by Toby Devens
“Enough,” I said finally. He looked up from between my thighs and blinked. I didn’t have to repeat myself. His mouth, which was his livelihood, was at risk.
“We have to talk,” I said.
“Yes, well, I’m not sure I can.” He rubbed his moist bottom lip.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said afterward, while he was getting into his boxers. “I know it’s a cliché, but it really wasn’t you. It was me.”
“Yes, it was.” And then he did something he hadn’t done in our three years together: he cued me into a talk about us, past the mantle and into the core. “What’s going on, Judith? Not just this short circuit—that happens—but something’s brewing beneath the surface. I think I know, but I deserve to hear it from you.”
“It’s not Charlie,” I said, giving myself away smack out of the gate. Nerves must have scrambled my censoring mechanism.
He gave a short laugh. “Come on, Jude. You think I’m that lamb-brained? Give me credit.”
“Okay, maybe it’s partially Charlie. But just because of the timing. Lots of things—my upcoming birthday, my good report from the doc—got me to thinking about how much time I have left and what I need to make the most of it.”
“Charlie Pruitt is not what you need,” he growled. “A judge. At the concert—Christ, what a bloody stuffed shirt.” Geoff ran a hand through his longish hair, glossy dark blond without a wisp of gray.
It occurred to me that the man I was trading in would be snapped up in a heartbeat by someone willing to settle for looks, charm, wit, and—if her mind wasn’t two hundred and fifty miles away in Manhattan—fabulous sex. With no strings—a sentiment I’d fully subscribed to. But now, maybe I wanted more. Or maybe I wanted my knot tightened by someone else. The truth was I didn’t know what I wanted, except the freedom to find out. I told him that, editing out the knot part.
But Geoff was no fool. “Charlie. That three-button suit and the necktie of his with the Harvard logos? The man is a tight-ass, Jude; you think he can make you happy? But—hell, whatever floats your boat, darling. If it’s freedom you want, it’s freedom you’ll have.” Chin jutted, he was taking it like a man.
We dressed, the silence broken only by his phone ringing as I shrugged on my sweater. Except for a flat smile in my approximate direction as I gathered my jacket and car keys, I was ignored. My good-bye wave was met with a casual answering wave. And then, with one foot into the hall, I heard him say, “Hold on a minute, Jacko.”
He padded over on the hardwood and turned me around to face him. “Whatever you decide, I hope it works out for you, Judith. My blessings.”
• • •
Charlie checked in by phone that night from a black-tie fund-raiser for the Museum of Modern Art. He was a busy boy. He’d chaired a six p.m. meeting of the New York State Bar Association’s ethics committee and now, he told me, he was standing in the MOMA sculpture garden between the Lachaise nude and a massive steel Richard Serra installation, sipping a vodka martini and thinking of me. Sweet.
“Also, I don’t mean to press you, but I have to RSVP the retirement party for Uncle Ed.”
“I’d love to go with you,” I said. The magic of Charlie was powerful enough to cast out any residual social phobia of mine.
“Really? That’s wonderful, Ju-ju.” He sounded surprised, elated. “Do me a favor. Call my secretary tomorrow and give her your social security number. You’ll need to be cleared.”
“For a party? Who’s doing the clearing?”
“When the party is for a Supreme Court justice, one who’s been the swing vote on a number of highly controversial decisions over the last forty years, they have to take precautions. Especially post 9/11. I’m assuming it falls to the FBI to review the backgrounds of the guests. It’s not our old, cozy, uncomplicated world out there, as you know. But you’ll enjoy the crowd. All the Washington stars will be out. I’ll tell Diana to expect your call.” His voice peeled away and I heard him say, “Yes, very well. Thanks, Mr. Mayor. And you? Wonderful.” He was back with me. “Better return to the party. Sleep well, ma belle.” Hokey, but that had been his sign-off on our phone calls twenty-seven years before when I was still living in the campus dorm.
After I clicked off, I kicked off the coverlet. April weather in Baltimore was erratic. It had been in the seventies until a few hours earlier, when a cold front swept down from Canada. But Charlie’s call had made me sweat. Or maybe it was my first hot flash of the night that left me wringing wet. At forty-nine, I found it hard to tell the difference.
