Sex, Drugs & Gefilte Fish

by Shana Liebman

  We were both quiet for a minute. Off in the distance, the clouds were turning from orange to red.

  “Right,” I said finally. “I mean, I’m not going all Lubavitcher on you.”

  I looked over at Ev. He was snoring softly.

  The truth is, it pissed me off a little. I mean, I felt for the guy. Carmen was a ballbuster. But it was like, come on: Represent the tribe. This woman knew you were Jewish. She agreed to a Jewish ceremony. The least you could do was get your son properly outfitted on the genital front.

  That night, I lay in bed and thought about little Isaac’s nozzle. I couldn’t get past how ridiculous it looked. Like a tiny cowl-neck sweater. Then I started thinking about—and I know how terrible this sounds—but I started thinking about the word smegma. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Smegma… smegma… smegma. That’s what little Isaac was looking at, a lifetime supply of the stuff. And not only that, but there was no way his little Jewish friends were ever going to accept him as a Jew once they saw the nozzle. What Carmen had done, in effect, she’d pulled off a palace coup.

  When I got up the next morning, Ev had already left. Carmen was in the kitchen fixing eggs, with the kid plopped next to her, asleep in his little portable baby La-Z-Boy.

  “Smells great,” I said.

  Carmen turned and smiled at me. She had this knockout smile.

  “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Like a horse,” I said.

  “Like a horse?”

  “Or like a stone, maybe. Maybe stone makes more sense.”

  Carmen brought me a plate of eggs and some sausage and this ultra-buttery Cuban toast and café con leche, which, if you don’t know, is basically a cup of hot milk with a shot of espresso and about a pound of sugar. I dipped the toast into the coffee and let it get nice and soggy.

  Carmen laughed. “That’s what my dad does.”

  “Great minds,” I said.

  She sat down across from me. “Man,” I said. “These eggs are delicious. What’s in here?”

  “Just such some cheese and chives.”

  “Chives,” I said. “Wow.” As you might have gathered, I’m not much of a cook. The act of spicing tends to amaze me.

  She smiled again. “I’m glad to have such an appreciative audience.”

  It was another gorgeous day there in Miami. The sun was beating down on all the plants in the backyard and a soft breeze was coming through the screen door. I thought to myself: This wouldn’t be so bad, to live here. What was so great about New York anyway? It was cold as hell and dirty, and the business I was in was full of people who smiled at you while they knifed you in the back.

  “So,” Carmen said, “Evan tells me you’d prefer if Isaac was circumcised.”

  I glanced across the table. She was still smiling, though I couldn’t really see her teeth anymore.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We talked about that a little last night.”

  “He said you were kind of upset.” Carmen raised her eyebrows.

  “The thing is, I realize we’re not the most Jewish family in the world. But Isaac is half Jewish anyway, that’s a part of who he is. And what with modern medicine and everything, it doesn’t seem like that big a deal to just get him circumcised.”

  “It’s not that big a deal to you,” Carmen said, “because it’s not your penis they’re going to slice.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I’m not sure I’d put it like that.”

  “How would you put it?”

  Here’s the thing: I liked Carmen. I really did. She was a tough cookie. And Ev needed a tough cookie, someone who could call him on his bullshit. But she also had this hunger for drama that made me a little suspicious. “I just think it’s something that could make his life a little easier down the line. I mean, most men are circumcised these days. And his dad is circumcised. Don’t you think he’s going to feel a little funny when he sees his dad and then looks at himself?”

  “Actually, I think he’d find the size discrepancy more disturbing,” Carmen said. “That’s been my experience with men.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” I said. “I realize this is your and Ev’s call.”

  “Right.”

  “All I’m saying is that it’s part of our identity, the Jewish identity. Kind of like our trademark.”

  “But you just got done saying how almost all men are circumcised.”

  “Right,” I said. “Because the idea caught on. But it’s still something that’s associated with Jews. We were the ones who started it.”

