O
n the
MORNING OF THE BAT MITZVAH, STEPHANIE ROSE early to review her haftorah portion. Hearing the sweet voice emanating from her daughter's bedroom, Carla momentarily forgot to worry about her
D'var Torah
. Of course, a few minutes later, she remembered and began worrying again.
The issue of the
D'var Torah
had not been resolvedâat least not to Carla's satisfaction. Stephanie had prepared a draft of the speech for her meeting with the rabbi the week before, but Carla had not had a chance to review it. She had been in a state of distraction when she dropped Stephanie off for her appointment with the rabbi and rushed to the airport to meet her mother and sister's flight from Venice. Then, after depositing Margot at her apartment in Center City and Jessie at home, she had returned to the synagogue to find her daughter waiting placidly in front of the temple door.
“So how did it go?” asked Carla.
Stephanie seemed extremely pleased with herself. “He liked it,” she said.
“Really?” said Carla. She couldn't imagine what her daughter had finally written, after resisting every possible idea that she and Mark had offered on the subject. “I'm sure it's very good,” she
said, trying to keep the note of doubt out of her voice. “When we get home, I'll take a look and we can polish it up.”
“No,” said Stephanie. “I like it the way it is and so did Rabbi Newman. I don't want you to read it. You'll hear it at the bat mitzvah.”
“Honey,” said Carla, “I really don't think that's a good idea.”
But Stephanie was adamant, and Carla, worn down by the events of the past few months, eventually gave up trying to change her mind. Nonetheless, she remained in a state of trepidation about what her daughter was going to say. That Rabbi Newman liked the speech did not in itself seem a powerful recommendation. Rabbi Newman was very green. No doubt he was easily pleased, or at least willing to accept anything that did not seem utterly off the wall or flagrantly heretical. What did he care if the child appeared simpleminded? She was not his child. But Carla was Stephanie's mother. She knew that Stephanie was a bright girl, and, furthermore, that relatives and friends, who had traveled long distances at great expense, would be judging her daughterâand herself, as the one principally responsible for shaping her. For Carla, the stakes were higher.
Yet nothing could be done. Stephanie had dug in her heels, and Carla, recalling the admonitions of Dr. Samuels, decided to back off and let things take their course.
At eleven A.M. on the day of the bat mitzvah, she took Stephanie to the local beauty salon for the bat mitzvah coiffure. This was de rigueur. Having one's hair done professionally was as important a mark of initiation for the adolescent female as the religious ceremony itself. The hair had to be teased and twisted into some kind of serpentine style that screamed “special occasion.” Stephanie had made an earlier pilgrimage to the crafts store, and bought an array of sparkles and small silk flowers for insertion into the lacquered hairdo. The hairdresser, a blasé, gum-chewing young woman named Angela, was, as a result of her Cherry Hill clientele, an expert on the bat mitzvah coiffure. She looked at Stephanie with a serious gaze, cocking her head to one side and popping her gum.
“I recommend an upsweep with a few tendrils and maybe a few
of these sparkles,” she concluded after some deliberation. “My thinking is, trash the flowers. You want to look fun, but also sort of spiritual. The flowers are too, you know, prom queen.”
Stephanie listened and nodded. She put the flowers back in her purse (perhaps to be resurrected for the seventh-grade dance) and gave herself over to Angela's ministrations.
The final result was, Carla had to admit, decidedly fetching. Her daughter had an excellent face: the striking Lubenthal features softened by less intimidating contributions from the Kaplan and Goodman sides of the family. It helped as well that Stephanie seemed to like the way she looked, turning her head this way and that and smiling with pleasure. It occurred to Carla that the greatest beauty enhancement to an adolescent girl was a smile.
They returned home for a light lunch of smoked turkey and hard-boiled eggs that Jessie had prepared, in between ironing her new dress and creaming her face and hands. Carla had never seen her mother so concerned about her appearance. She put it down to the fact that Saul Millman would be attending the bat mitzvah.
Jessie had talked to Saul every night since her return. Although he had continued with his tour of Italy and had not returned to the States until yesterday, he had called like clockwork, calculating the time difference with great care so as not to disturb what he called Jessie's “beauty sleep.” The bat mitzvah would be the first time they would see each other since meeting for drinks and dinner at the Gritti Palace the week before.
