by Allison Parr
“Who are you, my mother?” I asked, as she slung on her coat and expertly knotted her scarf. “Have fun.”
“Certainly, dah-link,” she drawled, and then held up crossed fingers and grinned. “See you tomorrow!”
Since I only expected Abe to see the living room when he came by, I swept all my junk into my room and hurriedly neatened the couch blankets before jumping in the shower. Halfway through sudsing my curls, my cell rang. Just leave it, I told myself, wringing out my hair. They’ll leave a message.
On the last ring, I dove out of the shower and caught the call. Abe. My stomach dropped in disappointment. He probably wanted to cancel. “Hello?”
“Hey, so a bunch of the guys are interested, so I thought we could just have Shabbos at your place.”
I wiped a soapy strand off my forehead, momentarily stunned into silence. “A bunch of the guys.”
“Yeah, Mike and Keith and some others.”
“At my place.”
“Yeah.”
My exasperated expression stared back at me from the steamed mirror. Abe sounded so young and so eager. “Um—I don’t know if that’s a good idea. My apartment is tiny.”
“And mine’s a mess,” Abe mused, sounding less put off than I’d hoped. “Okay, I’ll ask the guys. HEY! Who has an apartment we can have dinner at tonight?”
I winced, imagining them all standing around together, and I abruptly wished I wasn’t naked. I had to stop obsessively answering my phone.
“Landed one,” he said happily a minute later. “I’ll text you the address. See you at six!”
I dropped the phone on the sink counter and stepped back into the shower, dismayed. If we weren’t going to my friend’s, who exactly would be leading this Shabbat dinner, and where would the food be coming from? Did I need to supply dinner for who-knew how many football players?
Half an hour later, I’d paid $200 for a deli that would cater. I also printed out half a dozen copies of the Shabbat blessings for wine and bread and hand washing. I wasn’t sure if “interested” meant the guys wanted to see the ceremony, or if they just wanted food. Damn, I hadn’t the slightest idea how to lead a service. Abe may have assumed I knew Judaism as well as he did, but I was really just a half-baked halfie. I hoped I didn’t embarrass the both of us.
Without the time for my curls to dry, I blasted them into a flat mess and twisted and stabbed pins into my hair until it resembled a French twist. I threw on a blue wrap dress, shoved dangling pearls into my ears, and spun around three times to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything before running out the door.
Abe texted me an address on Central Park West, which meant the apartment had a rent I couldn’t afford even if I sold my soul to corporate America, and that I’d never be there by six. Especially as I still had shopping to do.
Wine was easy, but it took three bakeries before I found one that hadn’t run out of challah. The last purchase was only difficult because I didn’t want to part with the money. Suck it up, I told myself, and bought two silver candlestick holders and white wax columns.
The train ride took forever but only included one transfer. I made it in Brooklyn to avoid the horrors of the Times Square stop, which was always filled with angry commuters, confused tourists, and proselytizers. After settling into my seat on the B, I finally relaxed. It would take me all the way to 72nd Street, just blocks away from Abe’s.
As soon as I came out of the subway, my phone started beeping with missed calls from my mother.
There went relaxation. Well, I still had a ten minute walk, so I clicked her number.
“I just wanted to see when you would be home. You’re coming for Rosh Hashanah, right? And then what dates are the reunion?”
“End of November. And, Mom—I have a friend who doesn’t have anywhere to go for the holidays. Would it be okay if I brought him home?”
She pounced. “Him? It’s a him? Would this be a date?”
I resisted rolling my eyes, since she couldn’t see, or grinding my teeth, which would damage me more than her. I sighed. “No, Mom. Just a friend.”
“Someone I know?”
My mother, queen of the third degree. “No. I just met him last weekend. He just moved here from California.”
“What’s his name?”
“Abe.”
“Where’d you meet?”
“At a friend’s house.”
“What friend? Rachael, I feel like I’m pulling teeth when I talk to you.”
“Yeah, well, that might be less painful.”
