The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (17 page)

W
ill the
R
eal
S
hiksa
P
lease
S
tand
U
p?

T
HE END OF ANY LIFE
has the tendency to put one’s own in perspective, even if only briefly. Though it’s often at random, we constantly hear about death. A sound bite on the radio. A photo with dates will flash across the TV screen. News anchors tally daily how many have died in Iraq. We hear the news of the one who has stopped, but those of us here keep going just as we had the moment before. Whether it be watering our plants, hopping into the shower, talking on the phone, dashing out the door. We are busy. Living.

But death takes no prisoners. That’s the one sure thing everyone does have in common. Every ending will be different. And every loss, depending upon the relationship, will be experienced differently for those who do remain.

Josh holds my hand in the cavernous and ornately decorated living room of the recently deceased Long Island deli king, Saul Greenblatt. A longtime LoveLoaves customer, Saul was also a neighbor and family friend of the Hirsches.

The kids and grandkids in from out-of-town for the holiday, Saul was surrounded by his nearest and dearest when, sadly and unexpectedly, he had a heart attack at the end of the second seder the night before last. Sissy Greenblatt, his wife of fifty-two years, had just served dessert. Saul expounded on the merits of the flourless chocolate cake—deliciously first-rate and still kosher for Pesach—collapsing just moments after taking his very last bite.

“He died surrounded by everything he loved,” cries Sissy on the gold crushed-velvet sofa, dabbing her eyes with a tissue while talking to those around her. “His family, his fortress . . . his favorite food. Death by chocolate,” she says, still in shock, choking on her small sobs, trying to rally.

In accordance with the Jewish custom, Saul was buried within twenty-four hours of his death. Today is the first full day the family sits shivah, the seven-day period of mourning. Extended family, neighbors, and friends drop by to comfort the mourners and honor the deceased.

“My parents left for Hong Kong this morning, and someone from my family has to pay a shivah call,” Josh said when he called me this morning. “I can pick you up at work. Will you come with me tonight to Long Island?”

Sending or bringing food and making donations to a charity are part of Jewish mourning customs. Without knowing why, I know flowers are not. And for this reason I bring them. Shiksa written all over me, arriving with a big bouquet.

“Thank you,” says Sissy when Josh introduces us. “How very kind,” she says of the flowers, though I see her register that Josh is dating a girl who’s Not.

But as with most Jewish stuff, Josh knows. He brings bread. And lots of it: sourdough, ciabatta, and focaccias; bagels, baguettes, and a plain old seeded rye. “Oh, Joshy.” Sissy’s awed

when she looks into the shopping bag.

“Freeze it.”

“Saul loved everything baked from your factory.” She hands the bread and the flowers to someone nearby, who’s eager and ready to help. “You were always on time; he loved that. ‘I can count on Hirsch,’ he always said. ‘I never have to worry with an order from them.’ ”

Josh pays his respects to Saul and Sissy’s kids, who are older than him. He gets a kick when he introduces me to Randy and her son; especially when Josh tells the boy his mother was his age when she babysat him.

Always tons of food at a shivah, the death of a deli king is nothing short of a full-blown smorgasbord. Josh makes me a plate, taking delight in explaining every item on the table. If not a cultural Jew, my boyfriend is most certainly a culinary one.

Their rabbi arrives to conduct the short service. When Sam died, I was not his wife, so was not in the inner circle of mourners. But I sat shivah with his family as if I were. Every night someone else from the synagogue came to lead the prayers. A minyan of ten, the minimum needed to form a congregation, was brought together so the mourners could say Kaddish. The ritual a comfort.

Now it’s still early. People are just coming home from work. When we leave here, I will have to go back and burn the midnight oil. At this hour, though, the main visitors are Sissy’s friends. Mainly women. Women, most likely, never bat mitzvahed. Looking around, I see hardly any men.

The rabbi smiles as he hands out the small prayer books. He’s hip, in his late forties; his hair is kind of long. He has an upbeat spirit. I bet he plays guitar. He stops a moment and counts to see if he has enough people for a minyan. It’s close. A few neighbors, Saul’s sons and sons-in-laws. Two grandsons bar mitzvahed and over the age of thirteen. All together there are nine.

“Go get Randy or Lynn,” someone calls.

“But they weren’t bat mitzvahed.”

Sissy searches the room. She comes to Josh.

