The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (6 page)

“Sure is,” I say, eager for the same treat. Meanwhile, the sweets before us are scrumptious.

“You know, you look familiar,” Matt says to me.

“What do you mean?” I’m suddenly panicked that maybe he, too, went to U of P and knows me from my year in Hillel. But even worse, Matt says, “I’m sure I saw you on JDate some weeks ago. It was before you posted your profile, Kris.”

“You’re both on JDate?” Josh asks. “Why?”

“For a man like Matt,” coos Krista, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek.

“Who wrote who?” asks Josh.

“I checked for girls ‘willing to convert’ in my search,” says Matt, “and there she was. But I do think I remember your profile, Aimee. Time2Share or something—I always remember things with numbers.”

“Believe me, that wasn’t Aimee,” insists Josh. “She’s not even Jewish.”

“Could have fooled me,” Matt says, and makes my heart stop. When Josh looks at me, I know Krista’s stops too. Thank God she’s here. For if I was tipsy, I have just sobered up. This is it. I will now be revealed. Shamed. Tarred and then feathered.

I look back at Josh. He searches my eyes. And in that moment I see. Josh wants to be fooled. He buys my brand. Consumers can relate to who you are because somehow you’ve created a connection with their soul. And it allows you to broaden the product because they trust you.

“Busted. Okay. Maybe
I’m
‘willing to convert,’ ” I say, nervous laughter aiding, abetting, and deflecting the moment.

“Uh, let’s not even go there, okay?” says Josh, putting his arm around me.

Tension dissolved, Krista and I burst out with the giggles. Josh is relieved, so he laughs. Matt is embarrassed, so he laughs. I vow to log on to the site and deactivate my stupid unfinished never-paid-for profile as soon as I get home.

“Me convert,” I say, and laugh, this time for real. “
That’s
funny.”

“That’s really
craziness,
” says Krista.

“Sure is,” I say. “Total—”

“Moosh-e-gas!” We happen to say together, and crack up again.

“Moose gas?” asks Josh, totally amused.

“Mishegas,”
explains Matt. “How do you two know that?”

“We have a Jewish boss,” says Krista. Under the table, she locks her pinkie firmly inside mine—that old schoolyard custom—and before we let go, we each make a wish. I smile at Josh and hope mine will come true.

N
ot-
S
o-
G
ay
P
aree

A
HHHHHGGGHHH
,” I scream in the ladies’ room. “Could you believe that? I thought I’d die.”

“Matt’s sharp, isn’t he?” says Krista. She unsnaps her black beaded purse and takes out her lipstick.

“What do they call that color?” I say, concentrating on the smaller, less obvious problem that I need new makeup to match my new hair and eyes.

She turns over the silver cylinder and reads the name on the label on the bottom.
“Moxy!”
says Krista, applying Ramy’s creamy matte to her lips.

“Let me see that.” I grab the lipstick and turn it over to confirm the name. Just yesterday, Ellen from Ramy messengered over some samples. I apply it to my lips, and it looks so good. “This is definitely my color.”

“In more ways than one,” says Krista, taking back the lipstick and tucking it inside her purse. “That would have been way embarrassing.”

“I know,” I say, and run my fingers underneath my hair to give it a bit of a lift. I’m really liking my new hair, new eyes, new weight, new guy. “I decided. I’m not telling.”

“Aimee!” Krista leans up against the marble vanity sink shocked, not awed. “You of all people. I can’t believe you would go on with this sham. Especially after everything you’ve been through. How can you do something like that to Josh?”

“I don’t feel I’m doing anything to Josh he doesn’t want done,” I answer, but don’t want to face her so I go into the bathroom stall, close the door, and pee.

“You should have heard him at dinner,” I continue, talking from behind the locked door. “He has so many preconceived ideas about Jewish women. Get this: he thinks I’m really different from those
other
girls. We see what we want to see, huh?”

Feeling on stronger ground, I reemerge. “I’m actually helping him to break his stereotypes.”

“And create a set of new ones,” she says. Now Krista goes into the stall. Once she moves, I use the sink.

“Look, by the time he gets to really know me, it won’t matter. I mean, I’ll still be me and—”

“If all else fails, you can always convert,” she shouts over the flush of the toilet. “Seriously, Aimee. I’m worried about you. I mean, I know you. Are you even ready to date? I doubt you’re over Peter, do you think maybe you’re—?”

“Us both being Jewish can make having a family a lot easier,” I go on, oblivious, speaking over the running water. Krista now stands behind me. I see her reflection in the mirror. “But I’m going to need your help,” I talk to her image, unable to actually face her. “Can I count on you?”

She doesn’t readily answer.

“Krista?”

“I don’t want to start my relationship with Matt off on a lie,” she says.