She sighed. “You know, my friend Linda’s son lives in Astoria. I know I’ve given you his number. Why don’t you see if he wants to meet up?”
“Because I’m busy. Look, Mom, I should go. I’m just getting to a friend’s house.”
“Oh? What are you doing tonight?”
Might as well bite the bullet. “Shabbat.”
There was a moment of silence where my infallible mother was stunned. “Shabbat?” she repeated as she recovered. “Are you serious?”
Might as well deliver the rest. “Yeah. I’m leading it.”
“What? Do you even know how to lead Shabbat? Rachael, what brought this on? Are you feeling all right?”
“God, Mom, I’m not totally incompetent. It’s going to be casual. I told you; I have a friend who’s new to the city. He wanted to do this.”
“Are you sure you’re not interested in this boy? Wait, is he Jewish? Are you dating a Jewish boy?”
“I’m not dating him,” I said firmly. “I’ll call you this weekend, okay?”
“I never thought you’d date a Jew.” Mom sounded dazed. “Not after Stephen. I liked Stephen, don’t get me wrong, but, well, we all know how that ended.”
“I have to go now, okay? But it’s okay if he comes for Rosh Hashanah?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course. Certainly. Your brother’s bringing Sophie. You haven’t seen her yet, have you? Since the two of them started going out?”
“No. I’m going now. Bye. Okay? Bye!”
I loved my mother. But she drove me crazy.
I walked along Central Park West. The avenues still confused me, and I’d been in New York three months, but CPW was also 8th Avenue, sort of like 6th was technically called Avenue of the Americas. It ran the length of the park, all the way up to Morningside, where it became Frederick Douglass Boulevard until it ended at the Harlem River. As I walked north, four lanes of yellow cabs crawled slowly on the left, while giant leafy branches hung over me on my right. In Brooklyn, I lived near-ish Prospect Park and I loved it, but Central Park was my childhood, filled with memories of trips to the city, greasy fries and slowly spinning on the carousel. We’d ridden it every time we visited, until my brother turned thirteen and decided he was too cool. After that, I stared at it longingly and shook my head when my parents asked if I wanted a ride.
I’d already been on it four times since moving to the city.
Past the slow moving taxis on the other side of the street rose tall steel and glass towers, interspersed with cold limestone and warm brick. I approached the address warily, taking in the detailed carvings, the stark stairs leading to wide, heavy doors. Pushing them open, I entered a smooth rotunda of marble and oak. Across from me, lodged behind a desk carved of the same stone as the walls, the concierge waited.
I smiled tentatively at him and walked with quick, soft steps across the echoing foyer, unwilling to speak until I stood in front of him. “Hi.”
He looked at me as though it took great energy to speak and it displeased him greatly to make the effort. “Can I help you?”
I swallowed, wondering if he could sense that I didn’t belong in buildings like this. “I’m here for dinner.”
“And who are you visiting, miss?”
I stared at him, appalled by my oversight. Abe had only given me an address, not a name, and now the concierge stared me down as though I were some thieving peasant. What did I say? Did I go out and call Abe, or would that look like I w
as trying to sneakily look up a resident?
Then I took in my surroundings a second time, the marble walls and paintings in gold frames, the obscene wealth and privilege radiating even from the concierge. And I remembered standing outside on 8th: I live just a few blocks uptown. I sighed and looked back at the concierge. “Ryan Carter.” I should have seen that coming.
He didn’t blink. “And your name, miss?” When I gave it, he picked up a phone. Only after repeating my name did he finally smile. “Right that way, Miss Hamilton.” He nodded at the elevators. “Thirtieth floor.”
“Thanks.” I swallowed. “Have a good night.”
The elevator rose so quickly my ears popped, but not so quickly my pulse hadn’t ramped into overdrive by the time the doors opened. The hallway was small and tasteful but a little pointless; there was only one door, and I rapped my fist against it loudly, trying to drown out my trepidation.
