The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (15 page)

Josh allows me to finish the drive. He directs, and I follow. My mind can’t help but jump ahead to how he would want to raise children. Would they be Jewish in name only, without rituals? Even if one struggles personally with the concept of God, must it interfere with tradition?

I know many people float from holiday to holiday, celebrating with gifts and festive meals, eliminating any religious content. Christmas and Easter, Rosh Hashanah and Passover are all examples. But the exposure to what’s behind a holiday makes it more meaningful.

It’s hard to imagine Passover without a child asking the Four Questions at the seder table. But the best thing about the questions are the answers. They tell a story: of the Exodus out of Egypt from slavery to freedom. We have the freedom to tell that story however we choose. Every family can create its own traditions. Isn’t that something to celebrate? Am I naive to believe we can find ways to make religion work for us?

Put a gun to my head and ask if I can swear Moses parted the Red Sea, and I’ll tell you I don’t know. If I also tell you I don’t care, will you shoot me? Be it fact, folklore, bells, or whistles, at the end of the day—or the end of the seder—it should drive home the appreciation that we are free to create, and recreate, our lives. Something I’m well familiar with since I’ve met Josh.

The suburban streets are peaceful. The Five Towns have a big Jewish population. One can feel the holiday buzz in the air. I turn off a main boulevard to side streets, affluent and showy, with expensive homes. Is there any correlation between financial comfort and the assimilated Jewish person’s sense of religious acceptance?

“We’re here,” says Josh, indicating with the directional we are headed right. I turn up a long gravel driveway to a somewhat magnificent house. With a big grassy front yard, it’s set back from the road. Stately. Beautiful. Brick colonial. White columns. Windows trimmed in white; each adorned with big, black shutters. Front and center is an imposing red door.

I am speechless.

Josh indicates we follow the gravel, circling past the front of the house to park the car with several others off to the side. Upon getting out, I notice part of a swimming pool around the back to my right and a small duck pond under a weeping willow to my left. Tulips of all colors bloom in front of the house. I had no idea he came from this.

Josh beams. Of this, my boyfriend is proud. Why shouldn’t he be?

“How’s my boy?” is heard when the door opens. A woman steps out and gives Josh a great big hug. But it’s not his mother.

“Meet Rosita,” he says after he breaks away. “
This
is Aimee.”

We shake hello. She is actually dressed in a gray maid’s uniform. White cuffs, white collar. White trim.

“I know this fella since he was three years old,” she brags. “Mrs. Sandy,” she calls behind her, “they’re here.”

Josh’s mother arrives at the door with a brisk and bustling hello. Josh, the elder of two boys, is Daphne’s age. His mom is evidently younger than mine. Sandy’s short blonde hair is picture perfect. So is her figure. She’s bedecked in diamonds—earrings, bracelets, and rings—they shine in the sunlight when she steps outside the door, graciously accepting my bouquet. Josh shows her the bottle and holds up the wine. I smooth over my dress. I hope I look okay.

“So this is the Aimee we’ve heard so much about.”

I step into the marble entryway and notice a staircase that winds at least two more stories high. Rosita takes my coat as someone takes my hand.

“I’m Lee, Josh’s dad.” Athletic and trim, he’s clearly a man who enjoys the good life.

Josh heads off with his mom, presumably to the kitchen. My hand still in Lee’s, I follow his lead.

W
hose
L
ie
I
s
T
his
A
nyway?

D
RESSED IN BLACK AND WHITE
, two actor-type cater-waiters circulate with hors d’oeuvres. When Lee directs me to the bar to get myself a drink, I only pray I won’t find Peter behind it.

My California merlot fits in better than I do. Once I’m back in the great room with a glass, Josh takes me around and proudly makes introductions.

“You’ll have to come to Boston to visit one weekend,” says Elizabeth, his brother Zachary’s wife. She holds their fourteen-month-old baby, Ava, while five-year-old Benjy plays with the family dog, a Wheaten Terrier of the same name.