“Wow. You’re like already serious. Did you—”

“No. Not yet, and it’s not going to happen tonight,” Krista quickly responds. “I don’t want to go that fast.”

“By the way, how fast does a shiksa go?”

“Depends on the shiksa!”

We laugh.

“Well, let’s say . . . the shiksa is me,” I say, and, for the time being, we are off the other topic. Whatever happens, I’m grateful that at least circumcision won’t blow my cover.

“Well,” she says, studying me. “What are you?”

I look at her and draw a blank.

“It depends what kind of shiksa you are. Just like you Jewish girls, we’re not all the same, you know. Sex is different for every denomination.”

“Really?” True or false, Krista scares the panties off me.

“Didn’t you do your homework?” she asks.

“I hadn’t thought of it, but—”

“Well, think about it. Are you a lapsed Catholic, practicing Protestant, a Baptist?”

“Okay, definitely not a Bap—”

“Lutheran, Presbyterian, Methodist . . . ?” Krista waves the white paper towel she’s just used to wipe her hands in the air as if it were my flag of surrender. “I’m surprised at you, Aimee. You’re usually so detail-oriented.”

“Okay, I see your point.” I confess to being more than just a little bit out of my league. “I’ll do some research, I’ll figure something out . . . you know, in case he asks. But I think he already knows.” This last comment pops out of my mouth only for protection but inspires a comforting idea.

“How can he know what you don’t?”

“Because, Krista,” I say, educating my friend as I suspect she may soon opt to become a member of my original tribe, “you’re either Jewish or you’re Not. To Josh, my religion is Not. And I betcha anything Not’ll be enough.”

Suddenly I miss being Jewish. Although I’m not quite sure what I’m missing because nothing has been taken from me. Well, perhaps a little of my humor . . . some of my disclosure . . . parts of my vocabulary . . . and a lot of my Jewish know-it-all because now I don’t. But I am enjoying Josh and love feeling like a sweet, adorable, pampered girl.

Krista and Matt catch a cab downtown while Josh and I walk for a bit. The chill in the air feels refreshing. Josh holds my hand and leads me to Fifth Avenue. We stroll uptown passing fancy storefronts displaying shoes, dresses, jewelry, and leather. Each one outdoes the next with its high-end wares.

The city is such a fantastic backdrop. Whatever’s going on in your life, it feels as if with the proper underscoring you could be playing a scene, the star of your movie. If ever I felt that way, it’s more so now.

“You’re a quiet girl,” says Josh, breaking the silence.

“Oh?”

The bathroom chat with Krista replays in my mind and creates two new tapes. Telling and Not Telling. Mentally, I try to play each one out. I don’t see why I need to spill the beans just yet. I mean
—quiet girl!??!
Uh-oh. No one’s ever accused me of that before. But it’s easier and less dangerous, so I stay that way.

“I have to say I was a little alarmed when Matt said he saw you on JDate,” says Josh when I don’t respond. “I know you two are friends and that’s how he met Krista. But I also know what he meant.”

Be brave, I think. “And why would that be alarming?” I ask because I need to find out.

“Because with you I feel like I’m finally dating the right kind of woman. I mean, man . . . I know JDate well. I’ve been through . . . don’t ask because I won’t tell.”

“Okay,” I say, aware Josh has not answered my question. “But let’s say Matt was right.”

“But he’s not,” Josh says, and pushes me up against the storefront window of Bergdorf Goodman. It’s late. The street is empty. The glimmer of a new moon shines above.

“But what if—”

“Ssssshhh,” he says, and presses his finger to my lips. “I was just thinking out loud. You don’t have to be alarmed about anything, Aimee.” He pronounces it “eMay,” the French way. It sounds exotic. It makes me feel new.

It is still winter, but the mannequins behind us are decked out for spring. Tote bags, Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, and colorful cinch belts accessorize white-cuffed button-down shirts and capri pants, pleated floral skirts, and patent leather sandals. For the first time in my life, I feel like I can look like a woman in the Bergdorf window. I want to move in. I want to be there. With Josh by my side, I feel I can go places. And oh, I so want to travel. I want to fly.

Josh holds me and is very gentle. I am a China doll that can easily break. He moves his full mouth over mine; his lips touch, circling above and below, over my lips. An interlude. The pause before the surrender. To a kiss. The first kiss. It is lovely. And I hope the first of many.

Closer, we continue uptown. His arm around me, he tucks me into his frame and we walk. We walk past Bergdorf’s, past the Plaza Hotel, past the gold-leaf statue at the beginning of Central Park. Along the cobblestones we go. Past green-painted benches and the entrance that takes you to the zoo. I know exactly where we are, but I feel transported. Not just from New York. From Sam. Peter. From Aimee to eMay. When Josh hails a cab and holds open the door, it is eMay who hops in. We ride through the streets of Paris, and all the world is gay.

