“You are new to our congregation, are you not, my daughter?” The rabbi seemed to sense her need and kept holding the hand she had offered.
“Yes, rabbi. This is my first time. I’m Sarah Chomsky, the newest history professor at Smoky Mountain. I’ve only been in town a few weeks.”
“And from up North if my ear does not deceive me. Is that a New Yorker accent I’m hearing?”
“Yes, sir. Born in the Bronx, grew up in Brooklyn, graduated from Columbia. I even speak Hebrew with a New York accent, so my rabbi father tells me.”
“Wait! Chomsky . . . Born in the Bronx . . You wouldn’t be the daughter of one Solomon Chomsky—skinny kid with big horn-rimmed glasses, did a summer at Kibbutz Grofit in Israel before college?”
“That’s my father’s name! He no longer qualifies as a skinny kid and he doesn’t have those glasses, although I’ve seen the pictures. And yes, he did work in a kibbutz2 in Israel when he was eighteen. Do you know of him?”
“Know of him? Ask him if he remembers Jacob Leibowicz. We were best pals, both so earnest, so hoping to learn enough to qualify as rabbis one day. Is he still well? And a rabbi?”
“He is.”
“Then HaShem be praised! You and I . . . we have met for a reason. Wait till I tell my Sheila! She has heard so much about Solomon, and she will want to meet you. She’s around here somewhere, listening to someone kvetching3 a tale of woe. She’s good at that.” The rabbi was greeting others of the congregation as they left, but he had not let go of her hand.
“Ah, there she is. Sheila. Come here. HaShem has blessed us. This is Sarah, the daughter of my dear friend Solomon.”
“Solomon? Solomon Chomsky? Mazel Tov!4 How do you come to be here this evening?”
Before Sarah could open her mouth, the rabbi completed her introduction.
“So! You are new in town, and alone? Never fear. From now on, you will be a part of our family. You must come and celebrate Rosh Hashana5 with us."
“Oh, I couldn’t impose upon you to . . .”
“Impose, nothing! Our home is always open to strangers, to travelers, to anyone alone on an important day. But you . . . you come to us as a gift.”
“And your father the rabbi would never forgive us if we did not welcome his daughter at the start of our new year, and at the outset of her new career. We shall have much to celebrate. No more discussion, now. You will come to our house—it’s the one right next door to the shul, the one with the single light on over there. Come around 6:30 that Tuesday—September 30th—as the stars appear in the sky. And you will be our honored guest.”
Sarah had brightened the sabbath for both of her parents when she called to tell them of meeting Rabbi Leibowicz. Her father believed it to be no accident that his daughter had stumbled upon the synagogue led by his old friend from their kibbutz days. Solomon Chomsky could not stop talking about the adventures the two young men had shared. As for her mother, Leah Chomsky had never met Jacob, but it was enough for her to know that this was a friend of her husband’s. The important fact, as far as Leah saw it, was that Sarah had found a surrogate family, a spiritual home, a synagogue run by a trustworthy Conservative Jewish patriarch.
“I’ve been so worried, my dear, that you would have nowhere to go for Rosh Hashana. I will sleep better knowing you will share challah6 with a devout family. You should be sure to take Mrs. Leibowicz a New Year’s gift. If I thought you had the time, I'd tell you to bake an attractive dish of apple kugel7 to contribute to the dinner. But since you are working now, I recommend a bottle of kosher8 wine. What family cannot use more wine?”
Sarah laughed. “Yes, Ima. Can you suggest where I might find kosher wine?”
“Do you have a Gourmet Garden in your new neighborhood? I'm sure a college town will have one.”
“I don’t think I have seen it—but maybe.”
“You remember our trip to Gordon’s Grocery, don’t you—that huge warehouse that carried all kinds of food? You complained because of all the walking it required.”
“How well I remember, but what . . .?”
“Gordon’s has opened a new chain of specialty food shops, locating them near rich people—close to gated suburban neighborhoods and resorts, college towns, and retirement communities. They don’t carry the ordinary stuff. If you want hamburger, or white bread, or corn flakes, or tomato soup, you go to a supermarket. But if you’re looking for delicacies, party foods, imports—then Gourmet Garden is the place to shop.”
"I’ll see if I can find one. And they carry kosher wine?”
“Yes. They understand what their customers need. Pick something fancy. Maybe a Malbec. Oh, and look for a nice box of dark-chocolate-covered halvah9 to go with it.”
Sarah set out the next weekend to find the fabled Gourmet Garden, but crowds of people had found it before she did. A line was forming at the front door as a harried clerk tried to direct traffic. “We only have so many carts,” he explained. “As soon as someone finishes checking out or loading a car, I’ll have a cart for the next person in line.”
The wait was not long, but the lines continued inside. As if by mutual agreement, the shoppers followed one another along the outside wall all the way to the back of the store. Sarah marveled at the logic of it. The crowds made sure she had time to study each shelf. Since she had not made a shopping list, she picked up a few items, choosing whatever tempted her—a bag of three lovely avocados, a long, thin slice of brie, a package of English crumpets, some unflavored yogurt.
