Dating Kosher

by Greene, Michaela

  For the first time that morning, I was able to smile. “Okay, I’ll come by after work. Oops gotta go, there’s a client here.” It was a lie; there was no one there. But I hung up on him, not wanting to bother with the formality of saying goodbye. What if he had said he loved me? Easier just to avoid those situations. It wouldn’t be too hard; it was only a month until the wedding.

  I looked at the empty lobby in front of me and then back to my computer screen. I opened up Solitaire on my computer, eager to break my record—the day before I had won six games in a row.

  Chapter 5

  “So what’s on your agenda for today, Bubby?” I asked my grandmother over my shoulder. My nose tickled from the mixed smells of rosewater and mothballs; anywhere else the aroma would be nauseating, but here in my grandmother’s apartment nestled in the new wing of the retirement complex, it smelled just like home.

  I’d finished my apple-cinnamon tea and stood up from the too-soft sofa, restless. Picking up a picture of my grandparents from the mantle over the electric fireplace, I held it only inches from my face for closer inspection. It was an old black and white photo of them on their honeymoon. They were in their early twenties, both slim and in bathing suits on the beach in Florida; ever after their favorite vacation spot. My zaidy stood barefoot in the sand, his arms around my tiny grandmother who stood in front of him. They were both laughing, making me think he’d told a joke right before the shutter clicked open and closed, sealing their happiness on celluloid forever.

  I’d seen the picture a million times but it still made me smile.

  He’d been gone for over ten years, but my memories of him were still fresh, especially all the games of blackjack we played when I was a child. Begging him to play whenever I saw him, he indulged me most of the time, always having a deck of cards in his back pocket. I thought I was such a talented card player; the reigning twenty-one champion of the family. It wasn’t until many years later, after I lost a huge amount at the tables in Vegas, that I learned the truth: I was indeed not a talented blackjack player but the victim of a longstanding hoax perpetuated by my well-meaning grandfather. But by then it didn’t matter that he had let me win almost every game. In fact, it just made me love and miss him more.

  Bubby sighed. “Oh, well, Shoshie, you know. I’m getting my hair done at noon and then Mah Jongg with the girls at two.” It didn’t matter that ‘the girls’ were all over eighty, the ladies in her Mah Jongg group would always be ‘the girls.’

  I replaced the picture and turned back toward my grandmother. She had creases around her eyes and deep lines in her cheeks, but she didn’t seem old to me. Although she had trouble walking and sometimes complained that the Mah Jongg tiles fell from her hands because of her arthritis, she was still one of the most active people at Beth Shalom, her seniors’ home. She swam most mornings in the complex’s heated pool and walked most evenings with bridge, gin (the game, not the drink) and Mah Jongg slotted in between. Last year she’d even been in the center’s production of Fiddler on the Roof, playing the part of Tzeitel. It was one of the sweetest things I’d ever seen: a bunch of seniors acting out the parts of teenaged girls, my own bubby up on stage, wistfully singing “Matchmaker…matchmaker…make me a match…”

  “You should learn to play Mahj, Shoshie. That Barbara Solly isn’t what she used to be. We don’t have the heart to kick her out of the group, but she just can’t keep up anymore.” She shook her head, pursing her lips. It was hard on her, watching her friends deteriorate. Many of them had passed on in the last few years, forcing ‘the girls’ to constantly be on the watch for new recruits for their Mah Jongg group. “We could use a new fourth. And we love hearing your stories, dear,” she winked.

  “Oh Bubby, you’re terrible,” I scolded, the smile on my face tempering my words. I’d made the mistake of telling my grandmother and a couple of her cronies about a particularly wild party I had gone to once. They were just so mesmerized by what the single life was like these days, that I found myself telling them things I never would have dreamed of telling a group of senior citizens. They really got a kick out of it. Maybe I felt like I was doing them a service: educating them on the ways of the modern world. Now whenever I saw them, they would all wink and smile at me. It was pretty embarrassing having them think I was some sort of hero. And I would never live down telling them about that time I’d had a quickie with a stranger at a party in a front hall closet, standing up between all the guests’ coats.