“Benjy is just Benjy,” Zach says of the pet. A few years younger than Josh, fair-skinned and light-haired, he favors his mother, while Josh has his dad’s darker, ethnic looks. “But our Benjy is technically Benjamin.”

“And he’ll grow into Ben,” says Elizabeth. Choosing to name their firstborn after his grandparents’ dog, they have their defense down pat.

Among Ashkenazi Jews, it’s the custom to name a new baby after a relative who has passed away. It keeps the name and memory alive, and abstractly forms a bond between the baby’s soul and the deceased relative. Though I wonder now if the
B
was specifically for someone, I know I can’t ask.

“We just liked it,” says Josh’s brother of the name, most likely answering my unspoken question.

“Are you Cousin Josh’s girlfriend?” A girl of about six yanks twice on my dress before asking. Straight black hair, her bangs falling just above her green oval eyes, she looks as if she stepped out of a catalog for GapKids.

“And who are you?” I ask.

“Hey, Robby,” Josh calls to the girl’s dad. “Come ’ere and meet Aimee. My first cousin,” Josh says of Robby, when a shortish guy a little older than Josh approaches. “My aunt Renee’s son.”

“You always get the pretty girls,” he says, and slaps Josh on the back. “You’ll be bringing her, right?”

“Ever been to a bar mitzvah?” asks Josh. Now on his second marriage, Robby has a thirteen-year-old son, Evan, from his first.

So elated about the bar mitzvah, I gush when introduced to Renee, Lee’s sister, who is talking with her husband, Josh’s Uncle Mickey, and Cousin Robby’s wife, Hope. The little girl, Madison, belongs to them. But before I get through the meet-and-greets, we’re intercepted by another aunt, uncle, and set of cousins on Sandy’s side.

“We’re in business together,” this uncle explains, somehow engaging me in conversation alone. “But my brother-in-law’s the big shot.” The sweep of his hand across the upscale room proves his point. “I’m a district sales manager,” he says of himself. “Josh tell you he’s a big shot now at LoveLoaves?”

“She knows the whole deal, Uncle Phil.” Josh steps in and out of the conversation as kids and cousins surround him. Phil, I learn, is Sandy’s brother.

“The kid is sharp,” he says of Josh. “Good for the
dough.
” He emphasizes the last word to push the pun.

As Josh tells it, Uncle Phil believes he was derailed from his promotion when Josh quit lawyering and joined the family business. But Lee never felt his brother-in-law really qualified. Josh’s arrival turned out to be not only better for business, but the better way to let Phil down.

“We live in Riverdale,” says Phil, pointing to his wife, Marlene. She sits in a small circle with a single daughter, married son, and his pregnant wife. “That’s in the Bronx,” he says. Unlike the others I’ve met, his family appears to be more like mine. And I bet they’d be more comfortable at the Albert seder table than here with the Hirsches.

“That’s a nice place,” I say, and think of Krista’s Matt.

“Nice, yes. But not nice like this.”

I want to excuse myself from this conversation, but Sandy has just requested that everyone take their seats. Josh, assuming I’m taken care of, is elsewhere, so Phil walks me across the room and up the few steps to the dining room.

My white roses have been arranged in small, matching cutglass vases at opposite ends of the table. Set in the center, the floral arrangement is classic, like the room. Light from the crystal chandelier reflects off the crystal goblets; tall white tapers perched in glass candlesticks flicker. A bay window looks out on an exquisitely sculpted backyard. Perfect table settings with place cards invite each guest to sit. The room is tasteful, bright, and airy; everything is elegant and chic.

“Oh my,” I exclaim when we enter.

Phil grabs my arm when I turn to find my seat. “Be a smart girl,” he whispers into my ear. “And play your cards right.” I can only wonder what my parents will think of all this.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome,” says Lee, taking his place at the head of the table as we assemble. “While we all get settled, let us welcome Josh’s new friend, Aimee.” People smile and say hello, while the waiters come around and pour wine. Josh presses on my knee under the table.

