“Why don’t you treat yourself to a nice hot shower while the baby’s sleeping?” he suggested.
Maggie sighed, kissed him on the forehead, and trotted upstairs to the bathroom.
Eric tried to doze on the couch. While Helene and Will were taking in the new war memorial, his parents were probably enduring the hardest stretch of the fast, the two o’clock headache and grouchiness. For the first time since he married Maggie, he thought about the Yom Kippurs he’d spent as a kid, the mid-afternoon fights Amy picked with Hannah, and the sanctuary that reeked of the bad breath of hundreds of fasters who had gathered to hear the shofar, the signal that this day of torture was over. On the drive to Grandma Goldie’s house, Eric and his sisters used to guzzle orange juice and wolf graham crackers, a warm-up for the table of bagels, lox spread, marble cake, and Aunt Sylvia’s faithful pan of macaroni and cheese.
A wail interrupted the gentle ache creeping up on him, and Maggie rushed downstairs and swooped up Alec.
Eric stood over the glider, stroking Maggie’s damp hair; Alec’s jaw moved up and down furiously, and his tiny hand rested atop her breast. “Looks like he’s getting the hang of it.”
Maggie nodded, gazing at Alec’s profile. The phone rang, startling him, and he spit out a mouthful of milk and started to cry.
Eric grabbed the receiver.
“We’re at Hannah’s. What a ballabuste, as your grandma Goldie would have said,” Eric’s mother announced. “She even made that god-awful icebox cake for the bris.”
Eric laughed, and his mother put his father on the line.
“You want to stop by?” Eric detected the urgency in Simon’s voice. He knew that his father wanted nothing more than for the family to break the fast together.
Eric begged off, claiming the baby needed rest for his big day tomorrow, and stretched his arms out to Maggie, who handed over Alec.
“So did your parents give you a big guilt trip about not ‘breaking the fast’ with them?” She made air quotes with her fingers.
He was expected to reply with some disparaging comment about Simon and Brenda, because this was how they spoke of each other’s parents to one another —Maggie and Eric against the world — but he couldn’t bring himself to do it today. “They understood.”
“Did you tell them how perfectly the fine chefs at Spices prepared your Yom Kippur shrimp?” She giggled meanly.
“I think our little guy has a present for us.” He felt the baby’s wet warmth under his hand. “I’ll take him upstairs and change him.”
Eric was relieved to have a moment alone with Alec. Maggie so rarely got on his nerves. He didn’t mind the Christmas tree she plunked in the living room last December, or the ham and chocolate bunnies she served to a tableful of her friends last spring, but this bris talk felt different. Bad different. Uncomfortable different. He and Maggie had married quickly, out of passion, against their parents’ wishes. They assured everyone that they’d figure out this interfaith stuff, that Maggie understood better than anyone how to merge two cultures.
When he came back downstairs, he saw that Maggie had leaked breast milk on the T-shirt she’d borrowed from him. He jumped at her request to run to the mall and pick up some nursing pads.
Eric felt insanely Jewish trolling through Montgomery Mall on Yom Kippur. He surveyed the array of shoppers, taking note of the varieties of blond: a highlighted soccer mom lugging a huge Crate and Barrel shopping bag, a dishwater twentysomething manning an electronics kiosk, a towheaded toddler wearing the remnants of a chocolate ice cream cone on her chin. Would Alec inherit Maggie’s hair? Would he turn out dark-haired, pockmarked, and irreversibly chubby, like the Solonsky men?
A heavily perfumed saleswoman smiled at him when he walked into Mimi Maternity in search of breast pads. After discussing Maggie’s cup size at excruciating length, they picked out their best estimate of the right-size pads.
He wandered down to Sears to look for a lawn mower. Why not? He’d tried to convince himself that his unkempt lawn hadn’t embarrassed him when his dad pulled up to the house the day before. He wouldn’t have felt as ashamed had he been able to cover the entire down payment. God, this was the first time he’d taken money from his father since high school. He’d sworn that he’d make a decent living without a college degree (dyslexia made school excruciatingly frustrating). He wasn’t going to be an “Uncle Irving,” the guy who leeches off of everyone in the family. Until he’d met Maggie, he was content to live on what he earned as an audio technician. He could wire a dozen mics in half an hour and deliver audio so clean it whistled. Phil Scott, one of the best videographers in town, had anointed him his soundman. He would never make as much money as his dad or the lobbyists, lawyers, and businesspeople who peopled Bertrand Court, but he took pride in his work.
