“Hi, Dad.”
His voice softened. “Hi Shosh, how’re you doing honey?”
“Uh, I’m good Dad. I had a nice time with Susan shopping today.”
“I just got off the phone with her and she said the same thing. I’m glad that you and she get along so well.”
“She’s really nice.” I said, then hesitated, a little nervous about the real reason for the phone call. “Um, Dad. I hate to say this because…well you know I love Mom, but I really don’t think you should invite her to the wedding.”
Silence.
I continued, “I mean, she probably wouldn’t come, but do you really think it’s appropriate to invite your first wife to your second wedding?”
Dad seemed to weigh his words carefully before he spoke. “I am trying to be an adult about this. I’m hoping that by inviting her, we can all get past the bad times and start to move forward.”
I shook my head, even though Dad couldn’t see me. “I don’t think that Mom is ready to be an adult about this, Dad.”
“I don’t think you’re giving your mother enough credit, Shoshanna.” He sounded very fatherly, almost lawyerly and it was a bit intimidating, but I had to stand firm, he had his head in the sand if he thought Mom could handle watching him get married to Susan.
“Dad, listen to me. For starters, you didn’t send out an invite to her with the rest of the invites. She’ll know that; she’ll know that her invitation was just an afterthought. That’s pretty insulting no matter who it is.” I paused but he didn’t say anything so I went on. “Add to that the fact that your fiancé was a friend of hers who you…anyway, it’s kind of a scandal. Mom isn’t ready. I can promise you that. And even if you think she’s most of the way there, do you really want to risk a big scene on the off chance that she’s not? Is that fair to Susan? It’s her wedding too, you know.”
Although I thrived on drama and would have loved to have seen a big scandalous scene at a grand affair, I sure wouldn’t want to see it at my own dad’s wedding. Save it for some third cousin, or better yet, an episode of Real Housewives, then it would be amusing. But not so close to home.
“I suppose you’re probably right,” Dad finally said. “I just wanted to do right by her.”
“Sorry Dad, but it’s too late for that.”
Ouch. But it was true. Dad had always taught that it was better to be honest and risk hurting someone’s feelings short-term rather than sugar-coat the truth and hurt them in the long run. His own advice turned against him. Ah well, he was pretty tough.
“I know that honey, but you know it’s hard…”
“Yeah…” I wanted desperately to change the subject, never liking being the middle of the mom/dad divorce debate. But luckily Dad had other subjects to talk about.
“So, Susan told me that you and Max broke up.”
Ugh, couldn’t he talk about the weather or something equally dull?
“Yeah, we did. But it’s for the best Dad.”
“You don’t have to convince me, I always thought he was a putz. You can do much better. Oh, hold on.” He muttered something at his secretary before returning to the phone. “Sorry, honey, I’ve got a lot to wrap up before the weekend. I’ll see you on Sunday?”
“Sure,” I said, used to being blown off; Dad was always very busy, it had been a fact of life growing up. I was just thankful I had avoided discussing the issue of my sudden detachment from Max Levine at length.
Putting down my phone, I cringed as I glanced at the clock: it was a bit late, but if I hustled I could still fit in a visit with my bubby before Shabbat dinner was served at the home, and still be back in time to get ready for my night out with Bev.
Chapter 13
“Ess, ess, you’re a stick, Shoshanna,” Bubby said as I sat across from her at one of the long tables in the senior center’s dining room. The clank and clatter of buffet service filled the room along with the hum of voices and even the occasional peal of laughter. There was always plenty of food, especially on the Shabbat when many of the residents had family visit for the important weekly meal.
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry, Bubby. And I’m going out with Bev later. I’m sure we’ll grab something to eat anyway.”
She shrugged at my refusal to eat but didn’t say anything more about it. She was too focused on the next table over.
“Look at that Barbara, hardly able to walk and she’s flirting with Shlomo over there. I don’t think he even notices. He’s as deaf as the table he’s sitting at!” She smirked, her forkful of turkey suspended halfway to her mouth as she watched her contemporaries trying to hook up. It was hilarious. Sometimes it was hard to tell who enjoyed my visits more, her or me.