When Margot had called from Venice to report that Jessie's delusions had vanished, Carla had been surprised to hear a note of disappointment in her sister's voice. “But it's wonderful news!” exclaimed Carla. “It means we have her back again.”
“I suppose,” said Margot. “But to think that she no longer wants to talk about Shakespeare and the lost sonnets.”
“Are you crazy?” said Carla.
“I suppose I am,” Margot sighed.
“Mass hysteria; group delusion;
folie à deux
. I read about that
stuff in my abnormal psych course in college. But I never thought that my rational sister would be party to it.”
Margot said that she had surprised herself as well. “It's odd, but the trip changed me somehow. I feel sad about not finding the sonnets but glad to be coming home. You know, I've actually been thinking that maybe I should move out of the Rittenhouse apartment and nearer to you and Mom in Cherry Hill.”
“What?” said Carla. “Don't tell me you're having the delusions now!” She had always supposed that Margot would want to move to New York or possibly Parisâbut to Cherry Hill, never!
“I feel somehow drawn to the place,” continued Margot. She spoke in her usual facetious tone, but her sister, who knew her better than anyone, discerned an underlying seriousness. “Maybe it's the way Mom felt for a while about the ghetto in Venice. Places like Cherry Hill are probably scattered all over the world, where âour people' feel instinctively at home. In any case, I have the oddest feeling that I'm going to end up living in Cherry Hill, or its facsimile, sooner or later.”
“In one of those mock-Tudor developments or hacienda-style mini-mansions?” asked Carla.
“Yes, with the two-story foyer and the Palladian windows,” laughed Margot. “But you know, suburbia gets to look better and better the older you get. You develop a sort of yen to make cupcakes for a kindergarten class and trade in the sports car for a Volvo.”
“And there's always the consolation of getting a Jaguar later on,” noted Carla. “When the kids are grown and we move down to Boca, Mark and I definitely plan to acquire one. My instincts tell me that we will.”
“And what do your instincts tell you about me?” asked Margot.
“I don't know. I wouldn't really recommend Cherry Hill if you're single, which at the moment you areâthough somehow my crystal ball tells me that condition will be altered. Perhaps, if I might speculate, you're thinking of altering it soon?”
“Don't be silly,” said Margot, reverting to her usual flip tone. “I was only pulling your leg.”
T
wo hours
BEFORE THE BAT MITZVAH, JESSIE HAD TAKEN the curlers out of her hair and applied a generous amount of eyeliner and mascara.
“You're really putting on the ritz,” noted Mark. “Perhaps you have someone in mind to impress?”
Jessie waved her hand coyly.
Meanwhile Jeffrey had come downstairs in a straitjacket-like suit bought for him at one of the outlet stores that specialized in “formal boyswear,” an oxymoron if there ever was one. He looked extremely uncomfortable, though he perked up when everyone exclaimed at how handsome he looked. In no time, he had shoveled down most of the smoked turkey and three hard-boiled eggs, and had gotten a large mustard stain on his tie. Carla applied some spot remover and deposited him in front of the television with the express admonition that he not eat another thing before the ceremony.
The phone rang. It was Susie Wilson.
“Don't tell me that Mr. O'Hare won't wear the tux,” said Carla with exasperation, not waiting to hear what Susie had to say. “Tell him he has to; I won't stand for it otherwise. He's a fundamental part of this occasion and, even if he's in a wheelchair, I consider
him an usher and so he has to dress accordingly. And make sure that Pinsky remembers to zip his pants. You know he has a problem with that.”
“It's not about the tux,” said Susie quietly. Carla didn't like the tone of her voice. “It's Mr. O'Hare,” said Susie, after a moment's pause. “He passed away this morning.”
Carla took the phone away from her ear, then brought it back. “What?” she said.
“Mr. O'Hare died this morning,” repeated Susie.
“That's impossible,” said Carla. “He couldn't have.”
“I'm afraid he did,” said Susie.
“But he's got to be at the bat mitzvah! He was looking forward to it. It's importantâthat he have the experience.”
