The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (22 page)

“Oh come on, A,” he says, shocking me with this new shorthand of my name. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Josh. I . . .

I . . . just . . .” “Just tell me.” He takes a napkin and reaches over to dry my eyes. “Let’s put it all out on the table, okay?”

“Okay.” I touch his hand before he takes it back. “I gave this a lot of thought, you know. I mean, I had to live with the lie, and, believe me, it wasn’t easy. And . . .”

My shiksa was a jigsaw puzzle. Its pieces, small and oddly shaped. Two of them might fit together but did not link with a third. They could not latch on to a fourth. They would not hinge together to form a complete picture.

With red hair and green eyes, some pieces were bright enough to find, colorful enough to stand on their own. But others, the pieces with omissions taken for admissions, got lost in the pile. The mismatched pile only grew, making it harder to interlock with the existing pieces that were in place. As a limited edition, I offered limited pieces. My internal ones remained unavailable.

“You never gave me a hard time about anything,” he says. And that is how Josh saw it. Nothing really mattered because he was pleased enough with the fit of the pieces he did have. “It only made me want to give you more,” he confirms.

“I didn’t feel I deserved it because I was lying. You were really good to me. About so many things, like, oh my God, the driving.”

“I haven’t forgotten about the road test,” Josh warns.

“The road test.” I shudder. “Yeah . . .” I don’t want to think about the road test, so I don’t. “Well, I always held myself back. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like me. So how come now, us really talking, me expressing myself, how come that feels challenging? Why isn’t it stimulating? Tell me, because I don’t understand.”

Does he?

“It’s like whatever you say, Aimee, is the bottom line.”

“Bottom li . . . huh? A minute ago? I was just going on and on about what happened at work.” I try to ask gently, “Did you think I took my work less seriously before than now?”

“I thought you sounded a little tough now when you talked about work. eMay was sweet.”

“Was she? Was eMay really sweeter than Aimee, or was she sweeter because of how she was seen? Why was she allowed to be herself?”

“Jesus.” Josh’s hand rests against his forehead as he allows his head to drop down. “You’re so . . . analytical.”

“Please, Josh.” Analytical, in this case, hardly a compliment. “Look in my eyes. I’m the same person.”

Slowly, he lifts his head to see. Our eyes lock; we study each other. Searching out all that was lost, all we never found.

“I see you now, Aimee, and I feel . . .”

Josh stops talking. But I do not chime in. If I have learned anything from eMay, it is how my silence will separate the wheat from the chaff.

“I don’t want to be mean,” he says. “I just . . .” Josh knows what he wants to say, and I want to hear it.

“More sake?” The waiter inadvertently interrupts two people eager for any interruption. We sip in silence until Josh blurts out, “I’m afraid you would try to tell me what to do.”

“What?”

“You know, like my mother.”

“Your
mother
?
What?
”

“I didn’t mean
my
mother,” Josh tries to joke, but I see we hit a nerve.

“Are you afraid if you married someone Jewish, she’d eventually become more like your mother than your wife?”

“I never thought of it like that, but maybe. Sounds plausible.”

What is it about the Jewish Mother? What in the world has she done to make so many boys want to run? How does it happen that if a woman is Jewish and has an opinion and a responsible job, her self-expression, instead of being applauded, is interpreted as abrasive and reminiscent of someone’s mother?

“So what happens to you? Do you get more like your father?”

“My dad’s cool, but I don’t want his life. I don’t want all that responsibility.”

“What responsibility?”

“Wife, kids, house, business . . . you know.”

“But you talked about having those very things with eMay. What’s the difference if it’s with someone Jewish? I don’t get it.”

Josh goes to speak and then changes his mind.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“No. I told you stuff. Now you tell me.”

“Well, just remember, you asked. I think a woman who’s Jewish wants to be in control,” admits Josh, causing me to wonder if that’s why a natural Jewish wife raising Jewish kids hits the nail on the
too Jewish, too maternal
head.

