Naomi, The Rabbi's Wife

by Miriam Finesilver

  As soon as she entered the apartment, though breathless from walking up four flights, Naomi made a beeline for the telephone.

  “This is Naomi Gold. Do you have any messages for me?” Naomi waited for the operator to check and watched Anne put the leftover pizza in their refrigerator.

  “Gwen Champion’s office called. You have a callback tomorrow morning at 9:30.”

  Naomi squealed and jumped up and down before hanging up the phone. “I got a callback. Tomorrow morning . . . a callback. Anne, I gotta get this part.”

  “Don’t you have to go to your parents tomorrow?”

  “I don’t have to be there until dinnertime on Saturday. You know, at sundown. It’s crazy. Tomorrow night starts Yom Kippur and like usual the next night Mom and Dad want me there to break the fast with them.”

  “What’s crazy about that?”

  “You’ve lived with me through two Yom Kippurs already. Have I ever fasted? Yet I go home every year to basically pig out with the family pretending I’m famished because I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.”

  “Then what’s the purpose?”

  Anne’s question took Naomi off-guard. “I don’t know. It’s family, that’s all. I gotta get to bed. Need my beauty sleep.”

  “Yeah, especially for tomorrow.” Anne walked toward her bedroom but then turned back. “In case I don’t see you in the morning, good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Naomi readied for bed, Anne’s question replayed itself. What was the purpose? The more she tried dismissing it, the more resentful she became. How dare her question my traditions?

  “Naomi Gold. I’m here for a—”

  “They’re expecting you.” This time the woman at the sign-in desk actually made eye contact. “You can go right in.”

  As Naomi entered the audition room, Gary rose from his chair. “Hey, Goldblatt, come on and step up to the plate.”

  Even with their backs to her, Naomi recognized the casting director and the unnamed producer from yesterday. A heavyset stranger with blonde hair stood in front of them.

  Gwen Champion twisted in her seat to face Naomi. “Ms. Gold . . . Goldblatt . . . oh, for goodness sake, just tell me what you want to be called.”

  “I’d prefer Gold. That’s what’s on my resume. But, please, call me Naomi.”

  “Of course.” Ms. Champion stretched her arm toward the unidentified man. “Tony is the longest-standing member of Mr. Ruben’s troupe and has graciously given his time to work with you today.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tony resembled a giant teddy bear and his gracious smile spread across his broad face. “From what I’ve heard, seems I better get used to working with you.”

  Gary held out a four-page script. “Since you’re so fast with your mouth, Naomi Gold, I’m figuring you’ll enjoy a cold reading. Here you go.”

  Tony whispered, “Let’s just have some fun, okay?”

  “Naomi,” Ms. Champion said, “this is a sketch Tony has performed for the last month with Francine Chambers. If we like you, this will be a part you will be playing. It’s called ‘The Taming of the Jew.’”

  “Hope you’re up on your Shakespeare,” the producer’s gravelly voice warned.

  Gwen Champion stood and positioned herself to block the producer from Naomi’s line of vision. “Tony will read the role of Pet Rock and you will read Kvetch.”

  Naomi attempted her first line, but stumbled over the fast-paced tongue-twisting words. “Sorry.”

  Tony put his arm around her. “Shakespearean prose. Whew, it’s a beast, isn’t it? Took me awhile, but now all that iambic rhythm, it comes naturally. Go ahead, try your line again.”

  “Let us be quick-sah and get to the bar mitzvah.”

  Tony laughed. “By jove, I think she’s got it.”

  At the completion of this skit, Ms. Champion handed her a longer sketch, a spoof of a 1960s Beach Party movie. Naomi played Crabette Funicello, and Tony played Crabby Avalon.

  They bantered through a couple of pages of dialog. Gary then punched the play button on a cassette recorder. Naomi easily glided into the classic bubble-gum tune.

  When their duet ended, Tony smiled broadly. “All right.”

  Gary turned off the cassette recorder. “Time to run through some improvs.”

  Mr. Producer stood, pointed to his watch, and exited the audition hall.

