The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (20 page)

Blah, blah. Josh squeezes my hand as the conversation continues. Blah blah blah.

“Of course,” I say, adding no more than a postscript that’s benign.

For I do not contribute. I sit. Listen. I nod in all the right places. My brain a pinball machine. Josh’s words the small metal ball that bings and pings and collides into every part of my real identity so I cannot join in this talk. Each nod of my head flips the ball and scores me more points. I get a free ball and win a free game. Even though I no longer want to play.

“. . . probably a great field . . . head cheerleader . . .”

Nod. Smile. Smile. Nod. Don’t ask to see my high school because I haven’t the foggiest idea where it even is.

“. . . can show us?” asks Robby.

Hip Hip HooWRONG.
I never led a cheer because I’m not really a cheerleader. Hey, I’m not even a redhead. My smile frozen, I laugh in all the right spots. But I don’t have anything to say. And it hits me. No one even cares. No one cares if I have something to say, or not. I have no personality. I can never take a stand because I stand for nothing. And Josh actually likes that. He likes that I’m nothing more than an ornament. A shiksa on his arm.

“Of course you can have it,” I exclaim, directing my glance to Hope. Only I don’t have a recipe because I don’t bake pumpkin pies. I don’t even like them.

“. . . her neighbors . . .”

If you really want to know, Mrs. Plunkett is a screwball and I can’t stand Muffy Steinberg. And if you think Martin is a bore, wait till you meet my parents. You try living on Plantation Island.

I dislike everything of my creation, not the least of it me. So instead I focus on what’s right in front of my rhino-plastic nose. Josh. I focus on Josh, and now I don’t like him. I don’t like Josh. Not a whit. I look at him holding my hand and smiling at this girl he adores who’s not me, and I resent him for it. I resent that, and every other single thing about him.

I resent being here with his family when I can’t bring him to mine. I resent seeing his home in Hewlett and then hiding when we’re blocks from my folks’ apartment. I resent his BMW to my subway, his co-op to my rental, his BlackBerry to my cell, and, believe me, there’s more.

I resent Josh’s beer to my Bloody Mary and his real nose to my fake. I’m through hearing about his Yankees to my Mets, his brother’s wife to my brother’s girlfriends, his niece and nephew to my . . . my, God. My
nothing.
I have no niece, no nephew, and no brother-in-law because I have no sister! I’ve wiped them all out. That is so awful, but that is not all.

I don’t want to eat his Passover bread; I didn’t even want to eat my Easter ham. I’m soured on singing hymns I don’t know in church because I’m unable to sing the ones I do know in shul. I’m sick of every holiday and feel sick every day, because out of every single thing I resent, the biggest resentment is that no matter how he may feel about it, Josh gets to be Jewish while I get to be Not. And it’s simply not enough.

“Shall we dance?”

Renee motions for us to all go to the dance floor when the klezmer music begins.

“I want everybody up on their feet and on this dance floor,” the deejay energetically announces into his microphone. “Let’s join hands and make a big circle for
. . . the hora!
”

Hava nagila, Hava nagila, Hava nagila venis’mecha.
The Hebrew folk song plays. I’m careful not to sing along.

“I’m not a big dancer,” says Josh, reticent to join the mob scene trying to form a circle that can include fifty people.

“You know I love to dance. Please?”

Reluctantly, Josh takes my left hand in his right hand after his aunt grabs his left. Madison and Mickey are left of Renee. Hope places her hand in my right one; she’s left behind as Robby dances in the inner circle with Evan and his mom.

We try circling right, but people are so squished together we’re barely moving, let alone dancing. It feels more like trying to find a seat on the subway during rush hour than a dance.

“This is fun,” I say to Josh anyway, because crowded as it may be, it is. Especially for me, able to join this circle no questions asked.

“Now circle left,” calls the deejay.

Bunches of people pull out and form smaller circles. With room to move, people begin to dance. Renee and Mickey start with the jump. Hope, on my right, also knows the steps. Madison, too young to learn them, just jumps and laughs as she bounces up and down. I look at Josh’s two left feet.

Hava nagila, Hava nagila . . .
Yes, I’ve been to bar mitzvahs before, but did I ever learn the hora? I could have, I think, while Josh and I only walk in rhythm, holding the circle back from being able to fly.