“So if I’m not Jewish, if I’m your sweet shiksa, then you feel in control?”

Josh nods.

“I got to tell ya. If you try to keep me from my power, and what I mean is my strength, just because I’m Jewish, that’s controlling.” I laugh to sound light, though it’s not exactly funny.

“Yeah, well, it may come out like that, but I don’t think of it like that when it’s happening,” says Josh. “It’s more like a little of this, a little of that.” He ends the conversation when he pays the check.

My mind is racing when we leave the restaurant. There are more components to this, I know. But already round and round the track, I cannot catch up to them tonight. Meanwhile, I don’t blame Josh for how he feels. I only want to better understand. And still try to make it right.

“Do you want to come up?” I ask Josh in front of my building.

“And make love to a controlling Jewish woman?” he teases.

“You can always pretend I’m your sweet shiksa. Your choice.”

Talked out, we head straight to bed. A bed made with disillusion and puffed with pillows of disappointment. We quickly undress, pull down the covers, and lie in it.

T
alking
H
eads

W
E ARE NOT GOING
to let you down,” Jay promises in earnest, though he looks at me and rolls his eyes. “Right, Aimee?”

I give him a fake punch before I tell Alex, “We’re in excellent shape, so do not worry. Just let me dial up all the coordinates before I bring you back on board.” Jay’s eyes say,
Who do you think you are, missy?
but my hand waves the worry away.

It’s so much easier to have meetings on a Soundstation than face-to-face. The black plastic box, shaped like a starfish with a keypad, is an amazing conference call device. Mechanical voices announce each attendee, and the sound through the speakerphone is practically as good as in person. What’s more, you can shoot notes and looks to your team that will help you play against the other one. Especially if it’s your client.

“KISS is counting on you,” reminds Alex, and then he clicks off.

“Whew.” I grab a handful of M&Ms from a dish in the center of the table in the Round Room. Krista, Todd, and Sean are there for support, but the client spoke only with Jay and me. “So you think we bought some time? I think we bought some,” I say, swooping up a handful of Milk Duds and quickly gobbling those.

“Stop eating all that junk,” says Sean, swatting my hand hard with his fingers.

“What’s it to you?”

“You’ll ruin your new figure.”

“Everything else is ruined, why not go for broke?”

“Boys and girls, pay attention,” says Jay, downing his
second
Diet Coke. “News flash. Aimee has not come up with a backup for Kim Cattrall. Next. What happened with the signage?”

“It’s here,” says Krista. “It was too late to issue a stop.”

Scheduling the TV actor (whoever he is, because no one will tell) is the problem. One minute he’s clear to fly east for the reshoot; an hour later he isn’t. Not that the production company has been able to choose a date for Kim to film out there. Talk of an impending writers’ strike has everyone scurrying, trying to get as many shows as possible in the can. Kim’s people think if we can sit tight, it’ll work out. It’s just that no one can give a guarantee.

“We never had this happen before, but what if day-of a celebrity got sick?” Krista poses the question. “We’d have to do something.”

“You’re right,” agrees Sean. “What would we do?”

“I know,” says Todd. “We hire a Kim Cattrall impersonator as the backup,” he says, joking.

“Oh my God, that’s hysterical,” I say. “It’s so ludicrous, it’s perfect.”

“Sheer insanity,” says Jay.

“So much so, it could actually work,” I blurt before I even know what to say next. But suddenly everyone gets excited. I feel I owe them something. With their expectant eyes upon me, I have no choice but to improvise.

“Yes. And, ummm . . . we’re selling a
copier,
right?” I say, free-associating as fast as my mind will allow.

“And we’re promoting the latest in innovative imaging capabilities, right? So . . . if all else fails and she can’t come . . . we’ll have an impersonator.” And it hits me. “We’ll have
an innovative copy.
”

Making my pitch with all the blunder of Darrin Stephens bailing himself out of a situation on
Bewitched,
I’m too embarrassed to face Jay. But when I hear applause, I find the courage. And much like Larry Tate, Jay embraces the idea.