“Now I don’t know what you know about Passover, Aimee,” continues Lee, when everyone is seated. “But you’re not going to learn much about it here tonight.”

All the guests laugh, I notice, except Phil. “I just assumed you were Jewish,” he says, quietly, seated to my left.

“Uh, no,” I answer. But it seems to me that, like an animal from a similar breed, he sniffs otherwise. “I’m originally from Scranton,” I feel obligated to out-and-out lie, as if that will account for being Not.

He looks at me with bemusement, then instantly makes a face that says,
Who am I to argue?
I see Phil’s inability to follow his first good instincts have landed him in his frustrated position in life.

“My brother-in-law was hopeful,” jokes Lee, who overheard. “He wanted to get some new Jewish blood into this family.”

On cue, everyone laughs.

“So for Phil, this year we’re going to have a very mini seder.”

Good news for both of us, I think.

Phil stands, I know, to say kiddush. Seder, meaning “order,” always begins with the blessing over the wine. But instead, out of order, the small cousins, coached by Elizabeth, share in asking the Four Questions in English. Answers not forthcoming, when they finish, Phil takes the Haggadah from her. Pulling a yarmulke out of his jacket pocket, he places it on his head and lifts his crystal wine goblet before reciting the elaborate blessing. As Phil chants, he hangs on to each word, seemingly unwilling to go on to the next. Fondling each one, every word a memory. Of a world he wishes he had not let go. I know the feeling.

“Do you know how to do that?” I ask Josh.

What would happen if I stood now and recited the kiddush? I fantasize standing up in this beautiful room. Not even taking the book, and reciting the entire kiddush by heart.

“I knew once,” he says. “But I don’t need to anymore.”

But I do. Homesick, I need to call my family. The seder appears to be over as the waiters now come from the kitchen, serving bowls of hot chicken soup. The food will be a comfort. About to excuse myself for a minute, I stop when Lee speaks.

“One more thing,” he says. Like Houdini, he pulls the embroidered matzo cover off and reveals not the three boards of matzo traditional to a seder table, but bread. A braided, golden brown, made with flour, challah bread.

“The bread brings in the bread,” says Lee, “so we’re going to bless this too. Phil?”

Phil looks down in embarrassment. Marlene reaches out and touches his hand. I can’t believe the Hirsches would actually serve bread on Passover. Even if you don’t have a seder, must it be on the table?

Lee, unaware of Phil, does a nice job with the blessing in Hebrew. Then, as is customary on Shabbat, he tears off pieces and passes them around the table for people to eat.

“Aimee?” he asks, making sure Josh has a piece of challah for me.

Oh, no. I figured I could finagle my way out of eating tortillas tomorrow, but I didn’t think it was something that would come up tonight.

“Um. I’ve had this bread before. It’s delicious,” I say, putting up my hand and waving my piece away.

“Just for my dad, eMay,” says Josh, holding up the bread.

“I . . . uh . . . I don’t want to get too full.”

“She eats like a bird,” defends Josh.

“So don’t have the whole piece,” says Lee. “But I insist you take a bite. You have to taste this. Come on.”

All eyes upon me, I don’t know what else to do. Josh puts the bread to my mouth. I open it as if I am Juliet, about to drink the poison. Passover has us remember what it was like to be a slave, and how difficult the journey was to freedom. Putting the soft bread to my lips, I bite hard enough to bite back my tears. As a slave to this lie, I am surely not free.

The next night is only better because I am better prepared. In the late morning I call my mother, telling her I’m feeling okay but will still be going to Krista’s. She doesn’t comment on that but instead proceeds to tell me stories about last night’s fun at their seder. Seems, with a little help from Grandpa Sid, Holdenn found the
afi koman.
Of course, Sid gave all the kids a dollar. And Jon. No matter how old he is, when it comes to the
afikoman,
my brother must always collect.

Then I call Krista to see how she’s doing. Last night was spent with Matt’s family, his older sister, Ilene, hosting. Krista sounds excited about having her own seder tonight. However, Copioso is where Josh and I head. Tony and trendy, it’s a definite hot spot, but surely the wrong spot for me.