“I was at your bar mitzvah,” she says, and hands him a yarmulke. “Get up there.”

He won’t. “Not me. Get someone who knows the prayers. I don’t remember any Hebrew.” His participation, he tells me, would be a waste.

“A waste?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”

He needn’t pray; he only needs to stand. To form the minyan. To honor Saul. Doesn’t he know how important that is for the Greenblatts? Why must this be about him? For God’s sake, what’s his problem? But he is his own keeper, and I am mine.

“What about you?” asks the rabbi, to find out whether or not I can count as the tenth?

“Me?” And now we will see how I run my store.

“Yes.” His warm brown eyes sear my scorched soul. “Were you bat mitzvahed? Because we’re basically Reform here, so it does not have to be all men,” he says, and smiles. “You count.”

And I want to. Oh, in this moment I so desperately want to count. For I no longer do. I want to claim and reclaim my place. My rightful place, the one I earned. The one I so foolishly abandoned.

I feel Sissy’s eyes upon me. She is silent. Perhaps she had sized me up wrong? But it is not me that’s important. It is this minyan. Once it is assembled, she will join the congregants to say this prayer to praise God and honor her husband. While in mourning, you say it every day. Depending on how observant you are, you say it for a week, a month, or a year. I know from experience it can help to provide some solace. For the sounds of the words are magical. I so want to recite them.

“Yit-ga-dal ve-yit-kadash she-mei ra-ba.”
The plaintive quality can touch your essence at critical points in your life; especially now, when one link has come full circle and the next link, one you cannot imagine you even have, must take over. Within all this sadness, that prayer is a motto of life.

“What is your name?” asks the rabbi.

“Aimee,” I answer when I stand. Because I do, I stand up. I hold out my hand. I take the book.

“Uh, Rabbi,” Josh calls out after I take a step into the circle. “I don’t think she gets what’s going on. She’s not Jewish.”

The rabbi stops in his tracks. He looks at me. I search his eyes, and he gets it. He gets what’s going on. Without details, he sees. If only I could see me through his eyes, maybe I would understand why I’ve been doing this. I turn around to see Josh beckoning me to step back. Only now I can’t. It’s time to move forward.

“Wait!”

But that voice isn’t mine. Steve, a high-school friend of Randy’s who lives a few towns away, dropped by his parents’ before visiting the Greenblatts. Her phone call got him here in the knick of time.

“I’m going to have to put you down for a few minutes, Lili,” he says of the strawberry-blonde little girl he carries in on his shoulders. “Can you watch her?” he asks, before standing with the other men in the minyan. When she sits on my lap, Josh protectively puts his arm around my shoulders.

“That was sweet of you to try to help,” he whispers. “And look at this.” Josh looks from little Lili on my lap to me. He grins. “You’re going to be a great mom. Think it’s too soon to talk about that?”

So near to getting what I want, I find myself pulling away from Josh in the car ride home, which crazily only makes me more desirable. Somehow the male-female push and pull has the remarkable ability to transcend age, race, and religion.

“So that was pretty weird in there for a second,” Josh says, and turns on the CD player, searching for something to listen to. “With that rabbi.”

“The longer I’m in New York, the more people mistake me for Jewish,” I boldly answer.

“How?” he says, and turns up the volume. The soundtrack of
Garden State
blasts through the speakers. “Look at you.”

Yeah, Josh. Look at me. Really look. Then tell me what you really see.

The drive home is mostly silent, but for Josh singing along to Coldplay’s “Don’t Panic.”
“We live in a beautiful world. Yeah we do, yeah we do.”

We finally reach Lexington Avenue, where Josh drops me so I can go back to work. I’ve been working late these last weeks, and, considering his gripes about Lauren, I’ve been pleasantly surprised he hasn’t said a word. Except all that is about to change.

“I haven’t been seeing enough of you,” he says when we pull up in front of my office building near Grand Central. As he leans over to kiss me, I notice, again, that Josh is more amorous in public than in private. He creates great expectations on dates, but then I’m disappointed once we arrive home. “Can I pick you up later and you’ll stay at my place?”

How far am I willing to let all this go? How much am I giving up so I can get? I keep making myself less in order to get more. In the end I’m afraid it won’t be. But what if I’m wrong? Or do I mean right? Once I straighten this all out, could Josh make me happy? For now I’m unsure where we stand on issues I never even thought we would have.