“You’re much more attractive than Barbara, why don’t you get in there with Shlomo. I hear he’s worth a fortune,” I teased. I really had no idea who the man was or what he was worth.
She snorted. “I have no need for that Shlomo or his money.” She waved her fork at me. “And anyway, if I was looking for a companion, I would go bat my eyelashes at Sidney Finkel. Now there’s a gentleman. And he’s the Sidney Finkel of Finkel and Sons.” She gave me the knowing look, as though I should understand the significance of Finkel and Sons. I just nodded along with her.
“Is he a hottie?” I asked, a man’s looks being well within the realm of my understanding.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘hottie,’ but he’s a nice gentleman, not a schlemiel like that Shlomo.” Nodding her head, she frowned at where her friend was still trying to put the moves on poor, deaf, clueless Shlomo.
“Why don’t you ask Mr. Finkel to escort you to Dad’s wedding?” I offered, only realizing once the words were out of my mouth just how jealous I would be if my very senior grandmother had a date to the wedding and I was stuck going stag.
“Oh I don’t know,” a grin crept across her face, accompanied by a faint blush, just noticeable under the wrinkled and powdered flesh of her cheeks. “I couldn’t ask a man.”
“It’s done all the time nowadays.” I felt bad for begrudging her the little bit of companionship that bringing an escort would afford her. God knows she had to be lonely all these years without my zaidy.
Bubby stabbed at a slice of turkey, swirling it around in the congealing gravy. “I just couldn’t.”
I looked around the room. “Which one is he, I’ll ask him for you.” It wouldn’t be hard to pick him out, I thought. The female to male ratio ensured that any man in the senior’s center would have a good stock of ladies to choose from. Other than Shlomo, there were two other men I could see: one hooked up to a tank of oxygen and being fed by a nurse and another sitting in his bathrobe and slippers, staring blankly out the window. I silently hoped neither was Sidney Finkel.
“Oh Shoshie, it’s enough. He’s at his son’s cottage this weekend. They picked him up yesterday. He’s got nice kids.” She sighed, looking off out the big picture windows.
I felt guilty. Dad was so busy all the time and didn’t get to see his mother as much as he should have. His brother, my Uncle Moishe, wasn’t much better, his busy restaurant taking up most of his time. Truth be told, his restaurant had been the end of his own marriage, so you think he’d know better. I didn’t think that any of Moishe’s three kids ever bothered to go visit Bubby in the home either. They did their visiting at the high holy days when we all gathered for dinner.
We used to alternate between my parents’ house and Moishe’s place, but since both my dad and his brother had gotten divorced, our new ‘traditional Jewish holiday dinners’ had been eaten at a Chinese buffet. I thought Bubby was going to have an aneurysm the first time I picked her up on Rosh Hashanah and drove her out to the strip plaza where the restaurant was located, but she never said a word. Knowing she was horrified, I tried to comfort her with the knowledge that there was a good chance no other Jews would see her committing such a blasphemy on the eve of the Jewish New Year. Although she gave me a weak smile, I’m not sure my attempt at cheering her
up had helped.
Susan had announced last Passover (which luckily coincided with the restaurant’s seafood festival) that she would begin having the holidays at hers and Dad’s house once they were settled after the wedding. I didn’t have to even look at my bubby to know she had been silently relieved.
Although Bubby never complained or even made her sons feel guilty (quite a phenomenon for a Jewish mother), I knew it hurt her deeply that she didn’t get to see them very often. I did my best to visit at least once a week, giving her the updates on the family and my own life. There wasn’t always a lot to tell, but I think just my being there was what counted.
“Do you have your outfit picked out for the wedding?” I asked, eager to change the subject before she got upset thinking about her absentee sons.
It worked. Her eyes began to twinkle and her mouth parted into a wide, toothy smile. “I do. It’s a secret, but I’m going to wear the navy blue sequined dress I had made for Mitchell’s bar mitzvah. I’m very proud to say that after many extra lengths in the pool, I fit into it again.” Reminded suddenly of her diet, she placed her fork and knife down on the plate and pushed it away from her, leaving the few last pieces of turkey uneaten.