From the back of the store, the line began a snake-like movement—up one side of an aisle, a sharp u-turn and down the other side, then around a corner and up the next aisle, and back again. Everyone was polite, waiting with patience as a customer dithered over a choice and then moving forward in step. No one cut across an aisle or darted in the wrong direction—with one exception.
“Excuse me, but I need to get through here.” The voice was all too familiar. “Pardon. I’m not cutting in line. This lady and I are together.” Cassie grinned as she pushed others aside and slipped her cart in right behind Sarah. “Morning, prof. Finding everything you’re looking for?”
“Good morning, Cassie. You shouldn’t cut in line, you know.”
“Oh, nobody minded. At least, nobody hit me. Everyone’s moving slowly, and I needed somebody to talk to. What are you buying?”
“Random items. I’m here to get a hostess gift for the rabbi and his family who have invited me to celebrate Rosh Hashana with them.”
“The Leibowicz family at Beth Shalom? They’re good people—always taking in poor little strays and lost souls.”
For a moment, Sarah wanted to slap the girl for the exaggerated pity in her voice, but she gritted her teeth and went on as if she hadn’t heard the last statement. “I understand this store has a kosher section, but I haven’t spotted it yet. In the meantime I’m picking up a few things that intrigue me.”
“And what are you celebrating? Rush something? I keep forgetting you’re Jewish, too, aren’t you? I heard that, but I forgot. You don’t look Jewish.”
Sarah’s eyes widened in a flash of anger. “Don’t I? I guess I forgot to wear my yellow star.”
“Oh, don’t go getting all hostile. I meant nothing by it. One of my high school friends was—you know.
“No, I don’t know. I don’t get involved in casual conversations that point up ethnic stereotypes. If you are serious about an academic career, you had better learn the rules of proper etiquette.”
“And those would be . . .?” Now Cassie was bristling.
“Well, one of them says that people are just people; we don't identify them by color or ethnicity or religion.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to insult you. Let’s change the subject. What can we find for you that’s self-indulgent? Oh, I have an idea! Wait here and hold my cart. I know just the thing.”
She went darting off, pushed her way up the middle of another aisle, and did something of a headstand to reach the back of a frozen
food case. With a box in each hand, she came back to her place in line and dropped the boxes into Sarah’s cart.
“What are those? Almond something? I can’t . . .”
“Oh, sure you can. Those are real French croissants with almond filling. Just you wait. You let them thaw and rise overnight in a cold oven and then bake them in the morning. The smell of yeast will make you swoon.”
“I’ll bet it will. I mean . . . uh, I’m allergic to tree nuts of all kinds—even the smell of them. That many nuts would kill me.”
“Geez! I can’t do anything right this morning, can I? You ought to try them anyhow. Scrape the nutty part off.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll put them back when I get to the freezer case.”
“Well, how about peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels? Can you eat peanuts?”
“I’ve never tried. That’s why I’m still here!” Sarah tried to turn the comment into a joke, but she felt penned in, almost claustrophobic. “I’m running late and this is taking too long. I think I’ll return my cart and wait for a day when it’s less crowded.”
“You look a little pale. Am I allowed to say that? You go ahead. Leave your cart here. I’ll get your groceries for you and drop them by your apartment later.”
“How do you know . . .? Oh, never mind. I don’t want these things. I’ll find a clerk and have them put back. Let go of the cart, Cassie.”
Sarah yanked the cart away and hurried up the aisle, headed for a man who looked like a store employee. “Please. Can you help me? There’s a person here who has been stalking me. I need to get rid of this cart and get out of here. Can you take care of it for me?”
“What did he do? Shall I call the police?”
“No. And it’s not a man. Just return these groceries and don’t give them to anybody who offers to pay for them.” Sarah was shaking as she reached her car. She slammed the door and pushed the lock down in a single gesture, then rested her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment while her heartbeat slowed. “I’m being ridiculous.”
By the time she reached home, she realized that she had not found what she went for. “I must go back this afternoon,” she told Elijah, “but I'll feel safer. Cassie won’t still be there. I can’t keep doing this, though—running away from her because her forwardness threatens me. Maybe I’d better get some advice from other members of the department. We all have to deal with her.”
Her second trip to Gourmet Garden went better. The crowds had thinned out, and she could ask for help in finding the kosher section. As her mother had instructed, she picked up a bottle of Malbec, a small box of dark chocolate halvah, and a fancy gift sack. She had decided not to purchase anything else, but one item displayed in the center of an aisle stopped her. It was a container of black and white seasonings labeled “Everything But the Bagel.”
She laughed to herself as she dropped the jar into her basket. “You can take the Jewish girl out of New York, but you can’t take the craving for a New York bagel10 out of the Jewish girl.”
Confident by evening that she was overcoming her nervous reactions, she didn’t panic when she heard footsteps outside her front door. Elijah glanced at the door, too, and for a few seconds his tail swelled to bottle-brush proportions. Then he relaxed, turned in circles, and went back to sleep. Sarah would have thought no more of the incident if she had not opened the door in the morning and found a box of almond croissants bursting open from the pressure of the swelling dough.
