The Jew's Wife & Other Stories (25 page)

   
Les gave him a
look containing more injury than if he had offered an outright
insult. He drew a deep breath and shook his head. “I figured you
for sterner stuff, Richie. You surprise me.”

   “
I’m only
suggesting how Bernie might see it. After all, he is an ex-priest.
And a Jesuit at that.”

   
But Les only
continued shaking his head at his empty Scotch glass. “The world
used to be an easier place to make sense of. My old man worked
seven days a week so his kids could go to the best schools. Was he
a fool? Wasting his whole life working himself into an early grave
for nothing?”

   “
Of course not.
But what was right for him may not be right for his children. My
father worked hard too.”

   “
Wouldn’t you
work just as hard for your kids?”

   “
I don’t know if
I would or not. I think I would try to give them whatever I thought
was good for them. Maybe Bernie believes he’s giving his children
something more enduring than a diploma from Harvard or
Princeton.”

   
Les said
nothing. His color was high, though whether from the effects of the
Scotch or from the argument, Father Walther couldn’t tell. “It
beats me,” he said finally. “A man gives his whole life. For
what?”

   “
You would do
for your children exactly as your father did for you?”

   
Les looked up in
surprise. “I have no intention of having children,” he replied. “I
don’t happen to think this world a fit place to bring children
into.”

   “
It’s a good
thing for the human race somebody goes on having them,” Tara
said.

   
Her husband
turned toward her with the same look he had shown Father Walther,
more of injury than defiance.

   “
Haven’t you
heard there’s a population explosion?” he said.

   “
Not for
middle-class Jews there ain’t.”

   “
Who wants to
dance?” Rosalie asked. She glanced toward Father Walther before
getting to her feet. “Come on, Les.”

   
Still grumpy,
the host pushed back his chair and stood up. Rosalie led him out to
a vacant section of the terrace. He looked about as willing as a
trained bear being called on to perform. But as soon as he began to
move, his lumbering manner dropped away and he seemed to glide like
a skater across the flagstones.

   “
He’s good,”
Father Walther said.

   
Tara regarded
her husband skeptically. “It’s the only thing he really enjoys
doing. I’m a terrible dancer myself.”

   
Les and Rosalie
were circling the other couples in wide ballroom-style steps. Some
of them stopped dancing themselves to watch. The band picked up the
beat.

   “
We used to go
dancing every week. Sometimes twice a week. I even took lessons for
a while, but they didn’t help. I learned how to waltz, and I can do
the foxtrot, but that’s about it.” Les and Rosalie had settled down
in one place to execute a series of intricate Latin moves that were
drawing applause from their audience. “I used to feel jealous. But
no more. He enjoys himself too much.” She watched her husband
execute an especially ambitious dip. The other guests clapped
enthusiastically. “Rosalie is a good partner for him.”

   
For the priest,
to whom social dancing was a ritual proper to the mating process,
the idea of dancing for fun with whatever partner was available
seemed a novel idea. He wondered if he could achieve Tara’s
objectivity if it had been his own spouse in someone else’s arms.
As he watched Rosalie collapse breathlessly into Les’s embrace, he
doubted he could.

   “
That was fun,”
she said, flushed and perspiring as she swept moist hair back from
her forehead. “I haven’t had that much exercise in
months.”

   
Les was also
red-faced but seemed none the worse otherwise. He drained the
melted ice from his glass, then waved it at a passing waiter.
“’Stamina ain’t what it used to be.”

   “
You did fine,”
Father Walther said. “Both of you. You could start an
act.”

   “
Thanks. But a
workout like that will hold me till Christmas.”

   
They ate prime
ribs and baked potatoes. Apart from the meal Rosalie had made for
him, this was the first decent food the priest had eaten in a week.
He finished all of it, including the red wine Rosalie ordered. Les
offered him a cigar, but he declined. He needed nothing to complete
his sense of well-being. The day had been nearly perfect—golf, good
company and food, and he had been able to enjoy it without having
to endure the self-conscious posturing usually accorded him. This
was the kind of day he had scarcely dared hope for when he had set
out from his rectory two long weeks ago.

   
The band settled
into a series of slow numbers. A procession of middle-aged couples
began circling the dance floor. They all seemed marvelously
contented. It was impossible to imagine any of them ever
contemplating divorce, running around with girls from the stock
room or even exchanging harsh words. A cool breeze had come up as
if on order for the happy couples. The paper lanterns above their
heads swung in time with the lazy beat of the band. Behind the
dancers and the oasis of light that was the clubhouse terrace, the
dark fairways lay peacefully contemplating a moonlit sky.
   

   “
Come on, T.
It’s time for your exercise.”

   
Les was already
on his feet, but his wife was demurring. “Do I have to? You know
I’m all left feet.”

   “
Think of it as
a duty fuck.”

   
Father Walther
was surprised by the man’s language, but there seemed no insult
intended and Tara didn’t seem to take it amiss. She allowed herself
to be led to the dance floor and then began proving true everything
she had said about her awkwardness as she tried with a number of
jerky half-steps to follow her husband’s own smooth
footwork.

   “
She really
can’t dance,” Father Walther said. “I thought she was
exaggerating.”

   “
Nope.”

   “
You do pretty
well yourself, though.”

   “
Thanks,”
Rosalie said. “It’s not that hard. Just a matter of letting
go.”

   “
Relaxing.”

   “
Sort of.
Letting the music take over.”

