Read Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan Online

Authors: Paula Marantz Cohen

Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan (27 page)

BOOK: Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan
6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
T
he Goodman
BAT MITZVAH WAS HELD IN TEMPLE B'NAI Or, a spacious Reform synagogue in the developing suburbs of Cherry Hill—once the boondocks of the area, now the site of multimillion-dollar high-concept homes, upscale multiplex movie theaters, and synagogues in the Frank Lloyd Wright architectural style. B'nai Or, which vaguely resembled Wright's Falling Water, was one such relatively new congregation that already boasted about five hundred families. This was large, by any standard, though certainly not exceptional in Cherry Hill, where there were several Reform and Conservative synagogues twice the size.
Normally temple services were not heavily attended, but for certain occasions the parking lot was full. This was during the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur (which often featured sermons in which the frustrated rabbi berated the congregation about their failure to attend the rest of the year) and at bar mitzvahs and weddings. Indeed, on Saturday, the synagogue was never empty, since a morning and an evening affair were usually held back to back, forcing rival caterers and florists to brush elbows. Angry skirmishes, one involving a serving fork, had been known to occur during this interval.
Because of the size of the congregation, children were sometimes
forced to pair up for bar mitzvahs—a “double” being a result of only so many Saturdays in the year. Stephanie had drawn a solo evening ceremony, making her one of the lucky ones (or unlucky, as the case may be, since some children enjoyed the comfort of the buddy system). Of course, it had only been possible to assure a solo date by scheduling the bat mitzvah rather far afield from Stephanie's actual birth date—she would not turn thirteen for another month. (Carla had put aside some of the bat mitzvah booty for presentation when the actual birthday arrived. She knew that thirteen-year-olds were prone to literalness in such matters.)
The whole ceremony would take perhaps an hour and three quarters. One of the boons of Reform Judaism was the shortened service. A Conservative bar mitzvah was likely to run nearer to three and a half hours, which meant that guests invariably knew to arrive late and were liable to come and go throughout the ceremony. Carla remembered her experience as a child in an Orthodox synagogue, where the tendency to move around during a service was even greater—the women and children often spending most of the time in the coatroom trading recipes and gossip. She recalled this scene as great fun as well as oddly infused with spiritual feeling. The Reform synagogue, by contrast, was more exacting in its view of attendance. Perhaps because congregants had moved further from the fold, they behaved more properly on the occasions when they actually made it to the temple.
But whatever the denomination of Judaism and however long or short the service, the bar mitzvah was, in the final analysis, one of those rituals—part rote, part festivity—that assured that the religion would live on. Everyone liked a good bar mitzvah, and many non-Jews, invited to one as children, had shed their suspicion of this alien religion by virtue of the fun they'd had doing the limbo.
It was impossible, in short, to overestimate the public relations value for the Jewish faith of the bar mitzvah ceremony and celebration. It was here that one saw the full vitality of the Jewish people—their
love of family, food, talk, song, and dramatic festivity. Here were all the excesses endearingly displayed, an event so full of energy and glitz as to disarm all but the most puritanical Puritans and the most snobbish self-hating Jews.
For Stephanie's bat mitzvah, everyone was present in his or her expected place as the designated starting time for the ceremony drew near. There, in the front row, sat the immediate family: Stephanie between Mark and Carla—their precious jewel, her curls sparkling, her face radiant. Beside Carla sat Jeffrey, showing promise that he would one day be able to pass through this ritual himself by the simple fact that he was now capable of sitting still. Next to Mark sat his parents, Rose and Charles Goodman, a well-brushed and handsome couple. Charles, a retired furniture salesman, had the slightly smug look of a seventy-three-year-old man with a nice pension, good eyesight, and a full head of hair (attributes that made Rose the envy of all her friends).
