by Nora Gold
“I’ll put this on the table,” says Suzy, taking the tray of Christmas cake.
“Do you need help?” Judith asks.
“I’m fine.”
Suzy leaves the room and Dennis says with a laugh, “Someone out there asked me to open this wine, but I’m hopeless with a corkscrew. What about you?”
His tone and look are slyly suggestive, but Judith just shakes her head, saying, “I’m hopeless, too. And I’m supposed to open that one.” She points to the bottle she left on the kitchen table ten minutes ago.
Dennis opens his bottle. Slowly and sensuously he draws the cork out of the bottle: it comes out cleanly, perfectly, with a polite, muted pop. Yeah, sure, she thinks, hopeless with a corkscrew.
“Would you like me to do yours, too?” he asks. Which again sounds like a double-entendre, and again she chooses to ignore this. Maybe she’s imagining things because of Phoebe’s punch.
“Thanks,” she says.
Dennis easily opens her bottle of wine. Then, wiping off the corkscrew, he asks, “So you’re working with Suzy on her research next term?”
“If the grant comes through. I hope it does.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes — why?”
She tries to consider this. But she’s feeling extremely woozy and quite inarticulate. That stupid punch — she is hazily annoyed at Phoebe. She does her best to concentrate and answer Dennis.
“Because it’s important,” she says. “We need research on how the university and community work together on anti-oppression. Social work schools should be part of that, not just stay within the ivory tower.”
“Ya think?” he asks, smiling down at her, somewhat mockingly. In her peripheral vision, she sees Tyler coming into the kitchen, taking more chairs and leaving. She and Dennis are alone again. His mocking tone irritates her but she tries overlooking it. He’s Suzy’s husband and Bobby’s mentor. She wants to get along with him.
“That’s what they always say on The West Wing,” she says. “‘Ya think?’”
“You like The West Wing?”
“I’m an addict.”
“An addict.”
“Yeah. I never miss an episode.” Her tongue feels swollen in her mouth and her words sound strange and slurred to her.
“Aha,” says Dennis. “And what else are you addicted to?”
She looks away. She senses now that she’s on dangerous, shifting ground. So it wasn’t all in her imagination. It wasn’t just the punch. She answers without looking at Dennis, “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” she hears him say urgently. “Tell me. After all, we’re almost family. You knowing Suzy. And me knowing Bobby.”
She glances at him briefly.
“I know you like social work,” he says softly.
This feels safer. She looks at him. “Yes. I love social work.”
“Love,” he says, and she feels the room starting to swirl around her. “What else do you love?” he asks, bringing his face closer to hers, his blue eyes glittering. She wants to turn away, but can’t. She’s mesmerized by those eyes. Then there’s the sound of an explosion: it’s Dennis laughing, a laugh that sounds like a sob, like it’s been torn out of his entrails. Now, very near them both, almost in between them, stands Suzy with a blank expression Judith cannot read.
“You’re right,” Dennis says, turning toward Suzy. “This is an exceptional young woman. She’s been telling me how she loves social work.”
Suzy looks at Judith. Judith looks back at her. Her mind is blank from the punch. Something in Suzy’s face makes her want to say, “I didn’t do anything,” but she can’t find the words. Then Suzy says, “Judith, would you excuse us for a moment?”
“Sure.” Her knees slightly tremble. Leaving, she hears Suzy say to Dennis in a low, intense tone, in a voice she didn’t know Suzy had, “You’ve had too much to drink.”
“No, I haven’t. I’m just happy. You should be happy, too, Suzy.”
“In my own house, Dennis. With one of my students?!”
This phrase, in my own house, sounds vaguely familiar to Judith, but she can’t recall where from. In the dining room she stands numbly with people bustling all around her. Then she feels nauseated and, afraid she’ll vomit, rushes to the bathroom. But she doesn’t vomit. Just sits on the toilet for a while. What if Suzy thinks I was flirting with Dennis? she wonders. She can’t believe that because it isn’t true. I wasn’t doing anything of the kind. But still, what if that’s what Suzy thinks? She frets about this. Then, leaving the bathroom, she realizes why Suzy’s phrase in my own house sounded familiar. It’s from the megilla, the story of Purim, when King Ahasuerus finds Haman, who tried to destroy the Jews, literally throwing himself upon Queen Esther, begging for mercy. The king, enraged, says to him, “Will you assault my queen even in my own house?” Haman the Evil, thinks Judith. That’s how the megilla refers to him.
