The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (19 page)

Sid turns his right forefinger in circles, motioning to his wife that Tova needs to hurry up.

“Please cut to the chase,” he says when he is no longer able to contain himself. “Tell us already what happened.”

“Aimee and Josh are planning to marry,” says Tova. “And she wants to do it in a
church.
Our Aimee is a convert. She turned Christian!”

My mother falls on the bed in a heap. My father is prepared to fight.

“Get Aimee on the phone,” he says. “We’re getting to the bottom of this right now.”

When my cell rings, I quickly power down. Later, at the movie, I can’t answer. After, I check my voice mail and hear an uproar of such disproportion, I only send back a text message to say I’m okay. The week goes by, I answer e-mails but no questions.

No calls on the phone. I need time. Work, of late, is crazed. And luckily I’m unaware of this:

Josh is back, wining and dining me like never before. We don’t talk about what happened, which is fine with me. I have no energy for it. Not to mention I spend most nights this week at the office working. Late. Way, way behind, I am eager to catch up.

“You’re still here?” I ask Krista Friday night, running into her in reception, finally on my way out the door. “It’s Shabbat; I thought you’d be at services.”

“Not tonight,” she says, eyes glued to the papers she just retrieved from the copy machine. “Too much going on. That launch.”

“Tell me about it.”

The silence is awkward. How long has it been like this now?

“What are you up to this weekend?” she asks. Nonchalantly.

“Going to a bar mitzvah tomorrow.” I beam. “My
first.
” Krista doesn’t laugh. “Josh’s cousin’s son. In Larchmont. Getting my hair done now, and my nails. Got the last appointment of the night.”

“Well.” Krista lifts her eyes. Just slightly. “Have fun, Aimee.”

“Thanks.” I hang back a moment to see if there’s more to this talk, but there’s not.
C’est la vie;
it’s a start. I check my watch. I don’t want to be late.

“Willie says he will call upstairs and let us know when Aimee comes in,” Tova tells my mother when they speak later that night.

“Thank you,” says Maddie. “She likes being a shiksa? Let’s see how my daughter feels when she finally meets
her
maker.”

ARE YOU IN?

N
ot
I
s
N
ot
E
nough

I
T’S A PRETTY SYNAGOGUE
in the suburbs. Modern architecture, a sanctuary of wood and glass. The ceiling is quite high; soft light shines through a skylight. The Hebrew alphabet, each letter carved in bronze, is arranged around the Ark that holds the Torah. Prayer books in hand, the bar mitzvah boy and his divorced parents, together for this special occasion, sit on blue velvet chairs on the bimah.

“We call to the Torah . . .”

Family members are announced. They come up to the bimah to recite the first blessing before the reading of the Torah.

“Ba-re-khu et . . . ,”
they begin. Then the congregation answers. The Hebrew words mean “We praise God, who is to be praised, praising him forever and ever.” When they are through, they give Evan a handshake or a hug. Proud, and proud to be given this aliyah.

I turn to Josh and smile. It is the first time I see him in a yarmulke. Orange on the outside, dark blue on the inside.
EVAN POMERANTZ BAR MITZVAH
and the date are embossed in gold.

I reach for Josh’s hand and squeeze. He squeezes back. After our day at church, there was much less flack about his sitting through this service today. Besides which, when it’s over, there’s a big party. But we have only just begun.

Evan seems naturally gregarious, but in today’s reverent setting he can’t help be a bit subdued. Hebrew, however, comes easy to him. Ready and well rehearsed, he effortlessly chants his haftarah portion. The cacophonies of the words create beautiful harmonious sounds.

With humor and presence, Evan speaks of his mitzvah project during his speech. Of volunteering to help disabled children prepare for their bar mitzvahs.

“Were you like this at yours?” I lean over and quietly ask.

“Me?” Josh cracks up. “We had to get a tutor for me. Could barely get through it. But my party was awesome,” he whispers in my ear. “The theme was
E.T.
, and we gave everyone toy phones with my picture to
take
home. Get it?”

Take home, phone home. “Got it.”

My bat mitzvah didn’t have a theme. After the service, we had a luncheon in a neighborhood restaurant that had a private room for parties. Everyone came up to me to say how amazingly I had done with my haftarah, and I remember feeling proud. Plus Michael Cohen danced practically every dance with me. Looking back, if pressed to come up with one, I would color my theme happy.

The bar mitzvah boy suddenly throws up his hands. Guarding his face and protecting his body. From the attack. By the candy brigade. Earlier, little candies were distributed to Evan’s friends, who now throw them at him on the bimah. Customary in wishing him a sweet life.

Josh runs up to some kids and grabs a few wrapped hard candies for us to throw. Everyone hoops and hollers. It’s joyful. And fun.

“Zach loves this,” says Josh of his younger brother. The first positive thing about any Jewish tradition I’ve ever heard him say.

