Aunt Shirley appears from the kitchen with a tray. She sets it down on the coffee table in front of Jill and me and begins to point things out. “Crostini with goat cheese and fig preserve, marinated olives, pâté-stuffed cremini mushroom caps, and snow peas filled with Boursin.”
“Yum,” I say, grabbing a small plate. “I’m starved.”
Aunt Ruth brings over the drinks, we all settle in, and for a few minutes there is only the sound of contented chewing and sipping and compliments to the barmaid and chef.
“So, darling, are you and Hunter ready for your trip?” Aunt Shirley asks Jill.
“Not remotely. I mean, he is. You know Hunter, always ready. Plus it’s his family, so he has nothing to be nervous about.” She fishes a cherry out of her drink and chews it thoughtfully.
“What do you have to be nervous about? They’re lovely people,” Ruth says. “In spite of themselves.”
“Yes, of course they are, but I’m going to meet Hunter’s grandmother for the first time, the grande dame matriarch, and apparently hell on wheels, which, considering who we’ve already met, is quite a statement. Plus all the aunts and uncles and cousins. And there I am, the heathen Jew at midnight Mass!”
We giggle. “I hope the church doesn’t burst into flame when you cross the threshold,” I say.
“Of course not, Jodi,” Ruth says. “Lightning will strike her in the parking lot first.”
“Ruthie, that’s terrible!” Shirley says. “You know the one true God will smite her before she enters the sacred parking lot!” One forgets how wicked Aunt Shirley can be, and how quick-witted, just because she has a soft, comforting presence and angelic hair and usually smells like cookies.
We all laugh.
“Then again, at least I don’t have to go see Rabbi Silverman and get spanked with the fourth book of the Talmud for marrying a nincompoop!” Jill says, reaching for a mushroom.
“Still with the get business?” Aunt Shirley asks.
“The rabbi called this morning. I have to go pick up my get on Sunday at ten.”
“Well, at least you’ll have it over and done with,” Ruth says, freshening my drink the tiniest bit.
“Maybe it will be a cleansing sort of thing,” Aunt Shirley offers hopefully.
“Like a colonic,” mutters Ruth.
“I highly doubt it. But I will give my nincompoop ex some credit; he seems to have set it up to be as simple as possible for me.”
“I still think old Malicious is up to something sinister,” Jill says. “And frankly, her power over him is entirely your fault, missy!”
“My fault? How is it my fault?”
“You trained him to completely subvert his will to the influence of a strong woman! And Lord knows he needed the guidance; the man couldn’t dress himself without you. But when you released him into the wild, he found another strong woman and has put all the decision making into her hands. You reap what you sow.”
I punch her in the arm. “You make me sound like such a manipulative bitch! I never asked him to subvert his will. I just, well I, I mean he needed . . .”
“You were a benevolent dictator, dear,” Aunt Shirley says.
“And you did dress him very nicely,” Aunt Ruth offers.
“I can’t take it when you all gang up on me like this. It isn’t fair! Was I really so awful?”
Jill pats my arm. “Not awful. Young and determined and with the wrong fellow. Who is now, sadly, allowing his new gal pal to wreak havoc with your life.”
“I hate that you are going to be out of town. I wanted you to come with me.” Somehow, facing the whole business would become an adventure if Jill were there.
“Well, I wish I were going to be here as well. But I will be in the wilds of Pennsylvania eating oyster stuffing and creamed onions and drinking eggnog.”
I sigh. “Will there be ham? God bless the goyim and their Christmas hams, so succulent and pink . . .” Say what you will, but nothing really beats great ham.
“Yes, I believe there will be refreshment of a porcine nature at the groaning board.” Jill reaches for an olive.
“Well, we will be missing you,” Aunt Ruth says. “Emperor’s Choice won’t be the same without you.”
Emperor’s Choice, the family favorite of all the Chinatown haunts, with its unobtrusive green awning and the most delectable treats, has been the site of all of our Christmas Day dinners since time immemorial. When my folks were alive, we all went together, usually in between the two movies we were likely to see.
“And I shall miss the Emperor.” Jill places the back of her hand on her forehead in a melodramatic fashion, which makes the rest of us crack up.