  For the next half hour, Naomi and Tony improvised scenes in front of a bus stop, at a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and inside an airplane during a thunderstorm. Each scene required a different format, from soap opera, to foreign language gibberish, to musical comedy.

  Abruptly in the middle of a TV sitcom parody, Tony stepped out of character. “I want to work with her. She’s good.”

  Gary rose and gave a thumbs-up. “For you, Big Guy, anything. She’s hired.”

  “Really? I am?”

  Naomi ran up the four flights, flew into her bedroom, crawled under the bed, and brought out her suitcase. Battered a bit but still the special gift Naomi’s parents gave her to say “Now you’re on your own.” Dad, of course, had to add, “And you better make us proud.” With bright yellow, red, and orange flowers splashed on the imitation leather material, how could a girl not love it?

  With the phone scrunched between her left ear and shoulder, she tossed a pair of pajamas, an extra skirt and blouse, a pair of jeans, and a change of underwear into the suitcase. “Hi, Mom. What time’s service at the shul tonight?”

  “You mean tomorrow’s, don’t you, sweetheart?”

  “No, I don’t mean tomorrow. I want to be with you and Dad tonight, and also to fast with the both of you.”

  She halted the frenetic packing and sat on her bed. “I was going to surprise you when I got there, but I’ll tell you now—”

  “Oh sugar, you met someone. Who is he?”

  “No, Mom, I’m not getting married. That’s not the surprise, okay? But listen. I got a part in an off-Broadway show. I’m going to be joining the union. I’ll really be a working actress and I won’t have to waitress any more. Anyway, I feel I should be, I don’t know, thanking God, cause maybe He’s really watching over me, huh?”

  “I’m so proud of you. My best daughter.”

  “Mom, I’m your only daughter, but okay, you’re my best Mom.”

  “I love when you tell me that. Sugar, the service tonight starts at seven.”

  Naomi scanned the bus schedule which rested on her nightstand. The Greyhound leaving the Port Authority at three should work perfectly. “Okay, Mom, I’ll be there at six. Tell Dad to pick me up.”

  It only took another few minutes to finish stuffing the suitcase. Before leaving her room, Naomi’s eyes were drawn to the sampler hung above her bed. Years ago, her mother had embroidered the prayer: “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

  Along the border, Mom had stitched pink chubby cherubs. A little girl knelt beside a bed, hands clasped in prayer.

  When Naomi was a child, Mom would kneel beside her at bedtime and before they prayed, she’d asked, “What’s something you can thank the Almighty for, Shug?”

  According to her mom, the One honored at the shul needed to be thanked. Like a good girl, she would do exactly that.

  Before boarding the bus, Naomi paid a visit to her favorite bookstore on the first floor of the Port Authority.

  “Hi Gus, what’s the newest bestseller?”

  The elderly craggy-faced man called out to one of his employees. “Mike, open that box just came in.” Turning back to Naomi, he asked, “You read Love Story, right?”

  “Of course. Didn’t everybody?”

  “Then you’re ready for the sequel. Oliver’s Story. Selling like hotcakes. Hadn’t seen ya in a while.” He accepted the check she quickly wrote out. “Don’t worry about I.D. Sssh, only for you, cause you’re a cutie, been one ever since first time you came in here. What were you then, al
l of thirteen?”

  “Yup, thirteen. Thanks. Next time I see ya, I’ll give you a book report.”

  The first passenger to board the bus, Naomi had her choice of seats. She opted for one by the window at the very back. Whether she read her new paperback or found herself distracted as she tried to absorb this exciting new chapter in her life, she craved solitude.

  You’ve come a long way, kiddo.

  Thirteen years old—her first solo Greyhound into Manhattan. It was soon after her Aunt Ida had mentioned a teen acting workshop. “It’s part of the Stella Adler Acting Studio.”

  The name sounded impressive, though she didn’t have a clue who Stella Adler was. “Dad, I wanna go. Can I, please?”

  Mom had misgivings, but Dad had a hard time denying his only daughter anything she wanted.

  For the next three years, each Saturday morning Dad drove her to the Sugar Bowl. The bus depot’s local diner was also the place to go for breakfast on Saturdays.

