“Why not?”
“I’m orthodox. I don’t work on Shabbat. I’m going up against colleagues who have barely left the lab in seven years. They’ve put in three hundred and sixty-four more days than I have. I’m a year behind all my competition.”
I asked her what her research was on.
“Absolute time.” She spent about five minutes explaining the theory to me, after which my brain felt like a shriveled frozen pea.
She had eaten all the cheese and apples and was eyeing the chopped liver. “Are you sure you don’t want to try it?”
“Oh, why not?” she said, and slathered some on a cracker. “Oh, this is heavenly!”
I asked Mara what it was like growing up in the Catskills, and she became very animated, telling stories about some of the longtime guests at the hotel her parents owned, and then doing hilarious imitations of them. I complimented her on her great Yiddish accent. “Yes, just another of my many useful skills,” she replied drily, but she was smiling, and I could see that the compliment pleased her. Then she said that she had lived in the town of Bethel, where the Woodstock concert was held.
“Wait a minute!” I said. “Did your mother let a girl named Zelda spend the night during Woodstock?”
Mara’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “No!” she exclaimed. “You’re that Seth?”
“You’re that Mara?”
We both laughed and embraced each other, like long-lost relatives finally reunited.
“Oh, God, I gave that Zelda so much grief,” Mara said. “I lectured her about how the counterculture was just an excuse for being hedonistic and self-centered. I told her all the true revolutionaries were the scientists at NASA. She kept telling me about this boy named Seth she had met on Cape Cod and how the two of us were exactly alike and that we had to meet. She actually gave me your address. Of course I never wrote to you. To think I might have had a real friend when I was a teenager.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to know me when I was a teenager,” I said. “Did you have any friends when you were a teenager?”
“Not a one!” she said, as if this were a point of pride for her. “But I’m so glad we finally met. Zelda told me that you and I were soul mates, and now you’re here.”
I squeezed her hand, and suddenly she began crying, leaning her forehead against the palm of her free hand.
“Mara, what’s the matter?”
“I’m pregnant,” she said. “I didn’t know for sure until today.”
“You don’t want to be pregnant?”
“No. My husband spends every waking moment in his lab. He’s going to want me to have an abortion because we don’t have the time or money for a baby, but of course I’m not going to get an abortion, and that’s going to strain an already bad marriage.” She used her index finger to clean out the last of the chopped liver from the container.
“Why did you marry your husband?” I asked her.
“I’m very impressed by credentials.”
I told her that I had a PhD from the University of Chicago.
“Are you coming on to me?” she asked.
“Not very seriously.”
“Good,” she said. “I need a friend.”
“Me too,” I told her.
MY FAMILY AND MOLLY’S decided to celebrate Thanksgiving together at Aunt Jean and Uncle John’s house in Cambridge. My mother, Sarah, and Aaron drove up from New Jersey. Seamus declined to come. My mother said it was because he couldn’t eat the food, but I didn’t believe her and called him up.
“This is because Molly isn’t Jewish,” I said to him.
“I am uncomfortable with it, yes,” he said.
“What if we get married? Are you going to refuse to come to the wedding?”
“Have you proposed to her?”
“No, but I might.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not the most serious person, Seth. I really can’t see you as a married man.”
“You know why you became an Orthodox Jew, don’t you, Seamus?”
“Tell me,” he said.
“Because of your name. Seamus Shapiro. It deeply traumatized you, and your orthodoxy is just a way to normalize your identity.”
He hung up.
As Molly and I drove to her aunt and uncle’s, I asked, “Who are the Pilgrims, and who are the Indians?”
“Relax, Seth. Everything will be fine.”
Molly was meeting my mother for the first time.
“Well, I guess we’ll know a year from now when we see which family dies from smallpox.”
Molly laughed. “That’s bad,” she said. “Really bad.”
“What’s bad? Me or the punch line?”
Despite my anxiety, everyone got along famously, especially my mother and Aunt Jean, who shared a love of cigarettes and books. The day felt very much like an official coming out for Molly and me, the bringing together of our two families. Since Sarah’s and my birthday was so close to Thanksgiving, we celebrated that occasion too, and I was deeply moved that everyone in Molly’s family had bought gifts—not just for me but for Sarah too—and beautiful gifts at that: hardcover books, sweaters, earrings, pottery. It was far and away the best Thanksgiving I ever had. What a bounty of food and love! My mother did pretty well until the end of the meal when, relaxed by three glasses of wine and the graciousness and good humor of the Quinns, she decided to tell the story “Was Anybody Praying?” As soon as she began, I kicked her hard under the table. “Ouch!” she cried. “Why did you kick me?”
Then Sarah chimed in: “Mom, don’t tell that story at the table.”
Our mother took a swig of her fourth glass of wine and gave Sarah a Bronx cheer.
“Sarah is right,” I said. “Now is not the time.” I knew that Molly had told her cousins about the way I treated my mother, but they all looked shocked.