“You know I took ballet,” I shout to Josh over the loud, loud music.

He nods.

“I’m good with my feet,” I say, giving him a heads-up for
I think I shall add the jumps.

To tell you the truth, the hora is the easiest little dance. After you jump, it’s just a little grapevine that you do with your feet. If you’re going left, as we are, you place your right foot
behind
your left and then step out on your left. Then put your right foot in
front
of your left and step out on your left before you jump and repeat it all over again. If you’re going right, you reverse it.

Jump!

I jump when everyone else does, holding back from doing the grapevine. But truly, after all those years of ballet, I’m sure even if I’d never seen this dance before in my life, I could pick it up one-two-three.

Jump!

“Come on,” I urge Josh, not to dance but to jump. Jump. Jump, jump, jump.

“Okay, girls!”

Feeling my enthusiasm, Aunt Renee plucks both me and Hope out of the circle and into the center. The three of us form our own circle. Linked at the elbows, Renee wraps her right arm around mine and spins me. Quite the fancy dancer, she moves on to Hope, linking elbows on their left before they spin. Hope approaches me as the music gains speed. Tempos rising, we rotate and spin before we all join hands and
jump!
The hora is so ingrained in me—body and soul—that without my head giving the say-so, my feet take off and
. . . U! ru! U! ru! a! chim!

We spin in circles at rapid speed. My feet lead the way. I crisscross my arms, like Renee, and we join hands. At arm’s length, holding tight, our bodies lean back while we whirl. Twirling and whirling faster than a carousel.

I kick off my high-heeled black satin sandals, losing Renee, Hope, and myself. Now lost to the dance, all I do is feel. The music and the movement. Holding court in the center of the circle, I see nothing and no one. My arms fly up on either side of my body, bent at the elbows. Palms open, my fingers point to the heavens. Alone, I
hora!
Each jump takes me higher and higher. The grapevine steps grow longer, swiftly traveling me round and around.

Center stage, I continue. Everyone in the outer circle clap-clap-clapping to the music while I dance, I fly, I soar. The grapevine morphs into choreography. Jumps turn to leaps, my kicks worthy of any Rockette at Radio City Music Hall.

A handful of men have joined me in the center. They’re setting up chairs for the bar mitzvah boy to take a seat to be raised. Evan sits on the straight-back armless chair. He will be lifted up and paraded around the room to celebrate his Jewish transformation from a boy to a man. Except I’m there dancing and I’m in the way.

“Uru achim b’lev same’ach,”
I sing as I dance. Knowing
b’lev same’ach
means “with a happy heart,” I sing that extraloud because, suddenly, I have one. So much so, I can’t stop. I can’t stop celebrating. And I can’t stop dancing.

Hava nagila . . .
The song repeats, yet again. I dance and keep dancing though Evan’s ready and waiting to be lifted in his chair.

“Can you move?” he asks as the big guy giving support on the chair’s back end tries to get rid of me by attempting to trip me with his foot.

But I fix him. Stepping back, I do a series of pirouettes so wide and
so
energetic, the force spins me straight into Evan, the momentum causing my hands to push him out of the chair just as the men pick it up. Only when they lift, it’s not him in the hot seat. It’s
me!

The kid looks up from the floor stunned that I took his place, but in this altered state I don’t know how to care. The men are strong and lift the chair high. From far above, I sing my Jewish heart out.

People look up, wondering who I am. Some find it funny, some others don’t, while others even cheer. Yet have no doubt, this is a transformation. And now it is mine. I may have gone up a shiksa, but when this chair comes back down I will be transformed. Back to my Jewish self.

“Your turn,” I tell Evan, gliding off the chair as my bare feet touch the floor. Lighter. Unfettered. Finally free.

I find my shoes buried behind a stack of plastic baseballs on the other side of the dance floor. When I kneel to pick them up, I feel a hand touch the back of my neck. I look up and see Josh, looking down at me as if we’d never met. His brown eyes, always so warm, now have different hues. And before he says a word, they talk. They say
bamboozled
,
beguiled
, and
betrayed.

C
lose
E
ncounters of the
U
nkind

P
LEASE
. Just let me explain.”

The first words out of my mouth, and they sound so cliché. That’s what people say when caught cheating. Though not with another man, I have been caught. And to be honest (at this point do I have another choice?), I have been cheating.