  The first time Naomi climbed the steps onto the bus, she heard half of Ellenville yelling at her dad. “Where’s your daughter think she’s going? Saul, what are you, crazy? You can’t let a kid go into the city by herself. What are you, meshugenah?”

  Expecting her dad to demand she get off the bus, Naomi turned around. She instead saw her father remove the ever-present pipe from his mouth and answer his critics. “She’s gonna be a star one day. Wait, you’ll see.”

  Now, eleven years later, her dad would have the satisfaction of seeing he was right. Saul and Helen Goldblatt’s successful daughter, the pride of Ellenville.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t a starring role on Broadway, but it could lead to one. Look what it did for Francine Chambers.

  Two hours whizzed by. She attempted reading her new paperback, but after the fifth time reading and rereading the first paragraph, she stuffed it into her shoulder bag. Her heavy eyes shut and she occupied her thoughts with her opening night. And how she would celebrate this momentous night going out afterwards with Gary Ruben. Well, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

  And then perhaps there would be a review from the New York Times. Sure, they had already reviewed the highly acclaimed Improv Asylum, but maybe they’d be interested in checking out the newest member of the comedy troupe.

  “Ellenville,” called the bus driver, jarring Naomi from her realer-than-real fantasy.

  She disembarked from the bus and immediately saw her pear-shaped dad. The sight of him puffing away on his pipe made her want to run up and hug him. But she knew better; Dad was not an affectionate man.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “I’ll wait for your suitcase. Mom’s in the diner. Go on in.”

  “Good to see you, too, Dad.”

  “Always a kidder, aren’t you? Go on in. We gotta get something quick to eat.”

  Naomi walked inside and saw all the familiar faces and heard all the familiar voices. Harry and Bessie Schwartz sat with Mortie and Evie Bluestein. And Mildred Shapiro yelled at Margaret, the waitress, “What do you mean bringing me soup that’s cold?”

  Same old, same old.

  “Naomi, look at you, a sophisticated New Yorker now,” boomed Bessie.

  Everyone turned and stared. Naomi waved and walked toward her mom, whose eyes filled with tears. Thank God for Mom. Her southern upbringing made up for Dad’s New York gruffness.

  Mom cupped her hands around Naomi’s face and cooed. “Oh, honey, you look beautiful.”

  “I’ve missed you, Mom.” Truth was she rarely ever thought about her parents, but making her mom happy was a good thing, wasn’t it?

  “I ordered for you. We have to be at shul by seven and since you’ll be fasting with us, you need to eat.”

  “What did you order?”

  Dad slid into the booth. “The suitcase is in the car. The food’s not here yet?”

  “Not yet, hon. Naomi, I ordered your favorite, hot pastrami on rye and potato salad.”

  “And cheesecake? I won’t be eating til tomorrow night, so why not?”

  Forty minutes later, Dad parked their car at the bottom of a hill, along with almost every other Jewish family living in Ellenville—and they climbed the small but steep hill leading to the shul.

  “Hey, Dad, remember when I once asked you why we didn’t just drive up to synagogue?”

  “And you remember what I told you? We’re good Jews. We’re not supposed to drive on the Sabbath. You remember?”

  “And do you remember what I said? I asked you, ‘Dad doesn’t Rabbi Eisner know everyone’s parking their car and then walking up?’ I mean c’mon already—it’s still silly.”

  “And you still have a fresh mouth.”

  Mom squeezed her daughter’s hand, and together they laughed. Dad thought about it for a second, shook his head, and then decided to laugh with them.

  As they entered Ezrath Israel, a wooden building built in 1907, Dad reached into his pocket for his yarmulke. He plopped it onto his shining bald spot and accepted the hairpin Mom offered him.

  He hardly has any more hair to clip it to these days. Oh, Dad, I wish you’d let me hug you.

  He proceeded into the main sanctuary reserved for the men only. Mom took Naomi’s hand and together they made their way up the creaking stairs to the balcony reserved for the women. As usual, they sat in the front row so Mom could lean over the rail and watch the rituals performed by the Rabbi and the other men. Naomi guessed her mom probably also wanted to avoid all the petty gossiping from the other women.