Chapter Nine
An Italian Pizza
September 29, 2008
On Monday morning, Sarah tapped on Julia Winthrop’s office door. “Are you busy, or do you have a few minutes to chat?”
“Sure, come on in. What’s up, girlfriend?” Julia always seemed relaxed but in control, and Sarah admired her.
“I’m having a problem with one of our graduate students. I feel silly saying this, but she seems to be following me, targeting me, although I don’t understand what her purpose is. She . . .”
Julia held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “Stop. Say nothing more. I don’t want to hear about that kind of thing. Not here. Not now.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trouble you.”
“It’s not that, but . . . Look, I don’t even want to explain right now. What about later this evening? Do you have any dinner plans?”
“Just my usual frozen entrée.”
“And how do you feel about pizza?”
“I love it, but . . .”
“Then let’s go for a little drive and catch something to eat while we talk. Let me know when you are ready to leave the campus. I’ll give you a head start of fifteen—maybe twenty—minutes to get home, put your car in the garage, feed the cat, whatever else you have to do. I’ll pick you up out in front of the apartment complex. It is the Riverside Gardens, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I’m willing to share advice, Sarah, but this is not the place to do it.” She nodded toward the office door and gave a casual wave to a passing student.
“I understand. And pizza sounds great.”
“Sorry for all the cloak and dagger caution,” Julia explained as Sarah shut the car door and settled in. “I’m feeling more than my usual amount of paranoia because I’m up for tenure in the spring, and it feels like everyone is watching me. You’ll understand more after you’ve been here a while.”
“Do they do that? Watch you, I mean?”
“All the time.”
“What are they looking for? They must know by now that you’re a good teacher and colleague. They can’t be looking for a reason to fire you.”
Julia gave an ironic chuckle. “I’m a woman and I’m black. That’s two reasons right there. All they need is one more deficiency to disguise the fact that they would be seen as targeting a black woman.”
“Who are they, anyway?”
“Who knows? Tenure committee members remain anonymous. That’s one reason the tenure process is so terrifying. Besides the paperwork that the candidate has to fill out—educational goals, publishing plans, copies of the syllabus from every class ever taught, research areas—the anonymous committee has permission to interview anyone who might want to judge the candidate’s fitness for long-term employment. And by anyone, I mean other faculty members, present and past; students and their parents, too; friends; neighbors; other attendees at conferences; former professors and employers; and prominent scholars in the field. Sometimes it feels like someone is keeping track of every bite I eat and every person I talk to. They can go back and read all my student evaluations, look at any email correspondence on the college server, and check my phone records, too.”
“That’s awful.”
“It feels awful. And that’s why I didn’t want to talk about your student problem this morning. I never know who might be listening.”
“Are we headed to some secret safe house?”
“Sort of. There’s a great little bar and grill in a small town about fifteen miles up into the hills. It’s run by an Italian couple whose customers include local farmers, miners, and moonshiners. I’ve seen no one from the college—or from Birch Falls. I can relax and be me up there, and, besides, they make the best pizza I’ve ever tasted.”
A ramshackle building flashed a “Budweiser” neon sign in the window, and mud-covered trucks and motorcycles filled the unpaved lot around it. A smaller sign read “Guido Capelli, proprietor.” When Julia opened the door, clouds of garlic-infused steam engulfed them, and a skinny old man came running with arms outstretched. “Julia! Bambina! We’ve missed you this summer. Wait till I tell momma you’re here! And you’ve brought us a new friend, perhaps?”
“I’ve missed you guys, too. And this is Sarah. She’s new in town.”
“Welcome! Welcome to Guido’s!” The old gentleman embraced her, and Sarah stood astounded as he pressed a kiss on each cheek.
“Do you have an empty booth, poppa? Sarah and I have some serious talking to do.”
; As they settled into their corner booth, a short, round woman came bustling out of the kitchen. She wiped her red face on a corner of her apron and plopped a carafe of house red wine on the table. “Ciao, Julia! Wine is on the house tonight in honor of your return. But don’t drink too much of it. That road back to town is winding and dangerous.”
“Yes, momma.”
“So, what you want to eat, eh?”
“Give us a few minutes, please. Sarah’s new, so I must explain how to order.”
“That’s good. I got to go run poppa out of the kitchen, anyway. He’ll be putting too many peppers in the sauce if I don’t watch him like a hawk.”
Julia watched her and shook her head with obvious affection. “They don’t use menus here. You tell them what you’re hungry for, and they tell you what you're going to get.”
“You advertised pizza.”
“I did, and that’s what I recommend. They only have one size pan—about thirteen inches, but I suggest we each order our own. There will be plenty of leftovers, but it freezes—and it’s better than those boxed things you’ve been eating. Besides, I favor ham and pineapple, and not too many people want to share that.”
“No, I’m a veggie or pepperoni and mushroom girl, myself.”
What Grows in Your Garden Page 8