by Sally Quinn
“What do you want from him?”
“I want… well, I want…” she cleared her throat and recrossed her legs, smoothing out the folds of her blue jersey skirt, tugging absentmindedly at her suede boots. He waited.
“I think I want…” she giggled. “This must sound stupid to you, but nobody’s ever really asked me that. I mean, I guess I would have to say that I think I want to marry him. But marriage is so complicated and difficult. I was sure before that I wanted to marry him, at least I was at first. But now I don’t know. I know I want to be with him. I know I’m in love with him. It’s just that he’s made such a thing about our differences that he’s beginning to convince me of it. In the beginning, when I first met him over a year ago, I just sort of laughed it off. But now, every time I make any progress with him, he manages to throw up another barrier. A lot of it is just mind games, but I don’t have the stamina for it that he does. Besides, he has all the advantages. He knows how many more barriers there are out there and I don’t. If I thought he was running out of them I’d feel more confident that we could be together and be happy. But I’m not so sure. That’s why I’m here. I need advice. I want to know how to convince him I’m right about us before he convinces me that I’m wrong. I want to know how to show him that what he calls a ‘dumb shiksa’ can be a part of his world and have both of us be comfortable. I want to know how to get him. In other words, I want you to be my Miss Lonelyhearts.”
“First of all, we have to deal with the issue of being involved with a divorced man.”
She didn’t say anything. Let him assume for her purposes. It wouldn’t hurt.
“It must be difficult for you.”
“Well, I guess it is. But it’s more difficult for him.”
“Which means in his mind he’s not a good Jew. He just talks about it. Just as there’s a difference between talking about sex and doing it.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Everything. You say he calls you a ‘dumb shiksa.’ That’s a pejorative term. It’s an insult. It’s a slap in the face. It’s as if someone called me a ‘Jewboy.’ ”
“But I thought it was funny.”
“It isn’t funny. It’s like saying somebody has a goyisheh kop, a gentile mind, or calling somebody a shaygets, the male equivalent of a shiksa. A good Jew has to respect a non-Jew. If he’s not a good Jew then he won’t respect himself and he won’t be able to respect you. If you want to know what I think, I think you’re setting yourself up. I think you’re going to get your head kicked in. A Jew like this one has been taught all his life that you play around with a shiksa but you don’t marry one.”
“What if you did?”
“You’re dealing with stereotypes here, the forbidden fruit syndrome. What would happen once you have this forbidden fruit? The typical Jewish male from the gentile woman’s point of view has an irreverent sense of humor, is a good provider, is a good family man, he takes care of his woman, he is loyal, a good father, he hustles. His fantasy is to leave his wife who is a stereotypical Jewish wife, a JAP or Jewish American Princess, which to me is an infuriating and equally denigrating term. She is demanding, whiny, pushy, controlling, and domineering. There is pressure from her family, the kids are a headache, the house is noisy, and their lives lack dignity. He falls in love with and walks off into the sunset with the perfect shiksa. She is a blue-eyed blond. She is cool, refined, comes from old money. She went to an Ivy League college but more importantly her father went to an Ivy League college. Her father is not a businessman. They belong to a country club, they have relatives in New England.”
Sadie laughed. “You sound as if you’ve given this some thought.”
“I’m not exactly making this up. It’s hardly original.”
“So then what happens? They live happily ever after?”
“On the contrary. Once he has her there would be a fall-off. The relationship would change. There is no more spice. The attraction, possessing the forbidden, is the basis of the whole thing. Once you have it, it’s gone. Then it will crash.”
Sadie took this in for a moment, then got up from her chair and walked to the window. She felt so helpless and so frustrated. It really was going to be impossible.
It looked like a blizzard out there with the snow swirling around so frantically. She suddenly had an intense longing to be at a ski lodge in someplace like Stowe, Vermont, with a gorgeous, tall, blue-eyed, sandy-haired, aquiline-nosed, blueblooded WASP sitting by the fire after a good rousing day on the slopes, eating fondu and drinking mulled wine. His name would be E. Winthrop Aldrich III and he would be called “E Three” by his family and close friends. His humor would be collegiate, clubby, he would never talk about his feelings, he would be bright but not brilliant. His father would be an investment banker and belong to the best country club. His mother would do needlepoint kneelers for the Episcopal church. His sister, Muffy, would be a post-debutante. He would be a banker like his father or a lawyer. He would be a terrific athlete, great squash player, would have a muscular body, bare chest, and a great ass. He would believe in God but only go to church for weddings, funerals, christenings, and Christmas Eve. They would never fight or argue, would be contented and compatible. If they did have problems they would keep a stiff upper lip. Bliss.
Now all she had to do was extricate herself from this rabbi, get out of this synagogue, go home, fix a dry martini, and figure out where to find this Mr. Right. It only occurred to her much later that she had already been married to him.
“Have you ever thought of conversion?” the rabbi was saying.
“Conversion?” She was stunned. Was he going to try to convert her right here? She had to get out before it was too late. This was taking a nasty turn. She could feel her whole body tense up.
