Jacob's Folly (36 page)

open your front door

M
asha opened the door. It was Derbhan Nevsky, his clothes blazing white, hopping from one foot to the other.

“I've been trying to reach you since yesterday,” he whispered, exasperated.

“It's Shabbos,” Masha said, leaning her hip on the doorsill. The sight of Nevsky irritated her.

“You're not going back to that, are you? This is not the time,” he said, looking up and down the street.

“I just didn't think of turning on the phone till now,” she said, shrugging. “What do you want to tell me?”

“You got the part,” he announced. “In the Rathgar Kennet musical—
My Alchemy
. You got it.”

“What? I thought that was all over.”

“It was. They cast a girl, got her out there, and she didn't work out. Kennet fired her, reviewed all the audition tapes. Now they want
you
. We gotta get you to Mexico.”

“When?”

“Now. Shooting started September first. There's a fitting scheduled for tomorrow morning.” Behind Nevsky, mute threads of far-off
lightning glimmered in the sky. Nevsky swiveled around to see what she was looking at.

Masha stomped upstairs screaming with excitement, broadcasting the headline of her triumph and imminent departure through every room in the house. Rueful, jealous, proud, I watched her take off, a blur of limbs ascending. That was my path she was taking. Hovering sadly in the air, I saw myself reflected in her, purified, my debasements burned away, my talent deepened. Our shared fate was hers to complete. My girl was going to be glorious!

Masha rushed into her room, opened the closet, and removed a small light-blue child's suitcase, the only one she owned. Flipping the clasps and opening it onto the bed, a thought came to her. It didn't matter how long she had. She would just eat up whatever time she had left, grab it with both her hands, consume it, and apologize to no one. That's what she would do.

Pearl invited the small, nervous agent man into the kitchen, gave him a cup of coffee and a blintze. She sat down beside him, feeling a strange kind of relief mixed with mourning. She knew that Masha had to go. In a way, she even wanted her to. That was the worst of it.

“Will they take care of her?” she asked him.

“Take care of her! She'll be treated like a queen. I'll make sure of it. This director may be a genius, by the way.”

“But … what happened to the other girl, the one they chose first?” asked Pearl.

“She wasn't Masha. That was her problem. This is Masha's part. Sometimes things have a way of aligning themselves,” said Nevsky
mysteriously, pressing the edge of his fork into the blintze. “These are spectacular, Mrs. Edelman,” he said, chewing rapidly.

“Thank you,” said Pearl. Nevsky looked up at her solemn face and winced. It was so unpleasant being face-to-face with open pain.

“Masha can't help being what she is, any more than that fly can turn himself into a ladybug,” he said, pointing a leathery finger in my direction. In the process of performing my morning ablutions in a droplet of water, I rubbed my forepaws together in prayerful assent.

Her attention drawn to me, Pearl stared down for a long moment. I knew this was the end. I didn't move. I was ready. Nevsky watched, his loaded fork poised midair, as my progeny raised her hand. The canopy of her palm stiffened above me. I spread my legs wide, lying prostrate on the table, and prepared for my execution.

Please, El Shaddai, Creator of all things, listen to me!
I cried in desperation.
I got it all wrong! I frittered away my life in sin, You gave me a chance to return, and what do I do? I mess it up again, thinking only how to hurt You, ruin people's lives. But now I swear I've learned my lesson. I beg You: let me be born as a man again. I promise to be good next time!

As Pearl's killing hand descended, I heard a dark sound, a kind of cosmic drumroll, clustering, echoing, tumbling—down from a mirthful sky.

I would like to thank Max McGuinness, whose dogged research helped me penetrate some of the mysteries of life among eighteenth-century Jews, and whose knowledge of the French Enlightenment was crucial to my own understanding; Suri Weingott, who welcomed me into her home, allowing me a view of her family life, its rituals and traditions; Rabbi Ellen Lippmann, Rabbi Scott Fox, Shulamit Kadosh, and Julia Bolus, for their advice and expertise; Gene Spiotta, for opening up the world of fire rescue and the culture of volunteering, as well as being an inspirational figure; Jane Spiotta, for her hospitality and the tours of Patchogue; Peggy Gormley, for the hours inside the eruv in Far Rockaway; my agent, Sarah Chalfant, for her early enthusiasm and constancy; my editor, Jonathan Galassi; my dear Daniel, Gabriel, Ronan, and Cashel, who have helped shape this book, each in his own way.

REBECCA MILLER
is the author of the short story collection
Personal Velocity
, her feature-film adaptation of which won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance. She is the writer-director of
Angela, The Ballad of Jack and Rose
, and, most recently, the novel and film
The Private Lives of Pippa Lee
. She lives in New York and Ireland with her family. Visit her online at
rebecca-miller.com
.

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Jacob's Folly
Copyright © 2013 by Rebecca Miller.

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EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2013 ISBN: 978-1-44341-828-7

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