  Before the service began, Mom looked directly into Naomi’s eyes. “How are you doing, shug? Are you lonely? Do you still get depressed?”

  “Mom, stop worrying about me. I’m okay. Besides, it looks like the service is starting.”

  Two men ascended to the platform and pulled back the curtains of the ark. Mom’s countenance softened.

  She actually has goose bumps. Oh, why can’t I be like my mom?

  By the time one of her parents’ best friends, Milt, came forward to read from the Torah scrolls, Naomi’s mind had wandered to again imagining her opening night.

  Mom whispered, “Naomi, these are Moses’ last words to the Israelites. He knows they’ll end up worshipping idols. But he tells them whenever they apologize and return to God, God will forgive them.” She kissed the top of Naomi’s head. “He loves us, Sugar. He’ll forgive us anything, if we ask.”

  Naomi flinched and gently pushed her mother away.

  CHAPTER 2

  October 1977

  Maybe another swig of that pink liquid would unknot Naomi’s stomach. Yuck? Tastes like chalk.

  Curled into a fetal position on the freezing white tile, her haunches were becoming numb. Great way to make an entrance onstage. What if she ended up tripping over herself the first time the audience got sight of her? Great. Above her head was a paper towel dispenser. She stretched her arm, grabbed a few sheets, and tucked them under her. Yeah, like they’ll keep me warm.

  Achoo. The smell from the mildew didn’t help either.

  Yet this antiquated moldy place served as her refuge. Maybe one day she’d make it to Broadway. Bet backstages there have real bathrooms befitting a professional actress. In that case, I better act like a professional.

  Beyond her little sanctuary, she sensed the nervous excitement as the other cast members prepared for Friday night’s performance—and for the new kid’s debut. Did they trust her not to let them down? And how selfish could she be? This was the only bathroom and she was hogging it when others probably needed to use it.

  She moistened toilet tissue in the sink, and carefully removed the Pepto-Bismol caked around her mouth. Her dark red lipstick needed to stay intact.

  After a careful inspection in the bathroom mirror, she determined her stage makeup still looked freshly applied—despite the undertone of upset-stomach-green. A new color for my Crayola crayon box.

  Through the thin wall, the stage manager shouted, “Places, everyone.” Time for the comedy troupe to take their places befo
re the house lights darkened and the stage lights went up.

  Naomi needed to get out there. But what if her stomach wasn’t ready?

  Gary’s panicked voice echoed in the hall outside of the bathroom. “Where’s Naomi?”

  “Think she’s locked in the bathroom,” Julie said. “I’ll get her.”

  “No, I’ll get her.”

  The feet got closer and then came the quick rapping on the door. “Goldblatt, outa there!”

  “My stomach’s queasy.”

  “Want me to give Julie your solo? You know I’ll do it.”

  Please, God, help me. Don’t let my tummy . . . She cracked open the door and broke out in uncontrollable laughter.

  Dressed as an ultra-orthodox Jewish man for the first skit, Gary was wearing a long black coat over baggy black trousers. His black fedora, pinched at the top to form a triangle, had a long curled sidelock glued to each side.

  “Vhat? You make fun vit me?” Gary teased in a heavy Yiddish dialect.

  “I can’t help it. I love especially your peyos.”

  Gary moved his head from side to side making his sidecurls dance to and fro. “Give a look.” His Yiddish inflection made her laugh all the more.

  “They gotta tickle your cheeks?”

  The stage manager interrupted. “Places.”

  “Tickling’s for later.” Gary winked, moved into position for his entrance onstage, and motioned for Naomi to join him.

  She took her station in front of Tony. “This is your night,” he whispered. “All month you’ve had to watch Francine, and you’ve been great at the rehearsals. Finally it’s all yours. Break a leg.”

  Complete blackout.

  No pink goo in a bottle could calm her stomach and bring all her senses to such heightened attention as did the moment before stepping out onto a stage. She heard every murmur coming from the audience, every rustle of a Playbill, and even the quiet crackling of the overhead microphones.

  This is what she lived for: the moment the show began and continued with its own momentum, a world created by sheer imagination about to unfold. She thrilled at the anticipation of carrying the audience with her on this adventure.