  “Actually,” Carmen said, “there’s considerable evidence that many of the ancient cultures practiced circumcision. So actually, it was the Jews who got the idea from someone else. They were just the first ones to link the practice to God.” Should I mention that Carmen had studied classics?

  “The biblical scholars say circumcision was just a way of preventing disease. Because, back then, obviously, men couldn’t wash as much. So you had all kinds of infections down there.” Smegma, I thought, idiotically. Smegma.

  “But today, with our standards of cleanliness, those risks don’t exist anymore. There’s really no reason to circumcise a child.”

  “Of course there is,” I said. “Because God said to do it.”

  “But you don’t believe in God,” Carmen said. This was true.

  “It’s not so much a God thing,” I said. “It’s more like a cultural thing. Like, respecting that part of his identity is Jewish.”

  “You really think the shape of his penis is going to make him a Jew or not?”

  “Well, I mean, it’s not a one-to-one ratio.”

  But before I could say anything else, Isaac started to whimper, and Carmen picked him up and carried him to the couch. She pulled her shirt up and stuck him on her boob. “I’m not trying to be dismissive,” she said. “I realize that my husband is Jewish. That’s part of the reason I love him. We plan to raise our kids in a way that respects his religion and mine. Look at his name. He’s named after your father. We just felt like there was no reason to subject our baby to a painful, barbaric custom.”

  “You mean you felt that way,” I muttered.

  “Excuse me,” Carmen said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you implying that I forced this decision on Evan?”

  “I’m not implying anything. It’s none of my business. Listen, I didn’t come down here to cause trouble.”

  “That’s what gets me about Judaism,” Carmen said. “It’s so clannish. It’s like all those laws you guys have are really just a way of dividing people.”

  “I’m not sure the Catholics have any kind of record to brag about,” I said.

  I could feel Carmen glaring at me as I finished my eggs, so I just got out of there, took my rental car to the beach and lay on the sand and fried.

  That night, Ev came into my room. He looked exhausted, his eyes all hollowed out.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “All that stuff with Carmen. It got a little nasty.”

  He plopped down at the foot of my bed. “So I gathered.”

  “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  There was a silence.

  “No,” he said quietly. “You were right.”

  “I was?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I feel the same way. Should have had the kid snipped. If you don’t insist on some things, the thing just disappears.” Ev laid his head back against the wall. “That’s what the Orthodox say about us already. We’re not even Jews to them, because we don’t follow the laws.”

  “Yeah, but Carmen had some good points,” I said. “She’s no dope. You can’t base a whole religion on laws. It should cut deeper than that.” Ev closed his eyes. I thought he might be sacking out on me again. But then he cleared his throat.

  “You remember what Dad used to say whenever I’d complain about having to come in to light the candles, or waiting to eat at the Seder? He’d say, ‘You’re a part of history, Evan. Don’t y
ou want to be a part of history?’ It’s a silly thing to say to a kid, because kids don’t care about history. They just want to play, whatever. But I was thinking about that today. I want Isaac to know where he comes from, that he’s a part of a history that’s greater than all of us.” Ev laughed. “Jesus,” he said. “I sound just like the bastard.”

  “Was he really a bastard?”

  “Not really,” Ev said. “Just kind of severe. Old school. Here’s something you probably didn’t know—he circumcised both of us.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No, it’s the law. If the father is trained, he’s required to perform the bris. Mom told me those ceremonies were two of the happiest moments of his life.” Ev shook his head. “The thing about Carmen, she acts all tough on the outside. But inside, she’s as soft as they come. She can’t stand for Isaac to cry. It’s something to do with her family. Not like her dad was some kind of ogre. But he wasn’t around much, and the women, Carmen and her mom, they were stuck trying to keep everyone happy.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “She loves him,” Ev said. “She loves that guy so much.”

