The Matzo Ball Heiress

by Laurie Gwen Shapiro

  I lift an imaginary teacup, pinkie raised. “How did you meet him?”

  “Remember we were looking for that Egyptian woman who studied sexual views of Africans. Bahiti Rateb—the Virginia Masters of Africa?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, since it was so quiet here yesterday, I called the Egyptian consulate, and a secretary accidentally put me through to Mahmoud Habib. He said his mother is practically sisters with Bahiti Rateb and to come over and he’d have his assistant pull together background information, and he’d be willing to talk more about his personal acquaintance with her. We talked for three hours, and we continued the conversation—”

  “Where, at his house?”

  “No, bitch, at the Beekman Hotel at their deco bar, Top of the Tower—”

  I blow out air enviously. That’s one place I’ve always wanted to go on a date. (Well, that and Union Square Café, but look where that got me.) “I’ve heard that place is so romantic.”

  “Is it ever. I couldn’t believe how generous he was with his time. Heather, he’s cultured and very open-minded. He spoke to both sides of the Palestinian issue, and didn’t flinch when I said my business partner was Jewish. He’s buddies with everyone in his countries from the latest Egyptian rock stars to Omar Sharif. And, get this, he worked under Anwar Sadat!”

  “Under Sadat? How old is Mahmoud?’

  “Not that old. He’s a former journalist who started his career very young.”

  I stare her down like a camp counselor. “How old exactly?”

  She clenches her teeth and spits it out. “Fifty-five.”

  “Ouch. Kids?”

  “No, but he was married. He got divorced a few months ago. He was married to an Egyptian model but the distance was getting to them.”

  “Oh, you’re not going to get blindsided,” I say like a churlish narc. “A divorce takes a long time to heal from.”

  Vondra shrugs and smiles. “I’m a big girl, Heather.”

  “Don’t mind me, I’m a jealous bitch.”

  “You’ll love him. He’s stopping by tomorrow for lunch. What’s your favorite country? He knows all the diplomats—”

  We’re interrupted by a perky knock on the door. It’s Jacinta, the City as School internship administrator. She’s a happy, happy woman with woolly eyebrows and plump cheeks. Jacinta hands Vondra the paperwork.

  She admires the framed photo on Vondra’s desk of us two dames from Two Dames Productions accepting our first Emmy. “Roswell was thrilled when I told him about your respect in the industry,” she adds. “He’s ready to learn.”

  As soon as we sign the paperwork she breathes heavily, and says, “Oh, terrific. If I can be honest with you, it’s a big relief. We didn’t know where we would place him, and the term started yesterday.” She pauses before she continues, “He didn’t click with the more traditional intern outlets for film like New Line and Miramax.”

  “Is there something you’re not telling us?” I ask.

  “Oh, no,” she says after what feels like a pretty long pause. “You girls will love him. He’s a little unconventional. A charmer though.”

  When Jacinta leaves, Vondra, sensing my concern, says, “Don’t worry, we can cut him loose if he doesn’t work out. Oh, I forgot to tell you, some cranky woman named Batyna called. English, I think.”

  “Bettina. Australian.”

  “Well, she was a pain. Wanted to know if you have made your phone calls, whatever that means. Wouldn’t leave a number. Who was she, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “My therapist.”

  “You pay for that? I never understand why white gals are so nuts about their therapists. Black gals have mommas to talk to.”

  I come very close to telling Vondra that she doesn’t have my momma, a woman who hasn’t held more than a fifteen-minute conversation with me since 9/11. We’re interrupted by a phone call from—wouldn’t it figure, her mother—who apparently has some hilarious story to share with her beloved daughter.

  Vondra ribs her family a lot. From my observation, that seems to be a thing happy families do. “You mean you’ve been eating my banana cake, Momma, and now you like hers better?” Ten minutes of laughter and whooping subside with a “Godspeed, Momma, I love you!”