He bought Maggie warm chocolate chip cookies from Mrs. Fields, then meandered down to Sears and picked out a modest rear-bagging job for $279.98.
When Eric returned home, Maggie was covered in spit-up. “He hasn’t stopped fussing since you left.”
Alec was arching his back and flailing his arms. Eric held the baby’s little chest in his hand and patted him on the back, the way he’d seen his sister do once with his niece Goldie. The baby let out three enormous burps.
Maggie looked at him wide-eyed. “How did you know how to do that?”
“Hannah showed me.”
Her eyes started to well up. “Christ, Eric, you’ve got to take your cell phone with you. You have a kid,” she reprimanded him, but in a grateful, almost loving voice.
Eric handed her the nursing pads. “These are the most absorbent brand on the market.”
Maggie laughed.
“I brought you cookies.”
“So much for getting my figure back.”
She rested her head on Eric’s shoulder. He felt better now, like they’d recovered a semblance of their old selves, the unlikely match whose love would conquer all. He turned on the TV and rubbed Maggie’s neck while she fed the baby and they watched reruns of I Love Lucy, disregarding Hannah’s advice to take turns sleeping.
Maggie sat in the backseat of the car with Alec during the three-mile drive to Hannah and Danny’s enormous house with a wraparound porch that had been featured in Washingtonian Magazine. Realtor Danny had a gift for scouting out houses, or “killer screaming investment deals,” as he would say through his hundred-watt smile.
Hazy sunlight streamed through the trees that fortressed the living room windows, and Brenda had filled the house with bouquets of light-blue balloons inscribed with “Welcome to the world, Alec!” She’d covered rented tables with “It’s a Boy!” cloths and garnished bakery platters with fake chocolate cigars with Alec’s name penned in pale blue icing. (This was tame compared to Eric’s Beatles-themed bar mitzvah, complete with Ringo, John, Paul, and George centerpieces.)
Hannah had purchased the items on the mohel’s list: a tube of Neosporin, Vaseline, and gauze pads. Eric tried to listen as Rabbi Katzen explained how to care for Alec’s penis, but a familiar electricity filled the air, the kind that would invade his gut if he showed up at a shoot that had imploded or a gig where his band sounded like ass.
After Rabbi Katzen finished, Eric stood still and listened to the din of voices in his sister’s living room: his mom asking Maggie’s parents how they’d enjoyed their night in Amy’s apartment; Maggie cheerfully explaining the significance of the bris to her running partner; Phil predictably hitting on Amy, who leaned into him while opening the ceremonial bottle of Manischewitz. Amy’s laugh, hyenaesque and normally infectious, was like an ice pick in his eardrum. Maggie’s father’s kippah slid down to cover half his boxy forehead.
Rabbi Katzen shushed the room in his New Jersey baritone. “People, welcome. We’re here today to name the son of Margaret Stramm and Evan Solonsky.”
Eric, too polite to hang up on a telemarketer, debated for a second whether to correct the rabbi. This was a naming, for Christ’s sake, Katzen had to get it righ
t. “It’s Eric,” he whispered into the rabbi’s ear.
“Eric.” Rabbi Katzen placed his hand over his heart and smiled. “He looks like my own Evan, a good-looking guy, this one. Forgive me.” Muffled laughter filled the room as he patted Eric’s cheek. “Today we’ll perform a ritual that binds us as Jewish people.”
Eric heard these words through the Stramms’ ears. He was beginning to feel dizzy, so he took a deep breath, as he instructed nervous interviewees to do while he was fiddling with their mics. It didn’t work. Alec began whimpering in Maggie’s arms just as the rabbi was explaining how they would swaddle him in Grandpa Hyman’s prayer shawl.
Maggie swayed from side to side, trying to calm the baby as his whimpers turned into cries. Her neck sprouted red blotches.
“Precocious boy, he knows what’s coming,” Rabbi Katzen joked.
Now Alec was wailing rhythmically, like an ambulance siren.
