Even though I was sad to see my parents move away, I was relieved because I no longer had to worry about spending the holidays with them. When they flew up to New York on their occasional visits, we always had dinner at my grandmother’s. Michael, by tacit decree, was not invited.
We tried inviting them to our apartment, but my mother always called with a polite excuse – theater tickets, a concert or dinner plans with friends. Once or twice, when the plan was for me to meet them at a restaurant, just the three of us without my grandmother, Michael had come along, but the meals were so tense and quiet that after a couple of tries to bring them together, I ended up going alone.
I realized that even though my mother knew it was serious, she was going to do everything in her power to communicate clearly that she didn’t want Michael to be part of our lives. And I was even more surprised that my dad seemed to feel that he had to take her side. Even though it was something I had kind of expected, it still shocked me. I had naively believed that once they met Michael, they’d find a way to accept him, or at least make peace with the situation. In the past, my boyfriends had always been received warmly, had always been made to feel welcome. But before Michael, they had always been Jewish.
I sighed again, remembering, then put the food away and walked into the bedroom and turned on the light. For a moment, I thought about calling Michael on his cell phone, and seeing if the party was still going on, and if I could still stop by. But I was tired; visiting my grandmother always left me feeling emotionally exhausted, so instead I changed into pajamas and got into bed. I turned the television on for background noise and picked up my current paperback.
The next thing I heard was a key turning in the lock and the front door opening and closing. I opened my eyes and lifted my head from the pillow as Michael walked into the bedroom.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey.” His voice was quiet, unenthusiastic. Not at all like his usual warmth toward me. Clearly, I was not yet forgiven for what had happened last night.
“How was your day?”
“It was all right.” I watched him as he toed off his shoes, and unbuttoned his shirt. “Were you asleep?”
“I guess.” I took off my glasses, which had been pressing into the bridge of my nose while I slept, and rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“How was the party?”
“Okay,” Michael said, without looking at me. “How’s your grandmother?”
“She’s fine. And there’s a bunch of stuff in the fridge if you’re hungry. There’s kugel, some brisket that she made for dinner. It was really good. And of course, she sent a ton of it home with me.”
“Even though she thinks you live alone?” He stood on his side of the bed and unbuttoned his cuffs. I didn’t like the sarcasm in his voice. “I’m glad she’s looking out for you. You know, making sure you keep all the right culinary traditions.”
“What’s with you? Have you been drinking?”
“No, I haven’t been drinking. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this afternoon and tonight.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been thinking that maybe I should move out for a while.”
“What?” I sat up in the bed. “Why would you even think about doing that?”
“Because this isn’t working.” He leaned away from me, looked at the window to where our curtains fluttered in the breeze. “All day long, here without you, getting ready to go to this party – again, without you — I was thinking that you were going up to see your grandmother alone, with no chance of me being included in your family, and how being with me forces you to live a double life – the one you live with your family, where you’re always feeling pressured and sad, and the one you live with me, where we’re happy. And yet you still can’t choose.
“If you were prepared to stand up to your parents, instead of letting them lead you down some path where I’m not included in your family life – and maybe you’re okay with that, but I’m not – or thinking you can manage their expectations with silences and lies – which will probably end with us breaking up — or even if you would just tell your grandmother about us, it would be one thing. But the fact is that I think you don’t even feel strongly enough about me to face whatever real or imagined wrath you think your parents and your grandmother will rain down on you if you tell them that we want to get married, and that we want to be together no matter what their opinion is. And I don’t think you’re going to change your mind about that anytime soon.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” I cried. “For one thing, why is this such a big deal to you? My family has no bearing on our life together.”
“That’s not true. They’ve made it perfectly clear that they don’t like this relationship. And your grandmother doesn’t even know that I exist. I mean, Jill, we’ve been living together for years, and you’re still telling me not to pick up the phone when she calls —”
“But that has nothing to do with you,” I protested. “It would be the same for any person I lived with, but wasn’t married to. She doesn’t approve of that sort of thing.”
“Come on, Jill. You’re thirty-two years old. When are you going to start acting like an adult? Most people don’t give a damn what their parents think of them, never mind their grandparents. But I think this problem you have is bigger than just wanting your family’s approval.” His eyes flashed. “I think you’re the person who is uncomfortable with our relationship. Maybe you’re the person who thinks you should marry a Jewish guy. And you’re putting it all on them.”
“That is so not fair. You have no idea how I feel. No idea at all.” I felt the burning rush of tears behind my eyes, but I swallowed hard, hoping to keep them in check. “Today I was so close – so close, Michael – to telling her about you. And the fact is that in my heart, I don’t really care what she thinks. Just as I don’t give a damn about what my parents think. But then she gets to talking about everything, everyone she’s lost, and I just can’t do anything else to her. Nothing in her life turned out the way she expected. How can I let her down again?”