“Look, Josh, we’ve been going out for a few months and . . .”

“I know, I know,” he says. “You don’t want to keep going back and forth from one apartment to the next, especially with everything going on at work.”

“No, well yes, but it’s just that . . .” That happens to be true, but unbeknownst to Josh, that’s the least of it. “See . . . I’ve been thinking about us. And why we never discuss certain things.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s what’s so beautiful about this. You’re so unlike anyone I’ve ever dated before. You’re so unlike Lauren. Everything with us is so easy. Because you and me, eMay, we’re really the same. We have no differences.”

Josh lives in a beautiful world because that’s all he wants to see. In our case, however, that’s also the only color I choose to show.

“Well, I doubt that’s true,” I say when it hits me. Aren’t I the one always saying to embrace the differences? “But I do think that now it’s time.”

“So do I,” says Josh. “Definitely.”

Good. Finally we are on the same page. We look at each other with similar intent, except who’s to know it’s so disparate.

“This weekend,” we both say at the same time.

“You go first—”

“No you—”

“How about”—we both begin again.

“Okay.”

Together and separate we each stake our claim.

“This Sunday I want you to come with me to church” would probably have been dramatic enough, except Josh says, “I think it’s time we move in together.”

The die now cast on our respective agendas, all I can say is this is sure going to be one hell of an Easter egg hunt.

T
he
E
ther
B
unny

E
ASTER
B
UNNY
C
AKE

“Ma, it’s me,” I say after the beep. “Can I borrow some of your baking tins and trays? If you leave them in a shopping bag in the foyer, I can just come by and pick it up. You won’t even know I’m there. I have to be on the West Side later anyway. I have to meet my pastor. At my new church.”

“Okay, that does it,” my mother says, and finally picks up the phone. “It’s enough.”

Ever since she and my dad found out, no one has returned my calls or my e-mails. Not my brother or sister, not Krista or my parents. Peter had clearly stopped, and for the first time ever Tova didn’t stop to talk to me in the hall. However, I do know my mother. I know how to get her attention. And I had to go this far.

“Can I also borrow something you’d use to cook a ham?” My kitchen is small, and I usually buy kitchen paraphernalia on an as-needed basis. But today I don’t have time.

“I’m not letting you use the roasting pan I use for brisket to bake a ham.”

“Oh, you
bake
it?” I haven’t yet researched a recipe, and frankly I was unsure what you’re supposed to do with it. I was tempted to just buy an Easter dinner at Dean & DeLuca, but I have to pull out the stops. Tomorrow has to be perfect.

“What do you care what goes in the pan? It’s not like your meat’s always kosher or anything.”

“That’s not the point,” says my mother. “My heart is. Which is more than I can say for yours. I’m very disappointed in you, Aimee. We all are.”

As horrible as it is to hear what my mother has to say, I’m happy we’re at least talking. First part of this mission halfway accomplished, I hop in a cab to go cross-town to my church, conveniently located just two blocks from Fairway, where after my meeting I can food-shop.

The West Side, especially on a Saturday, is nothing if not Jewish. As theatrical as the neighborhood was, that’s how Jewish it’s become. The taxi drives past one synagogue after the next; groups of people all dressed up for Shabbat walk together after attending Saturday morning services. Because I’m still Jewish, the guilt gives me a good
zetz.
But frankly, I’m pretty excited to see this church.

I searched online for the perfect Protestant church, and when I approach the building on West End Avenue I have surely found it. The West End Collegiate Church was originally formed downtown by Dutch colonists in 1628. I read on the plaque that this building, designed in a Flemish style, was completed in 1892 for the Collegiate Reformed Protestant Dutch Church.

One of those people who would be more curious to travel back in time instead of forward, I wish I could snap my fingers and be on this block then. That’s impossible, but I do enter a new world when I open the door and take a seat on the wood bench inside.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here to see the pastor.”

Jim, as he prefers to be called, got back to me immediately when I left a message for him yesterday asking about the possibility of a meeting.

“It’s so kind of you to take this time,” I say, following behind him on the stairs before entering his cozy study. Yellow daffodils abound in window boxes perched outside. I immediately recognize the chairs as Mission furniture. Two face each other on a diagonal, and I’m invited to take a seat.

