“She’s mad at me, too,” Becca said. “But I guess she can only freeze out one daughter at a time.”
The girls both laughed.
“How’s school?” Joe asked. He really wanted to ask why Henry hadn’t seasoned the hamburger meat. He made a mental note to add salt and pepper to his burger. And barbecue sauce and ketchup. And pickles.
“Great, man,” Henry said. “I’ve been asked to be a teaching assistant in my sociology class and I am stoked.”
“Cool,” Joe said. “What does a teaching assistant do?”
“I have no idea,” Henry said, laughing. “But I’m excited to figure it out.”
“You were asked to be a teaching assistant after only one semester?” Sarah asked from across the backyard.
“Isn’t that impressive?” Becca said.
“It’s something,” Sarah said.
Henry tried to flip the burgers, but they broke apart on the spatula. No one had told him that you needed to sear the first side so that the burger wouldn’t fall apart when you tried to flip it. Joe didn’t think he should be the person to point that out. “It’s really great.”
“Happy to hear it,” Joe said.
“Is this the same Henry I met at Passover?” Sarah whispered to her sister. Becca just shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m a good influence on everyone but myself,” Becca finally said.
Sarah ignored the self-pity. “Do you think you’re going back in the fall?” she asked.
“I’m not even going to think about it until August,” Becca said. “I’m letting go. I’m not going to think about anything.”
Sarah could tell by her sister’s appearance just how much she had “let go.” She wouldn’t mention her sister’s hair, badly in need of a cut, or her legs, badly in need of a shave. She thought about suggesting manicures and pedicures, her treat, but she held herself back. That would be the sort of thing Sylvia would say. Still, Becca caught her staring at her sand-encrusted feet.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing,” Sarah replied.
“I just came off the beach!” Becca said. “Of course my feet are sandy!”
Sarah had just come off the beach, too. But she had taken the time to have a shower before dinner.
Joe could see the wheels in Sarah’s head turning. He couldn’t have her feuding with yet another family member. And more importantly, it was only Tuesday. He couldn’t take a week of arguing. It was enough that Sarah was on edge because of her mother.
“Did you know that the Last Supper was actually a Passover Seder?” he asked.
Everyone stopped for a moment. It was so out of the blue, so apropos of nothing, that no one knew what to say for a second.
“No,” Sarah said. “I did not know that. How do you know that?”
“Rabbi Weisman told me,” he said.
“Who?” Henry said. He abandoned his post at the grill to listen to what was unfolding.
“Since when do you pal around with my mother’s rabbi?” Sarah asked. It came out sounding like an accusation, but she’d meant for it to come out sounding jovial. Flirty, even.
“I’m taking a class with him,” Joe said, as if nice Italian boys took classes with Jewish rabbis all the time.
“What sort of class?” Sarah asked.
“We can talk about it later,” Joe said.
“We can talk about it now,” Sarah said. She was no longer going for jovial. Or flirty. She wanted to know what Joe was talking about.
“It’s a class on Judaism,” Joe said.
“Dude, are you converting?” Henry asked.
“I’m thinking about it,” Joe said. He shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of his beer.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me that?” Sarah asked.
“I wasn’t sure it would stick,” Joe said.
“So, why are you telling me now?”
“I think it’s stuck.”
Becca jumped from her seat and ran to Joe. She hugged him tightly, sand coming loose from every part of her body. It sprinkled into his hair, onto his shirt, and all over his jeans. “Mazel tov!” she yelled into his ear. She hadn’t meant to yell directly into his ear, but she was excited and got a bit carried away.
“You’re all sandy!” Sarah said. “Stop hugging him!”
“A little sand never killed anyone,” Becca said. “In fact, a little dirt and mess is okay, isn’t it? I’m learning to embrace the dirt.”
“That’s what you’ve learned since you’ve been out here?” Sarah asked. “That you skipped your internship for? Are you about to leave for a cabin in the woods, never to be seen again?”
