The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (18 page)

“Isn’t this the most wonderful day?” exclaims the woman next to me, who introduces herself as Mary Lou, but I can call her Mary. “Whenever there’s a baptism, it just brings tears to my eyes.” She invites us into the parlor for lunch. Josh pulls my hand as a way to say no.

“I prepared a big meal at home,” I tell her, and did I ever. On our way out I introduce Josh to Jim, who shakes my hand and greets me by name. I am impressed. The familiarity, I see, scares Josh.

“How often do you go there?” he asks back at my apartment.

An EASTER BUNNY sign hangs on my front door. A basket of dyed Easter eggs (that part was so much fun) sits on the doormat below. Once we’re inside, I light candles. Vases of tulips are everywhere. The table already set, my Easter Bunny Cake is the perfect centerpiece. I bring the ham to the table alongside a green bean casserole and deviled eggs. Speaking of which, at his place setting is a yellow Easter egg decorated in decals, JOSH written across it in letters of bright orange.

“This is very . . . nice,” Josh says when he takes his place at the table.

“I’m so glad you like it,” I say. “Now let’s join hands and say grace.”

“Say what? When’d you start doing that?”

“What do you mean start? You always say grace on a holiday.” I look confused. “And this is a very important one. Christ rose from the dead. We need to celebrate.” I reach across and take his hand. “Dearest God,” I begin. “We thank you for all the abundance we have in our lives. For the gift of life itself, food, shelter, our material things. But most important, God, we want to—”

“Okay, Aimee. Please stop.”

“But I was just getting to the good part. The part about love.” I smile. I blow him a kiss across the table.

“Well, I’m not into grace,” he says, “I’m Jewish; we don’t do that. And I’m hungry.” He looks disapprovingly at the food.

Oh. So suddenly he’s Jewish. How about that? Though I don’t see why he would object to my grace. It wasn’t religious. There’s nothing wrong with being grateful.

“You know, this is really nice and everything, but I wish you would have just let me take you out.”

“You shared your holiday with me. I just want to do the same. After all, days like this will be most important when we’re a family.”

Josh practically spits. When I hand him a knife to slice the ham, he seems tempted to use it on himself. Meanwhile I dip a serving spoon into the green beans and put a portion on his plate with several Dole pineapple rings, a few deviled eggs on the side.

“Do you have any bread?” he asks.

I go into the kitchen and bring back his Breakstone’s butter with a loaf of Wonder Bread. What can I tell you? I couldn’t resist.

“So what did you think about today?” I ask, diving into my meal. “Tell me everything.”

The ham came out pretty good, and Krista is definitely right about casseroles. My favorite part of the bunny cake is the ears. I went through five sheets of construction paper until I got them right, and I spent what felt like a hundred hours in the kitchen. But it was all worth it. This is one authentic goyishe meal, and Josh, for all his secular fanfare, is choking on every bite.

“What’s the matter?” I finally ask, having given the awkward silence its appropriate amount of time.

Josh puts down his knife and fork. Walking away from the table, he goes to the window and stares out at the city. His dramatic moment. Poor Josh. Contemplating a future with—

“A woman who’s a churchgoer and would want to raise our children Christian,” he finishes for me, upset and astonished, fit to be tied.

Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

“But Josh,” I ever so sweetly begin. “You knew this was important to me from the beginning. You said so yourself after our trip to Scranton. Why is it suddenly a problem now? Especially since you always tell me how disinterested you are in Judaism. I mean, children have to be grounded in
some
thing.”

Josh looks pained. Embarrassed. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I just figured it would be . . . you know . . . like we’d kind of raise kids to celebrate, uh, holidays.”

“And that’s what today is,” I say. “So what is actually wrong?”

Now I wait. I want to hear this explanation.

“It’s the whole Jesus thing,” he blurts out. “I’m sorry, but I’m just uncomfortable with it.”

Most Jewish people are. He’s the big unspoken divide between Jewish and Not. Embracing Jesus is alien to Jews. Perhaps things would be better among us all if we were all more attuned. But no one asked Josh to accept him as his savior. And the church today did not have a crucifix. There is no crucifix in my apartment. Nor was Jesus’ name mentioned during my grace.

“So what’s your problem with Jesus?” I ask, defensive. “That he exists?”

Josh sits down on the couch. He doesn’t know how to articulate his fear. And that’s what it is. Of losing the known, taking on the unknown. But I use it to forge on.