“That’s awesome, Bubby.” My heart swelled with pride as I thought of my grandmother toiling away in the pool to make sure she looked fabulous on her son’s wedding day. It had been over twelve years since she had last worn her favorite outfit to my cousin Mitchell’s bar mitzvah. She had repeatedly lamented that since she had moved into the senior’s residence after my zaidy’s death, she had put on almost twenty pounds, rendering much of her wardrobe useless. Having been petite all her life, her weight gain had been difficult for her to accept and it had always been a goal of hers to wear the navy dress again.
Maybe I didn’t get all of my diva fashion sense from my mother after all.
* * *
By the time Bev and I were seated in the restaurant, it was almost nine and I was ravenous. I feasted on the bowl of free nacho chips as though I hadn’t eaten in days.
“I don’t know, Shosh,” Bev said, grabbing a few chips before I finished them off. “I don’t think you’re going to find any guy that will agree to go to the wedding at this late date.”
“You never know.” I was trying to sound optimistic, but I knew I was screwed.
“You can always take me.” She smiled, trying to be helpful as always.
“You’re already going,” I said, licking the salt from my fingers.
“Yeah, but I could go as your date again.” She was referring to a distant cousin’s bar mitzvah several years back; I took her as my date and introduced her around as my ‘girlfriend.’ It was long before being out was so mainstream and my mom had absolutely freaked. Consequently, I’d been grounded for a month for bringing so much embarrassment to the family. The crazy thing is, I think if I did that now, my mom would think it was cool.
“I don’t think so, Bev. This is my dad’s wedding, I don’t think it would go over too well.” It was nice, I admitted to myself, to know that Bev was going sans date also. Should I not be able to dig someone up, maybe I’d get Susan to move Bev to my table so at least I could have a buffer between myself and Jacob.
“Too bad, a little drama is always a good thing.” An evil grin spread across her face; maybe I was rubbing off on her.
After we ate, we migrated over to the bar section with our respective drinks (mine a chocolate martini, hers a Diet Coke).
We took over a small table next to the dance floor. Although it should have been hopping on a warm Friday night, most of the bar was empty. The majority of the crowd was outside, but the humid breeze would have done a number on my hair, so we stayed indoors. Anyway, with the bar and the bathrooms inside, it was inevitable that everyone would take at least a few trips past our table over the course of the evening.
It wasn’t long before a guy sidled up to our table. He was cute enough: brown hair and eyes to match, clean-shaven with a good strong jaw line and from what I could tell, nice teeth that probably set his parents back a few thousand a decade or so ago.
“Hi,” he said over the music. He looked from me to Bev and then back to me.
“Hi,” Bev said, too eagerly. She’d never learn.
“Hey,” I nodded, briefly acknowledging him before turning back to my drink. I ran my finger around the lip of my martini glass, looking longingly into its empty depths.
“I’m Steve. Can I buy you a drink?”
Bingo.
I looked up and smiled. “Sure, I’m having a chocolate martini and my friend here is drinking a rum and Diet Coke.”
“Virgin,” Bev blurted out.
Oh God.
Steve’s eyes widened as he stared at Bev.
“She means she’s drinking a virgin, so just Diet Coke,” I said, rolling my eyes at him.
“Oh, yeah, um…Right back.” He glared at me for a second before turning and hightailing it toward the bar.
“Duh, Bev. If a guy is buying, don’t just get a soda. Sheesh.”
“I’m such a moron.” Bev smacked her forehead.
“Don’t worry about it. Look.” I pointed at Steve’s feet: ripped and worn Chuck’s. I shook my head.
“What do you mean?” Bev asked.
“Look at those shoes. That guy’s poor or he’s a loser who thinks ripped old runners are retro. No thanks.”
Bev’s face brightened. “No, wait. Do you know what this is?”
“God punishing me for eating shrimp on the high holy days?”
She laughed. “No, it’s your last chance to get a date for the wedding.”