Until we reach my building on Second Avenue.

The doorman glances through the wide glass window to see who I’m with. Tova Steinman, my neighbor in 15F, is back from a late supper after the Philharmonic. She exits her cab in the circular driveway seconds after we step out of ours.

“Good evening, Aimala.”

A shopping bag, undoubtedly containing leftovers, hangs on Tova’s wrist, the concert program held in her hand. She smiles approvingly, giving Josh the once-over before the doorman, who’s just rushed out, will usher her in.

“Hi, Tova,” I say to the dynamo of an older redhead. She wears a beautiful mink. The top unbuttoned, her artsy pewter-and-tur-quoise necklace peeks through.

“I just heard the most marvelous Rachmaninoff,” she tells us in her animated Israeli accent. “Lorin Maazel. What a conductor. What a talent.” Willie, our doorman, looks on with pride as if she was speaking of him. “So who is this? Introduce me.”

“Tova Steinman, meet Josh Hirsch.”

Josh extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Tova. You can teach me a thing or two about classical music.”

“Ahhhh!” She laughs out loud. “Wonderful. This is a sweetheart,” she exclaims. “What did you say your name was? Hirsch?”

“Yes.”

“Aimala . . . it’s about time,” she says, and gives my arm a not-so-subtle squeeze before Willie escorts her through the doors.

I look at Josh and hope he didn’t catch the remark. Tova always liked Peter. A great deal in fact. A singer herself, she encouraged me to encourage him, supporting all artists and all art. But I always knew she’d prefer I’d be with someone Jewish.

“It’s about time what?” Josh asks. “What’s up with Hirsch?”

“She thinks it’s about time she sees with me with someone so handsome, and she wants to remember your name. That’s all,” I say. Sweetly.

“Oh yeah?” This makes Josh feel good. “That other dude wasn’t as handsome as me?”

I don’t want to say anything negative about Peter. Especially something untrue, so again I simply smile. Josh feels great and pulls me out of Willie’s eyesight so he can give me another kiss. I can’t believe how easy this smiling is. I mean, you can use it as an answer for anything. No one knows what you’re really thinking, but no one really cares because you’re smiling. When I think of all the words I’ve needlessly dispelled. But I stop thinking because Josh is kissing me again, and it is so soft, so warm, so sweet, so . . .

“Can I come up?” he asks.

“Mmmmm.” Okay, as noncommittal goes, you have to admit that
mmmmm
is a good match with the smiling.

“Is that a yes?”

“Mmmmm,” I say, again. But I’m already imagining Josh in my apartment.

Kissing me again in the elevator as we ride to the fifteenth floor. Walking down the burgundy carpeted hallway to 15J. Pushing me up against the door frame as I fumble for my keys. His head hovering over mine, eyes gazing. Seeing my mezuzah nailed inside my doorpost.

Carrying me across the threshold into my living room. Ravaging me on the sofa with
Stars of David
, my newest coffee table book, staring straight up for all to see.

Thank God he won’t be hungry after that meal. The kitchen will be off-limits. Did I finish the Golden cheese blintzes? I know I ate the last of the lox. Tova gave me the other half of her challah. And you can bet donuts to dollars my freezer’s full of bagels.

But Josh is hungry for ambience. He will search for candle-sticks and find my grandma Frieda’s ceramic pair—Hebrew letters hand-painted on each—atop the bookcase. Set on the shelf below my bat mitzvah album, right next to my menorah.

Interested to know what kind of books I read, he will skim titles.
Remember My Soul: A Journey Through Shiva and Jewish Mourning, The Committed Life
, by Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis, and
The Haggadah with Answers.
(I’m sure he’ll want a few.) All bookended by the siddur presented to me when I was a bat mitzvah.
AIMEE ALBERT
and the date, embossed on the cover in gold.

And should he want to share a romantic glass of wine, he will not have to look much further. Because beside the books is a silver kiddush cup. The front engraved with AYAH, my Hebrew name. Translated, it means “vulture.” Its meaning is not lost on me.

“eMay?”

I stare at him. I can’t do this. I just can’t.

“You look terrified,” he says. “What? Tell me. It’s okay.”

“Josh”—I take a deep breath—“I really like you. I had a wonderful time tonight. It’s just that . . .” Oh God.

Josh holds me tighter. His eyes coax me to continue.

“It’s that I’m not . . . I’m not . . .” Aimee, you can do it. “I’m not—”

“That kind of girl,” he finishes for me. “Of course you’re not. I didn’t mean to upset you by asking if I can come up. No. Whenever you’re ready. No rush.”

Josh kisses me on the nose, then nods to the arriving cab he’s going to take it.

“You get a good night’s sleep, Princess, and I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

He steps into the cab and is whisked away.

Princess. I guess not the same as JAP. Mmmmm.