The Matzo Ball Heiress

by Laurie Gwen Shapiro

  “Of course.”

  Vondra. I have to call Vondra. Surely Mahmoud laughed her out of the room when she brought up the seder. I just need to be sure.

  “Mahmoud is thrilled to be going!”

  My God. I let it be and ask them both to come to rehearsal. If he’s offended by the Death to Ancient Egyptians rhetoric, at least we’ll find out in the dry run.

  The phone rings again. “Hello,” I say brightly. How the hell did I get in this good mood?

  “You sound chipper,” Steve says.

  “Hi,” I say after a delayed start.

  “I just finished a meeting about you and yours. The techies are still talking it out, so I’m checking in, making sure you’re comfortable. Is your family ready for the seder?”

  “They will be.”

  “Terrific. I was just calling to see if I could ask you another small favor regarding the broadcast.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We didn’t get as much budget on this as I wanted. My boss wants me to use the interns at the Food Channel, but this year most of them are Jewish and don’t want to give up going to their own seders. Jared of all people said yes, though, right away. Frankly, I’m shocked. I don’t think he’s ever missed his family seder.”

  “Uh-huh. So what’s the favor?”

  “Well, Jared was telling me he met your intern at the Museum of Natural History, and I was wondering if he’s available. Is he Jewish?”

  “Roswell? I don’t think so.”

  “Great. Do you think we could borrow him? He already knows Jared. We need someone to help with the cords.”

  Jared’s words of faith in Roswell spring to mind. “He’s not the most reliable person, but you’re right, he likes Jared. He might come through. And I’ll ask my cousin Jake if his intern could come too.”

  “A matzo factory has an intern?”

  “Why not? In fact, our intern and my cousin’s intern know each other. They’re both Stuyvesant High School students, and part of the City as School internship program.”

  “Great. So that was fortuitous that you could use Jared on your shoot, huh? He’s a nice guy.”

  Do I detect a note of jealousy? “Jared is a lovely human being.”

  “Yes, who wouldn’t like Jared, he’s so—likable.”

  I have to come somewhat clean, as least as far as my romantic interest lies. What if the two of them talked? “Steve, since this is coming up now, I have something to tell you. I don’t know about you and me. I think I’m more compatible with Jared. Not that we’re in a relationship. I mean we haven’t gotten physically involved, but we seem to be going in that direction.”

  Steve pauses a while, perhaps more stung than I ever thought he could be. “I knew he liked you, but he said nothing to me about this.”

  “I hope this doesn’t affect the broadcast. The balloon ride is very tempting, but, well, I guess we won’t be doing that now. But I’m really looking forward to the special.” I feel good now that I got it all out. This is Heather Melissa Greenblotz at the steering wheel, chickie.

  Steve is silent again. I smile to myself. Hit me with your best shot, Mr. Teflon.

  He does. “Jared’s ultrakosher, did you know that? Are you kosher?”

  “Do you think I am?” Yes, what does Steve think I am? Doesn’t he remember the oysters we had at the Union Square Café? What goes on in his self-centered brain?

  “I wouldn’t ask if I thought you were. You don’t give off that vibe.”

  “Really? And what vibe do I give off?”

  “I can’t figure you out. You wanted to go on a romantic balloon ride with me, and now you’re flat out not interested. I think you are a young woman who is still rather mad at me.”

  “Maybe I’m still smarting from that night at my apartment. But we need to do this seder, so let’s just forget about it.”

  “Heather, maybe I haven’t apologized the right way.”

  “You sent flowers, it’s okay.”

  “Flowers aren’t the same as genuine regret, right?”

  “Right,” I peep.

  “I do feel awful about the way our first date fell apart. If I weren’t doing this special, I’d still have asked you out. I’ll be a hundred percent honest this time. Maybe I wouldn’t have pushed so hard to meet the same day if I didn’t need an urgent answer for my boss, but I would have asked you out for that weekend. I’m sure of it. I was and am very smitten with you.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” I say. “So why do you think I’m not kosher?”