“I think he got a pretty good idea of what the experience would be like.”
“But you don't understand,” cried Carla. “I wanted him to hear Stephanie chant her Torah portionâand see the flowers and the mashed-potato sundae bar. He could have eaten that.”
“I know,” said Susie gently, “but sometimes things are better when they're left to the imagination.” Her inclination to see the bright side was kicking in. “This way he's taken his own idea of the occasion with him. It's moreâpoetic, in a way. And he was eighty-nine, after all. He had a long run.”
“Yes,” whispered Carla, trying to get her bearings. “Is there going to be a Mass?” She knew O'Hare was Catholicâshe had seen him with a rosary and they had once talked about the consolation of belief. “I'm sure we go to the same place,” he had told Carla, “only the scenery is different, which makes a lot of sense when you think about it. God doesn't want to go to the same goddamn play every night.” Carla had thought this was rather a profound way of looking at the idea of religious diversity.
“Yes,” said Susie, “Mass will be on Monday morning. It's at Our Lady of Good Counsel. I'll pick you up.”
“All right,” said Carla.
“I know how you must feel, but this mustn't spoil your celebration. I'll be there and so will Mr. PinskyâI'll be sure to check his pants. O'Hare will be there too, in spirit.”
“I know,” said Carla, wiping her eyes. “But I so wanted him to see the hors d'oeuvres stations.”
“He'll see them,” said Susie. “He'll have the best seat in the house.”
A
fter Carla
HAD REDONE HER MAKEUP AND PUT ON THE overpriced mauve silk suit of the conventional mother-of-the-bar-mitzvah-child variety, she went to check on Stephanie. She knocked softly on her daughter's door. The Bloomingdale's dressâespecially the sleevesâflattered Stephanie's slim, adolescent frame. Margot had come by early to do her niece's makeup, and had managed to convince her that a light touch would show her hair and dress to best advantage. What it really highlighted, of course, was Stephanie's faceâa face that was open and fresh, with nothing yet to harden or disappoint it.
“You look beautiful,” said Carla.
“So do you,” said Stephanie, and they hugged, taking care not smear each other's lipstick.
After leaving Stephanie, Carla looked in on Jessie, who was sitting quietly in her new blue dress (very much like her old blue dress) in the armchair in her room. “Are you all ready, Mom?” she asked.
“More than ready,” said Jessie.
“You look happy.”
“I am, dear. It's not just meeting Saul again, though I must say that's given me a lift. It's everything that's happened in the last few months. It's beenâexciting. And it's helped me see what a blessing
my life has always been. Full of joy and surprisesâand to still have surprises, at my age, that's saying something.”
“It is,” agreed Carla.
“And today is Stephanie's bat mitzvah. What
naches
for our family. I only wish your father could be here to see it. He would have been so proud.”
Finally, Carla went into their bedroom to see how Mark was doing. He had finally broken down and purchased a tuxedo. His new career in the media spotlight made the acquisition of this garment a necessity, since he was now being invited to black-tie events on a regular basis. Yet the outfit was still a novelty, and he was struggling with the studs for the shirt, muttering under his breath that studs were absurd, labor-intensive ornaments, and that the word “stud,” when you came to think about it, was an obscene term to apply to a button on a man's shirt.
Carla watched for a moment, then quietly took the studs out of his hands and put them into the shirt for him. “You're upset,” she said. “You're remembering your own bar mitzvah.”
“Yes, the
D'var Torah
about menstrual fluid.”
“Poor boy,” said Carla, kissing his cheek. “But I'm sure you handled it well. And you look very handsome now.”
“I do?” Mark turned to admire himself in the mirror.
“The tuxedo looks good with your haircut,” noted Carla.
He looked for a moment at his reflection and then turned back to her. “You knowâI ought to confess something.”
“Oh?”
“I've never told you this before, and it may come as a shock.”
“I'm listening.”
“I actually enjoyed my bar mitzvah. In fact, it was one of the best days of my life.”
“Of course it was,” said Carla, straightening his bow tie complacently. “I never doubted it for a moment. And this is going to be one of the best days of your daughter's life. But enough talking. Let me put in your cuff links so we can get this show on the road already.”