Seated next to Jeffrey was Jessie, looking like the aging beauty she was, but with an added quality of youthful anticipation and excitement in her posture. She had been turning around, ever since she arrived, glancing toward the door of the sanctuary until Saul Millman finally entered, at which point she waved her hand shyly and appeared almost inclined to blow a kiss. He entered the synagogue in a tallis and skullcap of richly embroidered material, a kind of proclamation of his business success, and put his hand to his heart in an unabashed expression of devotion. Jessie blushed and turned away, but only to turn back at regular intervals to smile and nod again in his direction.
Margot sat next to Jessie, looking, as always, show-stopping. She had tried, to her credit, to play down the effect of her appearance in deference to Stephanie's designated role as the center of attention. She was wearing a suit (less expensive and a shade lighter than the mother-of-the-bar-mitzvah-child suit) that did not succeed in damping down her luster. As already noted, it was a paradox of Margot's appearance that in dressy clothes she looked
striking, while in more understated ones, she looked more so. Uncle Sid, now fully recovered, was sitting in the row behind and announcing to everyone in the vicinity that Margot was a “Jewish Sophia Loren.” (Margot told Carla that she wished Sid would update his references; Sophia Loren was rapidly disappearing from cultural consciousness. “The Jewish Madonna would be better, or maybe the Jewish Catherine Zeta-Jones.” “I've never seen anyone so picky,” noted Carla; “you even critique your compliments.”)
Stephanie's friends, a swarm of gabby seventh-graders, were seated at the left of the
bima
under the stern eye of the Sisterhood member assigned to keep them in order. The problem of the bar mitzvah child's friends was a much-discussed topic of the Education Committee. How was one to control the hysterical giggles that tended to erupt when some fifty twelve- and thirteen-year-olds were clumped together to watch a friend perform in another language for long, boring intervals? A number of suggestions had been proffered by way of solution. One was to forbid the children to sit together. When this idea was implemented, however, the result was worse: The giggles grew louder and the gestures broader, as friends attempted to communicate across the vast space of the sanctuary. Another suggestion—to distribute a printed sheet explaining rules of behavior—also backfired: The children crumpled the sheets loudly or configured them into airplanes to be sent with messages back and forth across the room.
The committee had finally settled on installing a special bar mitzvah guard, drawn from the ranks of the Sisterhood. It was agreed that not just any Sisterhood member could serve in this capacity. The woman had to have a proven reputation for ferocity—an ability to take on the thirteen-year-olds without fear. A group of candidates had been assembled for this purpose, and since these women were outright scary (“Jewish ballbusters,” as one board member had whispered to another), behavior had markedly improved.
Now, a woman in a tartan skirt and high heels was parading
back and forth, shooting withering glances at the children whenever they began to act up. The girls in the entourage were all dressed alike: even the non-Jewish ones had on the requisite skimpy dress with cover-up (to be removed during the party), the bangles and chains, the Nine West heels, and fake Kate Spade bags. The boys wore suits or sports jackets (generally too small or too large). Unlike the girls, who were busy sizing up each other's outfits and reapplying their lipstick, the boys were concentrating their minds on the first-rate spread that they knew was awaiting them once the service was over.
Stephanie, seated between her parents, was of course the focal point of her friends' attention, and she was continually darting glances and making faces at them when she was not trying to assume the pose of being above the fray and ignoring them entirely.
The doctors and nurses from Mark's hospital were also seated in respective clumps near the back of the synagogue. The doctors, mostly Jewish, felt at home. The nurses, mostly not, did not—they had a look of petrified formality on their faces, wondering what to expect.
Margot continued to look back toward the sanctuary door, and seemed relieved when finally Anish, Felicity, and Hal entered. Jessie had insisted that they be invited. Fortunately, there were a number of last-minute cancelations from Florida, the result of phlebitis flare-ups and hip replacements, to accommodate them.
Jill and Adam Rosenberg sat amid a group of Carla's friends. Jill was busy regaling everyone about her success at preventing the residents of the Golden Pond Geriatric Center from being thrown out onto the streets of Cherry Hill. Adam was sitting quietly beside her, his eyes half-closed, like a dog before the hearth.