  “Are you?”

  “We’re being a hundred percent honest here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth if you promise not to say anything on air.”

  “Of course.”

  “No. I’m not at all. Remember those oysters we had on our date? I ate mine faster than you ate yours.”

  “Oysters aren’t kosher?”

  “They’re shellfish, so no. But, uh, Jake is kosher and the factory is kept kosher, so we have to act like I’m kosher for the special.”

  “That’s fine. No skin off my back. I have to tell you, chickie, I’m kind of relieved you’re not kosher. I really think it’s ridiculous in this age. I think these special holidays are great, but I draw the line at rules that mess up everyday living. Jared and I have had some heated discussions about this.”

  “He didn’t mention that.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. He’s a modern guy in every respect. I called him a hypocrite because he keeps kosher but won’t wear a yarmulke. Then I told him to own up to the mess organized religion has gotten us into. Maybe in India where the untouchables are born with no hope it’s needed to get them through an otherwise unbelievable life. But here in America? Stop me if I’m ranting here, by the way—”

  “Maybe you are a bit too keyed up for ten in the morning. I haven’t had any coffee yet.”

  “Okay.” Steve laughs.

  “Much food for thought.”

  “My biggest fight with Jared was when I said I pity the women who have to keep a kosher home. Why add that to their day? Traditions are good for once in a while. But why would any free-thinking woman go backward? What would be so bad if some major rabbi in the mainstream with common sense came along and said, no, we won’t make women do this anymore?”

  “I’m sure the reform rabbis don’t ask their female constituents to keep kosher.”

  “Then what’s holding back the orthodox Jews?”

  “Fear of losing our heritage? Look, Steve, exactly what religion are you anyway? I didn’t understand your answer in, uh, my bed.”

  Steve chuckles. “My mother is Jewish, raised atheist. My father was raised as a Jehovah’s Witness until he was older and saw the light, so to speak, that it was fucking him up. So we were a neither-nor religion. When I was younger, I thought they both got it wrong. I craved religion, big-time. People who’ve been raised without it usually do. I became a religion major and that’s when my real education began. For as long as there’s been religion, fear and panic have ruled the world. Perhaps with science, now that we can find out that everyone on the planet is virtually indistinguishable except for the level of melatonin, we can finally move ahead.”

  I’m not as Angry with a capital A as Steve is. But if I’m honest with myself, he’s breaking through to me, and that fantasy of life with Jared that’s forming in the back of my mind starts to lose its momentum and feel ridiculous again. Keeping kosher and going to synagogue is just not who I am. Who would think it would be slick Steve Meyers who could snuff my enthusiasm for more dates with Jared?

  TWELVE

  Because Family Is Everything

  This is the first time I’ve ever been alone with Roswell. We’re in the hired car on our way to Jake’s house in West Orange. It’s D day. The rehearsal and then the broadcast. I’d really like to talk to someone about how nervous I am. After Jared’s suggestion the other day that I
actively mentor Roswell, I’m almost ready to give the kid a fair shake, even though he’s dressed for the shoot in a hooded black shiny jacket that, although I imagine is punishingly hip, makes Mr. Cool look like something you would swat if he was 1/1000 the size.

  “Dude,” my intern bug says to our driver from Tel Aviv Car Service. “Is that a CD player?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can I give you something to play?”

  “Is it punk, Roswell? He might not want to hear it.”

  “No, it’s Johnny Cash. My dad just gave it to me.”

  “I love Johnny Cash,” says the driver with a Polish accent. “Does it have ‘Ring of Fire’ on it?”

  Roswell studies the back of the CD. “Yes.”

  “The best,” our driver says.

  “You seem very close to your father,” I say to Roswell as the CD starts to play.

  “Yeah, we go on a trip together every year. Just the two of us, and my mom takes my sister somewhere else.”

  “Where have you gone with him?”

  “We’ve been to Cape Canaveral, the Space Needle, and last year we went to New Mexico and visited Roswell.”