“I mean, if you’re that uncomfortable with this, we wouldn’t
necessarily
have to get married in my church in Scranton,” I say, jumping way, way ahead, purposely pushing this to its limit. “But I can’t say for sure.”

“Married in a
church
? I could never!” he says. “I always thought we’d just do it in a hotel. Or . . . or . . . on a boat!”

He is up now. Pacing. Back and forth and back and forth. I’ve never seen him so distressed. Good. Let him get in touch with how he really feels about all this. Push comes to shove, let’s see how much he really wants to make a life with a shiksa who doesn’t want to convert.

“And who would officiate?” I go on. “Because I feel I would have to marry under God. I mean I am Christian. I’m baptized, Josh. For Christ’s sake, I made a covenant with Jesus!”

Josh spins around out of control. Grabs, kisses me. Then abruptly breaks away. He pulls his leather jacket out from the front closet and in one swift motion slides, no slams, back the closet door.

“I have to think,” he says, jacket thrown over his shoulder, his hand flagellating in the air. Pointing aimlessly to all the things he is walking out on. The Easter Bunny Cake, the conflict . . . the Wonder Bread, the ham. “I’ll call you later. I love you, eMay,” Josh cries. Then he is out the door.

Oh my goodness. Josh loves me. This is the first time Josh has told me he loves me. He’ll be back later to make it all up, apologizing on his hands and knees. The bar mitzvah of his cousin’s son, Evan, is only a week away. I will “study up” on the Shabbat service to “surprise” him. By that point, putting a yarmulke on his head will be like putty in my hands.

T
he
A
ccidental
T
suris

T
HE DOOR IN THE VESTIBULE
is open when I arrive. Its kickstand down, I close it with my foot, securing the door so some nut won’t get in. Once inside, I head up the stairs, having to wonder if indeed that is me.

The scent’s still familiar, the stairwell the same. With a sense of balance—only because I’m carrying two equally weighted shopping bags—I glide up the stairs. When I hit the second landing, it feels like home.

“Ruff! Ruff!”

Baxter. He still knows me. I wish I had a key so I could go inside and visit. Hearing his bark . . . I miss him so. But I don’t have one. Not that I would use it. Anyway, I don’t plan to stay. Or even say hello. It being Easter, I’m sure Peter’s not home. I will hang the bags on his doorknob and go away.

It seemed a shame to waste a good Easter dinner. Not to mention the Easter Bunny Cake. Peter will love that. He will enjoy the ham and the casserole. The eggs both deviled and dyed. Peter would have loved this entire day. He would have appreciated me going to church. Of course, unlike Josh, Peter is Christian.

But unlike Peter, I realize I never made an attempt to do anything like this for him when we were together.

I place the Easter basket in front of his apartment door, then tape the bunny sign above it. After hanging the shopping bags, I arrange my note so it will stick out of one bag.

Baxter’s going nuts. He’s woofing and barking and practically thrashing himself against the door. He smells me. Or certainly the food.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I miss you too.”

I’m already on the next level down when he calls. I look up and see Peter standing behind the railing, peering down over the stairs. He holds the basket; Baxter runs ahead and rushes on down.

Whoosh!

“Hey—you’re gonna knock me over.” Standing on his back legs, Baxter is almost as tall as me. His tongue reaches my face to say a slobbery hello.

“Is there enough for two?” calls Peter.

I walk back up the flight of stairs, unsure of where I’m going. But when I get inside Peter’s apartment, it’s obvious I’m not the one going anywhere; he is. Boxes are packed; pictures are off the wall. Bulging suitcases sit in the center of the living room.

“So you came to say good-bye,” he says, taking the food out of the shopping bag, opening plates wrapped in foil. “Smells good. I’m hungry. Thanks.”

Baxter begs. Peter offers to fix me a plate. I’ve just lost my appetite.

“Where are you going?”

“Didn’t your mother tell you? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“She indicated you had some opportunity, but she didn’t . . . you and my mom in touch a lot?”

They talk about me? About what I’m doing with Josh?

“Enough,” he diplomatically answers.

“So tell me your news. What happened? Where are you going?”

“Los Angeles. Casting director came down to the club. Unbelievable when it finally happens. I’m doing a pilot. A variety show with sketch comedy, remember those? They’re bringing ’em back. Maybe it’ll help get rid of all that reality TV. Anyway, they like me, but they really like my material. May even get a shot writing on it, too.”

