The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (11 page)

About fifteen students line up in rows in the center of the floor. Practicing the steps after seeing them done by the teacher. Learning tonight’s combination. The teacher claps her hands, and they disperse into a corner of the room. The pianist begins to play. Sprightly and gay, classical music seeps through the door.

“Pirouette, pirouette, pirouette,” calls out the instructor. “Jeté right, left, jeté right, left, right.” They dance. In groups of three across the studio they glide. Light and lifted. “Now grand jeté!” Starting from one leg and landing on the other, in a series of long horizontal jumps, the students travel across the floor.

I want to dance. As if no one is looking. To feel that abandon. To travel. To fly. Just like the first night with Josh in front of Bergdorf’s. I feel that desire now.

“Josh!” He answers his cell on the first ring. “Where are you? It’s me, eMay.”

“Thought you were having dinner with Krista,” he says. I hear an ambulance trail off in the background.

“We’re done. Where are you?” I ask.

“In a cab,” he says. “Just left work. Heading down Broadway. Just passed Eighty-sixth.”

“I went shopping after. I’m in front of Fairway,” I say, picking up the bags with my left hand and bolting back through reception. He’ll be here in a few seconds. Fairway’s on Seventy-fifth. “Pick me up in front and let me take you home.”

Tonight. Tonight I will leap. My grand jeté. I open the door to leave Steps and practically dance on down the stairs.

S
hifting
G
ears

S
O YOU THINK
you would have liked me if we had met in college?” Josh asks as we drive off the Syracuse University campus. We came up yesterday from the city for his college reunion.

As reunions go, this was a small one. A Saturday night dinner on campus honored his class of economics majors. Josh is still uncertain who began the e-mail trail that hunted down and successfully brought together a large enough percentage of alumni. He only knew he wanted to be there.

That he wanted to be there with me blows me away. Since becoming lovers he’s most attentive. (Though possibly more out of bed than in.) Josh always has a plan—theater tickets, dinner reservations. He must see every movie and has season tickets for the Mets, the Yankees, and the Knicks. I’d never been to a basketball game. To educate me, yesterday, we went to a game at the Carrier Dome. Josh says the Syracuse stadium ranks up there with Madison Square Garden. The Orangemen played Notre Dame. My favorite thing, the twenty-four-second clock.

You probably already know this, but I didn’t. Seems the clock starts when a player gets possession of the ball. Not only must it leave the player’s hand before the twenty-four seconds are up, but it also has to make contact with the basket rim. Everything has to happen fast. Josh explained that on the college level the guys get thirty-five seconds. Still, it gives new meaning to the words
the ball’s in your court.

I think singles events—a situation only for pros—should employ the twenty-four-second clock. Though based on the two I attended, as seconds go I’m not sure you need the whole twenty-four.

We drive down the road, and I feel a sense of peace. It is great being out of the city with Josh. My neck of the woods, he calls it. Upstate New York, not far from Pennsylvania. Whenever he says that, I just giggle. Far from out of the woods, it is sheer relief to be on neutral turf.

People don’t pay all that much attention to people’s dates or spouses at reunions. The agenda, mainly, is to reminisce. Relay the stories of life back in the day. All I needed to do was lots of listening, nodding, and smiling.

“Hey, Hirsch,” said Alan Resnick. His wife, Judy, home on Long Island with their three kids, he felt like a man about town. “Remember the night before that big midterm? Junior year? There was that bitch of a blizzard. And we had to sleep in the library and then go straight from there to take the test.”

“Yeah, dude. Your feet wound up in my face in the corner of Women’s Fiction.”

You get a lot of information by observing. What I mainly observe about Josh is that he’s not very observant. He’s got a hand in everything when it comes to the big picture, but he’s not into the details. Unobservant, he doesn’t pick up on the small stuff, so he doesn’t pick up that I do. I’m the total opposite.

We checked out of the motel before our time was up. Something I rarely do unless I have to catch a plane. I like to linger in bed, especially in the morning. But Josh seems to have a restless soul. Always on the go. I feel it takes away from our alone time. The intimacy of lying together and sharing. Outlooks, stories. Feelings, childhood tales.