  “Is that where you got your name?”

  He makes a “that’s obvious” face. “Uh, yeah. My parents went there as a joke in the eighties for an alien-abduction film festival. I was conceived there.”

  “Does having an alien-abduction name bother you?”

  “No, because it’s way cool. It’s much cooler than my sister’s name.”

  “What’s her name, Chernobyl?”

  “Ch-what?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Her name is Karen. How dull is that?”

  “How old is she?”

  “Ten. She was an accident, but I’m not allowed to tell her that.”

  I smile. “Did I tell you that my father is coming to this seder?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “He lives overseas. I haven’t seen him for a while, so this is a big deal.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can I fill you in on a secret?”

  “Shoot.”

  “This is a family dinner, but it’s more of a production than reality. I need an assistant who can be very, uh, cool about it.”

  “You’re sitting next to him.”

  “Whatever I say cannot be repeated to anyone from the Food Channel, or to anyone who didn’t participate in the seder when it’s all over.”

  “Not even my man Abdullah? We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

  “Not even Abdullah. This is classified information, Roswell.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.”

  I give him a thumbs-up and quickly fill him in on the details of my family charade, minus my dad’s homosexuality. Even though most urbane New York City teens are bred from birth to think homosexuality is a non-issue, I’m just not sure about Roswell. He’s a one-off.

  Roswell opens a square of very strongly scented watermelon bubble gum, places it in his mouth and says in between chews, “This is so cool, that you’re doing this production with all these fake people. It’s like working on a feature film.”

  We cross over the New Jersey base of the George Washington Bridge. “So how’s your documentary faring?”

  “Dude. It’s not. Albert Maysles isn’t returning my calls.”

  “Why don’t you try something else?”

  “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

  “Honestly? No. I think it is a bit over your head.”

  He huffs.

  “Look, I’m being honest.”

  He catches my eye. “So, say you’re right, which I’m not saying. How do you think I should start my first film?”

  “I think you should start with a short. Do something you know well, like a piece about high-school graduation—”

  “Boring,” he says after a pop of gum.

  “How about New York–teen hangouts? Skateboarders, maybe?”

  Another bubble and pop. “Yawn. That sounds like the Disney Channel.”

  “Well, something you know well is the way to go. What do you know more about than anyone else? Have a think about it.”

  Jake opens the door dressed in a slightly ill-fitting suit and a tie with a matzo motif. Siobhan has somehow managed to pick out a certain style of clothing—solid colors, long sleeves and no sexy cuts—that together with her new hairstyle transforms her into a ringer for an ultraorthodox woman.

  “What’s different about you besides your clothes?” I ask. “It’s weird. I just can’t pick it out.”

  “Jake bought me a wig that’s the same color as my hair for me to wear on air.”

  I gasp and nervously laugh a bit. “It’s crazy but it really does the trick.”

  I introduce Jake and Siobhan to Roswell as he runs his finger along the huge flat TV screen that must have set Jake back many thousands of dollars.

  “This is killer,” Roswell declares.

  “Thanks,” says Jake.

  “Could Dimple come?” I whisper nervously as I look around. Jake and Siobhan have already set up the table in the living room with a translated phonetic Hebrew Haggadah on every plate. Only the cutlery is missing.

  “No. Her mom wouldn’t let her out of their seder. So it’s lucky you brought your intern.”

  “I’m not thrilled about using Roswell,” I whisper again. “Big-time slacker. But I’ve filled him in on our situation.”

  “So you’re going to be a Jew tonight,” I overhear Roswell say to Siobhan. “That’s cool.”

  “Yes,” Siobhan says with a Mona Lisa smile. Is she mad or amused?

  “So why do you need a wig if it’s the same color of your hair?”

  “Very orthodox women shave their hair so that only their husbands can see their true head. They wear a wig for outside society.” It’s hilarious. Siobhan knows more about this stuff than I do. “Let’s put your coats in the bedroom.” She motions for us to follow her.