“Oh, stop raining on my parade,” my mother said, and proceeded to tell everyone the story of how Sarah and I were born premature, with our umbilical cords twisted around our necks. All the Quinns smiled politely when my mother included the detail about the doctor sucking a plug of mucus out of my windpipe.
After dinner, we retreated to different areas of the house with our coffee and drinks. My mother claimed Molly and went off in a corner with her. Sarah and I were sitting at the opposite end of the living room.
“God, what do you think Mom is saying to Molly?” I asked.
“Do you want me to see if I can read her lips?” Sarah replied.
“Sure. If you can.”
Sarah studied our mother for a moment, then said, “She’s telling Molly about your first well-formed bowel movement.”
“Shut up,” I said, punching her lightly on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry about Mom. Molly glows around you.”
“Do you think I should marry her?” I asked.
“Of course,” Sarah said. “What are you waiting for?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Everything is so great that I keep expecting something bad is going to happen.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ll be discovered, found out.”
“What do you think she’s going to discover about you?”
“That I’m not worthy. That I’m too strange for anyone to love me.”
“The feeling never goes away, Seth.”
“You still feel that way? With Aaron?” Aaron was a prince, sane and stable, his whole life devoted to my sister.
“Every day,” she answered.
I found this oddly comforting, a reminder that my sister and I shared more than a similar chromosomal profile.
Later that night, I resolved to propose. Molly and I were in bed, lying in each other’s arms. I wasn’t on my knees, but wasn’t this even better—our bodies bound together in a golden postcoital glow? I was about to pop the question when Molly said, “Seth, your mother said something really strange to me.”
&nb
sp; “What?”
“She made me promise not to tell you, but it was so bizarre I have to say something.”
“Yes?”
“She told me to get pregnant so you would have to marry me.”
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her that’s not how I prefer to do things.”
“How did the subject come up?”
“She asked me if we were serious about each other, and I said yes.”
“God, I don’t believe that woman.”
“Seth, promise me you won’t tell her I told you. I promised her I wouldn’t say anything to you.”
“I won’t say anything. Not a word.”
A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS, I was sitting up in bed on a Sunday morning, reading the paper, sipping coffee, when Molly stepped out of the shower, one small towel turbaned around her head, a larger towel wrapped around her body, and a damp, lemony scent wafting from her. She sat beside me and said, “Seth, honey, I’m late this month.”
“Late?”
“My period.”
I put my cup down on the night table. “Oh, right. Your period. Can you do a pregnancy test or something?”
“I’m doing one right now. I bought the test yesterday. We’ll know in about two minutes.” We exchanged anxious smiles and she went back into the bathroom.
Though I knew it was completely irrational, I immediately imagined that my mother had had something to do with it, as if she were a lonely old woman from a fairy tale who turned out to be a magical helper.
Molly returned from the bathroom. I moved to the end of the bed, and she sat on my lap, holding the test.
“Does this circle look blue to you?” she asked.
“Yes, very blue.”
“It is blue, Seth! I’m sure I’m pregnant. I’ve been nauseous all week. I’m never late. This has to be blue!”
She began laughing and crying simultaneously.
“Does this mean you’re happy about it?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. Very happy . . . and you?”
“Well, it’s certainly a surprise,” I said, but I realized that I really was happy, as if my deepest longings—for a family, for a life with Molly—had their own subterranean life and were suddenly erupting from the ground. “But, yes, I’m happy. Truly happy.”
We embraced, her cheeks damp against my face.
With my lips against her ear, I said, “So, I guess this means we’ll be getting married.”
She pulled back. “Is that a proposal?”
“Yes.”
“Can you do a little better?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, thankful for the prompt. I told Molly to stand up. As her towel fell away, I knelt down and seized her hand. Looking up at her body, white and coppery, positively luminous, I proposed: “Molly, I love you more than words can say. I want to spend my life with you. You are truly, in every way possible, the woman I’ve been waiting for all my life, and that’s no line!”
THE BABY WAS DUE IN LATE SEPTEMBER, and we planned on a May wedding. Of course I was dreading the call to my mother, and of course she let out a cry of joy when I delivered the news that we were engaged. I knew I was going to have to tell her sooner or later that Molly was pregnant, so I decided on sooner.
“By the way, Mom, Molly is pregnant.”
“When did that happen?” she exclaimed.
“When we were having sex.”
“No, I mean when did you know she was pregnant?”
“Two days ago.”
I sensed her doing the math.
“Did Molly say anything to you?”
“About what?”
“Nothing. Is she there? I’d like to congratulate her.”
I put my hand over the receiver and called out to Molly to pick up in the other room.
“Hello?” she said.
“Oh, Molly, sweetheart, I’m so happy for you!”
“Thank you, Ruth. We couldn’t be happier.”
“Seth?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“You can go now. I want to talk to my new daughter-in-law.”
“Bye, Mom,” I said. I put my hand over the mouthpiece and pressed down, then let go of the button.
“Molly?” my mother said conspiratorially.
“Hi, Ruth.”
“You didn’t tell Seth what I said to you at Thanksgiving, did you?”
“No.”
“Well, see, I was right, wasn’t I? He has to marry you because you’re pregnant.”