Chapter 11
Geoff was coolish at rehearsal on Thursday. All I got was a thin smile he sent like a paper airplane over the heads of the brass section into the strings. Before it crashed, I smiled back, but he was already occupied with tuning up and had his eyes closed. At break, not finding him in the musicians’ lounge kibitzing with the poker players, I figured he was ducking me. I did get a shoulder clap and a quick “Thanks, Judith” after Friday night’s performance, but that was in response to my compliment on his brilliant solo in the Gershwin. Geoff was unflappable onstage. Off, he carried the strained look of a man with an untrussed hernia.
Saturday evening, before we went on, he finally approached, brow wrinkled. “I just want to know, uh . . . thought I’d ask if, under the new rules, I need to send my regrets to your aunt Phyllis. Because if it would make you uncomfortable to have me at the table Tuesday, I can skip it. No problem, really.”
Oh God, the Seder. With Jewish holidays governed by the moon and the dates fluctuating year to year, I had to be reminded when to feel guilty about not observing them. Except for Passover. Though I sometimes had to be reminded, I always observed it.
Credit to my mother—even after Irwin scrammed for warmer climes, she never failed to bring me to Seder with his family. First at Grandma Roz’s apartment in Flatbush. And what an apartment! It was tiny and dark, but in a twist of irony I didn’t appreciate until much later, this old lady who wasn’t thrilled to have an Asian fusion granddaughter had, long before Grace was in the picture, decorated her home with cloisonné lamps, red lacquered tables, and a large screen painted with flying cranes. The place resembled Sun Yat’s, my grandmother’s favorite restaurant down the street. She even kept a canary in a bamboo cage, a feathered surrogate who twice nipped my finger, drawing blood. My grandmother had a yen for Oriental. As they said in Korean: Go know.
After Aunt Phyllis got married, she took over the Seder. But because my grandmother’s cuisine was legendary—read: notorious—she brought jars of her homemade gefilte fish and matzo ball soup out to Long Island. According to my aunt, this had nothing to do with tradition; Grandma Roz just couldn’t give up what was known in the family as the “in-laws’ surprise.” In a triumph of passive-aggressive gastronomy, she managed to serve only her son-in-law (whom she’d dubbed “The Rug Salesman,” although he owned the very profitable Feldmesser’s Magic Carpets chain) and her Korean daughter-in-law portions that contained a little something extra. One year it was a single gray hair in the fish, another it was a pared fingernail in a matzo ball, and in her most memorable coup, Uncle Arnold picked a staple from between his teeth that had been buried in her hand-grated horseradish.
“An accident,” she’d said with a shrug.
“Some accident,” my uncle had responded. “Like Hitler was an accident.”
My mother let it ride. “Because family most important. Your grandma love you, Judith. Don’t know how to show, but she love you.” I wasn’t sure about that, but I suppose I kept trying to make it true, because I flew in from Boston during spring break at the conservatory, and from Atlanta, where I settled first after Charlie and I had split. The only years I missed Seder with the Feldmesser/Raphael clan was when I was married to Todd. Todd Grossman was a cantor at the synagogue I attended, which was how I’d met him. A year into our marriage, he had some kind of epiphany that prodded him to upshi
ft from Reform to Orthodox Judaism. I wasn’t willing to make the journey by his side. I looked lousy in hats. The last Seder we attended together was incredibly meticulous and interminably long. My family’s version tended toward the Haggadah Digest condensed edition.
Geoff had come with me last year. He’d trained up to New York with my mother and me on the Acela Express and charmed the Long Island family. Raised eyebrows were exchanged around the table—Judith has finally landed a mensch, a good one. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t Jewish. In my gene pool, precedent had been set.
Phyllis swooned—the upscale version of plotzed—because Geoff had read the Haggadah story of the Exodus in rich tones that made him sound like, according to her, “an Australian Charlton Heston.” My mother heaped his plate with brisket. Arnold and he talked sports. Geoff, who was Church of England, ate it all up, including the gefilte fish, which was an acquired taste. On the spot, he was invited for the following year and he accepted then and there, as if it were dead cert he was going to be in my life in twelve months. So, no . . . No way was I going to deprive him of his pleasure, or the rest of the guests of his company.