  Roswell blinks. “You shaved your hair for this party?”

  “No, I still have my real hair under there. But the wig has a certain orthodox Jewish styling that lends me authenticity.”

  “My idea, of course,” Jake interjects.

  “You are truly insane,” I say.

  “But it works,” he says, grinning.

  I offer a weak nervous smile. “It does indeed.”

  “Yo, Siobhan, where’s the bathroom?” Roswell asks as she lays our coats on the four-poster bed in the master bedroom.

  “Use the one in this room,” she says. After Roswell closes the bathroom door, she gives me a reassuring embrace. “You look scared,” she whispers. “We’re going to pull this off. Jake and I have made Passover flash cards so all the guests can memorize one fact they can let drop on camera.” She hands me mine: Did you know that Moses stuttered?

  Roswell emerges and wipes his wet hands on his jeans. “So what do want me to do first?”

  I take charge. “Siobhan may need some help in the kitchen before the TV crew gets here.”

  “Yes, I could use a hand with the salad,” Siobhan says.

  “You have cukes?”

  “Cukes?” Siobhan looks at me for the American translation.

  “Cucumbers,” I say.

  Roswell nods. “A salad needs tons of cucumbers, because lettuce is so freaking fiddly.”

  “We have plenty of cukes—and sunflower seeds too,” Siobhan says.

  “Excellent. I’ll throw them in.”

  “I’ll finish the place settings,” I say, and we all head for the kitchen.

  When I’m back in the kitchen for the knives, Roswell is gnawing the sunflower seeds like a field mouse and telling Siobhan about his ranking among the major players on the Stuyvesant High School Ultimate Frisbee team.

  Siobhan chops a tomato into quarters. “We didn’t have this Ultimate sport in Cork.”

  “Ultimate,” he mocks Siobhan’s Irish brogue. “It sounds so funny when you say that in Irish.” />
  Siobhan smiles.

  So does Roswell. “Well, we have the Frisbees, and you have the beer,” he says. “I guess that’s what makes Ireland such a great country.”

  “Yes,” she says with another genuinely warm smile. Now I’m really pissed at Grandpa Reuben again. Siobhan, a great listener even in the face of teenage braggadocio and stupidity, would be an incredible mother. After the seder I’m going to read Jake the riot act about not marrying her.

  Jared arrives with our beloved ancient shopkeeper Gertie in tow.

  After that bubble-popping conversation with Steve, I’m not sure how I should greet Jared. I settle on a friendly squash of his hand, while I give Gertie a kiss on the cheek. “How was your car ride into New Jersey, Gertie?”

  “We talked. Such a nice boy. Maybe you like him?”

  Jared nods at me as if to say, Listen to your elders. Jake gives Gertie a hug and finds her a seat. I hear another vehicle pull up. I peek out behind Siobhan’s white Irish-linen curtains, ones her mother sent over a few Christmases back. A black Lincoln Town Car is parked outside of Jake and Siobhan’s door. Walking toward the front door is Mahmoud, dressed in another upmarket suit, and Vondra, in a black dress and tasteful pearls. In the last few weeks, her style has metamorphosed from funky sexpot to international sophisticate. Looking at her draped off Mahmoud’s arm, I could imagine her chatting nicely with heads of state over a Waldorf salad on the menu at the actual Waldorf Astoria.

  When they are inside, Vondra waves to Jared. While Mahmoud talks to Jared, Vondra surreptitiously turns to me and points to her chin. She approves of Jared’s new beardless face. I smile, and after a pause in Jared and Mahmoud’s conversation, I introduce the new couple to the others who are there so far.

  “I’m honored to be invited at your seder,” Mahmoud says to me.

  Before I move Mahmoud along to Jake and Siobhan, chatting in the kitchen, I say: “I’m thrilled you can come. I’m surprised, though, that you’re not worried about being seen on the air.”

  “One cannot live in fear. There would be no quality to your life.”

  “Still, it’s very brave of you in this environment of mistrust.”