by Zoe Fishman
“Listen, David, obviously I’m not going to tell anyone about it. I just would really like it if you admitted to me that you were. Because we went through this together, you know? I think you owe me some honesty.” He kept his eyes on the road, but his knuckles were white on the wheel. “I’m your sister. You don’t have to lie to me. About anything.”
If he could just admit this to me, then maybe the dam would break and all of the lies would come rushing out. I wanted to help him despite my anger toward him, but as long as he was locked in his prison of denial, I couldn’t.
“You know, for someone who is a pro at lying, you sure are high and mighty over there. You lied your ass off in high school, and you’re living one whopper of a lie right now.”
“What do you mean? Because I told a few fibs about drinking beers, I’m a lying pro? There’s a giant difference between that kind of lie and the kind of lie that almost kills someone, David.”
“So you never got behind the wheel when you drank? You never got in a car with someone who was drinking? Huh? That’s the same thing, genius.”
“Oh my God, this is ridiculous. You’re gonna spin this until you’re blue in the face.” I sighed heavily. “You’re never going to come clean about it, I can see that. And if you expect me not to resent you for it, you’re nuts.”
“So c’mon then, ask me what I mean about the lie you’re living now.”
“What?”
“The whopper of a lie I was referring to.”
“Because I don’t care,” I hissed.
“You have an eating disorder, and you won’t admit it, and you won’t get help. So don’t talk to me about honesty, Ruth. Talk about killing someone—you’re killing yourself.”
“Oh Christ, suddenly it’s an after-school special.” My lip trembled. I would not cry.
He pulled into our driveway. “Go ahead, make light of it. But what I said is ringing true, and you know it. Quit being such a hypocrite and open your own damn eyes.”
19
“Motherfucker!” I whispered as the coldness of the water connected with a tooth on the top right side of my mouth. The pain was indescribable—like someone had plugged my entire head into an electrical socket. I had been ignoring that tooth for months now, despite the fact that I was pretty sure I had lost an entire piece of chewing gum to the hole inside of it. I hated the dentist. I grabbed the bathroom counter and waited for the pain to subside.
“You done in there or what?” David yelled at me from the other side. I turned on the water.
“Just a minute, dear!” I yelled back. Jackass. I would stay in here as long as I wanted. I surveyed myself in the mirror. This was not how you were supposed to feel on your way to Friday night services. You were supposed to feel warm and charitable, loving and gracious. Yeah, right. Did anyone ever want to go to services? If you asked me, it was just another form of torture we were asked as a people to overcome.
I opened the door to find him pacing in the hallway. He glared at me. “What the hell do you do in there?” he hissed. “Make yourself puke?”
“All I have to do is think of your face, and it all comes right up.” I gave him a fake smile and let him pass. He slammed the door behind me.
“Glad to see everyone is in as good a mood as I am,” said my mom as she marched past.
“Oh yeah,” I answered. I sat on my bed and strapped on my sandals. It had been a long, hot day at work, and Kevin had tweaked my last nerve by continuing to ask me all about the Tanisha debacle. I kept waiting for him to say something racist and awful again, but surprisingly, he had kept his mouth shut. I wondered if Jason had warned him to keep his opinions to himself as we waited to find out if her parents were suing. If someone overheard him spouting nonsense, we could all be in trouble. My head started to ache just thinking about it.
“Ruthhhhh! Let’s goooooooo!” yelled my dad from the kitchen.
“Cominggggggggggg!”
“We’re going to be late,” he warned as I ran past him. David and my mom were already in the car, their faces glum. I opened the back door and toppled in. My dad followed, and we backed out of the driveway in silence.
“Can we turn the radio on?” I asked.
“No,” my dad replied. “Let’s talk to each other for a change.”
“Great,” I mumbled. I watched David out of the corner of my eye. He was looking out the window with his chino-ed legs spread in front of him like a colt. The smell of his aftershave hung over us like a cloud. My mind drifted back to the days when grape Bubblicious was the predominant scent of our car rides together. I could still hear him prodding and popping it like the cud of a cow, right in my ear. On cue, my tooth began to throb.