  “What? We aren’t allowed to have a little excitement?” she shrugged. “None of the alter kockers around here are willing to spend the money on Viagra, so what are we supposed to do?”

  “Oh my God, Bubby!” Eww! I didn’t need to hear about my grandmother’s sex life. Or lack of one. Please, God, let it be a lack of one.

  She rocked her weight back and forth a couple times and then pushed herself up from the couch, waving me off when I offered my hand. “You should be so lucky that you find yourself a husband like my Bernie; he never needed Viagra.” She walked over to the mantle, looking at the picture I had replaced only moments before.

  “I don’t think Viagra was around back then,” I pointed out.

  She didn’t seem to hear me.

  “He was a good man. You should find yourself a good man, Shoshie. A good man like your zaidy.”

  Her eyes glazed over as she looked at the old photo. She sniffed, pulling the ever-present Kleenex out of her sleeve to dab at her eyes. I put my arm across her shoulders and squeezed her gently.

  “I will, Bubby. I promise.”

  “How’s your pussy doing?” Bubby asked nonchalantly.

  I leaned back so I could look her in the eye. Wait a minute, my grandmother wasn’t asking anatomical questions…

  “Your cat,” she said with an eye-roll. “Oy, Shoshanna.”

  “He’s fine,” I said, stifling a laugh.

  “That’s good. I just love kitties. Maybe I could sneak one in here; they’d never know as long as I didn’t tell Barbara. She’d let it slip to one of the nurses.” Bubby got that twinkle in her eye, the one that always led to mischief. The one I had inherited.

  “Bubby, you can’t have a cat here, you know that.” I felt bad saying it; having a constant companion would do wonders for her, but instead she had to wait for the precious one hour a week when some lady from the animal shelter came in with a dog and a cat for pet therapy.

  “I know, I know. Now get out of here, I’ve got to go down to get my hair done before I go play with the girls.”

  I gave her a once-over. “But your hair looks great, you always look perfect.” I suspected she’d styled her hair already right after breakfast in anticipation of my visit. I’d never seen her without her hair completely ‘undone’ except the time when she had fallen and ended up in the hospital.

  She waved me off, the epitome of modesty. “Oh Shoshanna, come on.”

  “All right then, I’m outta here. You enjoy your game and be nice to Barbara.” I glanced at my watch; right on time.

  Bubby smirked. “I will, don’t you worry about me.”

  I gave her another hug and left the complex, a big smile pasted on my face. Visiting my grandmother was sometimes the only normal thing in my life.

  * * *

  Since my next destination was only ten blocks away from my apartment, I walked there. It was such a beautiful sunny day, the kind when you turn your face up to the sun and take pleasure in its warmth as it washes over you. (Of course, I never do that for very long and I wear a daily sunscreen. I mean, I’m not asking for melanoma.) So off I went to The Confidence Closet for a dose of volunteer work.

  I had never known volunteer work could be so cool until I met Sasha one day at the spa and she told me all about the program she ran. The whole idea is that they take donated clothes and outfit people to get them ready for job interviews. Then, once the clients get the jobs, they get to come back and pick a few more outfits so they have some great clothes for work to tide them over until
they get on their feet.

  The day after Sasha told me about it and had given me her card, I called her, practically begging her to let me help them outfit people.

  I had been surprised at the kind of clothes they got in. I had assumed that it would be a Goodwill-type place and I would be outfitting people in polyester suits that had been outdated the second they first hit the racks, but I was very wrong. Not only did people donate their own clothes personally, but Sasha had some excellent relationships with designers and local clothing manufacturers and often got in samples, end of lines and sometimes this year’s fashions that had some tiny flaws in them that more often than not, couldn’t even be detected. My own closet had gotten a bit lighter thanks to the program and I had told my mother and every one of my friends they had to donate.

  Since I’d joined up, I’d outfitted probably fifty people and most of them had gotten jobs. Everyone always came back and thanked us and there was no better feeling in the world than having someone leave with a big smile, self-confidence, and great clothes.