“That’s
fantastic
, P!” I run and throw my arms around him, but after the perfunctory hug we both pull away. Into the other shopping bag, he unwraps the Easter Bunny Cake. Peter looks at it and laughs.

“Very cute. So this is my bon voyage, huh?”

“I guess.” I don’t know what to do with myself, so I sit on the floor. “It’s not like I ever thought you’d be leaving.” Next to a pile of books, I peruse titles while we talk. “Not permanently anyway.”

I can’t imagine Peter not being in the city. Not being downtown. Peter not accessible. Peter not in my life.

“Hey—what’s permanent these days?” he rhetorically asks on his way to the kitchen. “I’m doing a legal sublet with the apartment,” he says when he returns with a knife. Peter cuts into the bunny’s belly to serve himself a piece of cake. “Great,” he says after he tastes. “I appreciate you doing all this for me.”

“You’re welcome. Easter and all.”

Stacked on the floor are four Dean Koontz titles, on top of which is
The Abbott & Costello Story: Sixty Years of “Who’s on First?”
by Stephen Cox and John Lofflin.

“Didn’t think you thought about that,” says Peter. A little teasing. A little testy.

“Yeah . . . well.” I trail off when the spine of a skinny yellow book at the bottom catches my eye.
Jewish as a Second Language.
I pull off my coat before I pull it out to look.

“But a shiksa
would
be aware of the holiday,” he says, not teasing but testy, inviting the elephant into the room. I flip the book over to read the back cover and practically feel him stomp.

“I’m aware of a lot of things. I’m sorry for a lot too.” When I look up at Peter, it comes over me. “I miss you, P.”

Upon hearing that, Peter drops everything and kneels beside me on the floor. He takes me into his arms. It feels good. Every two people are their own entity and make something new. If I could color the feeling of Peter and me, I’d use pastels and earth tones. Patches would bleed into each other, creating new shapes and new colors; wavy lines in black and white, bright reds and purples would streak their way through.

“Come with me, Aimee,” he suddenly announces. “To Los Angeles. Yes.” He affirms it’s now a really good idea. “Come with me to L.A.”

“I . . . I . . .” Los Angeles? With Peter. Just leave? Now? “I can’t, I can’t go. Besides . . .” Shaking my head sideways, I move my hands up and down, and mime a steering wheel.

“I’ll help you,” he says. “Nothing to it. You just never lived in a driving culture. Whole different ball of wax.”

Overjoyed the Easter Bunny has solved all our problems, Peter kisses me. I respond in spite of myself. My head and my heart duel throughout the arousing kiss, until my head wins out, forcing my body away.

“I can’t, Peter. Not like this, not L.A. Not now,” I say, and change his green light to red. “I have so much going on with this product launch, and I wouldn’t be independent there. It takes time to figure out work and the whole thing with the car. I mean I don’t even have my license, well, not yet, so I can’t just . . .”

“Yet?”
He pipes in, seeing a yellow light flashing. “What do you mean by yet?” he asks, slowing down, cautious to heed the warning.

“Nothing. I mean, you know, I’m not
yet
ready to drive.”

“No. You mean you’ve been out. Driving.” Peter waits because he knows there are implications to this. I always thought he’d have made a good lawyer.

“Maybe a little. I’ve been out. Driving. A little. Just a little.”

“Where? In Scranton?” he asks almost defiantly, turning his back, opening the flaps of a box, and placing the books inside. I see the copy on the front cover of the Jewish humor book:
How to Worry. How to Interrupt. How to Say the Opposite of What You Mean.

“Josh took me a couple of times. No big deal.”

“He’s still in the picture?” he asks before he looks to the food.

“Is Courtney?”

Peter doesn’t dignify the question with an answer. When it comes to dating and relationships, he always knows his mind.

“So is he?” he repeats.

Even after what happened today, I think yes. If I was a contestant on the game show
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,
I would ask the studio audience. My silence, however, serves as an answer.

“I can’t believe you. What’s happened to you?” Peter abruptly goes to the table and now looks at the Easter feast before him with annoyance.

“What’s the difference if I drove with him a few times? We’re in his car a lot. It wasn’t like with us where you’d have to rent one.”

“You two have a fight today or what?” he asks. “ ’Cause you obviously didn’t come here to make up with me.” Baxter starts barking. Peter reaches over the table and quiets the dog with a piece of ham. “I don’t think you cooked all this for me either. Did you?”