  “She’s such a riot,” Vondra says after she hangs up. “She’s waiting for my dad to pick her up from her Weight Watchers meeting, and she was bored. She always calls me when she’s bored. An incurable chatterbox.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  Vondra opens her bag and hands me a ten-dollar bill. “I’m going to get cigarettes.” (Vondra’s body is a temple except for her lungs.)

  “So, you’re paying me penance?”

  “No, I ordered us sushi. That’s for my share if the guy comes while I’m down in the deli.”

  “See ya.” When the door closes, I finally feel free to ring Bettina back.

  “Did you call your mother yet?” Bettina barks at me.

  “No, I just got in.”

  “Well, that should be the first thing on your list. Call me when you’ve spoken to her.”

  “But I haven’t even told Jake I’m prepared to do the family seder yet.”

  “So call him now, and then call your mother,” she says. “Let’s try to get both done this hour. Forward march!”

  After I put down the receiver, I count to three and call the factory, and reach a female matzo underling. She must be a recent hire because she dutifully asks, “Heather? Does Mr. Greenblotz know what it’s in reference to?”

  “So, are we doing this?” my cousin says as a greeting.

  “I think I might be able to handle it.”

  “Now we’re talking! You’re the best.”

  “You’re going to have to be the main person overseeing it though. I’m not sure I have the stomach for that.”

  “I can do that if you want.”

  “That wasn’t a choice. By the way, before we discuss this travesty more, who was the girl who picked up the phone?”

  “That was Dimple, our sexy little high-school intern who started yesterday.”

  “Dimple?”

  “She swears that’s her real name. Dimple Goldstein. I picked her right away from the bunch of students who wanted to work here. From the back she’s Judaism’s answer to J. Lo.”

  “Nice to know a big butt is a qualification for learning the matzo trade.”

  “Always.”

  “Nice.”

  “Ssh, you, I have good news. I called your favorite cousin, Greg, to see if I could enlist him for this seder thing. Happy to be asked. Said he was getting sentimental this year. Wants to help our family profile. He asked after you.”

  “Please. I’m not on his map.”

  “You got it wrong. Greg thinks you’re a rock star, always tells his distributors in Miami when your documentaries are on. He was shocked that you wanted him to come.”

  Okay, proof positive that I don’t give people their due. Greg watches documentaries? The last time I had what passed for a conversation with my Floridian cousin, he told me how he picked up his latest girlfriend by showing off his skill for tying cherry stems with his tongue.

  “That’s good of him to say, but I never said he should come, you’re the one pushing—”

  “Well, I told him you said you did. He was ecstatic. He was under the impression you want nothing to do with him, that you thought he was a sleazy idiot.”

  I swallow my guilt. “No, I don’t feel that way at all. Tell him I’m thrilled he’s coming.”

  Maybe I have everyone in my family wrong. Maybe Bettina and Jake are right, that this will be easier than I’m making out. Maybe the real trouble is all in my horrible head.

  “If Greg’s coming, that’s real news. I’m going to call my mother now.”

  “Attagirl. I’m sure she’ll be happy to be asked. So your mother’s not the warmest person, but do you ever ask to spend time with her? Here’s a chance.”

  “You’re right. I’ll give yo
u a call with updates.” Newly optimistic, I beep Bettina on her emergency number, a number I’m sure half of the fucked-up celebrities in the Tristate area use. She calls back pronto.

  “I’m doing it. Wish me well.”

  “March on, soldier!” she trumpets so loudly that I have to pull the receiver back an inch.

  I touch-dial my mother’s number but there’s no answer, so I have to look up her cell-phone number in my Filofax. She picks up on the fifth ring.

  “Mom?”

  “Oh, how are you, dear?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Working hard?”

  “Yes.” I drum my fingernails on my desk. “So, I have something big to ask you about. I have a problem I need to discuss with you.” A pregnant silence ensues. I have hardly asked my mother for anything since I left Brown. Even in college I kept favors to a minimum. Mom has never been the kind to ask if I need anything, and I’m not the kind to volunteer it. I’ve always just held back and listened to her polite prattle in that quasi-British lilt she’s picked up from her many cruises. Sometimes I fear I’m on par with her favorite dry-cleaning clerk, and after she’s determined I’m having a good day, there’s nothing left for her to say.