  “Do we have a full schedule today?” I asked Sasha as I handed her the overpriced latte I had bought on the way.

  “Ugh, you’re a lifesaver, thanks.” Sasha flipped open the tab on the cup before answering my question. “Shouldn’t be too busy. We’ve got one young girl coming in, size nine, and then a guy coming in who needs a set of construction clothes.”

  “I’ll take the girl,” I offered, always preferring to dress girls, especially if it meant I could avoid a construction worker. One of the services we provided was a set of work clothes along with steel-toed work boots for laborers that were starting new jobs and couldn’t afford the mandatory uniform. It was a nice service, I guess, but not really my thing.

  I turned to the racks and headed over to the section appropriately marked ‘sizes 9-10.’ “What kind of job is she looking for?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “Cashier, I think, she sounded pretty young.”

  Cashier…that meant a suit would be overkill for an interview. Still, she’d want to look nice. I let my eyes scan down the rack until they landed on a navy pinstripe blouse. Nice. A few hangers later a navy skirt, not too short: if she was average height it would land just above her knee.

  “Shoe size?”

  “Hold on, I’ll check,” Sasha put down her cup and rifled through the papers on her desk looking for the application form. “Here it is. Size seven shoe. We just got in a whole pile from Stilettos if you want to have a look.”

  My heart skipped with pleasure; Stilettos was one of the best shoe stores around. And they’d always been very generous with their end of season donations. “Anything nice?”

  Sasha shrugged, still looking at the paper in her hand. “I haven’t had a chance to look. This girl is only seventeen, she should be in school. What is she doing getting a job?”

  Sasha’s question was answered as the door opened and in walked our newest client. She was not alone, but held the hand of a little boy who was maybe two years old.

  “Hi, are you Tina?” Sasha put down the application and walked over to the client, her hand outstretched.

  “Yeah, um hi,” Tina blushed as she shook Sasha’s hand. Her little boy hid behind her leg, looking suspiciously at Sasha. “Sorry, I couldn’t get a sitter.”

  “No worries at all,” Sasha said, waving her off and bending down. “And who is this handsome young man? What is your name?”

  An inaudible voice mumbled something.

  “Speak up, Adam, please. The lady asked your name.”

  “Adam.”

  Sasha stuck her hand out to the boy. “It’s nice to meet you, Adam. I think I have some toys for you to play with while your mom tries on clothes, would you like to come with me?”

  Adam looked up at his mom for permission and when she nodded, he took Sasha’s hand and allowed himself to be led over to the corner which was well-stocked with toys for just this sort of occasion.

  “Hi, Tina, nice to meet you. I’m Shoshanna,” I smiled and shook her hand. “So far I’ve just picked out one outfit for you to try, but we’ve got lots of stuff in your size so we shouldn’t have any trouble finding you something. Don’t be afraid to tell me what you like and don’t like.”

  “Thank you so much,” Tina said, obviously relieved. “It’s just so nice that you guys are here, I’d never be able to afford…” her eyes began to well up with tears.

  I nodded and pointed at the box of Kleenex on Sasha’s desk. After she dabbed at her eyes and nodded at me, I took her hand, squeezing it before I led her over to the racks of clothing. “Come on, let’s get started. Adam is in good hands with Sasha, she’ll play with him all day if you let her.”

  Tina turned and looked at her son who had, in a few short moments, lost all trace of shyness and was pushing around some wooden trains while Sasha read to him. Tina smiled and turned back to me. “It’s going to be hard leaving him when I have to go to work. Do you have kids?”

  I snorted and was about to tell her I was way too young to have kids when I realized I had like ten years on her. I bit my tongue and shook my head. “I don’t think kids are my thing.”

  “Yeah, I thought the same way. But when you get pregnant, it all changes.” She smiled and stole another glance at her son. “He’s so much like my boyfriend, you know? Sometimes it’s scary how much Adam reminds me of his dad.”

  A shiver ran through me: that settled it. If I ever found myself having sex with Max again, he was definitely wearing two condoms.