“Well, if I survive Sunday, I’ll need all the dumplings they can fry up!” I say.
“It’ll be fine. No problem. A quick trip to West Rogers Park and home in time for lunch,” Jill says.
“Sure, home in time for lunch and to obsess about what to wear to the party Sunday night.”
“Ah, yes. The Duncan clan Christmas Eve. Are you nervous?” asks Shirley.
“Well, of course she’s nervous,” Ruth snaps. “Meeting the brothers is a big deal, probably more important than meeting his parents.”
“I do really like him, and his family is important to him, so in terms of our continuing to see each other, yes, it is important to me that I not make an idiot of myself.”
“You’ll be great. He wouldn’t be bringing you if he had any doubts, so just be yourself,” Jill says.
“And just think, at least you’ll be freshly divorced! The new primping, manicure, pedicure, blow out, ritual religious act . . .” Ruth says, raising her glass to me. “To a Sunday night that makes Sunday morning worth the trouble!”
“Hear, hear,” Aunt Shirley says.
“I’ll drink to that!” Jill picks up her glass.
“L’chaim!”
I say, and we all clink and drink.
At ten sharp I pull up in front of the small bungalow in West Rogers Park. I take a deep breath and steel myself to go inside. Piece of cake. Meet the rabbi, grab the get, and go.
As I climb the front stairs, I think about how strange it is to be focused again on my divorce after so many years. Jill’s words are still ringing in my ears. My marriage was a failure, a mistake from the beginning. The kind of mistake smart girls aren’t supposed to make. The kind of mistake girls like me counsel the less fortunate girls against. This strange exercise brings that into clear relief for me all over again. And what is worse, it makes me deeply embarrassed. I married a man who was the totally wrong guy. I married a man to whom I was only peripherally attracted, because he was nice to me, and in love with me, and made me laugh, and didn’t cheat on me or make me feel like shit. I married a man who was socially inept and boring in bed because I was so full of my own ego that I thought I could change both those things and make him into the perfect husband. A rookie mistake if ever there was one, and I am mortified. And Jill is right. If there wasn’t ever going to be public opinion about my actions, I’d never remotely put any effort into maintaining even a semblance of a relationship with him.
I climb the front stairs and ring the bell, which makes a tinny noise inside the house. After a few moments, a tiny woman opens the door. She is wearing a faded calico housedress and dirty slippers, and the curly gray wig atop her head is slightly unkempt and in a very old-fashioned style.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I’m here to see Rabbi Silverman.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “The rabbi isn’t in at the moment.”
I look down at my watch: 10:03. “I’m sorry,” I say. “There must be a misunderstanding. I have at ten o’clock appointment with the rabbi. He said I should meet him here.”
“Oh my. He didn’t mention anything to me before he left. May I ask, what is it regarding?”
I close my eyes for a moment. “I’m here to pick up my get,” I say, and a look of deep consternation crosses over her features.
“Oh, I am so sorry, dear. Let me see if I can get him on the cell phone.”
I can hear her mumbling into the phone in the other room. She seems somewhat put out. Soon the mumbling stops, and she returns to the foyer.
“He’s on his way back, dear. It will take probably fifteen minutes or so. Won’t you please come sit down?” She leads me into the dining room and offers me a chair. “You’re welcome to read the paper if you like,” she says, gesturing at the
New York Times
, which is strewn about the dining room table. “Can I get you something, a cup of coffee, perhaps some tea?” she asks.
“No, thank you,” I reply, thinking I’d really like a cold martini. “I’m fine. Please don’t go to any trouble.”
“Well, then, I’m sure the rabbi will be back shortly.” She leaves me alone in the room as if somehow uncomfortable to be in my presence. I suppose that makes sense. My being a living representation of a failed marriage, a Jewish wife who couldn’t cut it. Wouldn’t want it to rub off.
I sit at the dining room table, reading sections of the
New York Times
and waiting for the rabbi to arrive. I’m trying to control the anger that is building in me. The waste of my time. How rude it is for him to not have even remembered that we have an appointment. After nearly twenty-five minutes, finally, the door opens. I rise and turn to meet a slightly stooped man, probably in his late sixties to early seventies.