I miss that time but also feel responsible for not helping make it happen. It’s easy to blame what’s missing on Josh, but I know a lot of it’s because of me. I’m not exactly an open book; real sharing is something I rarely do. On the other hand, I don’t feel I’m withholding because Josh doesn’t ask me many questions. I often wonder why.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he asks now, this moment potentially a crossroad if I would allow it. We are literally at a fork in the road and veer left, passing a gas station, a church, a post office, and a convenience store.

“Just content,” I answer.

“It’s amazing,” says Josh, picking up speed, taking us onto the open country road. It is still winter, but it’s now lighter. Spring about to leap forward.

“What is?”

“How easygoing you are,” he says, driving over to the side of the empty road. Stopping the car. “You’re so low-maintenance.”

“ Low-maintenance?”

He means this as a compliment, but I don’t hear it that way. Low or high, it’s one of those terms I do not like. What does it really mean? Everyone requires maintenance. So does everything. If the maintenance feels too high, it’s probably more a reflection on the other person. He or she feeling that something or someone isn’t really worth that level of their energy or attention. My brother once dated a wardrobe stylist he originally thought was the cat’s meow. Unlike Jewish women, this girl was not high-maintenance.

Drinking at an outdoor café, I became so enraged when Jon said that, I poured my pinot grigio over his head before bolting from the table and heading straight into a cab. For Jon it remains a funny story. Aimee, insulted he called Jewish women high-maintenance, disproves his point by dousing him with her drink.
Not!
But several months later, he and the girl broke up, Jon saying his life was her life, and she didn’t have one of her own. In the end she was boring. Perhaps too low-maintenance?

“What do you mean?” I ask Josh, anxious to hear him explain.

“Like now. I’m always in these relationships where those silences mean the woman wants to know where it’s going. Always all this analysis. Man, it gives me a headache. But with you—”

Me?
Oh yes, little ole low-maintenance me.

See, to be with someone, to be with anyone is to make accommodations. But if you really want to be with that person, you don’t feel you are making them. Doesn’t Josh see how he accommodates me by simply filling in the blanks? To prove this point to myself, I don’t answer. I look at him. Questioningly. And then I smile.

“You just roll with it. You don’t ask for anything. It makes me want to give that much more.”

“Oh, Josh, don’t—” I turn away.

“Don’t what?”

Think so highly of me but “Flatter me so much” is what I say before leaning over to give him a kiss. It’s so nice, I lean in further, kissing him more, but he stops me.

“Hey, a cow will see us, and I’ll get embarrassed. Besides, I pulled over to give you something. Important.”

“Really?”

Ohmygod.
Really?
This all worked faster than even I thought.

Josh shuts off the ignition and turns off the radio. “I want the conditions to be perfect. What happens today will set the precedent. And I want you to be able to remember it always.”

It seems totally improbable, but it’s happening. Okay, if he proposes now, can I just say yes and tell him the truth later? Would that wreck our lives?

Plan B. We can be secretly engaged. Say it’s all too fast and it should be our secret for a while. Then I can tell him I’m Jewish before we announce to the world we’ve united as one.

“So . . . ?” I sweetly begin, and toss my long, straight red hair over my shoulder. Picture-perfect hair for which I slave away every three days (not to mention drop a bundle) to maintain, so I have what to toss for moments like these. “Just what do you want to give me?”

“A driving lesson,” Josh announces, and abruptly unlocks both doors so we can get out and switch sides. “I’ve got the driver’s manual right here, and we can do practice tests on the car ride home. And Monday I’ll meet you at the DMV in the meatpacking district. After you get your learner’s permit, we’ll celebrate at Spice Market.”

A learner’s permit is good for five years, but when I do the math I realize that my last one has also expired. I’ll now be getting my fourth. Is that a record? Monday afternoon we have an off-site meeting to look at venues for the KISS launch. For this cause Jay will allow me to meet up with Josh, but I’ll have to go back to the office after.

