“That’s very flattering. But if you knew me better, you’d know the last thing I need is more heartbreak.”
“What heartbreak? Your life seems pretty great to me. Awards. Travel—”
“No. My life is a lie. My family is a joke. I lied to Sarah when I said my cousin was kosher. Hardly. None of us are kosher. This whole seder is a joke. And my cousin Jake and I are the wobbly axis of sanity in my family. I can’t even begin to think what’s going to happen at the seder.”
“The majority of American Jews have stopped keeping kosher. And how bad can your family situation be?”
“Hmm. Here’s an appetizer. My long-lost gay father is flying in from Amsterdam with his leather lover to lead our seder. He’s the closest we have to a real Jew.”
“Oh,” Jared says after a second glance to see if I’m shitting him. “That’s why you went to Amsterdam?”
“Yes, oh. And yes, that’s why. At least he’s coming. Before that we were scrambling for anyone who’d been at a seder after they were ten years old. I know I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you, but you should see the rest of our guest list. My mailman. An Arab diplomat—”
“You better tell me more about this, uh—”
“Waterloo?”
Jared struggles with the little nail knick on his Swiss Army Knife, but finally gets the corkscrew out for the kosher Chardonnay. Surprisingly, it’s not bad. He puts a different CD on. Nina Simone. The same one I used to seduce Steve.
“Do you mind if you change that?”
“You don’t like Nina Simone?”
“I love her. I just have some funny associations that are too distracting.”
“You can pick something if you like, or just forget about the music.”
“No, I think music might calm me.” I reach for the neutrality of John Coltrane’s My Favorite Things.
“So your father is gay,” Jared says as Coltrane’s sax begins to spell out the melody. “These are new times, right? That information doesn’t affect my feelings for you in the least. But it seems to be messing with your feelings.”
“Dad’s homosexuality doesn’t bother me.”
“Are you sure? You don’t sound so convincing.”
“What’s disturbing me is the focus the media is giving us. If his homosexuality comes out it will ruin us with our more traditional customers. Dad’s agreed to come as long as Pieter can come as well. ‘That’s who I am now, Heather,’” I say in Dad’s low register. “He said he’ll introduce him as a friend.”
“So his boyfriend will be there incognito.”
“Flamboyant boyfriend. One look at him and America will know.”
“My mother still maintains Rock Hudson was straight—even after she watched True Hollywood Story. I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Do you think I should tell Steve what’s going on?”
“Why, so he could provide some coaching?”
“No one in my family can follow a seder, and with all these trumped-up guests—”
He thinks hard. “When does your dad get in?”
“Tomorrow. Late morning. He and Pieter are staying at my apartment.”
“We’ll have a dress rehearsal before Steve and Tonia arrive. Can you get all your guests to come earlier for that?”
“I’ll try.”
“You better start trying now.”
“Steve said you would work, but don’t you have your own family seder?”
“I’m going to be right there with you, bubby. You need me. I’m going to take charge without Steve knowing it. I can shut off the camera, after all, if anything goes wrong.”
“You don’t have any problem pulling one over on America?”
“You mean as a good Jew?” He smiles playfully.
“Yes.”
“No, because you’ll be introducing Judaism to many families. And if it gets me the girl—”
“I’m not converting.”
“You don’t have to convert. Your mother’s Jewish, so you’re Jewish.”
“I mean I’m not going kosher.”
“We’ll see,” Jared laughs. “Go make your calls.”
My drowsiness is hard to fight anymore, so I start by phoning Jake.
Jake’s voice drops in and out from his low-battery cell phone. “A rehearsal is a great idea. I’ll get Gertie on the line. You want Greg to pick up that Tibetan girl? I’m assuming she’s from Manhattan, so she doesn’t have a car.”
“I guess. She’s bubbly like he likes them. It makes me a bit worried for her.”
“She’s safe. He’s bringing a new girlfriend.”
“A new one? What happened to the last one?”