Quiet, I barely eat, but Josh barely notices. Being here means the world to him, and I’m by his side. He has a blast. Besides, he feels pleased because last night went so well.

“Everyone loved you,” he says of his family.

After eating the bread, I hardly spoke. It took all my energy to maintain my front. I wanted to spill so many times, especially in the car ride home. When we back got on the Long Island Expressway, all I could see was LIE. I thought it was a sign. I even came close to knowing what I would say. Once said, however, I had no idea what I’d say next.

Tonight I happily take the backseat to Josh. He tastes and talks and networks away. Marco and Jo-Ann introduce him to people. He gets a tennis game, a meeting, and a new order.

“I’m a little under,” I finally say when the party gets to the point where it feels safe to break away.

While Josh waxes poetic to Marco and Jo-Ann, I stand by, knowing we will soon be in a cab and my duplicitous holiday will end. For the rest of the week, I vow, I’ll stay away from bread and the like, imagining the small symbolic act might help to cleanse me. All things considered, I think I would have been better off had I chosen to be Catholic. Confession is good for the soul. As a Protestant, I wonder if I can still go, and give serious thought to consulting a priest.

Don’t ask, don’t tell; my cell has been turned off all night. Now all I want is to be in my apartment, call my parents, sink into a hot tub, and slink away. I need to be alone, and I need some time to think.

“I’ll come up, okay?” says Josh, before paying the driver. Regardless of whether or not he stays, he is always so chivalrous to take me to my door. Josh will go all the way uptown in a cab, even if he only turns around to go back down.

“You know, honey, I have a bad headache,” I say. “And we have a big KISS powwow in the morning. Would you mind?”

He looks disappointed but is too polite to say. Poor Josh. What am I doing to him?

“Let me just take you upstairs, and then I’ll go.”

Josh offers his hand to help me out before closing the cab door behind me. The gesture is so kind, I feel even guiltier knowing what he has gotten himself into.

Somehow I will make this right. When I finally tell him, I will make him understand and then make it up to him. But not tonight. I may be a fake, but the headache is real. And I need some peace. Moving through the revolving doors, I look behind to the next partition and see I lost Josh. Outside the door, he holds up a finger to tell me he will be a minute. Indicating gum is stuck to the bottom of his shoe, he moves away from the building toward the curb to remove it.

I deliberately pass the lobby entrance and continue revolving. I might as well go outside and keep him company.

“There she is!”

I could swear I hear a familiar voice as I step out of the partition to the street. Fast as lightning, a woman has run across the lobby and slips into the revolving door shouting,
“Aimee?”

About to walk to Josh, I turn and, sure enough, I see
my mother
fly through the revolving door. When she hits the walk outside, I push both of us into the small partition, enduring the close proximity for several seconds as she screams at me until we enter my lobby.

“What are you doing here?” I accuse. Heat flashes over my face as I now shamefully face her. She looks very, very relieved and very, very angry.

“Why weren’t you at Krista’s?”

Behind the black marble reception desk, Willie minds his business. Seeing both of us, my father jumps out of the black leather club chair by the elevator and hurries over.

“We were worried sick, Aimee,” he screams as he nears me. “What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t believe you two are sitting here waiting for me like I’m in high school.”

I am mortified. I look outside the glass window and can see Josh, thankfully, near the curb. Perfectionist that he is, he’s still fiddling with his shoe. But I’ve got to hurry because it can’t take very long.

“I called Krista from Daphne’s to see how her
knaidlach
came out, she asked for my recipe, and when I wanted to say hello to you, she said you weren’t there. And that you
never
planned on coming.”

“So what?” Thanks a lot, Krista, I think. I don’t know why she couldn’t have covered for me. Suddenly she’s so high-and-mighty.

“Then we called your cell to see where you were and got no answer all night, no answer at home. We never heard from you, and after a while we thought something happened. Everyone’s beside themselves.”

“Well, you see I’m fine, so you can go home,” I say, trying to usher them out the door.