“No.” Becca laughed. “I’m just learning to embrace whatever comes. To let things go. Maybe you’ll learn that, too.”
“Learn what?” Sarah said.
“You have to let go.”
Sarah took a sip of her wine and studied her sister.
“Let go of what, exactly?” Sarah asked.
The answer Becca would have provided, if given the opportunity, was this: Something. Everything. Anything that’s not important. The things that drive you crazy. The things that make you tear the hairs out of your head, one by one. The idea that we have to be perfect, the idea that we have to be good, the idea that we can be happy when all we’re trying to do is live up to someone else’s expectations. I felt it, I know you feel it, too—the weight of what we’re expected to do. What people want us to be. Let go of all of it and just be. See where that takes you. Yes, your feet will be caked in sand, and you’ll be in desperate need of a shower, but you might just like it.
But Becca didn’t get to say any of that. In fact, she didn’t get a chance to say anything at all. The hamburgers caught fire, and in an instant, the entire grill was lit up with bright red flames. Becca grabbed a pitcher of water and tried to douse the fire. The flames leapt higher into the air, threatening to light the fence behind the grill and the deck it stood on.
“Get back,” Henry said, shielding the girls with his arms and trying to get them to back away from the fire.
“Is there an extinguisher in the house?” Joe asked. Becca didn’t know, so she yelled for help instead.
The firefighters would later tell her that it was a grease fire and that it wasn’t actually Henry’s fault. In fact, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. The grill had never been cleaned properly, so it was just a matter of time before this grill joined the July parade of grill fires. The firemen told them that pouring water onto the grill was the very thing that made the fire blaze out of control. You never add water to a grease fire. You must snuff it out by depriving it of oxygen. A lid large enough to cover it would have done the trick, or even a simple box of baking soda.
Andy came running out of the house, completely naked, holding an extinguisher. He pulled the pin, squeezed the handle, and doused the flames. It took a few tries, but he got the fire out. A minute later, the skinny girlfriend came out in a towel, and handed one to him. They walked back into the house without saying a word.
Becca went to Kmart and bought five boxes of baking soda the next day.
Fifty-Seven
Sylvia loved summer weddings. Especially when the weather cooperated. She loved the twilight most of all—the ceremony unfolding as the sun dipped below the trees, the champagne and hors d’oeuvres being served as light gave way to dusk, and finally, dancing with her darling Alan as the moon and the stars revealed themselves. How lovely to celebrate a wedding at that magical time of day.
Sylvia tried not to let it bother her that her friend Muriel’s daughter was marrying a nice Jewish doctor. The girl was the same age as Sarah, and already she had secured a high-powered job as an attorney at a top Manhattan firm. The groom had graduated Albert Einstein College of Medicine and was about to embark on a fellowship in neurology. He was handsome, too.
“The bride could have lost a little weight before the wedding,” she whispered over canapés and peach martinis. “Don’t you think?”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Alan chastised. “The bride is beautiful. All brides are beautiful.”
Sylvia stuffed a bite of wild salmon on a cucumber into her mouth.
“I always wanted to throw a summer wedding,” she said, looking out at the golf course. The greens were looking lovely. “I thought it would be so pretty to set up a tent in our backyard.”
“You could still do that,” Alan said, taking Sylvia’s hand. When she looked off in the distance like that, with that wistful expression on her face, Alan was reminded of when they first met, when they first started dating. He never could tell what Sylvia was thinking in those days. And now?
“I don’t think Becca and Henry will last the year,” Sylvia said, taking a measured sip of her cocktail. “And Malika left Gideon.”
“You have another daughter.”
“She’s already married,” Sylvia said, turning to face Alan. “Secretly married, don’t you know? It’s all anyone around here can talk about.”
“I think you’re exaggerating.”
“So I’m exaggerating. But still—why would I need to throw her a wedding?”
“An olive branch?”