“Really want to hear it?”
“Go ahead.”
“Said she was beautiful in every way except her thighs were two large balloons. He couldn’t get past them. If a woman is not a hundred percent fit, he doesn’t want her near him.”
“Greg needs to be hit sometimes.”
“He’s come a considerable distance, so I didn’t go on about it.”
“What’s the new girl’s name?”
“Uh, Amy.”
“Does Amy read Hebrew?”
“This is where it gets entertaining. Her last name is Hitler, apparently her family is German and they were here before World War II—”
“Wait a fucking second! Greg is bringing a woman named Hitler to our seder?”
Jared is on the floor laughing when I hang up with Jake.
I scrunch up the napkin my wineglass was resting on and throw it at him. “Yeah, very funny. He’s got to be fucking with me. How could anyone in America still have the name Hitler? I find that about as likely as running into Siamese twins.”
“If it’s true, it’s hilarious.”
“It would be funny if it wasn’t another mark America will have against my family.”
“I’ll do a national Verizon search and see how many there are.” Jared goes over to his computer and hits the little apple key to jog his iMac out of standby mode. “Diana Hitler,” he says a minute later in delight. “George Hitler. Millie Hitler. It’s very possible. There’s a whole bunch of them.”
I sway my head in disbelief as I lift the receiver to call Sukie at her store. The answering machine is on, and her perky voice trumpets a spring sale at Upsy Daisy. I leave a message for her to call me ASAP.
Greg’s girlfriend’s last name hits me again as soon I hang up. I burst out laughing.
“What?” Jared says with a grin.
“Hitler. Her name is Hitler.” I look at the clock. It’s 9:00 p.m. on a Sunday. No wonder there’s no answer at Upsy Daisy. I remember Sukie gave me her home number too.
“Ohmi-gawd, I was thinking of you, Heather. I’m just so glad you called. I’d like, so love to come.”
While I’m on the phone getting Sukie’s details of where Greg should pick her up, Jared checks his e-mail. He types a bit and opens Microsoft Paint. He draws a circular smiley face, fills the big circle with yellow and fills the eyes with red.
“How’s it going?” Jared asks when I hang up. He clicks his artwork closed and cops another feel of his bare chin.
“Almost done. So far, so good,” I say. “Done playing with your Colorforms?”
“All done.” He laughs.
Jared shows me a few photos of his family on the bookshelf, and one of his teenage self with windblown hair. “I couldn’t even grow a beard then.”
We have now spent over ten hours together and I am exhausted but not bored. With more kosher Chardonnay in our bloodstream we leave the seder behind and find we still have more to talk about.
He’s very interested in the fact that my mother sips coffee out of a straw so her teeth won’t turn yellow.
He’s as disgusted as I am over the way most of America’s chickens are confined to little crates.
“You’re so sparkly,” Jared decides after our next exchange about how anytime I see a new product in the supermarket—like
single-serve coffee bags meant to rival tea bags, or even ice cream cone–shaped cereal—I have to buy it.
Me, with the sour aura—sparkly? Now that is a laugh.
“You’re so refreshing from the rest of the women in Manhattan. I don’t think I can handle one more conversation about clothing sales and how much weight so-and-so has lost.”
What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I stretch out in Jared’s funky armchair. I should be going home to my new double-glazed windows, but I’m so tired that the act of getting up and walking frightens me. “What time is it?” I say reluctantly. “My phone’s in my bag.”
“It’s 11:00 p.m.”
“Early morning, Amsterdam time.”
“You’re welcome to stay over.”
“Just because I shaved your beard doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with you,” I say with a yawn.
“Did I say you should? I have a sofa bed for my friends.”
“Do you have anything I could sleep in?”
Jared stands up with a smile on his face and a minute later returns with an oversize Iron Chef T-shirt. “From the competition. If memory serves,” he says, “this shirt has never been worn.” I change in the bathroom as Jared opens the sofa bed and fits it with burgundy sheets and a pillowcase. I’m secretly impressed—they’re from the better linen shelves—they’re probably 300 count.