“Hey, Mom,” I said. “I need to go to the dentist.”
She turned around. “What’s the matter?” she asked, eyeing me with concern. “Do you have a cavity?”
“Yeah, I think so. It really hurts.”
“Okay, sure. I’ll call Dr. Cooper tomorrow. Let me know your work schedule and we’ll figure it out, okay?”
“ ’Kay.”
“David, how are your teeth?”
“Fine, no problems.” He smirked at me, and I made a face back.
“Ruth, do you floss every night? You know how important that is,” said my dad. “You have to really get in there.”
“Oh yeah, every night.” I couldn’t remember the last time I had flossed. What I did remember were all the Swedish fish I had consumed while stoned at school, and the fact that I often passed out with their red jelly remnants swaddling my enamel.
“I always floss, Dad,” volunteered David. He smiled at me. “Never miss a night.”
“Great, let’s get you a medal.” I rolled my eyes. “This is a fascinating conversation.”
“How’s training going, David?” asked my mom. “You haven’t talked a lot about it this summer.” I tensed up reflexively and continued to stare out the window. We passed the 7/11 where I had almost been arrested for buying a six-pack of Schlitz when I was fifteen. How I had escaped that one unscathed still boggled my mind.
“It’s fine,” he answered. “Same as always.” I listened for a change in the tone of his voice—for anything that would convey just a touch of guilt on his part for lying outright to them. On the way to services nonetheless. Nothing. I glanced at him, hoping to see him nervously fidgeting with his fingers or chewing his lip. Zero. He was as cool as a cucumber. Maybe it really was a rumor. I heard a rustling and looked down. David’s leg was bouncing spasmatically. Then again.
“Is Coach Foster checking in with you?” asked my dad.
“Uh, yeah, he sends emails and stuff.”
“So what kinds of drills are they running?”
“Hey, Dad, do you mind?” David asked. “I don’t feel like talking about soccer right now.” I watched my dad react in the rearview mirror. His eyebrows went up, and he pursed his lips like a duck. This was his trademark expression of concern. He glanced at my mother, but I couldn’t see her face. I guessed that she was widening her eyes and rolling her hands over in her lap to expose her palms as if to say, Give it a rest, Sam.
“Okay,” he answered.
“Did you tell them about your mural?” I whispered.
“No,” he whispered back.
“Why?”
“I dunno. Didn’t think they’d be interested, I guess.” He shrugged.
“What are you two whispering about back there?” my mom asked. “No secrets.”
“David’s painting a mural at the pool,” I said.
“You are, sweetie?” asked my mom. “That’s great! Where?”
“On the wall between the bathrooms,” he mumbled.
“Nice,” said my dad with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. David had wanted to be an art major in college, but that hadn’t gone over well with either of my parents. Major in bu
siness and take a couple of drawing classes, my dad had said. You can’t live on a hobby. It was the only time I had seen David fight with my parents. The argument had gone on for weeks until finally David had given in.
“What’s it of?” Dad asked.
“It’s a surprise,” David answered. “Nobody knows.”
“How are you keeping it covered up?” asked my mom.
“I’ve rigged up this elaborate tarp system. And all the kids know that if they touch it, they’re dead.”
“When do you paint?” asked Dad.
“In the mornings. Early.”
“Before soccer?”
“Yeah, before soccer.”
“When will you unveil it?” asked my mom.
“At the end-of-season banquet, I guess,” he answered.
“Can we come?”
“Yeah, sure, why not?” His leg was still.
“When is that?”
“When is what?”
“The banquet.”
“I don’t know. It should be right before we leave for school, I think.”
“That doesn’t give you much time,” my mom warned. “We’re already halfway through summer—which I cannot believe, by the way.” She shook her head. “You two both go back mid-August, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” mumbled David. Back to what? I wondered.
“I’m here until, like, the last week of August or something. Next week is the Fourth, right?” I asked.