Benjy has a temperature, so Zach and Elizabeth were unable to come. Still in Hong Kong, Josh’s parents also are not here. I don’t imagine my folks would plan a trip abroad if one of their sibling’s grandkids were to be honored. Even if divorce had made them somewhat estranged. It’s not surprising Josh feels such a disconnect. But by attending this bar mitzvah, like the shivah, Josh shows his heart is in the right place.

Perhaps the takeaway feeling has a lot to do with your early exposure. If the culture is presented to you as unimportant and a bore, it’s likely you will grow up feeling that way. If it’s presented as the “be all and end all” and shoved down your throat, that too can be a turnoff. Now I’m hopeful that Josh might gain some appreciation seeing it through “an outsider’s” eyes.

The Torah is marched around. People touch it with their siddurs and then kiss the prayer book. Seated on the aisle, I lean past Josh as the procession walks by, extending my book out to reach the Torah. I take a look around first, making sure Josh sees I am only copying the other congregants.

In the procession, Robby gives Josh a high-five when he passes, winking at him when he sees me kiss the book.

“You don’t have to do that,” Josh tells me, at this point the singing so loud and jubilant he needn’t whisper.

“When in Rome,” I say, and leave it at that.

“Please stand for the Amidah,” says the rabbi. Meaning “standing,” this prayer of gratitude is repeated during the Musaf service, the additional service said on Shabbat.

I haven’t been to synagogue in such a long time, it all feels so good. I must start to go again, I think. Just as soon as things straighten out, I think. And I want to go on Saturday mornings, when I tend to feel an even larger sense of community. How many years did I attend Saturday morning services? The structure and continuity of the prayers are such a part of me. While every synagogue has its own spin, I am at home with every nuance and every word.

“Page 286.”

My siddur closed, I open it quickly. The right side of the book, its pages written in Hebrew, I hold close to my nose. I take three small steps backward before taking three forward, approaching God as you might a king. I bend my knees, bow my head, and pray.

“What are you doing?” asks Josh. Stunned.

“Sssshh.”

“How’d you know to do that?”

“Huh?”

Oh. Oh, no.

“I, uh, studied up,” I whisper. “And didn’t they already do this one before?”

“Don’t ask me,” says Josh. Standing. His prayer book left on the seat. Closed. “Aimee, you don’t have to participate. You can just chill.”

We stand, we sit; we sit, we stand. The up and down so automatic, I must remember to watch Josh to take my cues from him. Except now in this synagogue I no longer want to. During the Amidah, especially when first said as a personal prayer, I asked God to please guide me out of this mess. In the end, however, what happens will come from me.

People often ask how God can allow murder, disasters and disease, terrorists and war. People often say religion causes war. But religion doesn’t. People do. God gives us free will. I don’t think God controls all that. He sure doesn’t control me. But my intention does.

Connecting to one’s intention will create and make change. People call it the power of positive thinking. Of late, many think that’s
The Secret.
But it’s just our higher self. So is it our higher self that’s God? I think that is a part of God. God is an entity I don’t quite know how to define. And I believe that’s kosher with him.

One Rosh Hashanah, I arrived at the synagogue later than I wanted. Flustered, I grabbed a prayer book, but the moment I opened it, it flew out of my hands. I retrieved it in the aisle by picking it up and kissing the book, showing respect for God’s teachings.

“You think this a bad omen?” I asked the man sitting next to me.

“Excuse me?”

“You know, so close to our fates being sealed for the New Year, I go and drop the siddur on the floor.”

The man looked at me kindly and then answered, “What kind of punitive God do you pray to that would be so angry because you accidentally dropped a book?”

Overall, I believe the love is what’s most encompassing. There is surely something, someone, and it is surely bigger than us. Right here I feel it. Right now I need to connect. And I need to be open, for I need to be led.

I remain quiet during the concluding prayers. My body sways when I sing “Ein Keloheinu” in silence, appropriately honoring the four different ways to say God’s name. But when we get to Aleinu, I unconsciously bend at the knee and waist, bowing along with most other congregants. Most others, not Josh. For when I straighten myself back up, his eyes are there waiting, questioningly meeting mine.

“I just followed the crowd,” I say.

We sit for the Kaddish while those currently in mourning stand. I look around and study their faces. People deal with loss so individually. The final hymn is sung. I am sad the service will end. “Adon Olam” is vibrant, the congregation impassioned as they sing along:
“V’im ruchi g’viyati.”

Anyplace I’ve ever been, the ending is the same. Everyone always slows down on the last line for the great, big finish. I belt it out with the rest of them.

“Shabbat Shalom,” I say, and turn to Josh. I give him a big kiss, but he is still. “What?”

“Where’d you learn all that?” he demands.

“The last line of that song? There was transliteration on the opposite page; the tune was repeating over and over. Anybody could pick it up. No big deal.”

We exit the synagogue, stopping on the receiving line to greet Robby. I meet Evan and see the ex.

“You were great,” I tell the kid.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, dude, good job,” says Josh. “He was into it, Robby.”

“So was Aimee,” Robby responds. “I was watching her from the bimah. A little conversion action?”