It swung inward and Ryan stood there, tall and golden and arch. He wore navy slacks and a white button down, and I tried to remember that I didn’t like him. “Hello, Rachael.”
“Ryan.” I stopped. I didn’t think I’d ever said his name to him before. Flustered, I pressed on. “Why’d you volunteer your apartment?”
“Good to see you, too.” He stepped behind me, and I tensed as he left my sight. My shoulders jerked when I felt his hands on them, sparking shivers all through my body, and then the weight of my coat vanished. He raised his brows when I stared at him in astonishment. “And I just wanted to keep an eye on things.”
I flushed. “You can’t still think I have some sort of motive for crashing your party.”
“No,” he admitted, surprising me with his honesty. “But Abe’s just a kid, and you’re obviously not the kind of girl he should get interested in, so...better to keep it friendly.”
“And you’re not a kid? Thank you,” I said, as he hung my coat in the hall closet. He looked back at me with a questioning lift of his brow, and I jerked my head at my coat. I took a deep breath. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.” He turned around and swept his eyes up my elegant wrap dress. A shiver of frisson ran through me.
I bit my lip, looking away. “Practically ancient.” I hefted my bags. “Is there somewhere I can put these?”
He led me deeper into the apartment, which looked nothing like him. I would’ve expected sweatshirts thrown across the couches, stacks of movies piled about, and empty glasses forgotten on side tables. Instead, we entered an architectural marvel with white oak floors under high, airy ceilings. To my right, a full kitchen of chrome and granite stretched out, a mobile of polished copper pans dangling from the ceiling. A curved counter separated the kitchen from a dining table with matching unstained wood chairs. But it was the living room that took up most of the space. Leather couches and armchairs were arranged around a thin and glossy entertainment system.
The very end of the room took my breath away.
An unending pane of glass made up the far wall, looking out over the bright green park. Autumnal sunset colors brushed over the treetops. Beyond them rose the towers and peaks of the Upper East Side, lights brightening in the falling dusk. To the right, Midtown blocked in the park, and to the left the lake and reservoir reflected the deepening blue of the sky.
“It’s beautiful.” I’d stood so close my nose almost pressed against the glass, and now I moved back so my breath wouldn’t cloud the window. Behind me, a loveseat and two armchairs were set up to admire the view. If I lived here, I’d never leave them. “How’d you get this place?”
“My agent found it. I told him I wanted to live near nature.”
I shook my head, forcing myself to step away from the window and gather the bags I’d brought, walking the length of the room to enter the immaculate kitchen. “And you could afford it just like that?”
“I’m lucky.”
“Really? I would’ve said overpaid.”
He groaned. “What do you have against football?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged defensively. “It’s just—I don’t think people who throw a ball around should be paid so much money. It should go to people who perform necessary jobs, like doctors and educators.”
He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his posture confident. “And movie stars don’t make millions?”
“Yeah, but—at least they’re making art.” Usually. Hopefully.
“So what actors are doing is all right, but what I’m doing isn’t, even though we’re both providing entertainment for millions?”
I hadn’t seriously expected him to make a counter-argument, especially not a valid one. “Okay, so—neither of you should be paid that much.”
His smile unfurled and he started to pace toward me, and I started to get a very bad feeling about this conversation. “Right. Because you think entertainment, that art, is unnecessary? In fact, why don’t we only have jobs that are strictly necessary? That would be a great world to live in, wouldn’t it?”
He was not going to make me argue for a totalitarian dystopia. “No, of course art is necessary. I work in publishing, for God’s sake. But, look—most artists make pittance. The balance is completely unequal. It doesn’t make sense that you get so much more money.”
He stopped in front of me. “So, basically, you’re jealous.”
“No! Books—reading—it makes people learn. Readers engage with the text, they’re active, they’re intuiting; it’s not like sitting in front of a TV screen all day. What do sports do? I don’t think it’s deserving of the level of worship that you guys get.”
He shook his head. “How can sports not be engaging? It’s a team activity, and fans have whole communities and relationships born out of sports.”