  “A problem, darling? Since when does my little girl have a problem?” The Queen Mother, blissfully ignorant of a brewing Northern England mining strike.

  “I’ve been at the factory this week.”

  “What factory?”

  “It’s March, Mom. The factory. There is something important Jake needs your help with.”

  “My help?”

  “Have you ever watched the Food Channel, the big cable network?”

  “You’re so funny. I don’t have cable, darling, you know that.”

  I did know that. The week our Rikers’ film aired I messengered over a VHS tape to her, even though she didn’t ask for it. She left a short message on my voice service—“Congratulations!”—and never mentioned the film again. If I grip the receiver any harder I could remold it.

  “Mom, they would like to film the Greenblotz seder.”

  “But there is no Greenblotz seder,” she says, like I’ve zinged her with a trick question.

  “Oh, believe me, I know. But Jake wants us to pull one off. We can pull together a nice family gathering. Greg’s even flying up from Miami, and Siobhan will help us cook.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. Usually the women cook on Passover. Maybe we could find some recipes in a Jewish cookbook together. I’ve never cooked with you. It might be fun.”

  “Honey, of course you remember that I have travel plans set.”

  My voice takes on an anxious vibrato. “I’d really love it if you would join us. Jake and I would be very, very grateful.” I can see that this is getting me nowhere, so I go in for the kill. “Jake just told me a shocking thing.”

  “What’s that, darling?”

  “That business is declining, and he needs all the PR help he can get.”

  “Declining?”

  “The other companies have been bought out by conglomerates and Jake’s afraid they can out-advertise us to our death.”

  “Baloney. We can advertise too. Your grandfather advertised in the Jewish circulars. Who is Jake’s advertising agent?”

  “We stopped printing ads years ago. Grandpa Reuben didn’t want our name lining birdcages. Other than flyers, the current strategy is word of mouth. It could take months to get Marcy and Rebecca to agree to restructure. In the meantime Manischewitz is jumping in and trying to shore up our customer base with their new cash flow, and the others can’t be far behind. We don’t have anything budgeted, and this is a big opportunity—”

  “Jake’s going to have to call Marcy or Rebecca then. He’ll just have to do it, poor soul. I would help you two out, but I have a long-term reservation on an expedition cruise down the Amazon. You understand, don’t you? I am going to study native medicine with a shaman. You don’t want me to cancel that, do you?”

  “No snorkeling?” I snarl.

  “No, but I just paid for the optional extension to the Inca ruins. I thought I’d get some culture this time—and I have Portia Seidner’s insider shopping addresses for Cuzco. She told me to avoid the alpaca sweaters at Machu Picchu, but says there’s excellent quality to be found in the city. I’ll get you one if you like.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “I’m going to have to speed this up. I’m at Saks and my shopper just brought over some lightweight pants for the jungle I might like—”

  “Yeah, bye.” I nearly slam down the receiver on the near stranger who gave birth to me. September 11 was a definite anomaly. I lay my head on folded arms, paralyzed with self-pity until I hear a key at the door. I raise my head again.

  Vondra opens the door clutching a fragrant paper bag that she sets on her tidy desk. “Hysterical thing just happened.”

  “What?” I say in a miserable whisper as my R. Crumb screen saver kicks in.

  “I’m down in the deli getting my ciggies, and while the counter guy’s reaching for them I see one of the tureens says Chicken Soup and the other Split Pea with Jam. And I’m having a stupid spell, so I ask the deli man about the soup. He looks perplexed and says, ‘Jam very good.’ I have to clear this up, so I say, ‘Jam, like strawberry jam?’ He stares at me like I’m an idiot. ‘No, no, pig jam!’ ‘Pig jam?’ I say, and then we both realize our mix-up at the same time. You know, the way in Spanish j and h have a similar sound. Anyway, we start laughing and the other customers are looking at us like we’re both idiots—”

  “That’s pretty funny,” I offer feebly.

  KEEP ON TRUCKING! reads my current screen, in psychedelic lettering.