“It’s always a possibility.”
“But what good would that do?” There was an edge to her voice. “I’m not Jewish. Even if I studied and learned and passed tests or whatever you’re supposed to do I still wouldn’t be Jewish. I’d still be me. And besides. I can’t be circumcised.” She hadn’t meant to say it. It just popped out.
The rabbi started to laugh. She had relieved the tension, which he obviously was beginning to feel, too.
“A convert is as good a Jew as a born Jew,” he said. “You would be given a Hebrew name, but you already have one. Sara is your name, isn’t it? It means princess, royalty. Very fitting.”
She was relaxing again. He had seen her anxiety and had immediately rushed to put her at ease once more. Typical sensitive Jewish male.
“I bring up conversion only to leave the option open. But I would encourage you to look at it. If you converted you would be able to experience Judaism as a Jew together with him. You could have an enriched family life and there would be more for you to share.”
“I should tell you, Daniel, that I once brought up conversion with him, not about me but as a hypothetical, and he said it was the worst possible idea, that a shiksa who converted to Judaism combined the worst qualities of the two.”
“Some converts are more zealous. And some Jewish guys don’t want to get involved with this. They get shown up by their wives.”
“I don’t think that’s what he was talking about. I think he was talking about the combination of the dumb shiksa with the controlling wife.”
“Possibly. But I think if you love a Jew you ought to study Judaism in any case. That way at least you’ll have a better understanding of what you’re getting into. You can love a Jew and not love Judaism. The point of study is to see whether you can love Judaism. And to get you to think about your relationship to your own religion.”
“I know I believe in God, but I wouldn’t say I was very religious.”
“What’s your connection to Jesus? Do you pray to Jesus? Do you believe in the resurrection? Is your husband in heaven? Even if you didn’t convert you could come out of this study as a better Christian.”
“All I really want to do is make Michael feel
closer to me. If studying Judaism would help I would do it. I don’t want to convert. Especially in my situation, given who I am, and with three Christian children, it would look ridiculous. I don’t want to be a ‘better’ Christian, whatever that means. I frankly don’t understand conversion. How can you give up who you are and what you believe in just because you love someone else? Imagine Michael converting to the Episcopal faith.”
At that she cracked up. Daniel was laughing, too.
“It’s hard,” he agreed. “The first Christmas, particularly. There’s inevitably a big blowup. She may have to have a tree. All he can see when he looks at the tree is a big cross. Then there are some Christian converts who refuse to have a tree and their husbands want them to. It’s complicated. It’s hard for some of them to feel the Friday night service, to feel part of Jewish history, to feel that little tug when they hear about Israel. I’ve said no to two conversions because I felt they were doing it for the wrong reasons, because they were in love with Jews but didn’t really feel they wanted to be Jewish. You don’t just pop conversion on somebody as a present.”
“Suppose we wanted to get married with my feeling the way I do about conversion and not being particularly interested in his religion. How would you feel about it?”
“I can’t marry you unless you convert. Because part of the ceremony says you’re married to him according to the laws of Moses and Israel. If you’re not a Jew, what’s the point of saying it?”
“I see. So you won’t marry us. I can accept that. But I think we’re being a little premature anyway, talking about marriage. What I really want to do is get him to make love to…”
She couldn’t believe she had said that. She had even shocked herself. She gasped at her own nerve and put her hand over her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I can’t imagine what got over me. It’s just that you’ve made me feel so relaxed that I…”
She hoped he would take it the right way. And he did. He interrupted her, laughing, shook his head, and threw up his hands.
“Okay, you win. I’ve never been asked before by a woman to help her bed somebody. I thought I’d heard it all.”
“You did challenge me, remember,” she said.
“All right. I’ll help. How about the Sabbath meal? I think that’s just your ticket. You can make a Sabbath meal for him. A Jewish guy could not help but be touched by that.”
“How do I do that?”
“I’ll tell you.”
He was very patient, walking her through the meal, what to prepare, how to light the candles, where to buy the challah, the special bread, how to say the prayer.
He gave her several books to study so she could memorize the blessing, then took her down the hall to the Judaica shop in the temple to show her the candlesticks, challah covers, and kiddush cups that were for sale in case she wanted to buy them.
Back in his office he went through it again and told her to call him for advice and to talk it over before she actually did it.
“There’s one last thing I should tell you,” he said. “It’s about sex on the Sabbath. We call it oneg or the joy of the Sabbath. Onah is the principle of sexual pleasure. It is considered by Orthodox Jews to be a mitzvah or divine commandment to make love that night.”
The rabbi smiled.
They looked at each other for a moment. He was so understanding and unjudgmental. Yet simply by not making judgments he had caused her to think about so many things she hadn’t thought about before. For one thing, he had caused her to wonder whether she was doing the right thing, not only for herself but for Michael.
She gave a deep weary sigh.
“What do you think about all of this?” she asked him. “You haven’t told me what you really think.”
