The Book of V.: A Novel(77)

As the spiel reaches its finale, the audience gets to its feet. Even Vivian Barr rises, clapping. After the pageant, Lily will introduce her to the girls. Rosemary’s granddaughters. She will make Vivian Barr a stranger no more, and show her the collars, made with the thread she sent. Perhaps you’ll make better use of this than I? she wrote in her note. Here it is, Lily will say, holding their collars together, turquoise and fuchsia for Rosie, black and white for June. No strand was long enough on its own but together they added up. Thank you.

She means this. And not only for the sewing kit, but for Vivian Barr’s postscript, too: I did imagine she might read my letters. Of course I did. And for the thing that has stayed with Lily since she left Vivian Barr’s apartment, not yet coherent but cohering: an understanding of Ruth as something not solid but assembled, built of everything she could grab hold of. A Letty Loveless column here, a gathering of women there, a burning cross, a whiff of perfume on her husband’s collar, a stray want she could not name, a time of grief. Like a nest, maybe, without a bird—Ruth had to be and build herself at the same time. So of course there could be no talk of sewing, or of Rosemary. A thing put together could always come apart. But Lily, because she did not know any of this, and because Ruth could not tell her, because to tell her would have been to expose her own construction—Lily, who was formed in that nest, believed it had always been. And for so long her own sense that she is still in a state of assembly has made her ashamed.

Soon all Lily can see are the children rushing the stage for the pageant. They surround the cast in a swarm, Vashti in her short skirt and Ahasuerus with his Burger King crown and Haman’s daughter with her bucket and Haman with his wickedness and Esther, too, who merely looks like Blossom, the twenty-two-year-old who does not know what will happen next in her life. But who does know? If Lily has been waiting for some kind of transformation, she understands now that none is coming. No new Lily, only herself, moving forward, a little less ashamed. The actors run offstage, leaving the children in their costumes, Esthers and Mordecais and Elsas and Batmen, prancing and yowling beneath the lights, waiting for direction.

It’s Lily, hiding in the wings still, who is meant to direct them. And she will, in a moment. She is watching her daughters dancing in the dresses they envisioned, leaping and pouncing with their wands outstretched, making sparks fly. They have forgotten Esther. They are simply themselves, ecstatic. Soon, she will step out, so they can see her.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



This book would not exist without two books that came first: the original Book of Esther, in all its bawdy splendor, and The Hours, whose structure helped inspire my own. Thank you to whoever dreamed up the former, and to Michael Cunningham for writing the latter.

I’m deeply grateful to the friends and sister who read drafts of this book, in part or whole, and provided invaluable feedback. Thank you to Clare Burson, Eleanor Henderson, Marisa Silver, Jessie Solomon-Greenbaum, Rachel Wolff, Gina Zucker, and most especially to Lisa Srisuro, who arrived early and returned as the closer in the final stretch.

To the people who know far more than I do about all manner of things—from the cost of bathroom renovations in 1973 to international humanitarian relief operations today—and who generously shared their expertise and perspective, I offer my humblest thanks. You are Graham Brawley, David Clatworthy, Anne Deneen, Lika Dioguardi, Sarah Ellison, Dr. Ronnie-Gail Emden, Daniel Holt, Kathy Jones, Sheryl Kaskowitz, Aaron Kuriloff, Danielle Lazarin, Iraj Isaac Rahmim, Geoffrey Richon, Dr. Keren Rosenblum, Dr. Dave Shultz, Ellen Solomon, and Michelle Zassenhaus. A special thanks to Amy Gottlieb and my fellow writers in Amy’s wonderful Jewish Sources, Literary Narrative class at Drisha Institute. And to Rabbi Rachel Timoner, who opened her office and books to me when I knew almost nothing. Now I know a little more than nothing. Thank you for showing me possible paths.

Numerous texts provided inspiration and information. Those I found myself returning to include Desdemona: A Play About a Handkerchief by Paula Vogel; The JPS Bible Commentary: Esther by Adele Berlin; Surfacing by Margaret Atwood; Spinster by Kate Bolick; Lilith & Her Demons by Enid Dame; Ancient Jewish Novels, edited and translated by Lawrence M. Wills; The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan; The Book of Esther by Emily Barton; Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger by Rebecca Traister; and last but perhaps the most influential and the source of “shit and string beans,” The Women’s Room by Marilyn French.

Also on the inspiration front: thank you to Zevey Steinitz for you know what.

Select chapter titles were stolen from Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “A Drunkard,” Angela Carter’s story “The Bloody Chamber,” Enid Dame’s poem “Lilith,” and Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s The Woman’s Bible.

Great gratitude goes to Congregation Beth Ami of Santa Rosa, California, and in particular to Leanne Schy who wrote the fabulous “Purim of Love” script from which I shamelessly and with Leanne’s generous permission stole for the spiel in The Book of V.

For cheering me on from near and far, feeding me, sending ideas, and being kind, thank you, Bo Abrams, Deborah Barron, Jenna Blum, Judi Campbell, Chris Castellani, Deborah Cramer, Elyssa East, Sarah Ellison, Eve Fox, Abby Greenbaum, Leslie Jamison, Rachel Kulick, Julia Mitric, Rekha Murthy, Britt Page, Eli Pollard, Mitzi Rapkin, Amy Scott, Evelyn Spence, Becca Steinitz, Marina Tolou-Shams, my sister, Fara Greenbaum, and my father, William Greenbaum, who taught me that even old texts—maybe especially old texts—are fair ground for play. To Erika Dreifus, Charlotte Gordon, Celeste Ng, and Sarah Stein for being early enthusiasts when I dared describe my idea to them. For spitballing, thanks to Sonya Larson for the idea and Elisabeth Hamilton, Marisa Silver, Megan Staffel, and Gina Zucker for the spit. Thanks to my students and colleagues at Warren Wilson, Barnard College, and the 92Y for all you teach me. To Heidi Pitlor, Jane Roper, and Gina (again), cheese-loving comrades in self-made retreats. To Lesley Williamson of the Saltonstall Arts Colony, Kathy Sherbrooke of Hemingway House, Scott Adkins of the Brooklyn Writers Space, and Sue Shepherd of her own home: portions of this book were written in the spaces you create. A shout-out to whoever left the bizarre Ohel Coffee, Product de Persia, Certified for the Court of Ahasuerus, 14 Adar 5773 mug at the Brooklyn Writers Space.