“Josh, I’m so sorry. Truthfully, I never thought it’d go this far.”

I wait for him to say something. To question me, get angry. Tell me to stay or go away. Josh, in shock, does nothing.

“But now that you know the reason for the behavior, it may even start to make sense,” I say, standing up, adjusting my dress, putting on my shoes.

His family, I notice, has gathered. Mickey and Renee, Robby and Hope, Madison and Evan are all there. I think to protect him.

“And despite what you’ve seen here today, you have to know that underneath it all I really am the same person.”

Josh looks at me, hard. Searching hard to see her; he wants that so much to be true. With everyone watching, we stand for what feels like an eternity. The fallout is not what I expected, but it’s too soon to actually know what it is. After much deliberation, Josh turns to his family. Finally, he speaks.

“See, everybody. I was right,” he triumphantly announces. “I told you so,” he tells them. Then he even smiles.

He
knows.
Oh, my goodness. Josh knows . . . and he smiles.

“You forgot what we just discussed?” Uncle Mickey cries from the sidelines. “Stop fooling yourself already, Joshua.”

“Mickey, be quiet,” snaps Renee. “Let the kids sort it out.”

“I understand, eMay,” Josh says, the warm hues back in his eyes. “I really do understand. And it’s okay.”

“It is?” This is too good to be true. The weight I’ve been carrying falls off my shoulders and into a helium balloon. I can let it go and be set free. “You mean it’s okay? You’re not mad I didn’t tell you?”

“You could have told me from the very beginning,” says Josh, taking my hand in his. “You could have trusted me.”

“Oh.” I throw my arms around his neck. “I can’t believe this. Oh God, I’m so relieved. I read you wrong. I read everything wrong. I’m so sorry. But you’ll see. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Now things between us can be even better.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” says Josh.

“Everybody happy now?” asks Renee. She claps her hands, getting everyone’s attention, gathering up the crew to go.

“Not so fast,” I hear Mickey say. He turns to Josh. “What do you know?”

Josh looks quizzically at his uncle.

“Suddenly it’s all patched up? What is it about her you think you finally know?”

“Uncle Mick, cut it out. Don’t make me say,” says Josh. “I don’t want to embarrass Aimee.”

“Believe me, Josh, don’t worry. It’s not exactly something I’m embarrassed about,” I say, sad to realize he may really be closed to Judaism after all.

“Good,” says Mickey. “So let it all hang out.”

Josh, the consummate gentleman, looks uncomfortable, but he needs to appease his uncle. He looks to me first, hopeful I’ll understand he does not mean to cause any further dismay.

“The whole time we’ve been together, Aimee’s been totally consistent and never depressed. So if . . .” When he continues, he talks under his breath. “Like maybe she forgot her meds, or just needs new ones, so give her a break. It was the first time she’s had a manic episode.”

“
Manic?
That’s what you think?” My cackle, reminiscent of the Wicked Witch of the West, only furthers Josh’s point.

“You’re not in manic mode?” he asks, taken aback.

I look first to Uncle Mickey. But his expression tells me if I don’t soon, he will. While I naively thought I could escape this moment, surrounded by witnesses I now meet it head on.

“No, Josh, your uncle is right. I’m not manic.” Looking directly in his eyes, I am certain to be clear. “And I’m not depressive.”

Josh looks confused. “So then what are you?”

“Jewish.” I pause to let it sink in, but it doesn’t. “I’m not a shiksa. I just pretended. But really, I’m like you. A Jew.”

“A . . . ? Oh, no.
Oy gevalt!
” Having just met the devil, Josh greets him with the first Yiddish words I’ve ever heard to come from his mouth. “I can’t believe this. This is awful.
Oy yai yai,
I’ve got to sit,” he says, and without a chair crashes down on the floor. Josh’s world has come to an end, and he curls up in a ball like a baby.

“What?” I lean over and talk to this fetus. “Better I should be a manic-depressive than a Jewish girl raised on the Upper West Side?”

“No, no. Stop.
Stop!”
He covers his ears with his hands. “Look. You’re already nagging. You already sound so”—Josh suddenly looks up—“wait, you’re kidding, right? Upper West?” It’s all too painful to accept. “You mean . . .” He takes a breath, barely able to get out the words. “No . . . Scranton?”