Jared sits on the edge of the bed with me. “Should I give you a hug or a kiss good-night?”
“Both.”
He gives me a quick peck and a stagey hug.
“Can I ask you a slightly nutty question?”
“Of course,” he says.
“If you were gay what would you be into?”
“Into?”
“Leather? Drag queens? Effeminate men? I’m just trying to understand what appeals to my father. What makes him cross the line?”
Jared thinks and smiles. “I’m with Eddie Murphy. I’d like her to look as much like a woman if possible.” He adds dryly, “Breasts if possible.”
I trace circles in his palms.
“What do we have here?” he whispers. “A hand fetishist?”
I smirk.
“What is it? Hitler again?”
“Did you ever see The Piano?”
“There isn’t a man over thirty whose girlfriend didn’t drag them to that film.”
“Well, I liked it.”
“Because you’re a woman.”
“Yes, I am.” I smile. “You know that scene where the husband, what’s his name, the Aussie guy from Jurassic Park—”
“Sam Neill—”
“Yeah. He’s enraged that his wife is in love with Harvey Keitel’s character, and he wants to have sex with her. She gives him a mercy fuck, but she’s on top. She controls her husband through her hands. A woman had to have shot that. Women have sex with their hands. A sex scene directed by a man is all grunting and moaning.”
“So now you are sleeping with me?” Jared whispers. “I’ll take a mercy fuck.” He tries to kiss me again, and I purposely miss his lips.
“Ay yae yae, Jared Silver. Why can’t you love lobster and staying in bed Saturday mornings? Lobster rocks.”
“I’m not giving lobster short shrift. I’ve only been seriously kosher since Israel.”
“Wasn’t that right after college? How can you remember what it tastes like?”
“You don’t forget lobster. I also really miss scallops.”
“Scallops too? But they’re so good. Is it so offensive to God to eat one scallop?”
“No shellfish. No scallop parmesan, no sautéed scallops. I think veal scallopini is off limits because it sounds so much like scallops.”
I laugh at that last bit. “How do you keep track of everything? You must need a guidebook.”
“You know, I actually bothered to read Exodus once. It’s very specific. I bet you didn’t know that you are allowed to eat bugs, but only certain types of bugs, with their knees bent a certain way. I think only grasshoppers and red locusts.”
I smile dolefully. “You said it before—these are new times. I don’t want biblical restrictions on my life—or my bugs.”
He leans over and kisses me on the neck. “Thoroughly Modern Heather, let’s just get past your seder. I’m not being piggish here, but you would be way more comfortable in my bed. I wasn’t going to tell you, but my cousin from California pretty much ruined the sofa-bed mattress. He’s even taller than I am and sixty pounds heavier.”
“Whatever mattress you show me, I’m there. But soon please, I’m about to collapse.”
I follow him to his bedroom divide. I’m too lethargic to check out his decor. I spot a pillow. My friend the pillow. Give me, give me. Jared removes his shirt and leaves his white BVD jocks on. Good, I hate pretentious boxers, they remind me of Daniel. The jocks are just tight enough for me to be sleepily impressed with a nice kosher package between his legs. What am I thinking? Not getting involved. A mature woman.
He pulls back the comforter and notices my pained face. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”
“Just tempted as all hell.”
“Remember, we don’t believe in hell.” Jared gets up and slips on a pair of black Old Navy sweatpants. As he lies down next to me, the agreeably musky scent of his chest and arms further jumble my emotions.
ELEVEN
A Second Opinion
In the untidy heap of events last night, Jared forgot to set the alarm. He nudges me awake. He has to run out to meet Steve at the office to go over the Passover shoot.
“We don’t have time to shower.” He chucks me a wet washcloth for a birdbath.
I wipe my underarms as I leave a message for Vondra that I’ll be in a bit late. She’s so used to my double duty at Passover that I’m sure she won’t mind.