On the other side of the synagogue sat Dr. Samuels and his wife, Sylvia. Samuels regularly attended his patients' bar mitzvahs, both to have a handle on what they would subsequently be talking to him about and because, as he put it, “nothing beats a good bar mitzvah.” As always, Samuels had a way of stripping
things down to their most basic and, ultimately, appealing form. “It's a headache to plan,” he said, “but in the end, it's a sacred ceremony of initiation and a hell of a party. What's not to like?”
Near Samuels, the Brooklyn Katzes, wearing boas and yellow cummerbunds, were vying with the thirteen-year-olds in the amount of noise they could make. And near the door, in case a quick bathroom trip was necessary, sat Mr. Pinsky next to Susie Wilson.
The service began. Rabbi Newman, only months earlier a mere assistant rabbi, had made great strides in his appearance and manner. His beard had come in and his voice had assumed a pleasant, steady timbre. He seemed to actually enjoy reciting the prayers, so that the congregation was inclined to enjoy them too. Best of all, he did not speak too much or have too many opinions. It was therefore concluded, in that most desirable of all descriptive phrases, that “he has a nice way about him.”
Stephanie, when she came up for her recitation of the
V'ahafta,
was nervous, and the first few lines were hardly audible. Carla tried to gesture for her to raise her voice, but Stephanie would not look in her direction. Fortunately the young rabbi now showed his mettle. He got up and whispered magisterially in Stephanie's ear to take it up a notch, which she did to surprisingly good effect. Her voice was clear and sweet, and as the congregation grew quiet listening to her, she gained in confidence and sang even better.
Her Torah and haftorah portions were subsequently performed beautifully.
“The voice of an angel,” whispered one of the cousins from East Brunswick with typical overstatement.
But it was true that Stephanie sang her portions very well and that even her friends stayed put rather than recess to the bathroom as they normally would at this juncture in the service. When she was done, there was a murmur of admiration. A child with a decent voice and some feel for the melodies had the ability to create a profound response to these age-old tunes. Nor was it Stephanie's
rendition alone that the congregation was responding to. Her performance brought to consciousness the rich cultural legacy obscured by the routine and bric-a-brac of daily life. Indeed, even where kids mangled the melodies and mispronounced the Hebrew, some of that cultural meaning always came through, lifting the event, if only briefly, into the realm of the sacred. A sense of wonder for the fact of the child turning into the adult, for the idea of family reaching back generations, for the religion that had endured despite persecution and hardship, for the sense of shared community—all this was present in those ancient melodies.
“And now,” said the young senior rabbi, “the bat mitzvah, as is customary, will offer her own interpretation of her Torah portion. For those not familiar with our vocabulary,” he added sagely, “we use the term ‘bar or bat mitzvah' to refer to our young initiates as well as to the ceremony in which they are engaged.” (This explanation was later deemed by the board to be a nice touch.)
The rabbi now nodded to Stephanie, who took out a folded sheaf of paper from her imitation Kate Spade bag and wobbled to the lectern in her Nine West heels.
She placed the speech on the lectern and then took a sip from the glass of water that the rabbi had placed there for her.
Carla held her breath.
“My Torah portion deals with Joseph's interpretation of Pharaoh's dream,” Stephanie began in the familiar adolescent singsong. “In my portion, Joseph is called out of prison by the Pharaoh who has heard that Joseph has the power to interpret dreams. He, the Pharaoh, tells him, Joseph, his dream. He says he dreamed about seven fat kine and seven lean kine—kine meaning cattle”—she shot Mark a look—“and Joseph tells him that this means that there will be seven fertile years in Egypt followed by seven lean years. The Pharaoh then rewards Joseph for his interpretation by giving him an important position in his government. Joseph then goes on to take care of things for the country. He makes sure that the country puts enough grain away during the
fertile years so that they won't go hungry during the lean years.
BOOK: Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan
6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Mommy's Angel by Miasha
Murder is a Girl's Best Friend by Matetsky, Amanda
Dead to Me by Mary McCoy
Kickback by Damien Boyd
Before the Storm by Rick Perlstein
Small Holdings by Barker, Nicola
Wishful Thinking by Kamy Wicoff