However, I don’t share any of this. Instead, I just thank Josh, feeling gratitude that he is taking charge. Relief that he did not question my living in Pennsylvania and relying on car pools. Trying hard to relax, I sit behind the wheel of Josh’s perfect BMW. Hoping when we’re done with this lesson the car will still be that way.

“Let’s start at the very beginning,” he insists, and though I’ve been behind a few wheels in my day I’ve never been behind his. So I let him show me the accelerator and the brakes, how to adjust the mirrors, how to lock and unlock the doors.

We turn on the lights and the brights, and signal to the left then the right. Water splatters across the window when I switch on the windshield wipers in the front and the back. Hot and cold air blows with the heat and the air conditioner. The dashboard, with its indicators, dials, and displays, is like a control panel in a spaceship. Josh places his hand over mine and shows me how to shift. Then he places the key in my hand.

“There’s the ignition. Put it in and start the engine.”

If ever I feel close to Josh, it is now. He is trusting. And trusting me. I turn the car on. The engine roars. My palms sweat. A tingle starts at my temples and trickles its way down.

“I . . .” I look at Josh. I have not done this in years, and I’m nervous. In fact, I’m downright scared.

“Face front,” he instructs. “Don’t look at me, look at the road.”

The empty road lies ahead. I am now the one to get this car on it.

“Can you help me?” I say, gripping the steering wheel hard in both hands. “Can you please help me steer?”

“eMay, we’re not going anywhere if you don’t press your foot down on the gas.”

Hesitant, halting, and halfhearted, I tentatively press my foot on the accelerator. The car lurches forward.

“AAAAAAAH!”

“Don’t freak,” says Josh, his right hand on top of mind on the wheel. “You don’t have to give it so much gas. Lighten up.”

First I go too light, and then I brake too hard.

“You just have to get the rhythm,” he says, and when he does it becomes a dance. The rhythm. When we both feel it, Josh takes his hand off the wheel. And while I wouldn’t be eligible for NASCAR, suddenly we are moving and I’m driving.

“Oh, God!” I scream as we effortlessly glide down the smoothly paved road. “I can’t believe this. And now? What do I do now?”

“Just keep going,” says Josh. I feel him in a ready position to slam on the brakes or grab the wheel if necessary, but he only encourages me to go. Praising me as we go along. “Look, you’re up to forty miles an hour”—he points to the dashboard—“but don’t look down.”

After a straight run for what the odometer claims to be almost six miles, Josh helps me signal to the right and brake at the side of the road. I’m breathing heavy when the car stops. My heart almost does, too, except for the fact I did it.

“I drove!” I scream, raising my hands in victory before throwing them around Josh’s neck and kissing him. “My first BMW.” Talk about luxury. I feel exhilarated. A sense of power. Maybe I’m finally on my way.

“And all thanks to you, Josh.” I give him the biggest and best kiss. “My God, I actually drove. Let’s celebrate.”

“You’re on.” Josh gives me a quick kiss. “But first . . .” Opening the glove compartment, he hands over the driver’s manual. Back in the passenger seat we ride side by side, doing the questions out loud.

Minimum speed signs are designed to:

a. Keep traffic flowing smoothly.

b. Show current local road conditions.

c. Test future traffic signal needs.

d. Assure pedestrian safety.

You may pass another vehicle on the right if it is waiting to:

a. Turn right.

b. Turn left.

c. Park at the curb.

d. Turn into a driveway on the right.

And though I see out the same windows as before, everything now looks different. Especially Josh.

C
ontrol—
H
ome

K
NOWING HIS WAY AROUND
, Josh turns in and out of streets, until we pull into a strip mall. The parking area is big and extends beyond the small handful of stores. For behind them is an old-fashioned diner . . . and a motel.

What a day this is turning out to be.

I look to Josh and grin. In terms of a celebration, we are on the exact same page. Or driving the same highway to heaven, I almost say, but fear I will sound less like a romantic and more like a nerd.

“Let’s go,” he says, giving me a quick kiss across the seats before turning everything off. “Need anything from the trunk?”

