The Middlesteins

by Jami Attenberg

  After the services were over, he hustled the two children, his hands in an exceedingly firm grip on the backs of both of their necks, out the door, past the wall of gold leaves embossed with the names of donors—his was up near the top, because he was one of the first, although it had been a long time since he had given any sizable amount of money, what with this economy—all of them forming the long limbs of a tree, reaching up and outward as if they were holding up the synagogue. He didn’t stop to chitchat with anyone, just a nod and a “Good Shabbos, ” making a hapless, dog-eyed expression toward the children, as if to say, It’s not me, it’s them.

  Outside, in the late-spring evening, the crack of summer heat curling at its edges, as they dodged the cars pulling up curbside to pick up the elderly, then mixed in with all those people filled with prayer and joy, the women in high heels, the men in their suit coats (no ties necessary during the warmer weather), the children running and giggling, released at last from sitting still, everyone immersed in that post-shul glow, he almost let himself forget that his grandchildren had engaged in such subversive behavior. He was, in fact, ready to forgive them, until Emily said, loudly, “I’m so glad that’s over.”

  “It’s over when I tell you it’s over,” said Middlestein. “You’re lucky I don’t make you go back in there and have a talk with the rabbi himself about how God feels about texting during shul. He’d have a thing or two to say to you.”

  “We didn’t want to come, you should know that,” said Emily.

  “Shut up, Emily,” said Josh.

  “You shut up,” said Emily.

  “I think he knows that already,” said Josh.

  Middlestein released his hands from their backs, which had started to sweat, and pulled out his keys from his suit-coat pocket, pressing the unlock-door button even though they were still at least a dozen rows from his car. He passed Josh, he passed Emily, he passed the Weinmans, headed, as they did every week, to a Shabbat dinner with Al’s elderly mother at her nursing home in Oak Park. He walked and walked through the streaming crowds until he was at his car, and he got in, and he sat, and he waited for those little sons of bitches to get there.

  Josh got in first, Emily pausing with her hand on the door, starting a staring competition with her grandfather that she almost instantly comprehended—he could see her bite her lip—she was never going to win. Don’t you understand, he wanted to say, I invented the staring contest? Don’t you understand that, as far as you know, I invented everything?

  She got into the car, the front seat, and pulled herself as far away from him as she could.

  Years ago, seventeen, maybe eighteen by now, Middlestein sat in this same parking lot with his daughter, Robin, but in a different car—was it the Accord then?—and he was just as furious with her as he was with Emily now. It was a month before Robin’s bat mitzvah, and she still hadn’t memorized her haftorah. The cantor had called them in for an emergency meeting, only Robin hadn’t realized that’s what it was, or maybe she didn’t care, because—if it was possible—she was even more sullen than Emily was now. Robin these days was a confident though still difficult woman, but at the age of thirteen she was awkward and chubby, with a head of hair like a mushroom cloud, and cranky because of all that. Middlestein had adored her anyway. She was the youngest. She was trickier than Benny. She would retreat and attack quickly, a limber boxer. He never had a handle on her once she learned how to talk back. And there she was talking back to Cantor Rubin, then a young man, bearded, barrel-chested, a new recruit to the synagogue (Middlestein had offered to give him a discount at the pharmacy, but Rubin had never shown up, not in all these years, a slight insult if he had to admit it), giving him lip while he tried to explain calmly that if she just worked with the tape every night, one hour a night, he was confident she would have her haftorah down by her bat mitzvah. And Robin dryly said, “Can’t we just play the tape instead and I’ll lip-sync it? No one’s going to be paying attention anyway.” If it was a joke, it wasn’t funny. If she was serious, then why was Middlestein shelling out twenty thousand dollars for this party? If she was serious, then who did she think she was, speaking that way to an adult, and not only an adult but a religious leader (and potential customer) in the community? If she was serious, then somehow Middlestein had failed as a parent, and he was pretty sure he had not failed at anything in his life, even if he hadn’t really succeeded at that much either.