I did not feel I could bring Josh here tomorrow without some knowledge of the place first. Honestly, a few minutes ago I didn’t even know where to find the entrance to
my church.
Logistics aside, I realized that when it comes to being any kind of a Protestant, I’m pretty much not in-the-know.

Jim wears a suit and has welcoming eyes. He tells me he will baptize his granddaughter at the Easter service tomorrow. He gives the background of the church. Then he asks why I’ve come.

For the first time since becoming a shiksa, I allow authentic feelings to flow, and my eyes fill with tears. Boy, do I need counsel. It never occurred to me to consult clergy. A shrink, maybe. Or even a rabbi. Truth be told, I’d feel embarrassed to talk to one. But here I feel separate. And safe.

Jim says when it comes to reverence, the Torah is to Jews as Jesus is to Christians. I never thought of it like that but find it more than interesting to contemplate. I mean, Jewish people are known to stress learning. The focus on interpretation and discussion, the openness to debate. Or in the words of Tevye, “On the one hand . . . on the other hand . . . on the
other
hand . . .”

I wonder if all that study gave birth to the stereotype of the overly analytical Jew. I’ve been accused of that myself. If you’re one to think the constant back-and-forth over the same thing a little analytical. Maybe more like a little neurotic. But in kindness it is just the ability to see, yet, another hand. There’s always more than one way to look at something, and how you do informs your behavior. I only have to look as far as myself to know this is true.

He talks of the many denominations, and it’s analogous to the varying ways Jewish sects observe. That makes me even more curious to understand the similarities between Easter and Passover, and the differences between being Jewish and Not. Not, of course, is built on a huge belief system, but in another way it is simple. Judaism stops at the Old Testament, and Christianity continues with the New. Since the first book
is
the foundation, in that respect I don’t feel I stray
that
far from home. I bet, to an extent, that familiarity helps when a real shiksa is open to Judaism. So I tell him about me and my family, about Sam and Peter. About Josh.

“Let’s say I told you I really am a Protestant. And that I’m dating a Jewish guy . . .” (One I’m beginning to feel I’d have an interfaith marriage with whether I was Jewish or Not.) “Well, if I told you that, what would you say?”

Jim takes a moment to compose his thoughts. Though I may only fleetingly belong to his parish, we are all God’s children and he cares.

“I would say that you live in a terribly important bridge place,” he says, “and that you are knitting together two terribly important cultures and traditions.”

When we are done, he shows me out, lightness guiding me up to my mom on Ninety-sixth Street.

“Wasn’t that brilliant?” I ask when she makes me walk the reservoir with her.

Maddie was waiting for me in the foyer with two shopping bags of baking supplies and two bottles of water. Ready to take me to the park to walk and talk. Surrounded by tall buildings and trees, the water glistens. I love being near water in a city. It’s unseasonably cold, but the sun shines and I feel somehow after tomorrow things will get brighter.

“It was,” says Maddie. “And I wonder why you didn’t go talk to him about this all that time you were dating Peter?”

Peter? “Why are we always talking about Peter?”

“We’re not,” says my mother, pausing to take a sip of her water. We walk on the dirt path and keep to the right, allowing two joggers to pass. “But we should be.”

“Ma, stop. You saw him. The night in the lobby. You saw Josh. You see he’s cute, nice, that he’s good to me. And he comes from . . . well, wait till you see what he comes from.”

“I don’t have to see Josh, and I don’t have to see what he comes from. I see you. And you don’t seem happy with him.”

“Of course I’m happy with him. I just always have this lie on my mind. Besides, how do you know how I feel? I never talk to you about it. Why would you even say a thing like that?” While my mom and I are now really talking, this is not my conversation of choice.

“You eat tortillas,
traif
, on Passover? You never had to do that with Peter. From what I hear about this young man, if you do have a family, he’ll be on a golf course while you take the kids to temple alone.”

“Isn’t it like that with
everybody
?” I accuse. “Daddy was always working. He wasn’t in there like you were. Doesn’t that stuff always fall on the woman? Whether or not she works like a man?” We near the East Side, and I decide not to walk the full circle. I stop by the benches next to the steps. It’s obvious I will get off the reservoir path and exit the park to head home. “Besides, Peter isn’t ready like Josh. It makes a big difference, and
that’s
something you very well know.”

“And just so
you
know,” says my mother, pointing her manicured finger to put me in my place. “Peter has been in touch. And his situation will change.”

“His situation will . . . what? Why are you being so cryptic?”