  Chapter 6

  “Thank you Shoshanna, this looks just wonderful,” Max’s mother fawned over the challah as though I had slaved all afternoon baking it myself. Yeah, as if; I had bought it at the kosher bakery around the corner and as much as she gushed, she knew it. I handed my shawl to Max to hang up in the closet, hoping his fingers weren’t greasy. My baby alpaca shawl was one of my favorites, costing my Dad over four hundred dollars. He had given it to me when I graduated from my administrative assistant’s course.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Levine. It’s nice to see you.” I said, pasting a smile on my face that I hoped didn’t look fake.

  We moved into the formal living room and sat on the white couches. I will give Mrs. Levine one thing: although she’s a bitchy anal-retentive hag, she knew how to keep a beautiful home. In my eyes, white sofas are the sign of not only a wealthy family, but one who can keep an immaculate home. I aspired to have white furniture someday. Maybe after Armani, the black, constantly-shedding cat left me for the big litter box in the sky, I mused.

  Mrs. Levine returned from placing the challah on the dining room table. “And how is your mother? I didn’t see her at the last Hadassah function.”

  “I hear Tippy is very busy decorating in the city,” Mr. Levine offered me a glass of red wine—ballsy, considering the white furniture. Slightly nervous, I took it and nodded my thanks.

  “She has been busy,” I said, taking a sip of the wine and fighting the urge to sigh over already being bored, not two minutes into the evening.

  One saving grace; the merlot was delicious. I emptied my glass. Mr. Levine’s ass couldn’t have been in his chair three seconds before he popped out of it to pour me a refill. He grinned down at me in a way that sort of gave me the creeps; I’d always thought he had a thing for me. Thankfully, his wife and son were clueless. Throwing the man a bone, I gave him a sultry wink and maybe even the beginning of a mid-life crisis hard on.

  Yes I was shameless, but I was shameless wearing a lot of diamonds. And I was very aware that it was this Mr. Levine who still owned the store.

  Mr. Levine swallowed hard, mumbled something about the Cornish hens and headed into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Levine fanned herself with a strategically placed playbill from the last theater opening they had attended. “It’s just been so hot these last few days, thank God for the air conditioning.”

  I suddenly felt a little flush myself, thinking about air conditioning technicians. Well, one air
conditioning technician in particular. Angry that his memory would pop into my head, I pushed it away and concentrated on the wine.

  Unfortunately, the dinner conversation didn’t get any better. The Levine family was all very preoccupied with politics and world news: subjects I kept myself blissfully unaware of. Who cares what’s going on in Iraq or Syria? I was much more interested in what was coming down the runways of Paris and Milan.

  But like the good-mannered girl Tippy and Marty Rosenblatt raised, I sat at the table, unfolded napkin in my lap, and nodded at what I deemed were appropriate pauses in the conversation. After all, it was only a dinner. Once the wedding was over, I’d never have to break bread with the Levines again. Thank God.

  * * *

  “Dinner was nice, huh?” Max asked once we were back at his apartment, a two bedroom in a three-floor walk-up. It was worth a lot, being in the city, but to look at it, it was nothing special and could have used some of my mom’s touch. But two milliseconds into the relationship I had realized redecorating would be useless; I wasn’t in for the long haul.

  “Mmm hmm, lovely,” I mumbled, pulling open the door, staring into the depths of his refrigerator. That mini chicken had not been nearly enough food. Scanning the contents of Max’s fridge proved to be about as fruitful as my last trip to Escada; not even a decent handbag to be had.

  Resigned to the fact that I was not going to find anything edible, I grabbed the bottle of chardonnay off the otherwise empty shelf. I walked over to where he sat on the couch.

  “Open this for me?”

  He looked up at me, scowling. “You sure you need that?”

  I smirked, a twinkle in my eye. “You know how my gag reflex disappears when I drink chardonnay…”

  He took the bottle out of my hand and returned to the kitchen to get his corkscrew.

  “What are you wearing to the wedding?” I asked, dropping to the couch. Pulling my legs up onto the sofa, I arranged the hem of my skirt seductively, showing as much leg as possible, while keeping the goodies hidden.