“I hope he’s doing it because he wants to, not because he has to.”
“Of course, of course. Oh, Molly, honey, I’m so happy I could crow! I want you to know that I consider you more than just a daughter-in-law. I want you to know that you can think of me as your mother.”
Molly didn’t say anything.
“Molly?”
“Yes?”
“Did I say something wrong?”
I could barely keep myself from interrupting and saying, Yes, you said something wrong!
“No, Ruth. Thank you very much.”
“I mean it, darling. You can call me Mother.”
“Ruth.”
“Yes, doll?”
“Seth wants to speak to you.”
Molly called out to me. I depressed the button on the phone and removed my hand from the mouthpiece.
“Hello?”
“Goodbye, Ruth,” Molly said.
“Goodbye, doll. I love you.”
Molly hung up.
“Seth?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Molly said you wanted me.”
“Oh, right. I just wanted to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye, honey boy. I love you.”
“Bye, Mom.”
I went into the bedroom. Molly was lying under the covers, crying quietly.
“Molly, what’s the matter?” I said. “What did she say to you?”
“Nothing. She didn’t say anything.”
It was the first time we hadn’t been completely honest with each other, and it felt as if a small breach had opened up between us, a sudden coldness, like a draft from a window.
CHRISTMAS REJUVENATED US. The only time we had discussed our different religions was in reference to Christmas. Molly told me she didn’t care about the religion of our children, but Christmas was important to her, and when we were married with children, she wanted to have a Christmas tree and exchange presents on Christmas morning. “Fine with me,” I said. “The tree, the presents, the carols. We’ll do the whole megillah.” We bought a tree together at a local farm stand. I enjoyed the bracing nip in the air, the piney scents, the hot cider. All my life I had experienced Christmas as an outsider, and, I had to admit, it felt nice to be an insider, to be among the tree buying, present-shopping Christian hordes. At home, Molly brought out boxes of Christmas accoutrements: a tree stand, ornaments, stockings. We positioned the tree by the window. Molly put on a tape of Elvis singing Christmas songs, and poured us both mugs of hot cider, and we spent the evening decorating the tree. She told me that most of the ornaments had belonged to her mother; on the top of the tree we placed a wooden angel that had belonged to her mother’s mother.
Christmas morning we exchanged presents. I was overwhelmed by all the presents she had bought for me: a beautiful pale green cashmere sweater (“to match your eyes,” she said), books, Celtics tickets, and my very first compact disc: Marvin Gaye’s Midnight Love. “What am I going to play this on?” I asked, and she handed me another present. Of course I knew it would be a CD player. “Molly, this is too much!” I protested, though in fact I was thrilled at being the recipient of so much generosity.
“Well, it’s really for both of us,” she explained. I handed her my present—a small square box—and said, “This is just for you.”
Immediately her eyes welled up with tears. I hadn’t given her a ring yet, and I knew she had been wondering if I would get around to it. She opened the box and removed a thin gold band with a pear-sh
aped, many-faceted diamond set in it. Tears coursed down her cheeks. “Seth, this probably cost you a fortune. How could you afford this?”
“I paid for it with my bar mitzvah money,” I replied.
She gave me one of those bemused looks that meant she wasn’t sure whether I was being funny or serious.
“I’m completely serious,” I said. “I haven’t touched that bank account in nearly eighteen years and it was worth more than five thousand dollars.”
Molly plugged in the CD player and put in the disc. Marvin
Gaye’s sexy, silky falsetto sang “Sexual Healing.” She pulled me close, leaned forward on her tiptoes, and began tracing the rim of my ear with her tongue. At that moment, my happiness was so divine that I believed I could feel my soul bursting free of my body.
NOT LONG AFTER THE NEW YEAR, Molly had a proposal for me: She wanted me to quit comedy.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“To have a job with more normal hours once the baby comes. You’re out late every night. I’d rather not be home alone when I’m getting up all night with a new baby.”
“I see,” I said. “I see.”
“Seth, we can’t do anything on weekends because you’re always performing. I’d like to be able to go to a movie on a Saturday night or go away to Vermont for a weekend. I just want our relationship to be more normal.”
Normal? I thought. What are you doing with me if you wanted normal? But wasn’t that what I wanted too? Wasn’t that what I envied about Sarah and Aaron? Wasn’t that the reason Seamus turned Orthodox? Wasn’t that why I had resolved to propose to Molly on Thanksgiving?
“So if I quit comedy, our life will feel more normal to you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not exactly blazing my way to greatness.”
Molly nodded her head.
“Come on!” I protested. “Didn’t they teach you to tell little lies in Catholic school?”
“We don’t believe in little lies. A lie is a lie.”
“I see,” I said again, as if this might be a potential problem for us. “You don’t like the fact that I’m a comic, do you?”
“Seth, I fell in love with you when I saw you onstage.”
“Remember,” I said, “no little lies. A side of you disapproves of my comedy.”
She looked at me thoughtfully, carefully considering her words.
A Stranger on the Planet Page 16