The Middlesteins(48)
Where better to cry?
But where worse to cry than under the watchful eye of the Cohns and the Grodsteins and the Weinmans and the Frankens? They didn’t need to know how bad it was. He didn’t want them talking about him later in their living rooms, over a nightcap of fat-free snacks. Worrying or judging, he didn’t know which, and it didn’t matter; either way would make him feel weak and helpless, and even after all these years of being in each other’s lives, what did they know anyway? They didn’t know anything about him.
Or to cry in front of Emily, who was now slumped on her brother’s shoulder, looking in profile a little dreamy, less like the Middlestein women and more like her mother, her petite chin, the smooth drop of her forehead, the pink swell of her lips, the furious blaze of her eyes temporarily dampened, as if she had pulled herself deep underwater, and was holding her breath until she turned blue. She must have felt him staring at her: she suddenly shook her head, and the eyes were relit. She had remembered she was supposed to be mad at him. No, he would not cry in front of Emily either.
After the services were over, he hustled the two children, his hands in an exceedingly firm grip on the backs of both of their necks, out the door, past the wall of gold leaves embossed with the names of donors—his was up near the top, because he was one of the first, although it had been a long time since he had given any sizable amount of money, what with this economy—all of them forming the long limbs of a tree, reaching up and outward as if they were holding up the synagogue. He didn’t stop to chitchat with anyone, just a nod and a “Good Shabbos, ” making a hapless, dog-eyed expression toward the children, as if to say, It’s not me, it’s them.
Outside, in the late-spring evening, the crack of summer heat curling at its edges, as they dodged the cars pulling up curbside to pick up the elderly, then mixed in with all those people filled with prayer and joy, the women in high heels, the men in their suit coats (no ties necessary during the warmer weather), the children running and giggling, released at last from sitting still, everyone immersed in that post-shul glow, he almost let himself forget that his grandchildren had engaged in such subversive behavior. He was, in fact, ready to forgive them, until Emily said, loudly, “I’m so glad that’s over.”
“It’s over when I tell you it’s over,” said Middlestein. “You’re lucky I don’t make you go back in there and have a talk with the rabbi himself about how God feels about texting during shul. He’d have a thing or two to say to you.”
“We didn’t want to come, you should know that,” said Emily.
“Shut up, Emily,” said Josh.
“You shut up,” said Emily.
“I think he knows that already,” said Josh.
Middlestein released his hands from their backs, which had started to sweat, and pulled out his keys from his suit-coat pocket, pressing the unlock-door button even though they were still at least a dozen rows from his car. He passed Josh, he passed Emily, he passed the Weinmans, headed, as they did every week, to a Shabbat dinner with Al’s elderly mother at her nursing home in Oak Park. He walked and walked through the streaming crowds until he was at his car, and he got in, and he sat, and he waited for those little sons of bitches to get there.
Josh got in first, Emily pausing with her hand on the door, starting a staring competition with her grandfather that she almost instantly comprehended—he could see her bite her lip—she was never going to win. Don’t you understand, he wanted to say, I invented the staring contest? Don’t you understand that, as far as you know, I invented everything?
She got into the car, the front seat, and pulled herself as far away from him as she could.
Years ago, seventeen, maybe eighteen by now, Middlestein sat in this same parking lot with his daughter, Robin, but in a different car—was it the Accord then?—and he was just as furious with her as he was with Emily now. It was a month before Robin’s bat mitzvah, and she still hadn’t memorized her haftorah. The cantor had called them in for an emergency meeting, only Robin hadn’t realized that’s what it was, or maybe she didn’t care, because—if it was possible—she was even more sullen than Emily was now. Robin these days was a confident though still difficult woman, but at the age of thirteen she was awkward and chubby, with a head of hair like a mushroom cloud, and cranky because of all that. Middlestein had adored her anyway. She was the youngest. She was trickier than Benny. She would retreat and attack quickly, a limber boxer. He never had a handle on her once she learned how to talk back. And there she was talking back to Cantor Rubin, then a young man, bearded, barrel-chested, a new recruit to the synagogue (Middlestein had offered to give him a discount at the pharmacy, but Rubin had never shown up, not in all these years, a slight insult if he had to admit it), giving him lip while he tried to explain calmly that if she just worked with the tape every night, one hour a night, he was confident she would have her haftorah down by her bat mitzvah. And Robin dryly said, “Can’t we just play the tape instead and I’ll lip-sync it? No one’s going to be paying attention anyway.” If it was a joke, it wasn’t funny. If she was serious, then why was Middlestein shelling out twenty thousand dollars for this party? If she was serious, then who did she think she was, speaking that way to an adult, and not only an adult but a religious leader (and potential customer) in the community? If she was serious, then somehow Middlestein had failed as a parent, and he was pretty sure he had not failed at anything in his life, even if he hadn’t really succeeded at that much either.