   “
That’s
all?”

   “
Plus a few
basic steps.”

   
He watched Tara
trip over her own feet as her husband tried to dip her gently
backward. She didn’t fall, but after she recovered he had to
restrain her from leaving the dance floor.

   “
Care to
try?”

   “
Me?” He hadn’t
danced since high school, although he had seen other priests dance
at weddings and parish socials. He supposed there was no harm as
long as one kept one’s distance. “I...don’t think so.”

   
Rosalie turned
her attention back to the dance floor. Her face had taken on a look
of deliberate unconcern. It was a small thing she asked, and she
had done so much for him.

   “
Sure,” he said,
“what the heck.”

   
When he attended
those high school mixers at St. Francis, he was not one of those
who hung back, too timid to ask any of the girls to dance. By then
he was already dedicated to a life of perfect chastity; he believed
he had nothing to fear from the gaggles of shy young women in those
school gymnasiums that never lost the smell of basketballs and
tumbling mats. More often than not, he was the one to break the ice
for the other boys, venturing across the no-man’s-land separating
the sexes to invite one of the girls—neither the most attractive
nor her opposite—to join him. His friends teased him, saying his
gesture didn’t count because, unlike themselves, the opposite sex
meant nothing to him. That wasn’t true. He was quite conscious of
the cold, or occasionally hot hand of his partner and the flesh at
the small of her back against his palm. It didn’t arouse him the
way it did the other boys who alternately bragged about or were
ridiculed for their inability to keep their bodies under control.
But his vocation did seem to act as proof against any further
temptation. He was one of the few who actually talked with his
dance partner. The others, too frozen by their sexual urgency,
endured rather than enjoyed their few minutes in the company of the
opposite sex.

   
He felt
self-conscious tonight, though, as Rosalie led him into the crowd
on the terrace. In high school he had acted in a kind of official
capacity, much as he would do years later celebrating mass. But
tonight he was no one’s representative but his own, just a man like
any other, and his partner, around whose slim waist he tentatively
put his arm, was not just an anonymous face he had chosen from
among a cluster of anonymous young women.

   “
It’s been a
while,” he said as someone bumped them.

   “
You mean you
don’t dance with those blue-haired ladies in the Rosary Society? I
bet they’d love it.”

   
Her small,
slender hand fit into his palm like a child’s. It was warm, like
the hollow in her back where Tara’s sheer dress clung. An aroma of
scent and womanliness filled the air around her.

   “
I guess that’s
one advantage of being a celibate.”

   
They kept a
clear space between them without making it obvious they were
avoiding contact. When the song ended the band segued into
another.

   “
Were you
surprised when Les said Bernie is an ex-priest?” she
asked.

   “
He said
something in the steam room. Did you know it yourself?”

   “
No. Of course
not.”

   
They danced
quietly for a while. Then she said, “What do you think of Les and
Tara?”

   “
I like them.
They’re very different from the sort of couples I’m used to at Holy
Name.”

   
She laughed. “I
should think so.”

   “
They’re
Jewish?”

   “
Yes. Do you
mind?”

   “
No, of course
not. I just wasn’t sure.”

   
She stared back
as if to bring him into better focus. “That was what he meant about
getting away from this sort of place and meeting different kinds of
people.”

   
He stole a
glance at the other couples on the dance floor, then at those
seated at table.

   “
It’s a Jewish
club, Richie. You didn’t notice?”

   “
Actually, I
didn’t.”

   
She laughed
again. “You are a funny bird.”

   “
Because I
didn’t realize? They look like perfectly ordinary Americans to
me.”

   “
They are.
That’s why they want to belong to a country club, just like other
ordinary Americans of their class.”

   “
No gentiles
belong to this club?”

   “
None in their
right minds.”

   “
Why? They’re
not allowed to join?”

   
She laughed
again.

   “
You’ve got it
backward. The gentiles keep the Jews out of their country clubs, so
the Jews start clubs of their own.”

   “
I thought that
all went out twenty years ago.”

   “
Only legally.
How many blacks have you seen in this neighborhood?”

   “
None. I thought
that was because they just don’t live in these parts.”

   
She shook her
head in amusement.

   “Aptly put. You could be a
politician. Well, you’re a good golfer, Richie Walther, and your
dancing ain’t half-bad either,” she said, suddenly laying her head
on his chest. At almost the same moment the song came to an end.
She looked up and smiled, her eyes moist. “Sorry,” she said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

   “
I have a
confession to make too,” he said. They were back at Rosalie’s
house. There had been no question tonight about his spending the
night in a motel. “This was just the sort of day I hoped to have on
my vacation. But I didn’t believe it would happen.”

   
She tucked a
wildly patterned sheet into the sofa cushions and smiled. She had
drunk a good deal more wine than he, but was not showing
it.

   “
I’ll tell you
something else,” he went on. “That day we played golf?” She grinned
as she forced a big down pillow into its case. Then she laid a
topsheet across the sofa cushions and dropped a light blanket,
still folded, next to the armrest. “That was the happiest day of my
life—especially the talks we had. Until today.”

   “
And I’ll tell
you something, Richard Walther. You’ve had too much red
wine.”

   “
Not at
all.”

   
She stood facing
him, her hands on her hips.

   “
Well, I had a
pretty nice time myself.”

   “
Really?”

   “
Sure.”

   
He leaned his
head against the back of the armchair where he was seated. The
ceiling began to move. He lifted his head. It stopped.