“Yeah, but staring at a screen isn’t the same—”
“And what about the players?” He rode roughshod over my words. “You think we don’t do any work? That we’re not active?”
“Sure, you’re active, but you’re not mentally—”
“Oh, right, because football’s all physical and there’s no mental prowess involved.”
I paused in the middle of tugging the wine and challah out of my bags and regarded him warily. Maybe it was time to disengage. “Where are your plates?”
He found them for me, even selecting two fancy dishes to place the challahs on. “Why don’t you like sports?” he asked as he found the corkscrew. “Kind of un-American.”
I whittled the candles down before pushing them into their holders. “I just don’t. I’d rather read.” My dad, actually, was decently obsessed with sports, and my brother David had played baseball for years. But I had no coordination, no strength or speed, and very little motivation to gain some when I’d rather be curled up with my novels. It meant that when they did drag me into a game of catch, I missed and I threw weakly and all in all, I ended up having a miserable time. “How come you don’t read?”
“Because I’m an uneducated idiot who coasted through college on football.”
“Oh, shut up.” I finished placing the forks and knives next to the plates. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Really? I’m pretty sure you said that to me.”
“Fine. Prove me wrong. Last book you read?”
“The Corrections.”
I blinked. How very literary. And slightly suspicious, but hey, if someone asked me I probably wouldn’t admit I was currently in the middle of Seducing the King.
Also, it was probably possible to be in the middle of The Corrections for a very long time.
“Fine. I take back my aspersions cast on your literariness.”
He grinned at his wineglasses as he unloaded them from his cabinets, and I watched the controlled elegance of his arms a little too closely. “Yeah, and I’m afraid you’re going to remain a nerd.”
I glared at him. “Where’s Abe?” I asked pointedly. “He said he was going to show up early.”
Abe arrived not long before the others and at the same time as the caterers, so
he hauled all the food up to the apartment. I transferred salads into bowls and arranged sandwiches on plates. The boys placed the wine glasses at all the seats and Ryan even pulled out a set of cloth napkins that looked like they’d never been used before.
Within minutes of each other, goateed Keith and redheaded Mike arrived, Malcolm and Dylan on their heels. All of them greeted me cheerfully, complimenting me on my dress, and every last one dressed like they were going to church.
It was very sweet, in a very strange way.
After everyone sat down, they all turned my way. I tucked a loose thread of hair behind my ear. “So. Have any of you ever been to a Shabbat dinner before?” Except for Abe, they all shook their heads. I sucked in a nervous breath. “Okay. Cool. Well, this is going to be really informal. There’s just a couple prayers for bread and wine and candles, so, um, Abe and I are going to say them, and then we can eat.”
They all nodded and looked dutifully respectful. I had to bite my lip to keep from breaking into giggles. What was my problem? Was I freaked out because I was a bookish girl surrounded by jock boys, or because I was a Jew having Shabbat dinner with Gentiles?
“Okay, then.” I glanced at Abe, and we broke into the blessing over the candles, Hebrew lilting off our tongues while I struck the match. It lit with a hiss, and I held my hand steady until the wick took, a slow orange flame growing out of the blackened thread. Discarding the match for wine, I recited Kiddush. “Amen,” Abe finished, and several of the boys looked surprised and murmured the same. I raised my glass, and the Leopards joined in.
After the prayer for wine, we removed the cloths that symbolically removed the challah from the table. I’d looked this up on Wikipedia. All I really remembered from our scattered several years of Shabbat during my childhood were the most basic prayers, the scent of melting wax, and donating money for charity into the tzedakah box—which was one of my mother’s old coffee canisters, painstakingly covered with felt cutouts.
When I finished my Shabbat-for-dummies service, everyone dropped the respect and started grabbing at the food. I let out a breath and my shoulders relaxed. I rolled my neck and started to load my plate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat around a table for anything resembling a home cooked meal. Eva and I spent a lot of time eating take-out dim sum on the couch, making pasta, or consuming the bagels I bought by the dozen.