“Right. An innovative copy. Right! Because if all else fails, that won’t.”

Huh? I think this idea is beyond ridiculous. After decades of PR, I think Jay has finally lost it. Now looking about the happy table, I wonder if we all have.

“By far, that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard from you yet,” Sid tells me at brunch that weekend. “Cattrall’s name’s all over the signage. You’ll be sued for false advertising if you don’t watch out,” he broadcasts between bites of his bagel. I’m back in Barney Greengrass, splitting the lox platter. “So tell me, have you found anybody?”

I shake my head. We held an audition yesterday at the office. Talk about scary. Not only the worst Kim Cattrall impersonators but also the most embarrassing Joan Rivers, shameful Barbra Streisands, and god-awful Judge Judys.

“Why were the performers doing women you don’t need?” asks my father, his fork reaching across to my plate for a taste of fried eggs.

“Who knows? As of yesterday, Kim’s publicist still had no definitive news, and we were still unsuccessfully pushing the client into the backup idea.”

“Do you remember . . . ?” Sid puts down his utensils to lean back against his chair so his thought takes center stage, “that April Fool’s show at the LaughTrack Peter emceed? And there was that terrific female impersonator. Your mother thought she really was Judy Garland.”

I give Sid a look. “Your point?”

“Can you find out who that was? She could do it. Kind of looks like her too. Maybe . . . ask Peter?” Mission accomplished, Sid goes back to his bagel.

I thought of that. And turns out the impersonator, Dee Rose, is out of town till the end of June. But I got all my information through the booker at the comedy club, not Peter.

Since the intervention I’ve sent him e-mail, left voice mail. I want to make amends. So I was almost happy when this situation arose. It was not about
us
, so I thought Peter would definitely address my frantic but professional text message and write back. Hopeful to hear from him, I was hoping his response might be a crack in an unlocked door. But he has only ignored me.

“I’m two for two,” I tell my father now, who, in regard to Josh, has been brought up to date by my mother.

“She says he was a lovely boy.”

“They’re all lovely boys. Once, Dad, even you were a lovely boy.”

My father’s response is to catch the attention of a waiter. With the swirling motion of his finger hovering over our cups, he indicates we’d both like a refill on coffee.

“Aimee, I don’t know Josh, and with all the subterfuge it’s hard to understand what even went on between the two of you. Beneath the surface,” he diplomatically adds. “But I do know about you and Peter. And Peter’s a fine young man. Maybe a bit of a late bloomer, but that’s not the worst thing, you know.”

After she found out things with Josh and me were totally kaput, my mother alerted me that Peter was “doing very well.” However, beyond that she offered no info—no contact or other details. Obviously in touch to some extent with my parents, he is totally off-limits to me. And for once in her life, my mother is butting out.

“If he wants you to find him, I’m sure he’ll make himself known,” she told me on the phone. Disconcerting as it was that she kept Peter’s business separate, my mother still stuck her nose into mine.

“It ended with Josh?” she asked. “You two seemed fine when I saw you. I thought you said you had a good night?”

“We did.” We had. It had seemed we were starting anew.

“So. What happened? What did he say?”

It reminded me of a bad breakup during my junior year at college. Painfully confused, I went to see a therapist.

“Sometimes things do end that way,” she explained, helping me to learn that lesson early on.

Drew was premed, and our rapturous semester came to an abrupt fork in the road when he said he’d want me to quit work and be a doctor’s wife once we had kids. That was so retro, I thought he was joking. Besides, it was so far off in the future. But then the issue came up again, in a heart-to-heart that left us shaken to discover how threatening it was to our otherwise blissful relationship.

That night we clung to each other, holding on tight. Lovers latched on to a piece of driftwood, keeping their relationship afloat. And we believed we would make it, for wasn’t our talk really the first step to resolution? However, unbeknownst to both of us, it was the last.