Maggie’s blotches migrated to her cheeks. She leaned over to the rabbi and muttered, “I’m afraid we’re going to need you to excuse us.”
“Give him to me.” Rabbi Katzen held out his arms.
Alec was screaming even louder now, and Maggie looked relieved to hand him over to someone who had more experience with babies. Rabbi Katzen bounced the baby up and down, and he stopped crying. Soft, relieved laughter filled the room. “What can I say? I do this every day.”
Again Alec’s body tensed, and the wailing resumed.
“We’re really going to need a second to regroup,” Maggie said firmly, pointing to the den. She grabbed Eric’s arm, and they followed the rabbi out of the living room.
In the den, Rabbi Katzen turned and thrust Alec at Maggie. “What’s his krotz?” he asked her accusingly.
Maggie just blinked.
“Krotz, problem. Does he have to make?”
“She just changed him. I saw her,” Eric said as if he were swearing to his dad that he’d done his math homework.
“Is he hungry?”
“He already ate.”
“This is what he did last night while you were out, Eric. Look at his body when he cries. He’s in so much pain.” Maggie looked like she was about to cry.
“Maybe it’s gas.” Hannah, who moved soundlessly, like a dancer or a cat, was standing in the doorway holding Goldie, while a helpless Amy hovered behind her. “That’s what this one did when I ate something she didn’t like.”
Eric and Maggie stared at Hannah, Amy, and Helene, who was standing behind the Solonsky sisters looking worried.
“Garlic always set her off. Chocolate was bad, too,” Hannah said.
Eric couldn’t bring himself to meet Maggie’s eyes. Drunken noodles. Mrs. Fields. Shit.
“What if he doesn’t calm down?” Eric asked.
“I’ve never left a bris without a foreskin,” Rabbi Katzen said wryly.
Maggie sat down in an armchair and stuck Alec on her breast, but he was too fussy to nurse. Helene walked over to Maggie and put out her hands to hold Alec, who nuzzled his fuzzy head against the collar of her blouse. Babies adored Helene. She rocked him back and forth until he started to doze, grudgingly handing him to Eric’s father, who would hold the baby during the circumcision according to custom. Simon rested Alec on a pillow on his lap and stroked his forehead. Rabbi Katzen moved through the ceremony with incredible speed, barely taking a breath between each blessing.
For a surgeon, Simon looked pretty green, which only made Eric more nervous. Alec was whimpering again and thrashing his tiny legs. Simon began humming a Yiddish melody that Eric recognized only vaguely, yet it claimed him. Simon held Alec’s ankles, just as Great-Grandpa David had held Simon’s and Grandpa Hyman had held Eric’s, and on and on. This felt right. His father tightened his grip as the rabbi took a scalpel and a pacifier out of his pouch.
“Okay, Eric, put this in his mouth. He’ll just cry for a few seconds.”
Eric parted Alec’s lips and inserted the pacifier, studying the curves of his baby’s ears so he wouldn’t have to think too hard about what Rabbi Katzen was about to do to his penis. And then it happened, so fast and so very slowly.
The actual cutting took less than a minute, and then the rabbi, brow furrowed in the shape of a W, cleaned Alec’s penis, dressed it in gauze, fastened his diaper, and swaddled him tightly.
Alec made a liar out of Rabbi Katzen; he did not stop crying after a few seconds. Or a few minutes. His face turned the color of a pomegranate; his screams grew louder and louder, and his flailing limbs strained against the taut fabric of the baby blanket.
A thin line of sweat formed on Rabbi Katzen’s upper lip. “He’s fine, he’s fine,” he assured Eric.
Maggie snatched Alec from the rabbi’s arms. “Then why is he screaming his head off? And why are you sweating?” she hissed, abandoning her diversity-training voice. “And why did we put him through this barbaric thing?”
The house went quiet. Not one of the thirty-plus guests made a peep. Eric’s mother slipped out of the den, and he heard her say, “Please excuse us for a second, everyone. We’ve got a fussy little boy. Go ahead and eat. Enjoy. Make up for yesterday!” People resumed their conversations, but in hushed tones.
“Can you try to nurse him, Maggie?” Rabbi Katzen’s voice had lost its authority.