“Are you on crack?”
“No, seriously, Shosh. He may seem gross on the outside, but give him a chance and you never know what you’ll find out about him. I don’t know, maybe he’s an heir to the Converse shoe fortune and is just out slumming tonight.”
“I highly doubt it. You are on crack.”
“Look, just try it for one night. Think of it as a test. See if you can do it. The wedding is coming and you don’t have a lot of choice unless you want Jacob to be your date.”
That did it. I quickly closed my mouth on the retort I had prepared.
Steve, heir to the Converse fortune, was heading back to the table empty-handed.
“Whatever, let’s see what happens,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Steve grabbed a stool from the next table over and slid it next to mine before planting his ass into it. “Did you ladies miss me?”
“I missed a drink,” I said looking down at my empty glass. I could feel Bev’s glaring eyes on me and sighed. Okay, I can do this, I thought. Looking up at him I gave him a teasing smile to let him know I was joking.
“The waitress is on her way over with our drinks,” Steve said. “I couldn’t carry them all myself.”
As if on cue, the waitress came out from behind the bar with a suspiciously full tray of drinks.
She announced each as she placed them in front of us. “One chocolate martini, one Diet Coke, one pint of IPA and three orgasms.”
“What are the shooters for?” I asked.
Steve winked. “For us.” He raised his glass and nodded at Bev and me to do the same.
“I’ve never had an orgasm,” Bev said. My God, she was clueless.
Steve snorted. “Well, here’s hoping it’s the first of many orgasms tonight, ladies. Bottoms up.”
So, Steve was a tool. I couldn’t believe that, of all the guys in the bar, I got saddled with this one. Bev was going to suffer, I would make sure.
“So tell us about you, Steve,” I said, in what I hoped sounded like a nice voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bev nod in approval.
“Well, first I think I should, at least, find out your names.” He looked at me expectantly.
“I’m Cindy and this is Anne-Marie,” I said, nodding at Bev to smile at her alias.
Thankfully, we’d been through this routine before, so I didn’t have to hope she would
catch on.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Cindy and Anne-Marie.” He tipped his glass and nodded at each of us. “About me. Hmm, let’s see.” He looked at the ceiling as he thought of what to say. He was losing me fast.
I decided to help him along. “What do you do?” Good for me, I was getting good at this ‘nice’ thing.
“I’m in sales. For Pharcolox, it’s a pharmaceutical company.”
“Oh cool. So what does that mean, exactly?” I feigned interest like any good Cosmo reader would.
Steve shrugged. “Basically, it means that I go around to doctors’ offices and do a lot of ass-kissing and dispensing free samples.”
Oh, sounds so glamorous, I thought but kept my mouth shut. I was supposed to be nice, after all.
“That’s cool,” Bev said.
“What do you ladies do?” Steve asked of me in particular. Bev answered before I opened my mouth.
“We work at a spa—Tranquil Seas Day Spa.” I glared at Bev. Don’t tell the guy where we work, sheesh.
“You here by yourself?” I asked Steve, hoping he had a friend who was less of a clod.
“Um, no.” His eyes darted toward the patio. “I’m here with a friend.”
“Well get your friend in here, a foursome is better than a threesome,” I said with a grin.
“Nah, you wouldn’t like my friend.”’
I shrugged and took another sip of my martini. He was probably right.
Bev started blathering on, asking Steve about the company he worked for and what kinds of drugs they made. I zoned out, checking out some people as they started to make their way to the dance floor. Apparently they had finally consumed enough alcohol to make dancing seem like a viable entertainment option (clumsy and highly-entertaining drunk beach volleyball, something Bev and I had participated in on occasion, would come much later).
Bored, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my messages, but there wasn’t anything new.
Suddenly there was a woman standing at the end of our table. She seemed to be about our age or so, tall and thin wearing a little skirt and tank top. What was most notable about her was that she was pissed as hell. “What are you doing?” she spat at Steve, who moved so fast off the stool I thought he was going to wind up on the floor.
Dating Kosher Page 7