  He opened his eyes, and I could see that they’d watered up a little. And it will seem strange to say, but I knew right then that he wasn’t just talking about Carmen and his son, he was also talking about himself and our dad, sort of remembering those moments when he’d felt the pure, dangerous beam of our father’s love.

  I didn’t know what to say. I mean, we’re not the kind of family where this heavy stuff comes up too much. We’re more of a duck-and-weave kind of operation. But I could see that Ev was really struggling with this thing and that made me feel bad again, for sort of barging in and making things complicated.

  “It’s late,” I said. “You shouldn’t worry about all this now. See if you can catch some sleep.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m going to work this thing out. The important thing to remember is that Carmen and me, we both, you know…” His voice sort of wobbled there a second. I was scared to death that he might start crying, that I’d be expected to say something deep and rescuing.

  Ev closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “All I’m saying is that we both care about you. And if anything should ever happen to me.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I’m saying if it did, whatever, I’d be counting on you to look out for Isaac. And I’d hate to think that anything would stand in the way of that.”

  “Are you kidding? No way, Ev.” And then I saw what he was talking about, the nozzle thing. “Oh God,” I said. “Not for a second. You don’t even need to say it.”

  Ev patted my leg. It was something my dad used to do. I felt like hugging the guy, because I could see how hard he was working, to support his family, to keep the peace with his wife, to fulfill the promise he’d made to our dad. He was worn out from making his own history, I guess you could say. And it was clear to me that my devotion to him was the most important thing here, more important than any flap of skin, or God’s orders or whatever. We had to stick together. And I don’t mean as Jews so much as brothers, as guys who shared the same blood and the same history. It was like Carmen had said: Circumcision was really just a sign of devotion, of loyalty. All those 614 laws—however many there were—they were just a way of trying to maintain the brotherhood.

  From the other room, we heard Isaac start to whimper.

  And then we heard Carmen get up from the bed and pad over to his crib. Ev didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything either. We both got up and went to the doorway and peeked into the bedroom. The kid was latched onto her boob, one of his hands set right there and the other clutching a curl of her hair. It was quite a thing to see.

  Carmen looked up at us, through the dimness of the room. She squinted. For a second I thought she might be pissed that we were spying on her. But then she smiled, a little shyly. “What are you two doing up? I thought it was just the baby and me.”

  “Nope,” Ev said softly.

  We were both just standing there, smiling like idiots at her and the kid.

  “You guys look like you’ve been conspiring,” Carmen said.

  “Always,” I said. “Forever.”

  True Tales from Katzalot

  By Mark Katz

  I DON’T REMEMBER MUCH about that terrible day in November, as I was just a fetus at the time. But here’s what I’ve been told: By the time the third shot was fired from the book depository behind the grassy knoll, the phone rang in my parents’ Brooklyn apartment. My mother, eight months pregnant and prone to hysteria, was watching the horror happen on live TV. On the other end of the phone was my grandma Rose, a can-do matriarch calling from her home on Avenue U, six blocks away. The tone of her voice had the calm, cool resonance of a hostage negotiator.

  “Adrienne, listen to me. This has nothing to do with you. Now, turn off the television and go lie down. I’ll be over in five minutes.…”

  Like Camelot itself, my family’s history with the Kennedy administration may have been somewhat mythologized. My parents raised four kids (for Jews we were practically Irish!), and four times a year, the birthday child was traditionally regaled with the story of the day he or she arrived, perhaps slightly embellished from year to year. Mine always began with this incident from when I was negative five weeks old. The next beat of this time-honored tale takes place two days later: a nearly identical phone call from Grandma Rose that rang moments before Jack Ruby had been wrestled to the ground. For the second time in those frightful 48 hours, my grandmother managed to successfully reason with my mother’s uterus.

  These details from the weeks before my birth only hint at the effect that the Kennedy era had on a child born in its aftermath. And like the birth itself, this was mostly due to a determined effort by my mom.