Maggie unwrapped Alec and tossed Grandpa Hyman’s tallis they’d used during the ceremony absently onto the carpet. Eric had never seen a tallis anywhere but draped over someone’s shoulders or neatly folded inside a velvet case.
Rabbi Katzen picked up the tallis and handed it to Eric. “The procedure went fine. He’ll be fine.”
Eric just nodded.
“I’ll give you some privacy, but I won’t leave the house until he’s calm.” The rabbi exited the den.
Alec alternately nursed and cried into Maggie’s bare breast while she caressed his head, a strand of hair escaping from her barrette, brushing against her nose. An hour before, Eric would have tucked it behind her ear.
When they got home, Maggie whisked Alec away to his room. Eric sat outside the nursery and rested his head against the cool plaster of the doorway. He listened to the baby glider click as it moved back and forth above the hardwood floor. He thought about the days that would follow. He would snap more photos of Alec and eat more casseroles and watch more infomercials while he rocked the baby back to sleep in the middle of the night. He would fast next Yom Kippur, not for his father or to prove anything to Maggie, but for Alec — and for himself. He would not deny Maggie Alec’s baptism, he would hide painted eggs in the backyard, he would never point out that not once since he’d known his wife had she uttered the name Jesus or stepped foot in a church, not on Easter Sunday or Christmas Eve. A bris for a baptism. A transaction sealed with blood and water.
When he could no longer hear the glider, he peeked into Alec’s room. Maggie didn’t open her eyes as he lifted his little boy from her shoulder. He held Alec’s warm body against his, breathing in the scent of breast milk and Neutrogena soap. He changed Alec’s bandages; his penis looked like a piece of raw meat.
Alec could barely keep his eyes open, so Eric put him in his bassinet and went outside to assemble his new lawn mower. Still wearing his dress khakis and a sweat-stained button-down shirt Maggie had placed under their Christmas tree last December, he mowed every blade of grass surrounding the house. When he finished, he stood on his lawn as he had the day before, but he wasn’t waiting. He wasn’t waiting for Maggie to wake up, or for the fading sun to mark the end of a long day, or for his father to notice his grass, green from a wet September and perfectly cut.
YOU’RE NEXT
Helene Stramm and Maggie Stramm Solonsky, August 2001
I keep mum when my daughter, Maggie, tells me that she’s baking a sugar-free birthday cake for my five-year-old granddaughter. It’s too easy to ruffle her feathers, and I don’t want to muck up our weekend together. During the drive to the health food store in Bethesda, I tolerate her “I can’t believe you smoked while yo
u were pregnant” tone while she lectures me on how sweets wreak havoc on the immune system.
My Pic ’n Save back home looks pretty gosh-darned good compared to this dump. I bite my tongue instead of asking Maggie why organic produce looks so mangy, or if all the employees are required to pierce their nostrils, or why she chooses to shop in a store that smells like a scented bathroom candle. Little Kaya and I follow her up and down the aisles in search of some magical artificial sweetener her acupuncturist recommended.
“Found it.” Maggie reaches for a rectangular box decorated with a drawing of a mint leaf. “This is it, Say-Lo. I remember the name because it sounds like J. Lo.”
“The Italian singer with the round derrière?”
“She’s Puerto Rican, Mom.” Maggie laughs, and then Kaya and I join in. The joke’s on me, and that’s okay, as long as we’re all laughing together.
A bearded clerk gives Maggie the once-over while he rings up the Say-Lo. And why not? My Maggie’s pretty again, in a bohemian kind of way. She doesn’t have to resort to the bottle (L’Oréal No. 12) like I did once I hit my mid-thirties. A natural honey color tints her long braid, and she keeps herself real slim and trim. Thank the good Lord, she’s over the phase where she dyed her hair black and ate junk and made herself as unappealing as possible. This was right before she flitted off to London, and we didn’t speak for a year. But then one day out of the blue, she called to tell me that she was getting married. Eric’s a Jewish fellow, which took a little getting used to, odd customs and all. It’s true what they say about the Jewish people though, they certainly know the meaning of family, and Eric’s been good for her.
The clerk gestures to us. “No question you three apples fell from the same tree.” He points his index finger at me but looks at Kaya. “Now, is this your mom’s twin sister?” With that twinkle in his eyes, he’s starting to remind me of a scruffy Cary Grant.
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