I can’t answer him. I can’t out-and-out lie. Well, I guess we know that I actually can, but I can’t right now.

“You let him help you drive. For him, you try. You’ll even, what? Overcome your fear and take . . . a
road test
?” He says my dirty words. “You roll up your sleeves and get into Easter. For God’s sake . . . you
cooked
? Everything you ran away from with me, you do with him. Except he doesn’t know who you are. What the hell is it, Aim? And why can’t you share it with me?”

“Boy, Peter, suddenly you’re so self-aware. A few months ago you were
too young
for all this. You didn’t want to talk about anything. Now you get a TV job and you’re a whole different person.”

“I get a TV job and you are. You only came because now I’m going to make some money, didn’t you?”

“That’s not true. I had no idea you even got a job.”

“Then why did you come here today? And why did you bring this?” His hand motions to indicate the food, but it returns to his chest and leans against his heart. Why did I bring this angst? Why did I bring this confusion?

“I have no idea why I came. But I think I should go.” Too humiliated to stay a moment longer, I gather up my coat to put it on in the hall. When I get to the door, I stop.

“I understand a lot better now the concessions you made for me, P.” I talk to Peter, but my eyes look down at the floor. “But just know that however this dinner came about, what’s important is that I wanted you to have it. You . . . I’m not blaming you, believe me, but I think you’ve misunderstood.”

“Really?” He marches to the door, Baxter leading the way. “You’re the one who’s misunderstood. By yourself. This might be a good time to go to your synagogue and get some help because—and I never thought I’d say this to you, Aim—you’re lost.” Peter crosses his arms in front of him. I turn to face him, mirroring his body language; we stand just the same.

“Funny, you were the one person I always thought knew who she was, but now I don’t think you know a bagel from a schmear.”

Despite my upset, his joke is funny, so I laugh.

“Gee, I made an urban Jewish joke. Think we can build a life on that, or should I just save it for my show?”

I don’t know what he read in that Jewish book, but he certainly got good with the guilt.

Out on the street I am overwhelmed, overloaded, and hungry. I stop on Broadway and buy a slice at Sbarro’s. The store’s filled with tourists eating pizza. No Easter dinner for them. I consider walking over to my office, but without any peace I’m unable to concentrate. Sadly, work is not an escape. Instead, across the street is a movie theater. I go to the box office and buy a ticket to see
The Hoax.

Meanwhile, if I had eyes in back of my head, here’s what I’d have seen.

Tova walks back to her apartment after putting her garbage in the trash room. It is midday, and she is going to a matinee. She stops in her tracks when she hears yelling from an apartment. Inching down the hallway, Tova realizes it is Aimala’s. Not to intrude but to be sure all is okay, she stands outside 15J and listens.

“Married in a church? I could never! I always thought we’d just do it in a hotel. Or . . . or . . . on a boat!”

“And who would officiate? Because I feel I would have to marry under God. I mean I am Christian. I’m baptized, Josh. For Christ’s sake, I made a covenant with Jesus!”

Suddenly, the apartment door swings open. Tova rushes down the hall to 15F, grateful not to be seen by Josh. First thing she does is go to her address book. Under
A
, she locates the Alberts’ number, picks up the phone, and dials.

“Hello?” answers Sid.

“My goodness, Sidney,” says Tova. “I am so glad you are home. Where is Maddie? You’ll get her, and put her on the telephone now?”

“What happened to Aimee?” asks my father.

“Something happened to Aimee?” Hearing the alarm in his voice, Maddie grabs a cordless phone. She sits in a chair across from Sid, who talks on the landline in their bedroom.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” says Tova. She, too, has a landline and out of nervousness wraps her fingers inside and out of the long, white squiggly cord.

“Is she safe?” cries Maddie. “Did something terrible happen?”

“Just tell us,” cries Sid.

“Well.” Tova takes a deep breath. How will she break this news? “I heard them just now when I was taking out the garbage. They were fighting.”

“Who was fighting?” Maddie and Sid ask at once.

“Aimee and the boyfriend. Josh. The Jewish one.”

“Is she hurt?” asks my mother. “Did he—”

“No! No. Not like that. I am on my way to the ballet, and believe me it was not my intention to eavesdrop. When first I heard the noise, I didn’t even know who it was. But I walked down the hall to locate the voices—”