Spin Doctor

by Leslie Carroll

  “That’s a beautiful way to begin the seder, Faith,” I said. “I’m very touched by your words.” There were murmurs of assent from the rest of the table. “And since I have zero experience in leading one of these celebrations, I’m giving everyone fair warning: it may all be downhill from here.”

  “Don’t men usually lead seders?” Talia asked me.

  “It’s the custom for the head of the household to lead it,” Amy said. “And the people who devised that tradition assumed it would be a man, as it once was, and often still is. My father still leads our family seders. And Susan told me that Eli used to until…until he decided that he no longer wished to be the head of their household. Which—” Amy said, extending her arm as though she were presenting me to an audience, “gives Susan full and proper license to conduct her seder. Our seder.”

  I asked my guests to open their Haggadah—it was Naomi who turned the book in Talia’s hands, explaining that it’s read back-to-front, like all Hebrew texts, even though our version was in English. I asked Alice to read the book’s introduction, which explained the significance of the Passover seder.

  “‘The story of the exodus of the Jews from Egypt is told and retold so that we give it meaning, context, and continuity for our children and our children’s children,’” Alice read. “And isn’t it cool,” she added, departing from the text, “that we’ve got two of our ‘daughters’ here tonight for whom this is a totally new experience.”

  “Oh, God, you’re making me cry. That’s so unfair,” Molly told her.

  “You’re making me cry too,” said Izzy. “Now I’ve got Valentina’s head all wet. The poor kid probably thinks it’s raining.”

  The blessings over the fruit of the vine and the fruit of the earth were made, and all the emblems identified: the roasted shankbone, representing the sacrificial lamb; the charoses, for the mortar; bitter herbs for the bitter life of slavery endured by the Israelites under the pharaohs; a dish of saltwater to represent tears; the roasted egg, a symbol of life; and the unleavened matzoh—representing the bread of affliction.

  And then it was time for the section of the Haggadah that is either every kid’s worst nightmare or greatest chance to show off. Traditionally, the Four Questions—which openly ask what the whole seder ritual is all about and why the heck do we feast like this when we never do it on any other night of the year—are read (or chanted if the kid reads Hebrew and knows the tune) by the youngest son. Many modern Jews have reinterpreted the rules to mean “youngest child.” As Amy had mentioned, every kid in her extended family got a shot at them. “Since neither Valentina nor Jin can read this year—”

  “Just wait’ll next year,” Claude quipped.

  We all laughed. “I’ll expect her to know it in Hebrew too,” I shot back. “Molly, it’s all yours.”

  “I am so too old for this.”

  “You’re the youngest child who can read. Get over it. One day, you’ll have kids of your own and you’ll wonder how you got ‘old’ so fast, and you’ll miss being young enough to read the Four Questions.”

  “Are you really talking about you, Mom?”

  “Read, kiddo. Your leader has spoken.”

  Molly sighed, then began the litany immediately recognized by Jews all over the world: “Ma-nish ta-nah, ha-lai-lah ha-zeh? Thank God for transliteration. Why is this night different from all other nights of the year?”

  I help up my hand to stop her. “Okay. We’ll pick up the rest of the questions and all the answers—at least the traditional answers—in a minute. We’ve all had a remarkable past several months, for better or for worse but one reason we’re here this evening, beyond the significance of the seder, is to celebrate our achievements regarding the ‘better,’ and our ability to overcome the ‘worst.’ Now, I know that Alice has something to disclose that has made tonight different from all other nights of the year for her.”

  Alice beamed. “The phone call I was waiting for all day? That’s the one I got just when I walked in the door. It was from the casting director at Seraphim Swallow Avanti. And…I booked the Snatch job!”

  “What?” chorused Claude and Naomi.

  “It’s like Swiffer, only British. I’m going to England next week to shoot the commercials and the print ads! I’m going to be their Snatch Girl!” She received a hearty round of applause from the table.

  “And you were worried I couldn’t keep a secret for more than ten minutes,” Izzy joked, leaning over to give her best friend a kiss on the cheek. “You go, girl!”