“Not for us, bud,” says Josh, patting his cousin on the back before bringing me over to the cocktail hour.

At the bar, Josh gets a beer, and I get a Bloody Mary. Then we check out the food. There are stations all around the room with food from all around the world. Because we’re in a synagogue, everything is kosher, but it’s all here: pigs in a blanket and chicken on a skewer; a choice of pastas or sushi; made-to-order omelets; salmon and cheeses and bagels and more.

“Well, hello!”

“So glad you could come.”

Aunt Renee and Uncle Mickey seem more than happy to see Josh. They are sitting at a small round table with Robby’s wife, Hope, and . . .

“Do you remember my name?” Josh asks their little girl.

“Ummmm . . .” Adorable in a pink gingham party dress, she shyly shakes her head.

“This is Cousin Josh,” reminds Hope.

“Hi, Madison,” he says. “Were you proud of your big brother?”

Renee looks at me, throws out her hands, and lifts up her eyes. As everyone’s distracted, she takes my hand in hers and leans in confidentially.

“Such complications,” she says quietly of second marriages and half-siblings. Josh filled me in on Robby’s contentious divorce, made better since his ex-wife’s remarriage to a wealthy man. “Try to do it right the first time,” she says, as her head nods in approval of her nephew.

“Saw you davening at the end in there,” Uncle Mickey breaks in. “Impressive. I was confused; I thought you weren’t Jewish.”

Oh, but I am. How simple it would be to say. Maybe I’ll just do that. Yes. Imagine that. Josh couldn’t make a scene. Not here in public. Especially at a family party. And a Jewish one to boot.

Hmmm . . . maybe I really should. For this very moment the fall-out almost feels easier than having to stand here and pretend. I search to see if I have the guts, but Josh answers before I finish.

“She isn’t, Uncle Mick. She said she just picked it up.”

“Is that so?” asks his uncle.

“Well, it’s not like this is the first bar mitzvah I ever went to,” I answer. “I do live in New York City, you know.”

“You never told me you’d been to a bar mitzvah,” says Josh.

“You never asked.”

“Well, Rob sure is glad you’re both here,” says Hope, reaching her arm around her husband when he arrives. He tells us the main room is now open. We will all be seated together at the same table.

The synagogue’s ballroom is huge, and I’m dazzled by the decor. Evan’s theme is baseball, and the party planner definitely hit a home run.
Let’s Go, Mets!
Everything is decorated in orange and blue. Stadium sound effects fill the hall, while baseball games loop on a flat screen. The food station for the kids has pizza and frankfurters, French fries and bags of popcorn. Off to the side a miniature batting cage with plastic bats and balls is set up for practice. I reach into Josh’s pocket to pull out the yarmulke and we laugh, having figured out the reason for its unusual colors.

Tracking down our seats, we find ourselves at the Jose Reyes table. A photo of the player with a printed card detailing his Selected MLB Statistics creates the centerpiece; irises and bird-of-paradise flowers surround it in a wood vase shaped like a bat.

“We rate,” acknowledges Josh, “Reyes one of the top players in the National League. Though he admittedly swings back and forth, he’s really a bigger fan of the Yankees.”

To be honest, whenever I imagine Josh meeting my family, his baseball persuasion has me more worried than any religious one. Jon is an avid Mets fan. I take that back; when it comes to New York and baseball, my brother believes only one team exists. Don’t even say the word
Yankees.
I said
don’t.
Jon will have your head. Once Peter brought me to a game at Yankee Stadium; free tickets, I swear that was all. Well, I thought Jon would go through the roof.

“Hat day?” he said with bewilderment, as if the guy had taken me on a date to a wake. “He brought you to
hat
day?” he despaired, seeing us after the game. Tear-struck at the navy and white baseball cap on my head.

“I don’t get it,” Robby says of his son’s taste in teams. “But hey—that’s what makes horse racing, right?”

“The Yankees have a stadium now in my hometown,” I pipe up as we seat ourselves. On the table before us is bread and salad, preserved. Having just eaten, we see it’s time, again, to eat.

“Yeah, tell me about that,” says Mickey. “Where are you from, Aimee?”

“Scranton,” answers Josh. “Nice place.”

“The Scranton/ Wilkes-Barre Yankees are the Class-AAA Minor League Baseball affiliate of the New York Yankees,” I recite by heart.

“You see the stadium?” Robby asks Josh.

“Not yet. Next time. Soon,” he says, then looks at me. “Okay?” Josh is pleased about his bonding with Pennsylvania. He turns back to his cousins and continues to talk.

Blah, blah, Syracuse. Blah, blah, Scranton.

He takes my hand and smiles. I return the smile but would rather stick out my tongue. Because Josh not only tells everyone about our last trip but asks Robby and Hope if they’d like to accompany us on our next.

No way. I can’t go back there. I don’t want to go back to Scranton. I don’t want to introduce him to people at my church. The minister didn’t get his eggnog from me, nor did herbs ever grow in our garden. Another visit to 1764 McDonough Avenue will make me seriously ill.