“Listen, I’ll get the mural done, don’t worry,” David interjected. He sighed. “Could we can it with the twenty questions now? Why can’t we ever just ‘be’? It’s always the Spanish Inquisition around here.”
My dad began to answer, but my mom put her hand on his leg. “Okay, okay. Enough.” We pulled into the synagogue parking lot and stopped beneath an oak tree.
“You’re not worried about bird crap, Sam?”
“It’s too hot for birds to crap.” We piled out of the car.
“Is that the Wassermans?” a voice trilled behind us. I turned around. Mrs. Kahn. Great.
Mrs. Kahn was the mother of Rebecca and Ruby Kahn. Rebecca was a year younger than me, and Ruby two or three—I couldn’t remember exactly. She had arranged a playdate for us when I was ten, much to my chagrin. They reminded me of dachshunds, with their long dour faces and lanky hair that clung to their heads save for the giant, starched bows perched on top. The day of our dreaded date, I was handed off to them in the synagogue parking lot after Sunday School. As I watched my father drive away, Ruby had grabbed my stomach with her bony fingers and asked, What’s this? In response, I had bent her fingers back so fiercely that she had burst into tears. For months afterward, I had lain awake at night thinking of the ultimate comeback—hoping that my chance would come again. Naturally, it never had.
“Well, hey, y’all,” droned Mrs. Kahn. “Don’t y’all look gorgeous!” My mom winced as she went in for the cheek kiss. I stared her down.
“Ruth Wasserman, you get any skinnier and Miss Tyra Banks herself is gonna come on down to recruit you!” She gave me the up-down. I hate you, I thought to myself as I fake-smiled in response.
“Ruby could take some pointers from you, but don’t tell her I said so.” She smiled conspiratorially. “There’s a girl that just loves her McDonald’s, let me tell you.” Ah, karma. Bless it.
“How have you been, Sandy?” asked my dad.
“Oh, just fine, thank you. Barry wasn’t able to come tonight, and gettin’ the girls to forfeit a Friday night is like tryin’ to deep-fry a pickup truck, so it’s just me, here all by my lonesome!” She fingered her pearls nervously. My mom grunted beside me. I made eye contact with her, and we shared a look of distaste.
“Well, I’ll see y’all inside,” said Mrs. Kahn. “Good Shabbas!” Good Shabbas said with a southern accent was priceless. Good Shabbas, y’all! or Y’all come on down for a Good Shabbas! I liked it, actually. I’d heard enough nasally Long Island accents at school that year to not take it for granted.
“She’s got a lot of energy,” said David as she teetered away on her high heels.
“That she does,” said my dad. “But no gossip now. Not on Shabbas, okay?” I opened my mouth to make a smart-ass reply, but his grave expression made me hold my tongue. I would try to be a good Jew. One night wouldn’t kill me.
We entered the synagogue and were greeted warmly by Mrs. Ginsberg, who had been the synagogue secretary for at least as long as I had been alive and probably for my parents’ lifetimes as well. She also hailed from New York and had never lost her accent or her brass. She was a legend—well, a legend here at least.
“Hello, dears!” she said. “Marjorie, you look beautiful. I swear, you never age.”
“I could say the same for you, Sylvia. You look fantastic.” She didn’t, but it was nice of my mom to say so. The little hair she had left was teased into a hairspray halo, and each of her front teeth was shellacked with her mandarin lipstick.
“David, you look so handsome,” Mrs. Ginsberg said. Her hand shook as she touched his arm. The contrast between her veiny, liver-spotted, and pink-manicured claw and his supple, tan, and blond-haired forearm was jarring.
“Thanks, Mrs. Ginsberg,” he replied, unfazed. “I knew you were going to be here tonight, so I put in a little extra effort.”
“Oh you,” she said. “You’re a lady killah.” She smiled up at him adoringly.
“And Ruthie,” she said finally, coming closer and looking me right in the eye. “You’re a vision.” I blushed. “You’re too skinny, but I guess that’s how they like ’em these days.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ginsberg,” I replied. She smelled of White Musk, hand lotion, and Altoids.