Re-entering the party, she feels like she has stepped from one world — solitary and silent — into a completely different one: the bright and noisy social world, with its glare, blare, and shallowness. Suzy’s house is packed with people now. The party was called for seven o’clock, at this point it’s seven-fifteen, and there are at least thirty people in the living and dining rooms who weren’t there when she went to the bathroom. People say hello to her, and she says hello back, but meanwhile she squints, scanning the room, searching for Suzy. Eager to find her and get her reassurance that everything is okay between them. But she doesn’t see her anywhere. Judith weaves her way through the crowd, passing from one room into another. She wishes Cindy, Pam, or Aliza were here. She stands before the long dining room table, which is covered with attractive platters of food.
“When in doubt, eat,” Yonina always said, so bypassing the ham-filled quiche and roast pork, Judith loads a plate with eggplant parmesan and salad. Putting her fork into her mouth, she recognizes someone off to her left. One of the most popular profs where she did her B.S.W.: Deanne MacLean, married to another prof at the school, Don Whitehead. Don and Deanne. Then Judith notices Don, too, standing next to Deanne. But, unlike back then, his hair is now white. He’s white-headed, she thinks. He finally matches his name. She approaches Deanne, reminds her she was her student thirteen years before, and says “Family Systems” was one of her favourite courses.
“Thank you!” Deanne’s smile shows small, even teeth, and her blond hair swings forward as she leans toward Judith. “And what are you doing now?”
Deanne and Don both beam at Judith like two car headlights. Don’s shiny pink forehead gleams as he beams.
Shy under all this bright attention, she says, “I’m doing my Master’s at Dunhill.”
“Great!” says Deanne. “And what’ve you been doing since finishing your B.S.W.?”
Judith feels more cheerful now. She tells Don and Deanne about working in Israel with developmentally disabled children, and running coexistence groups for Jewish and Arab teens. Don and Deanne nod approvingly.
“You know,” says Don in a caring, concerned social worker tone, “tonight before coming here we watched the six o’clock news, and afterwards we were so upset about Israel.”
“So was I,” says Judith. There was another terrorist attack today, this time on a university campus: ten dead, thirty-four injured.
“What we can’t understand,” says Deanne, her eyes searching Judith’s, “is how the Jews, who have suffered so much themselves, can turn around and inflict such suffering on another people.”
Judith doesn’t understand. She frowns at Deanne in confusion: What do you mean? We got bombed today. Not the other way around.
“Haven’t the Jews learned anything from their own history?” Deanne asks. “It’s absolutely terrible what the Israelis are doing to the Palestinians. It makes us just sick, as I’m sure it does you.”
Now Judith understands. And she does feel sick, but not the way Deanne intended. “It’s complicated,” she says weakly, her stomach
turning over. But she forces herself to continue, pushing the words out with an effort. “Lots of good stuff happens there that you never read about here. Many people in Israel, like my friends, are critical of Sharon’s policies, and they’re working to try and improve the situation. To find a peaceful solution.”
“Really!” says Deanne. “This is very interesting. I didn’t know that. So you’re saying there are some good Jews — I mean Israelis?”
Judith stares at her. Then, in a flat voice, she says, “Yes, Deanne. There are some good Israelis and Jews.”
But Deanne and Don both miss this completely. “That’s great to hear,” Don says heartily, beaming at Judith like she’s a student who has just given the right answer. He goes on talking, but she doesn’t hear a word. All she’s aware of is the reverberations of shock inside her, like a gong being hit over and over again.
“Excuse me,” she says, interrupting Don in mid-sentence. Which she knows is a terrible etiquette crime in Canada, but she doesn’t care. In response to Deanne’s frown and Don’s half-open mouth and astonished, popping eyes, which make him look like a fish, she turns on her heel and walks away. She is a little surprised at herself, but pleased that, with two small words, “Excuse me,” she has extricated herself from these two stupid people. Fuck the Canadian left. Fuck these people whose hearts bleed for everyone but Jews.