  After the meeting, in the parking lot, in the last car he had before this one (no, it was definitely not a Honda), barely after Robin had closed the door, she turned to give him one more smart-ass comment, and he greeted her with an open palm. Hard, he smacked her hard, he could admit it now. Maybe it was too hard. Maybe it was just hard enough. She pulled back flat against the car door and put her hands up to her face, and then she began to cry noisily. He started the car. He didn’t care. Let her cry. And she did, the whole way home. He had thought hitting her would make him feel better, but it only fueled his anger; he could feel it clutching at his chest, a red-hot grip. “Cut it out, Robin,” he said. She wailed and wailed.

  When he pulled in to the driveway, she burst out of the car and into the house as if she were being chased, so dramatic as always. All he had done was hit her, his child, once, what was the big deal? Yet Middlestein felt his insides get sucked out and replaced with dread. His dad used to beat him with his belt, and Middlestein had done the same a few times (though definitely much less than his father) to his own children. Mostly he took his belt and bent it into a loop, snapping the insides together as a warning call. It had always worked; often the children would burst into tears just at the sight of it, never mind the snapping noise. But this was obviously different. This was less one part of an orderly system of punishment (bend over and take what’s coming to you) and more an act of spontaneous violence. He had felt a jagged line of energy coming from his hand when he struck his daughter’s face, as if a lightning bolt had sprung forth from it. Oh yes, for many reasons this was different, but perhaps the biggest one was that he hadn’t discussed it with his wife first.

  “What happened?” Edie, younger, thinner, but never thin, walking out of her office (always working, tireless, ceaseless, she loved her work more than him, this had always been obvious) and into the foyer, where Middlestein had stopped himself, helplessly.

  “Our daughter . . .” Yes, that’s smart, Middlestein, that’s the tack, make sure she knows you’re both in it together. “Decided to mouth off to the cantor.”

  “What did she say, exactly?”

  “What didn’t she say?”

  “Do I need to go ask her what she said? Why is it difficult for you to answer the question? Why, Richard, is it always so difficult for you to answer the goddamn question?” Robin’s crying stopped in a choke, regrouped, and then commenced even louder than before. Edie moved closer to him, and he found himself backing up flat against the front door. “Why do I have a child up there losing her mind?”

  “She was completely disrespectful to the cantor,” he said. He stood up straight. He was taller than Edie. He was her husband. He was allowed to make decisions.

  “What did you do?” she said.

  “I hit her,” he said. “A slap.”

  Edie gave him a dark look—the pits of hell were in those eyes sometimes—and then burst out with her hands, her own lightning springing forth, slapping him on his shoulder, on his neck, on the side of his head, as far up as she could reach. “You don’t hit my child,” she said. Everywhere Richard covered himself, she struck somewhere else. “You are not allowed to hit her, do you understand me?” Her slaps stung him. Her lips shone with spit. “You don’t go near my child.” She hit him once more, in the face. “I have a deadline tomorrow and a terrified child tonight. It is like you don’t want this house to function, Richard.” She pushed a hand into his chest. “You are a ridiculous human being.”

  She shook her head and then ran up the stairs to her daughter’s room, where, after a minute, the cry
ing abruptly ceased.

  Middlestein looked at Emily, smashed up against the window, dark, fearful eyes. She knew she had screwed up.

  “If I were your father, I’d smack you so hard your head would spin,” he said.

  Emily’s eyes widened, but she did not cry.

  “But I’m not. I am your grandfather. So all I can tell you is that was just terrible, terrible behavior tonight. You, too, Josh. Just because you’re the lesser of two evils, that doesn’t mean you weren’t being bad.”

  “I’m really sorry,” said Josh.

  “It’s not your fault we didn’t want to come,” said Emily, remorseful at last. “I had a birthday party tonight. We both did. This kid at school.”

  “It was at a laser park,” said Josh.