“Of course you’re still invited. My mother would kill me if you didn’t come.”
“She knows about us, then? And your family? That we’re not us anymore? Because it could be awkward.” He gave me a wry smile. “Talk about the Last Supper.”
“I’m telling her today. I promise she won’t sling the soup at you.”
“I wasn’t worried about me, Jude.” He paused for a moment. “I’m carting in a rug for my mate in SoHo, so I’m driving up. Care to join me?”
I hadn’t thought about the travel. Talk about awkward. “I’ve already bought my Acela ticket,” I lied. “But thanks.”
“Well, see you over the bitter herbs, then.”
• • •
As it turned out, when I broke the news to my mother, she fluffed it off. “Time for change. He never marry you. Good boy, but too young. Not ready to settle down like at your age.”
“He’s young? We’re only six years apart.”
“Korean fortune say six year bad spread for couple. Six bring sang chun sal. Not so good luck. You be happy together, but poor like beggar.”
I waved off that craziness. “Plus, who says I want to settle down?” I internally counted to ten. “I’m leaving it to you to tell Aunt Phyllis about Geoff and me.” That way I’d avoid the lecture about what a find Geoff was, how grateful I should be for such a wonderful man, and where did I get off being so picky? “And no talking about it at the Seder.”
“Don’t worry. Was going to tell you, Judith. Seder off this year. Aunt Phyllis call last night. She sick. Has UFO.”
When I gave her a quizzical look, she gave me an exasperated one back. “You know, pee-pee backed up.”
“Ah, UTI. She has a urinary tract infection.”
“That one. Always in bathroom. Can’t do Seder.” I breathed a deep sigh of relief. “And don’t call her to say sorry. Big secret. Down there.” She pointed to her own crotch. “She so embarrassed. Now tell me, dress look good, yes? Ah, aigoo, very nice.”
Almost as interesting as Aunt Phyllis’s canceling Seder because of her UFO was where my mother was telling me this—on a Sunday morning, in a Loehmann’s dressing room while she was doing the unthinkable: trying on dresses. She’d left a message that morning to meet her there.
Grace had never been one for shopping, especially for clothes. Every couple of years I dragged her to Chico’s, where I’d treat her to three or four outfits at a clip so we wouldn’t have to go through the torture again for a while. She’d find a look she liked and would buy it in different colors so she’d only have to try it on once.
“Who want to look in mirror that show everything? Aigoo! Gain so much weight. I skinny till I have you, Judith. Now fat old lady.”
That’s what she used to say. But today she said, “Not bad, I think. You like black better? Or green? Winnie, come look. Tell me truth.”
Winnie Chang, a well-educated third-generation Chinese-American and the only other Asian at Blumen House, didn’t have much in common with my uneducated immigrant mother. But Winnie loved to shop and she still drove her ten-year-old Mercedes.
“Say hello Dr. Chang. She bring me. What one you think, Winnie, green or black?” My mother smoothed the skirt over her hips.
“Hello, Judith. Grace looks good, doesn’t she? The fifteen pounds makes a difference.” Winnie checked out the mirror image. “Personally, I like the black.”
My mother turned slowly and peeked over her shoulder at her reflected behind. “Fat ko not so big now.”
I stared at this woman whom I saw every week, sometimes twice a week, wondering how I hadn’t noticed she’d dropped fifteen pounds. To be fair, it wasn’t evident in her face, which retained its pretty roundness, and the drapey fabric of her Chico’s outfits had hidden her exact shape. Who was I kidding? I’d fended off Marti’s accusation that I was insensitive where Geoff was concerned, but maybe she was on to something. Maybe the rankling truth was I was so caught up in my own suddenly shifting life that I didn’t really see anyone but me.