  Alice looked at her watch. “It wasn’t much more than ten minutes, you know! Anyway, that’s why this night is different from all other nights of the year for me.”

  “Let’s go around the table and give everyone a chance to do this,” Molly suggested. I liked the idea and asked Meriel if there was something that made this night different for her.

  “Oh, I had no idea daht we were going to do someting layk dis,” she said, a bit flustered. “I need to get my purse, first. Let someone else go ahead of me.”

  Claude and Naomi agreed that the presence of their daughter Jin, especially after such a protracted and contentious adoption process, made the night special. Izzy referred to Valentina’s presence, then added that although it hadn’t happened that evening, her complete reconciliation with her husband Dominick was “nothing short of a minor miracle, all things considered. Not only that…I have something I want to ask my pal here…because Dominick and I are finally beginning to get our act together to plan Valentina’s baptism.” Turning to Alice, she asked, “Will you be Valentina’s godmother?” By way of a reply, Alice burst into tears.

  “Okay, I’m ready now,” Meriel said, taking a newspaper clipping from her handbag. She unfolded the paper and announced, “Dis is just from de local Brooklyn paper—it’s not de New York Times—but listen to dis: ‘A newcomer to Flatbush, No Problem, run by de mother-son team of Meriel Delacour and William Robertson, wit’ Roberston out front and “Mama in de kitchen,” offers authentic and delicious Jamaican fare in a casual, yet classy setting. You cahn’t go wrong no matter what you order, but don’t be too chicken to try de curried goat and de oxtail stew, and deyr jerk chicken is a standout.’” Faith raised her wineglass to her. “‘For dessert, we recommend de black fruit cake, a dense confection daht will stick to your ribs, and if you’re too young to imbibe one of de Jamaican beers on de menu, order de sorrel, a spicy-sweet beverage similar to ginger beer. For two dollars more, de proprietors will also spike de sorrel wit’ a shot of rum. Reservations are getting hard to come by, so book well in advance if you want to hear de cheery words “No Problem” when you get dehm on the phone.’”

  “A toast to Meriel!” Faith proposed, and we all raised our glasses.

  “Bravissima, Meriel,” Amy said. “I may have to start saying ‘I knew you when!’”

  As Meriel carefully restored her precious rave review to her handbag, I asked Amy what made this night different for her from all other nights of the year.

  She laughed. “On all other nights of the year,” she began, echoing the next sentence of the Haggadah’s Four Questions, “my husband Eric is working late and leaving me the entire responsibility of taking care of our son Isaac. But on this night he has taken our son to his mother’s house for the seder without ever giving me a single word of complaint about it. He took Isaac’s extra didies and his bottle and his four favorite squishy toys—Isaac’s toys, not Eric’s—and headed across town without once fussing about wearing an Armani suit and tie while juggling a squirming baby and a huge quilted diaper bag with pictures of Grover all over it.”

  We toasted Amy and I turned to Talia.

  “Can I dance it?” she asked.

  The guests exchanged glances. “Why not?” I replied.

  Talia rose and began to twirl about the room in her flowing chiffon tunic and skirt. “Well, I said I was never going to teach dance, because of that whole ‘those who can’t do’ adage—y’know? It’s not like I’m quitting dan
ce—believe me, they’re going to have to carry me off the State Theater’s stage in a wheelbarrow—but I have a friend who runs a community center in Spanish Harlem, up near Mount Sinai Hospital. So I’m going to teach dance classes part-time in the afternoons at the community center; and once a week, I’ll conduct a class in the hospital’s pediatric orthopedic wards. I’ll be working with kids who are recovering from an operation, teaching them dance moves and exercises that they can use in their rehab. Twice a year, my fully recovered kids are going to return to the hospital to give a dance concert for the kids who are recuperating at the time. I haven’t started yet; we just settled the details today. It’s not about the money, obviously. Susan knows what I mean when I say I’m being the ant and not the grasshopper. And I’m really looking forward to giving back, as they say.”

  “Hooray for you!” Izzy exclaimed. Valentina began to fret. “Oops. I think I just woke her up. Does being a mother ever teach you to be less loud?” she asked the table.