“An olive branch!” Sylvia cried. “She should feel lucky that I haven’t disowned her. I’m not extending any sort of olive branch. She should extend an olive branch to me.”
“I think she wants to,” Alan said quietly, “but you won’t speak to her.”
“I’ve spoken to her.”
“Why don’t you talk to her?” Alan asked. “I mean really talk to her?”
“She hasn’t called.”
“Yes, she has.”
“Well,” Sylvia reasoned. “She hasn’t said the right thing.”
“What do you want her to say?” Alan asked. “I’m sure if you told her, she’d say it.” Alan was upset with Sarah, too. Furious, in fact. He understood why Sarah hadn’t told Sylvia, but why hadn’t she told him? They had a good relationship, didn’t they? How could she tell Valentina and Dominic, but not him? It consumed his thoughts, this cataloging of old memories, trying to figure out where things had changed. When he had lost Sarah.
But Sylvia’s anger took over everything; it swallowed everything whole. There was simply no room for Alan to be angry. No time for it. All he could do was duck and cover, hope that he didn’t get Sylvia angry and start another fight. A bigger fight. A fight that couldn’t be undone.
He wanted Sarah to apologize. Of course he did. But he had to prioritize. Sylvia needed to be okay with things first. It was all about Sarah and Sylvia. It always was.
“How do we move past this?” Alan asked.
“I don’t know,” Sylvia shouted. “I have no idea.”
Alan was aware that other wedding guests had turned to stare at them, but he didn’t care. He asked Sylvia: “How can she make things right again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t we start by accepting one of her invitations?” Alan offered. “Why don’t we see what she has to say?”
“I’m still too angry,” Sylvia said.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Alan said. “Okay.”
* * *
The father-daughter dance was usually Alan’s favorite part of the wedding. He loved being part of such a momentous occasion in the lives of his friends and family. But not tonight. He looked over at Sylvia, and saw that her lips were smiling, but her eyes were not. She took a generous sip of her drink, and Alan followed her lead.
Midway through the song, the bandleader invited Muriel and her new son-in-law to the dance floor. The kids had taken dance lessons, that much Alan could tell. Muriel’s son-in-law took Muriel’s hand, and they danced the waltz. Muriel beamed with pride, smiling widely as they moved. Alan looked at her son-in-law and saw him counting out the steps: 1-2-3, 1-2-3.
Alan reached for Sylvia’s hand and she gave it to him. She squeezed his hand tightly, and Alan rubbed hers with his thumb. They sat like that for the rest of the dance, holding hands, watching but not really watching, waiting for the song to end.
Fifty-Eight
The government came to investigate Edmond’s bank. He didn’t really understand why they were there. The bank had failed. Didn’t businesses fail all the time? But the Feds wanted to make sure there was no criminal activity involved. There wasn’t.
Was there?
Forensic accountants had taken over the bank’s accounting department; federal agents were in every office. Even Edmond’s personal computer had been seized. Edmond knew they wouldn’t find any illegal activity. (Would they?) Just bad decision after bad decision. With more bad decisions made to try to make up for the first ones. (What was that expression—throwing good money after bad?) But what Edmond didn’t know was how long it would take the government to figure this out. Or how badly the Feds wanted to make an example of him.
So, on Thursday, instead of subjecting himself to another day of sideways stares and looks of disappointment, anger, and pity, Edmond played hooky. He took the town car to Midtown, like he did every day. He even made it as far as the elevator banks. But he couldn’t bring himself to go in. He couldn’t bring himself to push the button to the fourteenth floor, to open the door to the same office he’d gone to, day after day, since he was twenty years old. He stood in the elevator bank, surrounded by young executives pounding away on their smart phones, and had the inescapable feeling that he simply didn’t belong there. He used to be like these other people—driven, single-minded in his quest to make money (more money than the next guy), and be successful (more successful than the next guy). But why? Where had it gotten him? His wife was barely speaking to him. His family home was on the market. And as far as he could tell, his only son was lost to him.
