come here, Daddy. You can’t.” He really, really can’t.

“Aimee, you’re not going to be with us for seder tonight or tomorrow? I won’t accept that.”

“Please don’t come,” I plead. Real emotion, emanating from real fear, helps fuel a nasal, hacking, sick, and exhausted me. “I don’t want to get the kids sick. Aaaaaa
—choo.
Just need sleep.” Cough, cough. “Tell everyone I’m sorry.”

“All right. Call us later.”

Call-waiting. Josh is ringing through. In minutes he will arrive.

“Okay. Love you both. Aaaaaa
—choo.
Happy Pesach.”

Click. Click. Shift. Shift.

“Well, hello there,” I chirp for Josh.

My perky voice back on command, I practically give myself an Oscar. Grabbing the wine, the flowers, and an all-weather trench, I exit my building, ready for the performance of my life.

“Hello, gorgeous,” says Josh as I slip next to him into the very wonderfully familiar car. Falling in love with the BMW, I often fantasize a tremendous success with KISS might possibly allow me to consider one.

Placing the flowers and the wine in the back, I lean over and give him a big kiss hello. I am going to meet Josh’s family and celebrate a Jewish holiday. Yes, I am nervous, but I can hardly wait.

Once we are safely out of the city, I will question him about the seder. I will ask Josh to tell me about the ritual and prepare me for what’s to come. My interest will be acute, my questions on the mark, and when he wants to know why, I will tell him Judaism is beginning to fascinate me. And wanting to fit in with his family, I did, oh, just a wee bit of Internet research in honor of this most important event.

But, as always, Josh surprises first. When we exit the Long Island Expressway, I think we have arrived. But once we’re on the Cross Island, he pulls over and has me take the wheel.

“Stay to the right,” Josh coaches, but believe me, I’m not changing lanes. To simply stay in mine and drive requires all my concentration.

I go the speed limit and stay steady. The exhilaration of driving on a parkway is tempered by my ability. Still rusty, I’m still tentative. But even I can’t deny my obvious improvement each and every week. Now I see I’m truly learning. I have Josh, totally, to thank. Though he is the force beside me, I confess, it feels powerful to steer. And does this baby glide. When I actually merge, exit, and get us onto the Southern State Parkway, I see what all the fuss is about.

“Since you’ve got the paperwork in place, it’s time we think about scheduling a road test,” says Josh.

I spent five hours last Saturday completing a safety class at New York Drives, a private driving school in the city. When I showed Josh my MV285 certificate, he
cvelled
as if he was looking at a real diploma. The class was even fun. But now he mentions a road test, and the wheel swirls out of my hand.

“Whoa,” says Josh, his reflex fast as he grabs the wheel with his left hand. (Fortunately, he’s a lefty.)

“I can’t take the test,” I say. “There’s no good day to take the test. Something tragic always happens, okay? I told you, I can never take the test.”

“Calm down, eMay, stay cool,” says Josh, his left hand now massaging my shoulders. “How about this? Let me schedule a road test and not tell you when. One day you may think we’re out for brunch, but instead we’ll show up at a DMV. If you’re feeling good, go for it. Otherwise, we’ll cancel.”

“Perfect,” I agree. Permanent or temporary, it’s a solution. And the end of that conversation. Now it’s time to talk about the seder, and closer to our exit it will soon run out. Our four eyes on the road, I thank Josh for his efforts on behalf of my driving dilemma before telling him how I’m looking forward to tonight, sweetly asking what to expect.

But I practically smack into the Lexus in front of us because Josh happily tells me his family only has Passover dinner and doesn’t deal with a seder. Or, as he explains, they feel there’s no point to go through a whole boring rigmarole that has no actual relevance when the only thing people really care about is when they are going to eat.

So distressed to hear this, I completely shut down. (I’m sure Josh attributes my silence to my total focus on the road.) No seder? It can’t be. Please don’t tell me I’ve gone through all this only to wind up celebrating Passover without a seder.