I shake my head. “West Ninety-sixth Street. My parents are still there.”

“No . . . Plantation Island?” His voice wavers, unsteady.

I shake my head.

“No
. . . Martin and Muffy Steinberg?
” Josh says their names in a great, big wail.

“Muffy Steinberg?” asks Hope.

“Mommy.” Madison tugs on her mother’s sleeve. “Who’s Muffy Steinberg?”

“Well, she didn’t fool me,” says Mickey.

“I told you all at Passover,” says Robby. “I could tell by her nose.”

“You guys are whacked,” says Evan before he turns away. “I’m going back to my party.”

Mystery solved, everyone takes their cue to leave.

“Wait, wait.” A small, sad voice emerges from the ball on the floor that is Josh. “What about me? What do I do now?”

“Get up off the floor, wash your hands, and take your date back to the table,” says Mickey. “They started serving dinner.”

“Are you kidding me? Take my date . . .” He lifts himself from the floor with whatever dignity he can muster. “I never want to see Aimee again.”

Well. Okay, then. I’d have to say Josh just let me know we’re most certainly through. Mortified, not that I don’t deserve to be, I make sure to avoid everyone’s eyes, deciding it’s best if I leave immediately.

“Aimee.” Josh stops me. “Wait. Just tell me this.”

I look at him. His look so sad.

“Why did you do it? I mean, how could you do something like that to me?”

The million-dollar question.

“It wasn’t against you, Josh. It was for me. But I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or play you. I so apologize for that.” Seizing this opportunity, I attempt to explain. “See, I saw you, at that event at DOWN. And I tried to meet you, but you ignored me. Then we met again, the night with Krista. And it seemed like you wanted to go out with me because you thought I wasn’t Jewish. Like her. And since I really wanted to go out with you, I let you think it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be so sorry,” Renee says to me. “It worked. Your mother will be thrilled to have someone in the family with a little
Yiddishkeit
,” she tells Josh. “Sandy just goes along with all that crap because of your father, isn’t that right, Mickey? I mean, really. Hong Kong. Give me one good reason why my brother’s not here today.”

Mickey doesn’t answer. He’s worried about Josh, so humiliated and wounded.

“It took on its own life,” I explain to Josh. “I guess you could say I got a little carried away.” I pause for the conciliatory laugh. It’s not forthcoming. “But you and me, we’re still the same people. And it’s good we’re both Jewish. Better. It’s easier for a relationship . . . for kids. It’s not like you were so happy when we went to church—”

“You went to
church
?” asks Renee.

“You got this guy to a church,” says Robby. “Impressive.”

Hope gives him a whack.

“It was Easter,” I explain.

“Of course,” everyone murmurs as they nod their heads. Easter.

We find ourselves at an impasse. And this juncture contains the inevitable, interminable, and uncomfortable silence. Each person looks to the next to break it. Until everyone looks at me.

“You’ve all been lovely to me, especially considering my, uh, outlandish behavior. I’m not proud of it, but in the end perhaps there’s really no harm done?” I begin my plea. “Josh, could we maybe take a walk and just talk about—”

“Talk about what, Aimee? If that’s really even your name. Is it?”

Surprised by his question, I don’t readily answer.

“I asked you something,
eMay.”
His sarcasm drips to the floor. “What’s your real name?”

“Aimee. Spelled like I told you. Aimee Dale Albert,” I shamefully say. “Did I ever tell you my middle name?” Though the question is somewhat rhetorical, Josh doesn’t step in and save me from my blabber. “My Hebrew name is Ayah. Oh. The English translation of my Hebrew name—you’ll appreciate this—is ‘vul—’ ”

“I won’t appreciate anything from you, Aimee Albert.” He can barely bring himself to look at me. “You and I are done here. I have nothing more to say, okay?”

Madison starts to cry. Robby and Hope look at me sheepishly as they each take one of their daughter’s hands and leave. Renee squeezes mine. “Give him a few days to cool off,” she suggests, and motions to Mickey that now it’s time to go.

“Meet me at the table,” he instructs his wife. “Well,” he says, staying behind. “Now I’ve seen it all.” Mickey looks at me with pride and prejudice. “It may have started as a joke, Aimee, but among many other things, it was also unkind.”