“I think you’re dealing with a guy who doesn’t want to be the court Jew,” he said. “You’ve been the queen. You’ve lived at the White House. Now you’re a national icon. You still spend time with the rich and famous and powerful. He’s always been on the outside. Now he’s had a taste of what it’s like on the inside. He’s finally made it. But he’s got mixed feelings. He owes something to his ex-wife. Especially if they had a terrible marriage, terrible sex; he’s feeling guilty. He takes sex so seriously. He’s had this fantasy for a long time, to have sex with someone else. But he’s had it hammered into him since he was a child that it’s wrong and that gets to him emotionally. Also, he’s used to pushing aside his own comforts. He’s a scientist, remember. That stoicism got him through medical school. He’s used to reaching for a higher goal, and that’s an emotional thing with him, too. He can hold her off as long as he has to; using work, religious or cultural differences, his former marriage, whatever, as an excuse. But in the end, none of it has any relevance to what he’s really feeling.”
“And what is that, Rabbi?”
“If he really loves you he will want to take you at your word. This Jewish issue is nothing more than a smokescreen. What he’s really doing is asking you, ‘Do you love me?’ ”
* * *
Books. Her office at home was piled with books, Jewish books. Books on Yiddish, on running a Jewish household, on Jewish prayers and customs, books on conversion. The Old Testament. And she still had the Haggadah from the seder at Michael’s house last year. She had compiled quite a Jewish library. She was collecting Jewish artifacts. She had bought a challah cover and plate and a beautiful Kiddush cup at the Judaica store when she went back to see Daniel Benjamin. He had gone over the Sabbath ceremony in detail with her and she felt she was ready, having memorized the prayer that the woman is supposed to say when lighting the candles.
Now all she had to do was get up the courage to do it.
Her plan was this: She would find out from Michael’s secretary Maureen, with whom she had become pals, when he was going home on Friday. He usually went home early on Fridays when he had the weekend duty, and she wanted to be there before sundown to light the candles. Even though Michael wasn’t Orthodox himself, she wanted to make sure she got every aspect of the ritual absolutely correct. She didn’t want him to catch her up on anything and then feel that she would never be able to learn. She had to be perfect.
Maureen seemed to be on Sadie’s side. She must have seen how Michael was suffering and suspected that part of the reason was because he wasn’t seeing Sadie anymore. She had no real way of knowing that except that the telephone calls had stopped, both ways, since Christmas. So she was more than happy, that last Friday in April, to tell Sadie that he had left early.
* * *
It was a very warm night, but then in Washington the weather was always so erratic there was no telling. Spring was definitely in the air.
She had sent Asuncion to the store for the fresh challah that Friday, and Daniel Benjamin had produced some drinkable kosher wine for her. He had been coaching her and she had run through the ritual with him so many times she was confident she wouldn’t make a mistake. This was more nerve-racking than her first holy communion. The menu was all planned. She had had Asuncion cook it, so all she had to do when she got to his house was heat it up. She didn’t want to be distracted from the ritual by also having to actually cook. There would be the challah, of course, two loaves. Then roasted chicken and potatoes, tsimmes—a delicious-sounding concoction of carrots, sweet potatoes, and sliced apples—and kugel or noodle pudding for dessert.
What to wear was always a problem with Michael. She was in the mood for pink or blue, but she didn’t want to look like an Easter egg either. She settled on a pale pink silk shirtwaist dress.
It was around five. She had better leave if she wanted to be there before sundown. Part of her really wanted to do this, the other part dreaded every second of it. She had this sinking feeling that no matter what she did, she was doomed. And she hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since that awful day when she humiliated him in front of everyone at the commission meeting. Her father had always told her the worst thing you could ever do to a man was to h
umiliate him. It was possible that he would never forgive her; and she would never even have a chance to prove to him that she could be part of his life. On the other hand, what did she have to lose by trying? She had already lost him. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Asuncion had loaded up the car. The Secret Service were in the backup car. It was time. She would go.
His car was parked in front. He was home. She took the bags of still-warm food and the flowers. Juggling them with her purse, she walked up to the front door. The sun was lowering in the west but it was still visible. She was okay on time. Shabbat comes automatically with the setting of the sun. After that, candles cannot be lit.
When she got to the door she heard piano music, Mozart. He must have the radio on. She was afraid if she rang the bell and he answered he might slam the door in her face. She tried the door. It was not locked. Typical. She pushed it open gingerly. Michael was sitting at the piano. She had had no idea that he played. She put her bags down on the hall floor and closed the door behind her. He was so absorbed in his music that he didn’t hear her come in. She took off her jacket and threw it on a chair. She walked slowly to the door of the living room and stood there quietly listening. He was a good pianist. After a while he stopped. In the still he felt her presence and without starting turned around. He looked as though he had seen an apparition. She could see him, even across the room, blink his eyes several times trying to determine if she were real.
“It’s… Friday night,” she said in a halting voice. “I’ve come to prepare you a Sabbath meal.”
He didn’t speak. He just kept staring at her.