“Ummm . . .” He probably has some in his wallet. “I’m good,” I say and get out of the car, walking in the direction of the motel.
SYRACUSE ECONO LODGE AND BANQUET CENTER: HAVE YOUR NEXT AFFAIR HERE.
I laugh.

“Yep, it’s cute,” he says of the sign and grabs the back of my jacket, turning me in the direction of the Round the Clock Diner. “You’re going to love their cinnamon buns.”

I instantly feel ridiculous. And worse than ridiculous, I feel rejected.

“Cool,” I say, careful to walk behind Josh as the waitress takes us to a booth in the back. Josh offers to hang up my jacket, and I slide in. We face each other across the Formica table, each on our side of the booth, sitting on aqua green upholstered seats, silver gaffer’s tape covering a hole.

“What’s the matter?” Josh asks. As good an imposter I’ve been as a shiksa, I don’t have quite the same ability when it comes to just being a girl.

“Nothing,” I answer. Why do people do that?

“Okay,” he says, and opens the menu. Not coaxing me to tell him what’s really going on. As he drops it, so do I.

My stomach suddenly very queasy, I order only cold cereal and fruit, eyeing Josh’s All Day Special of two eggs, pancakes, bacon, home fries, and coffee.

“See, this is exactly what I mean,” he says when we finish a rather nice breakfast. “
Other
women (when he says this now, I know it’s code for Jewish but think, sadly, for Josh Jewish means JAP) will say ‘nothing,’ which really means
some
thing . . . and that’s true even of you,” he acknowledges. “But after they say ‘nothing,’ they keep needling you. But you let it go. It’s great.”

With so much invested in my pretense, when I am confronted with an aspect of our relationship that is only about a guy and girl I am instantly overwhelmed. I am embarrassed to tell Josh I wanted to celebrate at the motel. And that I thought he did as well. That kind of spontaneity was the breath of my relationship with Peter, and though different, it was intrinsically sewn into the fabric of what I shared with Sam. But Josh?

The relationship fairly new, the jury is still out. But Josh doesn’t seem to have the same propensity toward sex as I do. I mean it’s nice. Really nice. It hits all the right marks. However, it does not feel integrated into the relationship. It feels compartmentalized. A nighttime-only activity to be experienced only in a bed, and only in the most traditional way.

“I let go because everything isn’t worth making into something,” I say, angry at myself. Quite sure that my boundaries are responsible for what must cause his.

“So there was something?” he fishes, picking up a package of toothpicks at the cash register, asking with his eyes if I want one of the mints.

“Only this,” I say, and grab his hand. Against the hood of his car, outside, I give Josh a huge hug. “Thank you so much for this trip. For the driving lesson. For being able to”—I feel a catch in my throat—“trust me.”

“Of course,” he says, and kisses me.

I allow the kiss to grow. Then pull away and look over to the motel.

“Really?” asks Josh.

Sheepishly, I nod.

“Right after breakfast? In daylight? Wow, you are
so
melted,” he says, or rather gloats, giving himself an invisible pat on the back. He clicks the remote to unlock the car doors. “I can tell you I never met a Jewish girl with your libido,” he says before walking to his side to get in and drive away.

If Josh feels I am good at letting go, the time to prove him right is definitely now.

“We have tonight, eMay,” he says, actually picking up on my thoughts. Josh is right, I think, as I buckle my seat belt and touch his hand, not saying another word. “Besides, we can do that anytime, and if we hung out here it would ruin my surprise.”

Oh, no. Please, not another surprise. But Josh squeezes my hand back, and it feels warm. It is all good. I focus on that, allowing our warmth and the heat of the seat to send rays of comfort through my body. We drive for a long while; we talk. At some point, unaware, I drift off.

Peter stands on an empty road. He holds a stop sign. I drive past him and merge into a brand-new lane. Josh rides by in a flashy convertible. It has fancy seats with electronic arms that reach into my car and pull me in. Suddenly I am behind the wheel, driving that car. Josh is next to me, and we laugh while we ride, until I see Peter. Now he’s on this road waving the stop sign. Only I can’t. I step on the brakes, but they do not work. I cannot stop. I try and try, but I can’t find the brakes.