He took my hand in his. “Jill, here’s what I think. You don’t see it, but the fact is the same prejudice that caused your grandmother to suffer in a concentration camp is the same prejudice that your family has against me. As you said a couple of nights ago, I’m the other, and for them, the other is the enemy. But the way they think is so destructive. It’s a terrible way to live, and I see it tearing you to pieces. And deep down, I think there’s something in you – and I’m not judging you, because you know I can’t speak to the experiences that have shaped your family and your life – but whether you know it or not, part of you has internalized your family’s prejudice. And I don’t know if I want to stay with someone who has those feelings inside them.”
I stared at him, shocked.
“Jill, whatever feelings you have, I don’t know if you love me enough to overcome the messages you’ve heard your whole life. But you either have to overcome them, and find a way to stand up to your family – to be honest with them, honest with yourself - or this relationship has to end. You’re either going to let your family down, or you’re going to let me down. It’s one or the other. And it’s a choice you have to make.”
“When did you start thinking about this?” I asked.
“Last night, I guess.” He looked away. “I thought that after I proved to you that I didn’t just have to stand by and watch your traditions, that I was willing and available to participate, to learn, to share these things with you – that you would have a totally different reaction. I guess I fooled myself into thinking I had a chance at being accepted, not only by your family, but by you, Jill. But after last night, I started thinking maybe I was wrong about all of it. And maybe I’ve been wrong about us, too.”
“No, don’t say that.” I held his hand more tightly in my own. “It meant the world to me that you learned the blessings, and that you wanted to share Shabbat with me. I’
m just horrible at expressing it, Michael. That’s all.”
“I don’t know.” His face was sad, doubtful. “I think it might be better if we took some time off from one another.”
I hated myself for how badly my family had treated him, and how badly I had hurt him by not standing up for myself and for him. “I don’t want you to move out,” I told him. “I know that we can find a way to figure this out. We can get through this.”
“How?” he asked. “You won’t talk about it with me, and I know that you won’t talk about it with them. And it’s not so much that we have to find a way to work this out – it’s that you have to find a way to face up to what is happening here. No matter what you do, someone is going to get hurt. I don’t want you to disappoint your family, but it seems as if the only way for them to be happy is if you keep lying to them. And I don’t want you to do that. I don’t want to be part of that.” “What do you want?” I asked quietly.
“You know the answer. I want us to get married, and I don’t want it to put us in the middle of some ridiculous shitstorm with your family. I just want us to love one another. In a home where we can pick up our telephone, where we can celebrate Shabbat together if that’s what you want to do, and where we don’t have to worry about living up to some outmoded rules about religion and tribalism.” His face was flushed, his voice filled with sadness. “I want us to have a life together, but not like this. Not when I have to be hidden away from people you love because you’re ashamed of who I am.”
I held up a hand to stop him from talking further, but he clasped it in his own as he went on. “Okay, so maybe you’re not ashamed of me, Jill. But that’s how it feels. And even if you’re not, I want you to stop being so defined by what happened in your grandmother’s past that you’re willing to sacrifice our future.” He let go of my hand.
I thought about the afternoon at my grandmother’s, about how her father had called her his little rose, about her two sisters, my greataunts, whom I only knew through a single image, as two small girls with hair tied up in creamy white bows. I thought about how she made sure her sleeve was covering her tattooed arm, and about how there was sadness beneath every expression of her sweetness. And I thought about my parents, who were off on another of their fabulous trips, this time to Greece, a warm place, full of heat and bright sunlight. My family seemed so normal on the outside, and even though I had listened to their remarks about “the goyim” all throughout my childhood and adulthood, sometimes even I was shocked by the hate and mistrust that seemed to live under the surface of their skin. Perhaps, I thought suddenly, that was the reason they traveled so much. Not so much because of the cold and the snow, but because they were trying to deal with the darkness and the shadows trapped inside them.
“Please don’t do this, Michael.” I leaned forward and touched his arm. “I hear what you are saying. And you’re right. I need to find a way to talk to them. I need to find a way to tell them you are part of my life. No, that’s wrong. I need to tell them that you are my life.”
Some of the anger left his face as I looked at him.
“All right,” he relented. “I won’t move out. But I think we should set a time limit on this. I’m willing to give you a month, Jill. If you haven’t told them by then, you never will.”
He got up from where he had been sitting on my side of the bed. I picked up my book from where it had fallen after I fell asleep. Then I took off my glasses and laid them on the night table. I watched him as he got ready for bed. I sat silently while he went into the bathroom, and I listened while he brushed his teeth. All the familiar sounds of the night that I had learned to live with, had learned to love.
He walked back into the bedroom and I heard the quiet sound of his breathing as he set the alarm clock.
“I’m not ashamed of this.” I said softly. “And I’m not ashamed of you.”
“Then act like it,” he said curtly, and then he turned out the light.
9
It was Sunday morning around 10:30, and I was headed into the office. Not so much because I had work to do. I did, of course, but because I wanted some uninterrupted time to think – about work, about my family, and about exactly what had taken place between me and Michael the night before.