Fuming, she continues moving through the party. Oh well. She shrugs, walking. That’s two more down. Two more people transferred from the good side of the scale to the bad one. In her mind there is always a scale operating: the old-fashioned type with two metal saucers. The first time she saw a scale like this she was watching The Fugitive with her father. When they introduced the main character, Richard Kimble, they showed the Roman goddess of justice, Justitia, blindfolded and holding the scales. Ever since then Judith has had a scale like this in her mind. Some days the evil in the world is winning; other days, goodness.
Now she spots Suzy on the other side of the living room. She weaves through the crowd to get closer. Suzy looks at her but does not smile.
“I was looking for you,” Judith says, her eyes searching Suzy’s. “I wanted … I hope you don’t think —”
“Not now.” Suzy glances around them. They are surrounded by people who can hear every word they’re saying.
“I just want —” says Judith.
“I said, ‘Not now.’”
This time there is no mistaking the coldness in her voice. Judith frowns in confusion. I didn’t do anything, she thinks. You got the wrong impression. But Suzy’s eyes looking back at her are matte, like the eyes of a snake, appearing not fully alive. They frighten Judith. She feels like there is no way to reach Suzy.
But then Suzy says, “If you feel like being helpful, Weick needs assistance bringing in the beer.”
She doesn’t understand.
“The beer is outside in his car,” Suzy explains. “He’s parked a few doors down to the left, and when he brought in the first case, I told him I’d find someone to help him unload the rest. He’s waiting now.”
Great. Alone with Weick outside in the dark. But she doesn’t refuse. Almost anything Suzy could have asked her to do, she would have agreed to. Anything to get the two of them back on track. “Sure,” she says, “no problem.” She tries again to make eye contact, but Suzy’s lids are lowered and she has already turned away. She is chirping something hostessy to Kerry and Chris, and then laughing with them. Laughing with those haters of Israel, thinks Judith, heading for the door.
She steps out into the winter night wearing nothing but her red dress. She searched briefly for her coat but couldn’t find it and didn’t want to delay doing what Suzy had asked. As swift as a gazelle to do your bidding, like in Song of Songs. So here she is, outdoors in a Canadian winter in just a low-cut dress. Weick’s car is parked in shadow a few doors down. She sees him, wrapped in a Phantom-of-the-Opera/Dracula cape, stacking cases of beer at the curb.
“Suzy said you needed help,” she says, hoping her voice sounds normal, casual. Weick turns his head sideways.
“You!” He stands, scanning her from head to toe and back again, pausing at her partly exposed bosom. “I was expecting Tyler or Mike. I asked for someone who can carry cases of beer.”
“I can carry cases of beer.”
“Of course you can. Spoken like a true feminist. Well, let’s see what you can do.” He gestures toward his open trunk.
She leans down, lifts a case of twenty-four, and stacks it on top of the others. She does this again. The third time, though, she has to bend down all the way to the pavement to start a new pile, and she is aware of her cleavage showing, and of Weick gazing at it again. She tries to ignore this as she empties the last case from the car. Then she starts making trips back and forth between the car and the house, lugging one case of beer after another. She makes four trips in total, she and Weick passing each other as they come and go, and even before completing the first trip, her teeth are chattering. When she returns to the car the fourth time for her last trip, she’s sweating down the inside of her dress but the rest of her is freezing. She is simultaneously freezing and burning.
“That’s that,” says Weick, slamming shut the hatchback.
There is only one case left on the curb, and she nods, relieved. She is glad she can return now to the warm house. Glad, too, that nothing weird happened out here with Weick.
“I stand corrected,” he says with a slight, gallant bow. “I’m learning a lot from you feminists.”
“No problem.” She is shivering, her arms crossed over her partly naked chest, as she waits for him to lift the last case so they can go inside.
“By the way,” he says, apparently not noticing her chattering teeth, “I’m curious why you never dropped by my office to talk about your paper.”
Oh, that. She looks at him as innocently as she can. “In the end I solved the problem by myself.”