He had a sudden desire to visit Central Park. He’d lived in Manhattan for most of his life, but he could count the times he’d been in the park as an adult on one hand. How could that be? He walked in at Fifty-Ninth and Fifth.
Edmond had memories of visiting the park as a child. The nanny—always the nanny—would take Edmond and his brothers into the park to play. Their favorite spot was Bethesda Fountain. They would bring a ball and play in circles while their nanny watched them from her perch on the edge of the fountain. They weren’t allowed to climb the steps without her, and they weren’t allowed to get too close to The Lake. Even in wintertime, she would bundle them up in wool sweaters, heavy coats, and boots so that they could play in the fresh air. His nanny was always talking about “getting the children fresh air.” He’d forgotten about that until he found himself at the fountain.
It was different from how he remembered it. The fountain was the same, the beautiful angel perched high on top, but somehow the space felt different. Edmond and his brothers had always thought of this as their secret place—the lower passage their secret walkway to a hidden spot. Now, the terrace was filled with tourists, mothers with baby strollers, and street musicians. The space was filled with artists drawing, sketching, and painting, with vendors selling popcorn, hot dogs, and pretzels. Edmond stopped to buy a pretzel and a soda.
He sat down on the edge of the fountain and took a bite of his pretzel. Salty, crisp on the outside, and soft on the inside. It tasted like New York. He tore open one of those little packets of mustard to squirt onto the pretzel, and a few spots landed right on his light-pink Hermès tie. He started to get angry—at himself, at the stupid vendor who’d insisted that he use mustard—but really, what did it matter? He had no meetings to attend, no office to go to, and no reason to be all dressed up in the middle of a gorgeous summer day. He took his tie off and carefully folded it before placing it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
Next off, his jacket. The sun was beaming down, hot and strong, and he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt as well. He could practically hear Ursella chiding him about using sunscreen, but surely a little sun never hurt anyone? When did the sun become our enemy anyway? Hadn’t he recently read an article in The Wall Street Journal
about how important vitamin D was and how schoolchildren, constantly slathered in sunscreen, were beginning to exhibit severe vitamin D deficiencies?
He took a sip of his soft drink. Without any ice to break down the gases, thousands of tiny bubbles tickled his throat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had soda. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought food from a vendor. If pressed to really think about it, he was certain he’d never been in Central Park as an adult in the middle of the week.
Then Edmond did something rather uncharacteristic. He took off his shoes. He sat, in the middle of Central Park, in the middle of a workday, with no shoes on. Eating a pretzel. With mustard. He closed his eyes for a moment and tilted his head back. He could feel the warm rays of the sun on his face.
The Feds were in his office, reading every paper, every e-mail, every text message. Their accountants were poring over every number, every figure, every formula his bank had ever calculated. He’d been interviewed, interrogated, and examined. And here he sat, in the center of Central Park, barefoot.
It seemed kind of perfect.
Fifty-Nine
“Hello,” Sylvia said. She had a tone. There was definitely a tone.
“Hiya, Mrs. Gold,” Joe said, and walked over to give her a kiss hello.
“Hello, Sylvia,” Rabbi Weisman said, before rushing over to give her one of those warm hugs he was famous for.
She turned to Joe. “What are you doing here?”
She knew what she was doing—paying the yearly membership fees, getting her seat assignment for the High Holiday services. She could not, for the life of her, figure out what Joe would be doing at her synagogue. And in Rabbi Weisman’s office, no less. Did the rabbi own an expensive foreign car? Was the rabbi having car trouble? Was this a house call?
“He’s one of my most promising students,” Rabbi Weisman said. “But class is about to begin, so we must go.”
“Class?” Sylvia asked.
Sure, Rabbi Weisman’s class was about to begin, but a temple member was still a temple member, and if said temple member wanted some of the rabbi’s time, he would not say no.
The Dinner Party: A Novel Page 16