“I can lend you my deodorant,” Jared continues. “Not that you need it. But you’ll be set for three days.”
I take a sniff of his Mitchum roll-on and decline. “I’m going straight home anyway.”
“Ready to go?” he says.
“Let’s hit it.”
We share a cab with a driver who has blacked over his name under the back-seat photo ID. Not only is that a risky move, it’s illegal. I sneak a look at his skin-tone and facial hair. He must have an Arabic name and is worried about bad tips and accusatory words in an angry world. The cab rolls up outside the main office for the Food Channel on Sixth Avenue and Forty-fifth Street. Jared gives me a very sweet kiss on the lips and says, “I’ll see you at the rehearsal.”
“Yes,” I say. “I hate to sound neurotic, but please don’t tell Steve about my family’s dark secrets. Or about us. I want to appear professional.”
“Please, not a peep, I promise. Anyhow, I had a great time.”
“Me too,” I say a little self-consciously—I notice in the rearview mirror that the driver is listening.
“Can you avoid Forty-seventh Street?” I ask through the open space in the Plexiglas divide. “I always get stuck on that street.”
“New boyfriend?” the driver asks at the first traffic light.
“Maybe,” I say.
“May I ask what your hesitation is?”
Should I ask this? “Do you keep halal in your home?”
“You think I’m Arab?”
I catch his eyes in the mirror. “Yes. Isn’t that why you’ve covered up your name?”
He smiles like someone who has been yelled at by an Iraqi-hating sailor during Fleet Week. “Very observant. I love America, you know. It’s given me an opportunity I never had before. I’m scared of some passengers though. They beat up my cousin.”
“I’m sure you are a fine man, and that you love America.”
“So why do you care if I keep halal?”
“Because I’m Jewish, but I don’t keep kosher. I really like that man, but I think to marry this man I would have to drastically change my lifestyle. I like my current lifestyle just fine, but I don’t like having to say goodbye to someone who makes me happ
y.”
“You should follow your heart,” the driver says. “Only now I follow my heart and bought my medallion license. I’m my own business now. No more boss. For the first time I am happy.”
My suggestion for the quicker side-street route backfires when we’re stopped cold in traffic by men unloading a moving truck. According to its back-panel logo, which we get to know very well in the gridlock, the truck is part of the trusted fleet of The Official Movers of the Ladies Pro-Golf Association.
Back at my house I set off to finish the round of seder-rehearsal invitations I began the previous night. Following Jake’s request, I call my branch of the U.S. Post Office. “You want to talk to your postman?” says the amused mailwoman who answers the phone. I wait as she gets Oleg on the line, Oleg who is just about to leave for his route.
He is amazed. “The Matzo Ball Heiress? On the phone with me?”
“Yes. I know it’s a bit unusual for anyone to call you at the post office—”
“You are my very first call I have had here in twelve years.”
“Yes, well, I was wondering if you ever watch the Food Channel?”
“Yes,” he says with a confused laugh. “Did you see how they make salami in Italy? Unbelievable. That’s why you called?”
“Well, that’s the channel that wants to broadcast my family seder. And since you have a true appreciation of what it means to be able to hold one, I’d love to have you join my family.”
“Really? My family? We’ve only been celebrating for maybe ten years, since we left Russia.”
“It’s because you relish it that it would be such an honor to have you join us.”
He muses and says, “You are in luck. We are having a big seder the second night only. My cousins can’t get away until that night. My kids would love it.”
“Oleg—you may have to leave your kids at home. The network wants us to show a big family, so we’re kind of faking it that way. You’d have to pretend to be my newly emigrated Russian cousin. I’m not sure if your kids could fit in with the story.”
“Maybe it’s my English, but I’m not sure I understand. You can explain this all to me when I get to your building. I’ll be there in a half hour. Can you come down to the lobby?”
The Matzo Ball Heiress Page 20