“Rabbi Silverman?” I ask, and he extends his hand.
“Yes, Jodi dear, I am so sorry. I must have forgotten to call you.”
“Forgot to call me about what?
“To cancel, of course. I was unable to get two other rabbis to join us for our meeting this morning.”
“I’m not sure I understand. I thought I was just here to pick up my get.”
“You are,” he says, “but there have to be two other rabbis here to witness it.”
“I was under the impression from our phone call that the get was completed, and I simply needed to come and pick it up.” I feel ambushed, though probably not as ambushed as I would have felt if there had been a roomful of rabbis here when I arrived.
“Well, not quite, dear. After all, there needs to be some discussion, there are some prayers . . .” He trails off.
“But you said on the phone that Brant didn’t need to be here, that everything was taken care of.”
“That’s true, Brant already has his get.”
I think about this for moment. Brant already has his get. I turn back to the rabbi. “If Brant already has his get, does what we do here somehow validate it or make it legal?”
“No, of course not,” the rabbi says. “Brant’s get is complete and final and cannot be altered. What we do here is for you.”
Thank goodness. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Well then, Rabbi, it doesn’t matter; we don’t need to reschedule. I don’t need a get.”
He looks puzzled. “I don’t think I understand you, Miss Spingold.”
“I don’t need a get,” I explain. “Brant wanted the get, and you’ve just told me that Brant has his get; he’s finished. Therefore you and I don’t need to worry about anything.”
“But you don’t have a get,” the rabbi says.
“But I don’t need one,” I say.
“I’m confused. Have you remarried?”
“No.”
“Well, what if you want to get married again someday?”
“I may.”
“Well, then you need a get.”
I hate the assumption. “No,” I reply, trying to stay calm, “I don’t.”
“What kind of man would have you without a get?”
Something in my head snaps. “Well, for starters,” I say with a coy smile, “a Gentile man.”
He blanches. “Are you engaged to be married to a Gentile man?”
“No,” I reply. He looks relieved.
“Well, what if you wanted to marry a Jewish man?”
“I may very well.”
“Well, what if he requires it of you?”
“I can guarantee you that I would never marry a man who would require this of me.”
“It’s an important step that you should take.”
“That is your opinion, Rabbi, one you and I do not share. My Judaism is different from yours. I thank you for your time and your effort.”
I turn to leave.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says.
“I made a mistake. The civil courts have undone that mistake.”
“You cannot be whole and free without your get.”
“I have been whole and free for my entire life. I don’t need you, a team of rabbis, or some religious document to tell me that. Good day, sir.”
I open the door and step outside into the crisp air. Feeling lighter than I have felt in a long time, that strange giddiness that comes with being slightly disrespectful to an authority figure, I hear the screen door creak open behind me.
“I’ll keep the paperwork on file,” he calls after me. “You come back any time to complete this process.”
I turn back over my shoulder. “Don’t waste the file space.”
I get into my car and head back toward the city.
Now, what the hell am I going to wear tonight?
Six Geese A-Laying
Meeting the family is a big step in a new relationship. Don’t try too hard to be either accommodating or entertaining. Sit back and observe a little. Watch the interactions. There is much to learn about your partner from the way they behave with their family members. Don’t try too hard to make an ally of any particular family member. Allow them to get to know you organically, ask questions to get them talking about themselves, and be politic about what you share about yourself. And most important, don’t let your nerves lead you to drink too much or talk too much; you really never do have a second chance to make that first impression, and drunk-girl-talking-about-sex is not the impression you want them to remember.
—Quoted in an article in
Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine
, Jill Spingold, February 2004
I’m helping Connor organize the buffet in his dining room in preparation for the Christmas Eve festivities. We are laying out plates, flatware, and napkins, as well as serving platters. His family will be bringing all the food. We already set up the bar, made the family recipe eggnog, and decorated with pine boughs and twinkle lights. Bowls of Aunt Shirley’s praline pecans are on every occasional table, and my own contribution, a layered café au lait and chocolate cheesecake, is in the fridge.