  Mom’s ex post facto fixation began with the arrival of the Kennedy memorial issues of magazines like Life and Look that began piling up in the living room of the split-level house we moved to in the summer of 1964. Page after page featured photographs of John and Jackie, John-John and Caroline—impossibly attractive, effortlessly stylish people in godly repose—and flipping through them elicited the palpable lifestyle yearnings of a J. Crew catalog. Before long, my mother had begun to use these magazines as how-to manuals for creating a little Camelot of her own. And in my first five years, those between Dallas and the moon landing, I was raised in a suburban enclave of Kennedy culture entirely of my mother’s making.

  Phase One began innocently enough, when my mom joined the ranks of the millions of women taking fashion cues from America’s stylish first lady. In the Jewish fashion week otherwise known as the High Holidays, she started showing up at synagogue in Oleg Cassini knockoff dresses, her bouffanted hair beneath a pillbox hat. Young, slender and pretty, she carried off the look better than most—but would probably have elicited fewer stares had Nixon won in 1960 and had she shown up in a respectable Republican cloth coat instead. As time wore on, my mother’s fascination with all things Jackie led her to replace the buttons on her dresses with larger, more pronounced ones, accessorizing each dress with a coordinating wrap. And if there had been a tailor who could have lengthened her neck or widened the distance between her eyes, she might have done that too.

  Phase Two focused on my father. She set out to refashion a short-but-sturdy, round-faced dentist with sparse, flaccid hair into a chiseled, toothy Kennedy. Dentists are notoriously bad dressers, and my father was color-blind to boot. Dad proved immune to the Jack Kennedy accents she added to his wardrobes: thin ties, tie clips, crisp shirts and athletic cut sport jackets with narrow lapels. Clothing that looked effortlessly good on JFK looked belabored on him. One Father’s Day, she gave him monogrammed handkerchiefs, but the embroidered JSK protruding from his pocket seemed more than just one letter off. She had to face the fact that the most she could accomplish by dressing up a short D.D.S. was to make hi
m resemble a short M.D.—and then only from a distance.

  Phase Three was me—the child she nearly had the day he was shot and that she hugged through her belly the day he was buried. And when I arrived, five weeks into the Johnson administration, my life began as my mother’s very own living, breathing, crying, pooping John-John doll.

  I make no apologies for the fact that I was a stunningly beautiful child. My eyes were big and blue, my hair was golden and silky, and I’ll be damned if my face wasn’t cherubic. Later in life, I’d stare at the photographs that only partially captured my beauty and curse the irreparable damage of puberty. But at the time, my mom looked down to see a baby prince and set out to raise a John-John of her own, the templates for which were right there in the pages of those magazines on the coffee table.

  Both of my grandfathers were professional clothiers: Her father, my grandpa Joe, was the proprietor of Joseph’s, a children’s clothing store well-known to those who lived in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. My grandpa Max was a tailor, and the owner of the Parkway Cleaners in St. Albans, Queens. At my mother’s behest, they worked in tandem to customize, to her specifications, the finest children’s clothing on the market: velvet jackets with embroidered crests; knit jumpers in regal purples, reds and blues; and short pants lined with satin that hung from matching suspenders.

  As if the princely wardrobe weren’t enough, the first pair of shoes ever strapped to my feet were red, open-toe, faux-leather Stride Rite sandals—near-perfect replicas of the pair John-John wore the day of the poignant salute.

  For my very first haircut, she took me to the stripe-poled barbershop in the local shopping plaza and asked the old Italian gentleman for a “John-John,” then pulled out a collection of photographs showcasing the front, side and back of John-John’s head. She explained in exact detail the hairstyle she sought: bangs pushed forward for the effortlessly tousled look. The sides should be trimmed above the ear and the back left longer and fuller. The nice old man promised to do his best, but as he lifted the electric buzzer, my mother snatched me from his chair. On the way home, she stopped off at the pharmacy and picked up a new pair of stainless steel scissors, long and slim with a Q-shaped finger rest. This was the day I received my first mom-administered haircut.