I looked at him and he cracked a smile. The first time I’d ever seen that.
“But let her think what she wants,” he said.
I laughed, and he laughed, too.
He opened the door to get out, assuring me again (by waving me off before I could even ask) that he didn’t need any help.
“Next time, Benji,” he said before he closed the door and headed up his walkway, “not such loud music, okay?”
CHAPTER 3
With the bookstore’s air conditioner fixed, the rabbi’s daily breaks in my office ended.
No matter. We had developed a new routine. He didn’t stop by during the afternoon anymore, but I continued driving him home at the end of the day, a few blocks up the hill. Most often, we didn’t exchange more than simple pleasantries: “How was your day?” “Did you have a nice weekend?” “How are you feeling?” Nonetheless, it wasn’t a major imposition for me and he seemed grateful for the gesture.
I ran into Mrs. Goldfarb one day at lunchtime in the shopping center’s sandwich shop.
“I hear you’re Rabbi Zuckerman’s chauffeur now,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or just teasing me.
“I drive him home,” I said. “That’s all.”
“So I guess he just doesn’t like me,” she said.
“No,” I said, “you were right about him. He doesn’t trust women drivers.”
“I knew it,” said Mrs. Goldfarb, with a satisfied expression.
Let her think what she wants.
Pete, I realized on the Fourth of July, was not the guy for me.
There were little things that tipped me off: He was half an hour late meeting me at the Dupont Circle Metro station, and didn’t think to call my cell, or to apologize when he finally arrived. He was wearing a Clay Aiken concert T-shirt—without apparent irony. He had already eaten, even though we were supposed to have lunch together; I was stuck scarfing down a Subway sub on a park bench.
Nonetheless, all of that could have been forgiven. Even Clay Aiken.
The real problem started when we went downtown, walking along the Mall. The main lawn around the monuments was thick with families on picnic blankets and teenagers throwing Frisbees. Lafayette Square, across from the White House, was crowded, too—with protesters. A demonstration against the Iraq War was going strong. People with megaphones led chants like “Two-four-six-eight, end the war, it’s not too late” and “Hey-hey-ho-ho, Bush and Cheney have got to go!” Many people waved small American flags, while others held signs saying “No Penalty For Early Withdrawal” and “Bush’s Mission Accomplished: 3,000 Troops Dead.”
“Want to stick around?” Pete asked. I did, assuming that we were on the same page politically, beyond both hating Bush. But while we were both against the war, I soon found out that we were coming from different perspectives.
“End the Zionist Occupations: U.S. Out of Iraq, Israel Out of Palestine” read a sign in the middle of the park. The “o” in Zionist had a small red swastika inside.
I pointed and said, almost involuntarily, in an exasperated voice, “Can’t we have one antiwar protest without the crazies ruining it?”
“What’s so crazy about that?” Pete asked.
That’s where it started. I was no hardliner—I supported Palestinian statehood and opposed the settlements in the West Bank, both stances that made my parents uneasy—but when I saw people making bogus connections like the one on that sign, I smelled something rotten.
“How exactly is our occupation of Iraq ‘Zionist’?” I asked.
“Well, look who started the war.”
I started the list, counting off names on my fingers: “Bush. Cheney. Colin Powell. Donald Rumsfeld. Condoleezza Rice.”
“Oh, come on,” Pete countered. “Jewish neocons were pushing for this war from the beginning, and they pulled all the strings to get what they wanted, like they always do. Seems pretty obvious that we’re only there to protect Israel.”
“You have an interesting idea about how much power Jews have in this country, especially considering how few there are in this administration,” I said. “Do you realize that there’s no group in America that’s more consistently opposed to this war than the Jews?”
It devolved from there. He repeated some conspiracy-theory baloney about Jews being warned to stay out of the Twin Towers on September 11. (“I’m not saying I believe it, necessarily,” he said. “I’m just saying it’s something to think about.”) He segued into an explanation about how suicide bombers blowing up kids in a Jerusalem pizza parlor could be justified. (“You know, out of sheer desperation.”) It only took about five more minutes before he got around to comparing Israel to the Third Reich: “What they’re doing to the Palestinians really isn’t so different . . .”
I was done.
“I’m taking the Metro home,” I told him.
“Geez, Benji, don’t be so oversensitive,” he said. “Can’t we even have a simple political disagreement? Isn’t this why people move to D.C.?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve always lived here.”
And I walked away. The trains heading out of the city were empty; most people were headed into town for the festivities. I made it home in time to microwave a frozen pizza and watch the fireworks on television.
Dan dropped off Michelle before midnight. She could see that I was brooding.
“All right, what’s wrong with this one?” she asked.
“How do you know something’s wrong?”
“Well, he ain’t here, is he?”
“True.”
“So what is it this time?” she asked. “Last time the guy had a dog you didn’t like. Before that was the one who played video games too much. Then there was that guy who did drag on the weekends—what was his name? Simon? I liked him. But I guess you were freaked out by all the makeup.”
“And the chest stubble.”
“Major ick,” said Michelle, wincing.
“Exactly.”
“And what is Pete’s problem?”