  “I don’t even know what a laser park is,” said Middlestein.

  “It’s pretty cool,” said Josh.

  “I’m tired of going to the synagogue,” said Emily. “We have Hebrew school all the time this year.”

  Middlestein let out an enormous sigh. “Emily, there are so many things we don’t want to do in this life of ours. You have zero concept of this. You will someday miss this moment when the worst thing about your day is contemplating God’s word for an hour or two.”

  “Doubtful,” mumbled Emily, but he heard her, and his hand snapped out, and she jerked her neck back, and he nailed nothingness, just the air, the air between him and his granddaughter. He held his hand there for a second, and then patted her shoulder, as if that’s what he had intended to do all along.

  “You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see someday.”

  It was a silent car ride home; the children wisely kept their phones in their pockets, so it was just the sound of their breathing, the car engine, a light-rock station playing barely above mute. In their driveway they got out of the car before he had even turned off the engine and darted inside. Why were these children always running away from him? Didn’t they know that he loved them with all his heart?

  His son, Benny, walked outside, his arms tight across his chest, Rachelle only briefly poking her head out the door to wave hello, and then retreating inside, presumably to quiz the children on the night.

  “How was it?” said Benny.

  “The rabbi went on for way too long about Israel tonight,” said Middlestein. “It’s not that I don’t agree, but he’s like a broken record sometimes.”

  “The kids were okay?” said Benny.

  “The kids were fine,” said Richard. “I don’t think they wanted to be there, but they’re kids. They like hanging out with their friends.”

  “They kicked up a storm,” said Benny. “There was this party—”

  “I heard all about it,” said Middlestein. “A laser park. Whatever that is.”

  “It’s where they play with lasers,” said Benny. He relaxed his arms. Middlestein had offered up just enough information to prove that he had bonded with the children. “There’s one over in Wheeling. It’s been around for a while.”

  Middlestein shrugged. “Whatever makes them happy, right?”

  “Right. Well, they didn’t get to go, so they weren’t that happy about it.”

  “They’re good kids,” said Middlestein.

  Benny nodded, looked back into the house, and then put his arm around his father. “You want to go out back for a little bit?” he said. The two of them walked around the front lawn, through the darkness, and onto the back patio, where Benny promptly pulled out a joint.

  “You still doing that stuff?” said Middlestein.

  “Once in a blue moon.” Benny looked up in the sky. “It looks pretty blue to me tonight.”

  “I’d have a hit. Just one, though, because I have to drive.”

  “One’s all you need anyway,” said Benny. He lit up, dragged off it a few times, then a few more—Blue moon my ass, thought Middlestein—then handed it to his father. He immediately relaxed, the crush of tension in his heart and his back collapsing down toward the earth.

  “Not bad stuff,” said Middlestein.

  “It’s government grade,” said Benny. “No hangover supposedly, though sometimes I’m a little slow in the morning.” Benny sat down on a patio chair and motioned for Middlestein to join him. They both put their feet up on the table. Benny handed him the joint, and he took one quick last puff. “Enough for me,” he said.

  “All right, no más,” said Benny.

  There was no crying upstairs, Middlestein noticed. Rachelle passed by a window, and then one light went out and then another.

  “So. Dad,” said Benny.

  “Son,” said Middlestein.

  “I wanted to let you know something regarding the b’nai mitzvah,” said Benny.

  “So formal,” said Middlestein, and he laughed. “What’s wrong? I can still come, right?”

  “Of course,” said Benny. “I just wanted to give you advance warning about something.” He stubbed out the joint and looked up and smiled weakly at his father. “Mom’s got a boyfriend, and she’s bringing him.”

  “How the fuck does your mother have a boyfriend?” Who would want your mother? was what he was thinking.

  “Dad!” he said. “Don’t talk that way about my mother, please.”

  “I just meant, already? That’s all I meant. I mean, we only just split up.”