He had woken up early and gone out for a run and to pick up the paper, and then he’d come back briefly for his gear before he headed across town for his usual morning indoor tennis game with some guys from his office. He left a note for me saying that he’d be back in the early afternoon.
I debated with myself for about ten minutes over whether to stay inside, curled up with a cup of tea and the Sunday Times, versus heading out into the cold and going to the office for a couple of hours. Finally, I decided to throw on jeans and a sweater and head downtown.
After the fight – I couldn’t call it anything else – with Michael last night, I didn’t want to hang out in the apartment, with all of the signs and symbols of our relationship around me. I knew that if I didn’t somehow find the courage to talk to my family about him, we wouldn’t be sharing this space for much longer.
I called his cell phone and left a message that I was going in to work, which I knew he would pick up as soon as they were off the court. I figured he was coming home after his game for our traditional Sunday morning bagels and coffee, so I told him not to bother getting me my usual hazelnut coffee and toasted onion bagel with butter. I didn’t want to pretend it was a typical Sunday morning, because it wasn’t.
Now, with the cold morning drizzle threatening to turn into sleet, I made my way along my usual commuting route, except today my hair was slung into a ponytail and I wore no makeup. The harbor sky was full of smoky clouds, the water below a dirty dark gray, and the Statue of Liberty was barely visible from the edge of Wagner Park.
The museum entrance was full of visitors going through Security. I waited my turn on the line and finally flashed my ID to the weekend guards. I then waved to the box office staff, all of whom looked cheerfully harried by the crowds, before taking the elevator upstairs to my office.
Although light streamed from a couple of offices down the hall – meaning that the education staff was already here, preparing for the day of kids’ activities, it was too quiet. I turned on an overhead light and switched on the radio in the conservation area, which was tuned to the pop station of choice for most of the junior curators. I hastily changed it to the classic rock station, and turned it up loud enough to drown out the sounds from downstairs.
I looked at the clock: it was 11:30. I wasn’t in the mood to call my parents, especially since things were so rocky with Michael, but I knew I had to get it over with. They would surely be back from tennis by now, so I picked up the phone and dialed their number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, sweetheart, how are you?” I could hear the smile in my dad’s voice. “We hadn’t heard from you in a few days. Everything okay up there? We wanted to make sure we talked to you before we left on vacation.”
“Vacation from retirement? Lucky dog.”
“It’s nice work if you can get it, certainly,” my dad chuckled. “But tell me how you’re doing.”
“Everything’s fine here. Just busy. You know how it is. I’ve had to put in a lot of late nights at work. We’re mounting a new exhibition, which is crazy enough, but one of my colleagues is also going out on maternity leave. So I have a lot on my plate right now. How are you doing? How was tennis this morning?”
“Same as always. My backhand needs work. And your mother is the first one to tell me. But we won’t talk about that. Everything here is fine, it’s sunny and 70 degrees outside. How could it not be fine here, unless you’re used to experiencing actual seasons?”
I laughed. “Hey, it’s cold and raining here. So you’re not missing much.”
“Between the crap that passes for pizza and the fact that I can only get bagels in the freezer case, I’m missing enough about New York, believe me. Your mom’s right
here, I know she really wants to talk to you. But listen, don’t let the work stuff stress you out. It’ll get done.”
“Easy for you to say, considering you’re retired.”
“And believe me, Jilly, there are days I wish I wasn’t. It’s so boring down here. I’d rather face a classroom full of historically-challenged eleventh graders any day! That’s why we’re going on this cruise. I’m going bananas down here in the Southland. Not a hint of smog in the air, not an oldies station to be found. If things don’t get better, I’m either going to have to go back to work or take up golf.”
I laughed. “Get satellite radio. And make sure your swing doesn’t mess up your backhand.”
“It might even improve it, who knows? Hold on a second, let me get Mom for you.”
“OK, Dad. Thanks.”
“Bye, sweetheart. Love you.”
I waited, thinking about how much I missed my dad. Talking with him always made things seem so much less complicated. I wished I could talk with him about Michael, but I knew his response would be something like a breakup might be all for the best, sweetheart. I knew that in his heart he wasn’t sure if my mother was right, but he knew he had to go along with her, if for nothing else than the sake of peace in the house. I also knew he wanted us to start getting along again.
“Jill?”
“Hi, Mom. How’s it going?”
“Did you get my message last night?”
“Yes, but I got home too late to call back. Are you excited about your trip?”
I felt like I had to divert her to talk about something that made her happy in order to avoid a conversation that would just end up annoying me.
“Yes, we’re very excited. But is everything okay there? We haven’t heard from you in days.”
“I called on Wednesday, Mom.”
“But today’s Sunday. My neighbor’s daughter calls her every day. You know how worried we get, especially with you in the city. We’re so worried that there’s going to be another terror attack. You know, I read the Metro section online every day, just to find out what’s going on up there.”
The Bookseller's Sonnets Page 8