“Look familiar?” asks Josh, nudging me with his elbow, jolting me back to reality.

My head darts up, and I realize I was asleep. Having a dream, or more of a nightmare. But unbeknownst to me, the real one is only about to begin. I look up and, larger than life, the sign looms before me: US-6
W EXIT 191B—SCRANTON EXPWY.

“Ohmygod!”
I shriek when Josh exits.

“Surprised?” asks Josh.

“You can’t imagine!” From now on, I will only be fearful of what once was a favorite word. I silently pray as Josh exits and drives toward downtown.

It’s a Sunday, and downtown Scranton is quiet. The absence of any modern jargon or garb makes the place appear as a look back in time.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIZ
, written across a big banner, hangs in front of Rocky’s, where I expect the Fonz and his gang to drive up any second. Sole proprietors hang out their shingles on a realty business, a law office, an optometrist’s, and fashions for hair. We ride through town; so far so good. Until we turn onto Spruce Street.

“Can’t wait for you to show me around,” Josh says, and parks in an empty spot across the street from a post office.

“Not much to show,” I say, not unbuckling my seat belt. “What you see is what you get.”

“I put it together this morning,” he boasts, ignoring me and putting on his jacket before getting out of the car. “Syracuse isn’t far, so it wasn’t really
that
out of the way. And you know how I love
The Office.
It made me curious . . . especially now with you.”

I can’t believe I gave in and watched that TV show over
Grey’s Anatomy.
That I passed up sex and intrigue in a hospital in favor of a bunch of quirky people working in some fictitious Scranton paper company. Yes, it’s funny. But every time we watch, Josh says one day we have to go there. I never dreamed it’d be this one.

“Come on,” he says. “You can show me the sights.”

I zip up my jacket slowly, anxious to buy time. Breathe. In. Out. What will I do now? Think. Can I say everything has changed since I lived here? That nothing is recognizable anymore?

But when I look straight ahead, it still seems like the eighties. And of the nineteenth century . . . not the twentieth. In front of railroad tracks is a block of row houses that, if their doors were to open, I’d expect women in bustle dresses holding parasols to exit. It looks like a charming town, one I’d like to explore for real. Perhaps some other time, I think, my hand unconsciously rubbing my tummy. Gosh, my stomach hurts.

“eMay, you coming?” Josh knocks on the window, waiting for me to get out of the car.

“In a sec,” I say, putting on my new L.L. Bean Mad Bomber hat. Mad, indeed. I try to get some bearings and calculate all my lies.

I said my parents sold the house and moved to Florida. Plantation Island, I said. Having just read about the place in the Travel Section, it was fresh in my mind and didn’t sound Jewish. Not like Miami or Boca. He does know I have a brother in New York. But I told him I don’t have any family left here, so thankfully a visit home will be out.

Good. We’ll just walk around, and hopefully everything I see will look new and can therefore be new to me. Gee, how far away, I wonder, is that Plymouth Congregational Church I googled? It must be near
my house.
Is that close to here? Hmmm . . . Maybe my family hardly came downtown. Who says I need to know downtown Scranton like the back of my hand?

“Hey,” I say, catching up to Josh in front of a comic book store. “See anything good?”

“How long has this been around?” he says. “Looks very cool.”

“This place?” I look into the dusty window. “Oh, let’s see. This has been around for, well, as long as I can remember. My brother and I used to get to come here for our birthdays. As a treat. He was all
Spiderman,
but I always loved
Archie.
”

The lie rolls off my tongue so easily, it even feels good, but I can’t say the same for my tummy. Still we keep going. We walk. I chat away.

“Growing up was when we were just on the cusp of America turning into one gigantic mall,” I pontificate, inspired when I see a sign indicating the Mall at Steamtown is a few blocks away. “But I totally love the little personalized shops.” I point when we pass a shoemaker and a jewelry store. “When I was a kid there were so many, many more than what you see here now.”