But my mother will not answer. She has several more points to make. I could say I should have known better. Except no matter how distressing, after being so alone in this I want to hear.

“If you are in touch with Peter, I’m sure he’ll tell you. As for relationships, I’m not from the women’s movement, okay? I don’t believe any partnership between a woman and man is so equal; I don’t even want it to be. But within every twosome there has to be the proper give and take. People need to share. And people need to know how. Peter knows. In
every
way.” My mother’s look almost scares me. It is so intense; it’s as if she has seen beyond my words and into my bed. “Does Josh? And . . .” She looks at me. “I wonder about this, Aimee. Do you?”

“I think that’s kind of mean.”

“Happy Easter,” Maddie says, then makes a 180 in her new Reeboks and walks away.

But it feels more like I’ve come full circle when Josh and I are seated in the pew the next morning. The sanctuary is so pretty, Victorian and charming. Lilies and azaleas, bright red carpet, stained-glass windows, mustard and burnt-orange walls. The ceiling forms an apex in the center, the dark wood beams matching the pews. The choir sings, and on the pulpit is the word god . . . carved in Hebrew!

“What do I do?” whispers Josh. I look to the woman next to me, who smiles.

“Welcome,” she says when I ask if she can pass us a few books.

As Hebrew is read right to left, I immediately open the book backward. I wonder if this is why all Jewish holidays start on the night before. Quickly, I flip the book over before Josh might notice. But Josh doesn’t, nor has he yet to open his.

“Page 492,” I instruct when we stand to sing a hymn preparing us for the baptism. It’s sung to the tune of what I know as Cat Stevens’s “Morning Has Broken.” I am even able to sing along.

Today I wear a scooped-neck dress in white, decorated with little daisies. My cherished green cardigan, ballet flats, pearls, and my hair pulled up in a ponytail . . . with a great big bow.

Josh stares straight ahead. I reach for his hand, but after a few seconds he pulls his away. When the baptism begins, Jim speaks of Abraham and his talk with God. I give Josh a nudge; his people are represented here too.

“See,” I say. “It’s just one big pot.”

The baby girl is beautiful. And I’m touched when Jim tells the congregation this year Maundy Thursday was during Passover week, two days after the second seder. And what remarkable convergence it is when the holidays coincide. When that happens, this church will conduct a seder. The bridge.

“Isn’t this nice?” I ask, enjoying this service.

“It’s over at 12:15?” responds Josh, as he looks at his watch to count the minutes.

I ignore him, wishing I could participate and sing full-out. Only I don’t know any of the tunes.

“Okay. I’ll stop singing,” I whisper in Josh’s ear when the next song comes. “I don’t want you to feel any more uncomfortable.”

Suddenly everyone stands and recites: “I believe in God the Father Almighty Maker of Heaven and Earth . . .”

Josh looks at me bewildered. “What do you want me to do here?”

“Sit,” I tell him, while I still stand. However, I don’t finish the prayer. It’s not my belief system, but I’m well aware that if I was raised that way, it would be.

“Let us pray.”

I look around to see what that means, then sit and bow my head like everyone else when I see it is a private tête-à-tête with God. When I bend my head, it is the same as when I recite the Shema. In fact, now in my mind I do. I say the Hebrew prayer talking to the same God as always, just in a different locale.

“Now tell him your needs and desires,” says the pastor.

Wow. Christians get straight to it, I think. It feels so unencumbered.

In Judaism, we praise and honor God before we ask him for stuff. In fact, for me it has always felt as if we really should skirt around the idea of too much personal asking. Better to ask for help and guidance rather than a direct “Dear God, please let me win that new account.” Rewards will be attained through mitzvahs and good deeds. We step back before we step forward. Honor, but know your place.

But what do I know? It’s all my interpretation. To me, Jim’s words feel like permission to go for it. That said, I’m such a mess I don’t have the chutzpah to ask God to hook me up with a husband. My best bet at this point is to ask for help and guidance. Still, I like expressing my needs and desires. I wonder if Christians do it more easily because they have less guilt, or if it’s because every week they give.

“We pay up front,” says Josh when I open my wallet and add to the basket, making a donation. “High-holiday tickets are big money.”

I know. But this way or that, in the end it all comes out in the wash.

As in Judaism, the service ends with a benediction. After the candles are extinguished, two young boys bring the light to the door.