“I can’t complain about the result,” he says. “It was a very good paper. But I was disappointed you didn’t come by. I’d put aside some articles I thought you’d find helpful.”
“Oh!” she says, feeling remorseful. “I didn’t know. But thank you, that’s so nice!”
“I guess since the term is over you won’t need them now. But maybe in January come by and I’ll give them to you.”
“Sure.” She is starting to feel trapped. Like a spider is weaving a sticky, inescapable web around her.
“I especially liked the part of your paper,” he says, “where you wrote that internalized oppression can affect how Jewish women or black women feel about their bodies. Their hair, their noses, their hips …”
She lowers her eyes. This can’t be happening. First Dennis, now Weick. Suddenly she’s acutely aware of being all alone out here with him.
“Those were the findings from the research,” she says, trying to be as intellectual and professional as possible, even though she’s trembling inside and her teeth are chattering. From cold and fear.
“You’re cold,” he says solicitously. “Would you like some of my cape?” He holds up the edge of the cape attached to his coat.
“No, thanks. I’m going in now anyway.”
“So am I. But come under my cape as we walk. You must be freezing.”
She contemplates the big, warm-looking cape. It’s attached to his coat, so putting it around her means being pulled close against him. “I’m fine, thanks. I just want to go back now.” She points at Suzy’s house and takes a step.
“Are you running away?” he asks.
“What?”
“Don’t run away from me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Wait a minute,” he says, and grabs her arm.
She wrenches free, begins walking quickly, and then runs toward the house. Reaching the door, she tumbles inside, almost crashing into Suzy who’s standing alone in the vestibule. Suzy looks at her in surprise. Judith is panting and obviously upset.
“He
grabbed me,” says Judith, her teeth still chattering, tears in her eyes.
“Who? Who grabbed you?”
“Weick.”
“Weick?!”
“Yeah. Outside, near his car.”
Suzy frowns. “What do you mean ‘grabbed’?”
“He wanted me to wear his cape,” she says, trying not to cry, “and when I didn’t want to, he said I shouldn’t run away from him and he grabbed my arm —”
“That’s enough,” says Suzy. In her voice there’s a flat, hard edge, and that coldness again. “Be careful what you say, Judith. You’re talking about the director of our school.”
“I know, but …” She stops. Suzy isn’t on her side anymore. Suzy is on Weick’s side, because he’s helping her keep her job.
“Whatever happened just now,” Suzy says, “I suggest you keep it to yourself. It looks to me like you have had too much to drink. You’re having quite an evening in that pretty red dress of yours. You need to get ahold of yourself.”
“I have a hold on myself.” But then, feeling nauseous, she says, “I need the bathroom,” and races toward it, and the second the door is shut, throws up all over the lovely navy blue tiles. She leans back, panting, against the inside of the door, tears leaking from her closed eyes. Then she hears the front door slam, followed by Weick’s voice saying, “Here’s the last of it.”
“Thanks, Larry,” Suzy’s voice answers. Larry?! Judith has never before heard anyone call Lawrence Weick by his first name — Lawrence, much less Larry — and it sounds quite intimate. Suzy continues: “Right here would be great. We already have plenty of beer on the drinks table.”
“Right-o.” Then he says casually: “By the way, did you see Judith come in? We were finishing with the beer and she ran off.”
“She’s in the bathroom,” Suzy answers drily. “I think she’s had one too many glasses of Phoebe’s punch.”
“Ah, that would explain it,” he says. “She was acting rather strange.”
Now there is silence. Judith tries to picture what’s happening out there. But then she stops. It doesn’t matter anymore. Suzy sold her out to Weick and that’s the bottom line. So much for the “special relationship” between Suzy and her. That’s all over now. She sits on the toilet and rests awhile. Then she begins mopping up her vomit with wads of toilet paper. It takes some time. Vomit is everywhere. In the sink, on the floor, even splattered on the walls. But eventually she’s done. She stands in the middle of the bathroom, unsure what to do, reluctant to return to the party. She wishes that under these gleaming, winking, navy blue floor tiles there were a secret tunnel she could escape through, so she wouldn’t have to face Suzy or Weick again tonight.