  I grinned and looked at Molly. “Just the opposite, I’m afraid. A lot of the time, anyway.” Molly gave me a dirty look and I decided to disengage and offer Faith the chance to tell us what made this night different from all other nights of the year for her.

  “Oh…I’m not ready to say anything yet. I mean this night is different from all other nights of the year for me, but we’re having such a beautiful celebration…I don’t want to ruin everyone’s appetite after we’ve all worked so hard to make such a special meal…”

  Her words spread a pall over the entire room. Given Faith’s age, although illness can strike anyone at any time, I feared the worst. I leaned over and whispered, “You’re not…sick…or anything, are you?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve never been better,” Faith assured me. “But you know me…one toe in at a time; baby steps. I’m just not ready to share my news yet. I’ll do it after dinner; I promise.”

  “Then it’s my turn,” Molly said. By this time she was unable to suppress her gloating.

  “Molly, I’ve known you all your life. And I have a feeling you orchestrated this entire share-fest because you had something to announce.”

  “O-kay, o-kay. You’re right, Mom. As always. No, not as always. As often. You were too busy cooking today to go downstairs to the mailbox, so I picked up the mail when I got home. And as everyone with a child who applied to college knows, the colleges mail out the regular decision letters on April fifteenth. Which means that any day after that, there might be a little present in the mailbox. A nice fat one or a depressing thin one. And, Mom, you’ll be happy to know that your daughter is not a total slacker, goof-off, fuck-up, failure…”

  And before I had the chance to interrupt with, “I never said you were,” Molly added…

  “She is going to be a Bennington freshman in September.”

  “Aaaaaaaaaaccghhh!” I jumped up from my chair to embrace her, knocking over my red wine in the process.

  “Don’t worry,” Faith said, catching my look of horror. “Believe it or not, the tablecloth is machine-washable.”

  “Molly, I am so proud of you! Congratulations, sweetheart!”

  Molly grinned. “Thought I might not be able to pull it off, didn’t you?”

  “I always knew you could do it, once you applied yourself.”

  “And I owe a big debt of thanks to Faith,” Molly said, breaking our embrace to give Faith a hug as well. “You and Sylvia Plath. She’ll never know she saved my life.”

  “That’s a bit of hyperbole, don’t you think?” Faith asked jovially.

  “I’m going to become a creative writer; I’m allowed to indulge in hyperbole.”

  Molly received her props from the table and insisted it was now my turn.

  “My daughter got accepted to college today. That’s enough to make this night different from all other nights of the year. And I am surrounded by an amazing group of women who, particularly over the past several weeks, have supported me and been patient with me and have absolutely changed my life for the better. Knowing each one of you is a gift to my soul.”

  “Awwwwwwwwwwwwhhhhh,” they chorused.

  “Now! People always complain that the seders drag on forever, so I think we should get back to the Haggadah.”

  Molly finished the Four Questions and I hid the afikomen, the portion of the matzoh that would be ransomed after the meal by the children at the table—meaning Molly again, as she was the only one who could walk. I didn’t want to hide the afikomen anywhere else in the basement, so we played a bit fast and loose with tradition and the women covered their eyes while I concealed the contents of the turquoise linen napkin.

  I called upon each of the women to take turns reading from the Haggadah, embodying the different personalities of the story’s four sons who are taught the meaning of Passover. Faith was the wise son; Molly the belligerent, “wicked” one; Talia the doubter; and Izzy the utterly clueless one—a part I probably should have reserved for myself. “Thanks a whole lot!” Izzy said when I assigned her role.

  “Don’t worry; that’s why it’s called ‘acting,’” Alice assured her with a chuckle.

  When we got to the retelling of the Book of Exodus and the tyrannical Pharaoh who kicked Moses and company out of Egypt, Molly glanced at her watch. “They usually lock the laundry room at eight o’clock. Do you think that new super they hired will come in here like Pharaoh and kick us out of Egypt?”

  “We’re not making any noise,” said Naomi. “Well—not much noise.”

  Claude nodded her head. “The door’s already closed; I’m sure we’re not disturbing anyone.”