  “It gets better. I asked him to explain to me why Jose starts with a j and huevos rancheros starts with an h? And he laughs so hard he gives me the soup for free. By the way, did you notice the deli is all different? Jose says he borrowed a book from the library on feng shui. Can you imagine? What next, the gas station is going to feng shui the minimart?” She pauses and studies my face for a second. “Hey, is there something wrong?”

  I burst into tears, the kind that come with gasps for air.

  “You’re freaking. You gotta take a breath, start from the beginning.”

  I inhale and exhale, and say, “The beginning is I had a date with one of the guys from the matzo shoot, and I let my guard down and got myself in an awful position.”

  “Happens to all of us.”

  “The middle is I am rich.”

  This one takes Vondra off guard and she looks at me funny. “Money ruins everything,” I continue. “It ruined my parents—well, maybe my dad’s sexual confusion helped speed that to a close, but money didn’t help.”

  Vondra is silent, wearing a worried expression.

  “And I’ve just realized for the ninety-ninth time my mother doesn’t love me.”

  “That couldn’t be true,” she says softly.

  “If Mom loves me it’s in a small sector of her brain.” I sniff hard. “You know what a seder is, right?”

  “Of course, the Passover meal.”

  “It’s supposed to be the big family get-together.” I stop again to breathe. “It’s practically written in the Bible that your family has to hang together on Passover. But my family never celebrates it. Maybe they did when I was four or five, but not in years. The biggest feast of the year for Jewish people, and we’re the family that caters it all.”

  “Your family does catering? I got it wrong then, I thought—”

  “No, I mean, our products are on every Jewish table in America in the spring. And I mean every table. Vondra, my family is very, very rich.”

  “You said that already. I thought you were well-off but—”

  “Not well-off. Filthy rich. And let me tell you, rich stinks.” I take a second to sniffle. “I’d trade it in a second for the love you get from your family.”

  And then I go to pieces altogether.

  I never wanted my friends t
o see me this way. I’m no weepy poster child for The Poor Little Rich Girl Preservation Society, because I wasn’t beaten or raped or orphaned. I was never dragged through a nasty custody battle; my folks waited until I left college before they separated. My parents do care about me, even if it takes a world catastrophe for me to hear it. I have a life most people surveyed would put on the plus column. Not a lot of close friends, but enough. A creative career. No money worries. Vondra leans over and pulls me into her arms.

  “Okay, now I’m getting claustrophobic,” I say into her elbow when I really do need some air.

  She sets me free and says, “You’re really that wealthy?”

  My forced smile straddles misery and relief at finally releasing the truth.

  Vondra hands me a folded tissue from her pocket. “You have mucus running out of your nose.”

  “Thank you,” I say with a wipe.

  She holds my hand as if I just said I have weeks to live. “Is there anything else I can do for you right now? Would you like to take a walk in some fresh New York City polluted streets, maybe?”

  “Will you come to my seder?” I ask. “I don’t have much family—”

  Vondra strokes my wrist reassuringly. “Baby. Of course. And as far as I’m concerned we are family. You’re like my sister.” She smiles. “My filthy rich white sister.”

  “Can you say that on television?”

  Vondra looks puzzled. “That you’re filthy rich?”

  “No.”

  “That you’re white?”

  “No, that we’re family.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Where am I going? Go ahead and tell it.”

  So I do. About Jared S. and standoffish Tonia, and the scheming Steve Meyers whose help I need to save the family business. And then about adorable Sukie the Tibetan Jew and most importantly, Jake’s proposed masquerade to save the family trademark.

  Another deliveryman arrives, this one with our deluxe sushi lunch. She opens the plastic tray and places it between us.

  “Come on, take the crab rolls, Heather. You know you want them.”

  She’s right. I live for crab rolls. I force a smile and take a nibble of one. There’s yet another knock on the door. Followed by the entrance of a beautiful man impeccably dressed in a black suit and tasteful green tie. It’s Mahmoud Habib, who has taxied down from Le Cirque to say hi to Vondra.