  “I don’t know. She talked to Rachelle about it, and Robin’s met him and said he’s great, and Emily liked him a lot, too.”

  “Emily met him?” he said.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it!” said Benny. “I can’t watch over everyone all the time.”

  Middlestein shook his head. If he didn’t have to drive, he would have smoked that entire joint right there, and it still wouldn’t have been enough to calm him down. Some other man lying with Edie. He’d believe it when he saw it, and then he still wouldn’t believe it.

  “I wanted to let you know in advance so there were no surprises,” said Benny. “I’m not on anybody’s side but the kids’. We want them to have a good time and feel like they are loved by the family. And if it would make you feel better and you wanted to bring a friend, you absolutely could.”

  Beverly!

  “I have to go,” said Middlestein, who stood up awkwardly, knocking over the patio chair behind him.

  “You don’t want to stay? Rachelle cut up some fruit.”

  “I have a date,” he said.

  “Are you all right to drive?” said Benny.

  “Never better,” said Middlestein.

  In the front seat of his car, not the old car, not the future car, just the car, his car that he had at this time in his life on this planet earth—crap, he was kind of stoned after all—he called Beverly on his cell phone.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “I know who this is,” she said. “It’s a bit late to be calling.” Oh Beverly, the sound of her voice slowly unfolding itself through the ear, luxurious, silky smooth, as he could only imagine her skin must feel like.

  “It’s not that late. Can I come over?”

  Beverly laughed. “Well, I never expected to get one of these kinds of phone calls at my age.”

  “I just want to talk,” said Middlestein.

  “If you want to talk, we can meet somewhere,” she said.

  “Anywhere!” said Middlestein.

  She paused, and he imagined her sweet breath flowing out of her mouth as loopy pink swirls of miniature flowers. “Meet me down at the pub, then,” she said.

  Through this town and the next one and the next—Slow it down, Middlestein, the last thing you need is to be pulled over by a cop, try explaining that one to your daughter-in-law, you’ll never see those kids again—every last one of them looking identical to him. He was a part of this, his stores were, his store, the last one anyway, those other two closed (not failures, just not successes), but this last one, his legacy, the last one standing, he believed it was special. Was it not unique and important to have been one of the first Jewish business own
ers in the town? Had he not provided a service to his neighbors and friends? Was that not a success? Was he not worthy of being admired? Wasn’t he worthy of Beverly’s love?

  Beverly, I’m coming for you.

  The parking lot at the pub was nearly packed; it was the best fiddle night in the Chicagoland area, said the sign. He wormed his way through the lot, footsteps in gravel, dust rising in car headlights. The fiddlers fiddled. Middlestein straightened his suit coat, fluffed up his hair, his beautiful, thick, gray hair. Richard Middlestein, Jew, independent business owner, father, grandfather, a man—he believed—among men, walked into a dirty, crowded bar, where he had no business being on a Friday night, on a path to retrieve and secure the woman of his dreams.

  He pushed through the crowd of middle-aged drunks knee-deep in Guinness and spilled popcorn and empty, crumpled-up bags of potato chips. They weren’t even paying any attention to the fiddlers. Were they looking for love just like him? Where was it, where was love? What was it? Just what turned up in the dark?

  Beverly, on a barstool at the corner of the bar, her hair in a ponytail, only a lick of makeup, dark mascara on those pretty peepers of hers. He must have called just when she was getting ready for bed. This is what she looked like right before she slept. For reasons unclear, he gave her a formal bow, and she laughed at him. He kissed her on the cheek, sat next to her, and took her hand in his.

  “Enough waiting around, Beverly,” he said.

  “You’re a married man, Richard,” she said.

  “Paperwork is being filed,” he said. “I would say at this very moment, but the lawyer’s got to sleep sometime.” This was not entirely the truth, but it was close enough.

  “That’s not what I mean,” she said. “All you do is talk about her all the time. I have listened to you talk for hours about your wife, your family, your grandchildren.”