After all the spoken words, it is only the feelings that remain behind, the only things that count. Used and used up, words often juxtapose them. But in the light of day, it is the feelings that prevail. And, soundlessly, they say it’s time to move on.

I comforted my mother, who genuinely liked Josh once they actually met, by explaining Josh’s acute shiksa syndrome.

“Everything’s always the mother’s fault,” my mother synopsized as a way of trying to fit this half-baked breakup into its bread box. “What did we do that was so bad?”

“Do you know what that’s all about, Daddy?” I ask my father now. He might have some insight, having the advantage of being a Jewish husband, father, and son. I confide in my dad and tell him about the other night. A captive audience, I tell him a lot more.

“I love your Absolut Shiksa,” says Sid. In fact, I think we’d have a much more open conversation if he had a shot of that. But if I think my father knows best, my best bet to get him talking is to advertise.

“Yeah, you like that? Then you’ll love this. You know what I called myself?” I pause. “Shiksa Barbie.”

“Shiksa Barbie.” Sid’s eyes light up. “I like that. There’s definitely something to that.” He scratches his head and thinks. “You know, A, there truly is.”

Sid eats in silence, though his mind, I know, is talking. Tossing out ideas, saying yay or nay. As my father does get shiksappeal, he is careful not to hurt my feelings.

“Barbie is a doll,” he finally says. “And you play with a doll.”

“So?”

“So, if you’re Shiksa Barbie, then you’re a doll a Jewish man can play with.”

“How do you mean?”

“Take your friend, Krista. Now first let me say that I know she and Matt are in love, and I know she legitimately expressed interest in Judaism prior . . .”

Oy; enough with the political correctness. I appreciate Sid feels he should tread carefully; but if he’s on to something I wish he’d stop mincing words and get to the punch. “You’re talking to me, Dad. Just say it.”

“Okay. Jewish men will marry women who aren’t Jewish, but often those women take on Judaism, especially to raise a family. You see a lot of that, but not so much the other way around. Not so many Jewish men converting for non-Jewish women.”

Sid continues when he sees I agree. “You might say the Jewish men are playing a game. Like you play with a doll. I remember how you and Daphne played with those Barbies. I was fascinated with them.”

TMI! The waiter comes to pour more coffee, and I only wish there was something stronger.

“You girls had a ton of them. Ski Barbie and Flight Attendant Barbie. A skater, a gymnast . . . I’ll never forget because it was the seventies and I used it in a pitch. Nurse Barbie
and
Doctor Barbie. See?”

“That you were obsessed with our dolls? You’re scaring me, Dad.”

“Aimee. You girls learned you could grow up to do anything. When you made up games, the dolls could be everything. Their legs and arms were bendable; you even shaped them. Shiksa Barbie. Play the game. Let the Jewish man shape you into the kind of Jewish woman he wants.”

He is on to something, but this last part leaves me disappointed. As if the Jewish man still needs to feel in control. And let’s say he succeeds in not marrying his Jewish mother. Does that guarantee he will not turn into his Jewish father? To me the issues have less to do with accepting religion and more about accepting responsibility for others, and that we all have to grow up.

“Just wait till the Jewish guy winds up turning the shiksa girl into his Jewish mother. Then what?”

Sid only laughs. “But didn’t Josh want to shape you? I mean shiksa you?”

“I suppose in his way,” I say. “He sure wouldn’t have converted for eMay, but he also wouldn’t have shaped her into much of a Jew. To tell you the truth, when it came to Judaism, Peter was way more open.”

“To what? Shaping?” my father asks. “Or,” he pauses, “being shaped?”

Thoughts percolate as soon as I hear those words. But the ring of my father’s cell concludes the conversation. My mother, out to a ladies’ lunch, calls to make sure that before I head east I pick up the shopping bag of food she left for me at the apartment.

“Onward?” asks Sid.

I nod my head, as that direction sounds good to me.