“You’re giving your brotha a run for his money,” she added.
“Good to see you, Sylvia,” said my dad. He was beaming. I realized that this was what he lived for—this unit that was the Wasserman family out and about, charming everyone in our path. Team Wasserman. He and David retrieved their tallit, recited the prayer inscribed on their collars, and draped them around their necks as my mom and I gathered prayer books.
We settled into the pew, and the rabbi gave my father a head nod in greeting. Old Sam Wasserman was a regular Frank Sinatra around here. I settled in, looking around for entertainment. The crowd was sparse, to say the least. I wondered if rabbis were pissed 98 percent of the time. Unless they were converting or about to be bar mitzvah-ed, it seemed to me that Jews showed up only on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. My dad was the one exception to the rule. He said it wasn’t really about God so much, it was about identity and community.
The thing was, I really didn’t identify with anyone here. Sure, you were probably going to find the only brunettes or curly-haired people for miles within these walls, but other than that, I really didn’t feel a connection. I felt more of a bond with M.K. and Jill, and they were about as Jewish as Dolly Parton. We didn’t look alike, and our families were like night and day, but we spoke the same language somehow. With someone like Rebecca Kahn, it was like pulling teeth to find a common thread. That common thread was usually our hair, which was not exactly soil for a flowering bond.
David read along in the prayer book on the other side of my mom. He had had more Jewish friends than I did growing up, but that was because the number of guys in our age group tripled that of the girls. Had it been a question of proximity, or did he legitimately relate to them? I’d never asked.
Mom read along as well, but I knew that she was watching the clock. I couldn’t think of one Jewish friend she had, but that wasn’t exactly her fault. Most of the ones who were her age were all versions of Mrs. Kahn.
And my dad? Well, I wasn’t sure. He certainly knew everyone here, but I couldn’t say if they were his friends. It was hard to tell if his openness was born out of a need to socialize or garner clients. He might say that those
two things were one and the same, and I guessed I could see what he meant. It was hard to not have an ulterior motive, socially speaking.
I fingered the strands of his tallis. When I was little, I would occupy myself by braiding them over and over. Each time we had to stand, my work would be destroyed and I would have to start all over again. This was especially difficult on Yom Kippur, as the standing outweighed the sitting.
Ruth, pay attention, my dad would say, and I would look up at him with feigned innocence. I ammmmm, I would whine, and then go back to braiding.
David always kept his focus, except for once. It was one of the first moments I could remember being funny—when what was coming out of my mouth was almost as exciting as anticipating the response. I must have been eight or so, and our cantor at the time bore a striking resemblance to Rick Moranis. As he sang, I had leaned over to David and whispered, Honey, I shrunk the Torah! He had burst into full-fledged laughter, and I had been so delighted by both my joke and his response that I laughed too. My dad had grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me over to the seat on the other side of him, where I languished in the glory of a joke well delivered. Making my friends laugh was one thing, but making David laugh was quite another.
The rabbi launched into Veshameru, and I sang along quietly. When was the last time I had made David laugh or vice versa? That afternoon at the pool had been the only time our hang hadn’t been fraught with tension, and that was probably only because David was high. Or not high, depending on whom you asked. He was much tenser this summer than he ever had been before, now that I thought about it. Maybe that was the price he paid for keeping so many secrets.
I stared up at the stained-glass windows and thought about Tanisha. Was she scared of the water now? I hoped not. I wanted to see her and talk to her about what happened. I was curious about what it felt like to be suspended helplessly like that. I had always thought that drowning victims flailed and screamed, but Tanisha had slipped under as easily as a cracked egg yolk into a bowl. I could still see her last braid submerging like the telescope of a submarine. Were her eyes open? Was she worried? Was she confident that someone would save her? Did she panic when she realized she couldn’t breathe? Not questions I could really ask a little kid obviously, but I was curious. All I did in life was fight against whatever was threatening me. The concept of surrender was as foreign as Christmas.