Politics were never a big deal to Michelle, but she understood; she was Jewish, too. She also remembered the campus debates about Zionism when we were undergraduates. When the second Intifada broke out in 2000, pro-Israel and pro-Palestinian student groups organized competing teachins, as well as angry protests and counterprotests on campus. Any time I dared to defend the middle ground—territorial compromise and peace based on a two-state solution—I found myself attacked from both sides. The progressive folks I’d befriended in the campus gay group said I was a “Zionist racist” for believing in a Jewish state at all; it was one subject that made me feel alienated from that otherwise welcoming crowd. Not that I felt any sympathy coming from the Jewish groups on campus, either. The outspoken activists who staffed the Stand With Israel table in the student center labeled me a “Nazi collaborator” for suggesting that the Palestinians deserved a state of their own.
Michelle, who wasn’t as personally invested in the subject, knew how difficult that had been for me. So when I told her about Pete, just as she’d done several years earlier at Maryland, she suggested I simply stay out of this kind of conflict.
“You should have avoided talking about politics,” she said, “until you knew him better.”
“Yeah, right. He would have noticed that I kept ducking out of dates to attend meetings of worldwide Jewry where we make our plans to rule the world. I mean, those meetings take hours.”
She sucked her teeth and gave me a look that said, “Oh, you’re so droll.”
“I don’t see your boyfriend here, either,” I said. “What gives?”
“Well, your little plan worked beautifully,” she started. “We spent the afternoon with two of his friends. We went paddle-boating by the Jefferson Memorial, we played Frisbee, we walked by the sculpture garden. And then his friends left, and Dan and I had a picnic on the Mall and watched the fireworks, and it was great.”
“Uh-huh. So I don’t see the problem.”<
br />
“There was no problem until we were driving home. I was telling him what a great day it had been. You know, trying some positive reinforcement. That’s important when you’re training a new male.”
I pursed my lips and gave her a look that said, “Don’t start on this again.”
“And then he’s like, ‘See, you were all upset over nothing. ’ And I’m like, ‘Excuse me?’ And he’s all, ‘You said you didn’t want to spend time with my friends, but now you see they’re cool. So you were all worked up over nothing.’ And I lost my shit. I told him that he’d missed the whole point, that I never said I didn’t want to spend time with his friends, that all I said was that I wanted some time alone with the guy who is supposed to be my boyfriend. And that if he didn’t understand that spending time with his girlfriend wasn’t nothing, then maybe he wasn’t ready for a girlfriend.”
Michelle was my best friend and I backed her up, even as I felt sorry for Dan, who had unknowingly stepped into a minefield—stupidly but without malice.
“Did you guys break up?”
She looked confused.
“No, Benji, it’s not that big a deal. We’re getting together this weekend.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I cried, I made him feel like shit, and he’s got one day to come up with some really great apology. Maybe flowers. Or tickets to something. But he’ll come through. He’s not an asshole. He just needs to learn.”
“Learn what?”
“That he ain’t gonna be getting any from this girlfriend until I forgive him.”
She pursed her lips and punctuated her remark with a diva snap. We both cracked up.
Then we both went to our rooms. Alone.
Before I went to bed, I logged on and checked out ManMate, a website for gay personal ads. I wasn’t a member, so I couldn’t send or receive messages, but I could read people’s profiles and look at their pictures. To see who was out there.
This kind of thing always struck me as a place for people too afraid to show their faces (or use their real speaking voices) in public. That’s why I’d never signed up. Plus, the design was ridiculous: each photo in a star-shaped frame, set against a tacky rainbow-striped background.
It was a meeting place of last resort. But sometimes a last resort is better than nothing. This was one of those nights.
I could cross almost everyone off my list right away: too old, unattractive, smokes cigarettes. Or else I could cross myself off their lists, if they were looking specifically for something I wasn’t: Asian, into leather, “discreet” (read: closeted). Guys from Virginia were excluded—it was hard enough to get someone from the District to consider coming to Maryland. A couple of guys looked familiar, people I’d seen at the bars; if they weren’t interested in person, I thought, they won’t be interested online.
The top of the page flashed: “Over three hundred men in your area—online now!” But within minutes, I’d narrowed my list of possibilities to a handful.
If I find someone promising, I told myself, I’ll pay the damn fee right now and send him a note while he’s still online. I didn’t want the Fourth of July to be a total loss.
The first guy was handsome. Square jawline. Crew cut. His profile said he was a “military type.” I didn’t know if that meant he wore a uniform for work or merely for pleasure, but either way, we weren’t a match. I didn’t need someone barking orders at me. I had my mother for that.
The next one was younger, still in college, with shaggy blond hair. Cute. But his main interests were “Frisbee, beer, and BBQ!” I had nothing against any of those things, but would never have described them as “interests.” Much less my “main” interests.
Before I could even open the next profile—from a guy with a parted-hair, button-collar sort of preppy look—a box popped up on my screen. “You have used up your daily minutes as a trial member. But all you have to do to keep looking for Mister Right is click here, and join ManMate!”
I thought about it for just a few seconds before closing the browser and turning off my computer. It wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t desperate enough. The Fourth of July was a dud. No fireworks at all.