I flail my arms to prove my point, except when I actually look, I see these streets are filled with tons of personalized shops. Clothing stores, an ice cream parlor, the mom-and-pop drugstore, you name it. But no matter what comes out of my mouth, Josh is in agreement, so I carry on.

“Corporate America,” I say, and point ahead to the mall. “Now you go to any city in the whole country and wind up shopping in all the same stores as if you never left home. Such a lack of individuation. Such loss. It’s really such a pity.”

Forget Scranton. I’m venting feelings about the very thing that’s happened where I did grow up. I cried at Columbus Circle, a few years back, when the Time Warner Center mall opened.
A mall in Manhattan?
I always think New York City’s different from the rest of America. But it keeps becoming more and more the same.

Josh and I turn the corner and spot a Hilton. A sign announces a new coffee bar in the lobby that now, proudly, brews Starbucks. The two corporations pretty much prove my point.

“I need the ladies’ room,” I tell Josh when we get inside. Oh, my stomach. Was there something wrong with the fruit at breakfast? Could the milk in the cereal have been sour?

“Okay, but hurry up. Because I can’t wait for you to show me the house where you grew up.”

The house where I grew up?
Oh my goodness.
THE HOUSE WHERE I GREW UP?

“Wow.” I feel woozy. “Uh. Yeah. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Josh takes a newspaper and settles into a big cozy chair, while I scoot across the marble lobby, pick up a brochure from the concierge, and run to the safety of the bathroom. Sweat pours down my forehead. I pull off the hat and wet some hand towels, creating a compress to place across my forehead. Then I take out my cell phone, lock myself inside a stall, and pray.

“You’ve reached Jonathan Albert Photography. No one can take your call right . . .”

Oh, no. He’s my only hope.

“. . . name and number after the—”

Beep!

“Jonathan! Jon, are you there? Pick up. It’s me. I’m in
big
trouble.”

“Where are you?”
(I squeal with joy when I hear him live.) “I’m coming right now,” he says, while a female voice in the background asks questions.

“
No.
No, not that kind of trouble,” I quickly say, happy to know my brother would drop everything if, God forbid, I was ever in need. “Just go to your computer and tell me when you get to Mapquest. And do it fast. Okay?”

There is silence on Jon’s end.

“Did you hear me? I don’t have a lot of time. Will you help?” I pause.
“Please?”

His silence informs me that he is angry, not to mention I believe I interrupted him at a very inopportune time.

“Say something!”

The click-clicking tap-tapping of the keyboard comes through the phone and puts me more at ease.

“Okay. Good. Go to Directions and at Start type in
Hilton Hotel.
” I pick up the brochure so I can read, “100 Adams Avenue in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and then do
Plymouth Congregational Church in Scranton
for End.”

“You’re pretty adept at directions for someone who doesn’t drive.”

“Yeah, well . . . You doing it or not?”

“You’re out of your mind,” says my brother. “You’re in Scranton now, right? With the Jewish guy?”

“I’m in the bathroom at the Scranton Hilton,” I say as fast as I have ever spoken. “We were in Syracuse at his college reunion, and he surprised me with a hometown visit.”

“I never could have imagined you had this in you,” says Jon. “Spell
Plymouth.
And why Scranton? How the hell did you come up with that?”

“It shouldn’t take this long,” I say. Spelling, clicking, more waiting, more tapping.

“Anyone in your family still live there?” he asks. Facetiously.

“Nobody. Mom and Dad sold the house and moved down to Plantation Island.”

Jon cracks up.

“Aside from that, all I have is a brother in New York. You’re not a lie. Except for the not being Jewish part, which half the time you try to act like you’re not anyway.”

“I never deny my heritage, Aimee. It’s my identity, so don’t go there, okay? Even if I don’t follow tradition like you doesn’t mean—”

“Look, you never want to talk to me about this stuff, so don’t start now. Did you get it?”

“Got it. You’re in luck,” he says, and gives me the address of the church. “And it’s just three miles from the hotel.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” I say, actually happy to discover I grew up close to downtown Scranton. My cosmopolitan flair. “I owe you.”