  “Oh my God,” Alice gasped. Nine adult heads turned to stare at her. “I just remembered something! Susan, you’re my witness. Remember when Mala Sonia gave me that reading all those months ago? She told me in chapter and verse all these horrible things that were going to happen with my acting career. And everything she said came true. Stuff fell apart almost exactly the way she predicted it would. But this is the kicker, get this: Mala Sonia did foretell that everything would turn out all right for me, but it was going to take time. She said I would finally find success—specifically in my acting career—during a holiday time when there would be joy and feasting.” Alice opened her arms. “Well, I just got the call today to be the Snatch Girl and they’re paying me to travel to England! And look!” she continued excitedly. “Here we are! If a seder isn’t about feasting and celebration, what is?”

  Amy winced. “Everything Mala Sonia said about my domestic situation panned out too. But she told me that the outcome would involve much pain and cruelty.”

  “Perhaps it was wishful thinking,” Alice quipped. “By the way, I don’t hate you. I wanted to, though. I did hate Eric. But I’m long over that. And I envied you for a while—before I looked at the bigger picture from a lot of angles. Falling in love with Dan sure helped me get past it fast,” she chuckled. “Good luck with Eric. I want to say ‘you deserve him,’ but you’ll probably take it the wrong way.”

  “Or not,” Amy shot back. “I wanted to hate you too. Sometimes I wondered whether Eric was ever thinking about you as ‘the one that got away.’ But in the long run, it really isn’t helpful—or healthy—to live your life with your head in a negative place that might have nothing to do with the truth of the situation—anyone’s situation. Am I right, Susan?”

  I laughed. “Not bad; but don’t quit your day job, Amy.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a whole hell of a lot!”

  “Everything Mala Sonia told me came true too,” I said, admitting this for the first time in front of all of them. “The bad and the good. She ‘predicted’ that I would be able to transcend and triumph over my personal adversity with the love and support of my women friends.”

  “Yeah, Mom, but you told me that you thought Mala Sonia was palming cards and manipulated your reading so she could confess her own crime in the only way she knew how. You’ve had the love and support of your women friends all along. Always. You just didn’t think
about it until now.”

  “Bingo, Molly!” Alice agreed. “You had the power to get back to Kansas all along,” she lilted, in a dead-on imitation of Glinda the Good Witch.

  “Now can we puh-lease get through the next twenty pages and the ten plagues so we can eat? I’m starving over here.” Molly grabbed her Haggadah and, picking up where we had left off, began to read aloud.

  The meal itself was a huge hit. Of course there was a bit of running around involved, because there was no way to keep everything warm down in the laundry room, though Naomi joked that we could have locked the food in Tupperware and sent it to spin on the dryers’ “low” cycle. So Alice had to dash back to her apartment to fetch the soup and tsimmes, and Molly and I had to head up to our place to fetch the turkey and its fixings. “It’s all right; we’re working off the calories as we eat. A very effective exercise regimen,” I posited.

  After dinner, Molly had to find the hidden afikomen or by tradition the seder couldn’t continue and—nontraditionally—no one would get dessert. It took her all of about five seconds to locate it.

  “You are so predictable, Ma,” she said, as she carefully lifted the turquoise napkin out of the well of the only working washing machine. By tradition she also got to ransom it from the seder leader, and was angling for big-ticket items, like her own car while she was up at college.

  “Dream on. I don’t even have a car, Molly. How ’bout a bookstore gift certificate? You can buy more Sylvia Plath.”

  The offer was accepted and the meal resumed, with much happy munching of Claude and Naomi’s homemade macaroons. We took up our Haggadahs once again and read on. When it came time to welcome the visit of the prophet Elijah, Talia seated herself at her synthesizer and began to sight-read the song that accompanies his welcome. We gathered around her and tried to sing along. It was a simple melody; we had it down in no time. Proud of our accomplishment, we began to get a bit carried away—as in loud—and were so vocal that we barely heard a knocking at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Molly volunteered. She opened the door and stood there, somewhere between shocked and bemused. “Ma?! Elijah’s here.”