“Green more young, but black make me look thin. I take black. Also two pair trouser pants and nightgown. Mine all torn. These only ten dollar. Good buy.” She emitted a delighted laugh at my stunned, slack-jawed silence. “Winnie, you got no kid, but I tell you they make you nuts. Look at Judith face. She think I go crazy. A dress, few nightgown, and I need funny farm. Time is spring, Judith. Flower boom.” She reached out and stroked my cheek. Her fingernails were freshly manicured. With red polish yet. She never wore any polish. “I know. You make big change with Geoff. Even if turns out right, you sad. But you buy something new, you cheer up. Don’t say no. Buy something new. I pay.”
She insisted I try on a black crepe sleeveless Donna Karan from the Back Room. Size six, marked down hundreds, final sale. “So beautiful, Judith. Meant for you.” She was right. It was elegant, classic. Charlie’s kind of dress, perfect for the Georgetown party.
“Look how happy,” my mother said to Winnie Chang. “Look at smile just for dress. Worth twice price.”
Chapter 12
It was weird spending Passover at home alone. My mother had invited me to the Blumen House Seder last minute, but I decided I might as well skip the whole shebang this year and eat a bologna sandwich, watch TV, and go to bed early. As it turned out, this night really was different from all other nights; it had some kind of hold on me. So I spent the few hours before sundown brewing chicken soup according to Aunt Phyllis’s recipe and making matzo balls from scratch. Then I sat myself down at my dining room table with a nice place mat and a glass of Manischewitz wine, the teeth-achingly sweet concord grape syrup that’s the madeleine of the holiday to American Jews, and read the Haggadah story of Exodus straight through. Crazy lady, but at least I didn’t recite it out loud.
The phone rang twice that evening as I nibbled my way through a box of chocolate-dipped macaroons. First time was a hang-up, probably a wrong number, but without caller ID.
I could speculate it was Geoff checking to see whether the Seder really had been canceled. He’d expressed regret when my mother informed him it had been called on account of the host’s flu.
“I couldn’t tell him pee-pee.” She’d wrinkled her nose in distaste. “And he say maybe next year.”
“He said that? Maybe next year? Oh Lord, what did you say?”
“I say maybe. You no mudang. You don’t know, Judith. No one know what future bring.”
Wonderful. That could have been just enough encouragement to spur him to make a Seder night call. Then, when he heard my voice, he lost his nerve or realized my mother had been telling the truth, so he hung up. Or it could have been someone looking for a plumber.
The second caller didn’t even know it was Passover and wasn’t surprised to fi
nd me in. Charlie sounded much less ebullient than during his last call from the MOMA party. I thought perhaps the social security number I’d provided to his secretary hadn’t cleared. My mother probably had family in North Korea. Had that raised a red flag?
I found out soon enough that the problem was worse than international espionage.
“Kiki’s coming.” Charlie’s voice was funereal. “To the party for Uncle Ed. She was invited, of course—Ed and Kay were my parents’ closest friends. Everyone assumed in her current condition Mother wouldn’t think of making the trip. But dammit if she didn’t decide to attend. Can you believe that?”
I believed it. I remembered how she’d interrupted Charlie’s and my tryst in the moonlight with her fainting spell. Either the old lady was a witch or you had to laugh at my lousy luck. For the time being, I laughed.
Charlie exhaled a kind of woof at the other end. “I’m sorry, Ju-ju. This was totally unexpected. You’re not going to back out on me, are you?”
“Charlie, you know I was never a social butterfly. That hasn’t changed. A room full of strangers, I’d rather hide out in my cocoon. So if you’re going to have to chaperone your mother all evening and that leaves me on my own, then for everybody’s sake I’d rather pass.”
“No,” he said. “That’s not the way it’s going to be. I’ve got a nurse coming along to keep an eye on her. And if Mother gets out of line, the nurse has strict instructions they’re gone one-two-three. Whatever happens, I’m with you. Leading the way. By your side.”
“Anatomically impossible.”
“Not at all. I’ll split myself in half for you. Whatever it takes.”
The Charlie who’d once dumped me was willing to do whatever it took to win me back. In front of Kiki. If that wasn’t irresistible, I didn’t know what was.