“I know, I’m sor—”

Mickey puts up his hand. I stop.

“But Renee’s right. It worked. This girl got to you, Josh. I understand you feel betrayed. But is it the Judaism . . . or the fraud?” he asks his nephew. “A few minutes ago you were willing to accept a manic-depressive Aimee. Was that preferable to a Jewish one?”

“Shiksa syndrome,” I volunteer. “Just another disorder, only I didn’t know a better cure.”

Uncle Mickey laughs. Josh refrains from the feel-good moment.

“You’re a smart cookie,” Mickey tells me. “See if you two can work it out. And this time, play fair,” he advises before he walks away.

If we can make this work, I figure I already have a head start on his family’s dynamics. I wonder what it will be like if Josh meets the Alberts. Well, he almost met my folks, and he actually did meet Daphne. My long-lost sister. It’s so nice to have her back. It’s so nice for me to be back.

Suddenly I feel a new energy about us. I look at Josh, and suddenly we seem possible. For real. No secrets, everything out in the open. I know in my heart it could work. We can really get to know each other. Move forward. Be open. Talk. Dating is easy. A real partnership’s a far more serious undertaking than people dating generally consider. But before the thought’s even formed, I learn that between us it will not be considered.

“I’ll drive you home,” says Josh with finality.

“No, it’s okay,” I instantly respond, being together in the car too uncomfortable to bear. “I’ll call a taxi to take me to the train. Metro-North runs all the time.”

“You’re sure?” Josh asks, relieved.

“It’s no problem. I think it’s best.”

I’m spent on the ride home. It’s been hours of waiting between the local taxi and the weekend train service. But alone, I can look out the window and cry.

The ride is fast; we make tracks. Passengers get off and on as we pass different towns. Different houses. Passing suburban homes filled with families. Families that began after two people went on dates. Dates that led to marriage, not disaster. Dates built on trust, instead of deception and lies.

“ Eighty-seventh and Second please,” I tell the driver when I hail a cab at Grand Central. The city feels so empty. But it’s swarming with people. The emptiness, I know, is in me. I wish I could talk this out with someone, but I’ve alienated everyone who would have listened. The cab turns to go east. When I look west on Forty-second Street, I am overcome with the double loss of knowing Peter’s no longer across town. He’s been gone just a week, though it feels more like a year. It feels permanent. And it makes me so sad.

“Good evening, Aimee,” says Willie when I make my entrance into the lobby through the revolving door. “Did you have a nice day?”

“I sure didn’t,” I say, crossing the lobby and ringing for the elevator. “I had a rotten one. But thanks for asking and have a nice night,” I call to him at the desk when the elevator doors close.

I’ll take a bath. I’ll pour a glass of wine, light candles in the bathroom, and sit in a hot bath. Then I’ll put on my sweats, order in Chinese, and escape into a pay-per-view movie. Something romantic and funny. Okay, something funny.

Tomorrow I’ll call Krista and see if I can meet her for dinner. I’ll call my parents and see if I can meet them for brunch. Maybe Daphne will come in during the week. And Tova. If I feel better later, maybe I’ll go down the hall to see Tova. But when I reach the fifteenth floor, she coincidentally happens to be standing outside the elevator door.

“I was just thinking about you.” But something must be terribly wrong because instead of her naturally spirited self, she looks rather serious. “Did something happen? Tell me, Tova, is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes. With me everything is fine.” She peeks into the elevator doors as they close.

“You lose something?”

“I was just looking. Your boyfriend. He is not with you?”

“Oy.” I shake my head back and forth. I don’t know what to say. “Don’t ask.”

“Then maybe you would like to come into my apartment for a cup of tea?”

“I actually would. But maybe later? All I want to do is go to bed.”

“Aimala, no one means to hurt you, but I think you need to come
now.
”

“Huh?” No one means to hurt me?

But Tova has already turned on her black Easy Spirit heels to march down the hall. She motions for me to follow. It is not an option; it’s an order. When she opens the door to her apartment, I see why. It’s a party. But why would she insist I come to a party where I might get hurt? Especially when I’m not in a party mood. The party, however, seems to all but stop when I walk into the living room. Even odder, I conclude from a quick glance at the guests, it appears to be for me.