A thunderstorm erupted unexpectedly late the next afternoon, the kind of summer storm that flares up with sudden ferocity but then moves on with determined speed. In most cities, these storms are welcome because they leave cooler, drier air in their wake. Not Washington: The heat that oppressed everyone before the storm returns immediately after the last drops fall; the humidity gets even worse.
When Rabbi Zuckerman knocked on my door, he was already wet after the short walk from his store, holding a newspaper over his head. “I didn’t bring my umbrella today,” he said.
I grabbed mine and escorted him to the car. The rain was coming in sheets, and my windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. It was hard to see. Fortunately, we didn’t have far to go.
When we pulled into his driveway, I turned off the car and got out so I could walk him to his front door.
“Thank you so much, Benji,” he said over the noise of the rain as he fumbled for his key. “Why don’t you come in for a moment?”
“I really should—”
“Just for a few minutes,” he interrupted. “This storm won’t last long. You might as well wait until it passes.”
I glanced up at the sky, then went inside.
Heavy off-white drapes were pulled over most of the windows and mustard-colored shag carpets lined the floors. The house was damp and suffocatingly warm, the air heavy with the scent of books and mildew. Bookshelves lined nearly every wall, in the living room on the right and the dining room on the left. Looking straight ahead up the carpeted steps, I could see more shelves in the upstairs hallway.
“Please, sit down, dry off for a moment,” said the rabbi, pointing to a lumpy wingback chair in the living room. “I’ll go get you a glass of water.” He walked toward the kitchen, in the back of the house, behind the staircase.
I didn’t want to get his chair wet, but even more, I wanted to snoop. So I remained standing, checking out his living room.
The furniture was old and well-worn: a three-seat sofa covered in golden brown velvet with a pair of needlepoint accent pillows, the wingback chair with its threadbare tweed upholstery, a glass oval coffee table with an empty cut-glass candy dish on top. I could tell that the rabbi always sat in the same spot, at one end of the sofa, within reach of the end table and the reading lamp’s pull chain; the seat cushion had a permanent indentation in that spot. There was no mess in the room—no stacks of old newspapers, no unopened junk mail, no dirty coffee mug left behind—but there was also a sense that the room hadn’t been cleaned properly in some time. Dusting, vacuuming, airing out the drapes. We could just as easily have been returning to the rabbi’s summer house after a long season away, finding the place frozen in suspended animation exactly as he’d left it six months earlier. But he’d been gone only since the morning.
On the mantel over the fireplace, alongside an empty vase and a silver menorah, sat a couple of framed photos. One was an old black-and-white picture of a man and a woman, a professional eight-by-ten portrait in a tarnished metal frame that had small roses in the corners. The other was a more recent color snapshot, in a tacky orange ceramic frame that said “Greetings from Florida” and had a small green alligator in the bottom corner, opening his grinning mouth—souvenir alligators always grin—at the elderly couple in the photograph.
I had the Florida picture in my hand when the rabbi came in with a glass of water. He had a can of mixed nuts in his other hand. He handed me the water and emptied the nuts into the candy dish.
“That’s my wife, Sophie, may she rest in peace,” he said. “She passed away last fall. That’s the last picture I have of the two of us together.”
I hadn’t even recognized Rabbi Zuckerman. He looked at least a decade younger and he didn’t have his short gray beard; he must have grown it after she died.
“I’m sorry,” I s
aid, putting the picture back on the mantel. Sorry that his wife was dead, and sorry to be snooping in an old man’s house.
“That’s us, too,” he said, pointing to the black-and-white photo. “We had that taken on our tenth anniversary, right after we moved into this house. That was 1962.”
The man in the old photo certainly resembled the man in the newer photo, even if some forty-five years separated them. Both looked proud, confident, with a flash of vigor in their smiles. But the man standing before me, wet and small and scarcely more alive than his moribund furnishings, seemed another person entirely.
He picked up the candy dish and extended it in my direction. I demurred. He frowned and sat down in his usual spot by the reading lamp.
“Cancer,” he said with a sigh. “It was terribly fast.”
He was quiet, and I didn’t know how to fill the space, so I tried to change the subject.
“What are all these books?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, and a silence blossomed in the room. Had I spoiled his moment? Perhaps he’d been waiting to talk to someone, anyone, about his wife, and he finally saw his chance in me. It didn’t look like he had many visitors. Maybe he’d been waiting for the opportunity to invite me in and talk about her. But maybe now he was thinking that I wasn’t the one, that I heard a mention of death and quickly changed the subject, preferring the mundane to the profound, the silly to the important. Too young, too shallow, not a serious man. Have a cashew and thanks for the ride.
“I think I should go lie down,” he said, rising from the sofa. “The storm sounds like it’s easing up. You should be okay now.”
I took my cue, walking toward the front door and picking up my umbrella from the floor.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” I said.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, waving me off while he started up his stairs.
My parents had a family snapshot on their mantel, in a bright, plastic frame much like the one in Rabbi Zuckerman’s house. It was a memento of our first vacation in Florida, a trip to Disney.
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