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.
After the meeting, in the parking lot, in the last car he had before this one (no, it was definitely not a Honda), barely after Robin had closed the door, she turned to give him one more smart-ass comment, and he greeted her with an open palm. Hard, he smacked her hard, he could admit it now. Maybe it was too hard. Maybe it was just hard enough. She pulled back flat against the car door and put her hands up to her face, and then she began to cry noisily. He started the car. He didn’t care. Let her cry. And she did, the whole way home. He had thought hitting her would make him feel better, but it only fueled his anger; he could feel it clutching at his chest, a red-hot grip. “Cut it out, Robin,” he said. She wailed and wailed.
When he pulled in to the driveway, she burst out of the car and into the house as if she were being chased, so dramatic as always. All he had done was hit her, his child, once, what was the big deal? Yet Middlestein felt his insides get sucked out and replaced with dread. His dad used to beat him with his belt, and Middlestein had done the same a few times (though definitely much less than his father) to his own children. Mostly he took his belt and bent it into a loop, snapping the insides together as a warning call. It had always worked; often the children would burst into tears just at the sight of it, never mind the snapping noise. But this was obviously different. This was less one part of an orderly system of punishment (bend over and take what’s coming to you) and more an act of spontaneous violence. He had felt a jagged line of energy coming from his hand when he struck his daughter’s face, as if a lightning bolt had sprung forth from it. Oh yes, for many reasons this was different, but perhaps the biggest one was that he hadn’t discussed it with his wife first.
“What happened?” Edie, younger, thinner, but never thin, walking out of her office (always working, tireless, ceaseless, she loved her work more than him, this had always been obvious) and into the foyer, where Middlestein had stopped himself, helplessly.
“Our daughter . . .” Yes, that’s smart, Middlestein, that’s the tack, make sure she knows you’re both in it together. “Decided to mouth off to the cantor.”
“What did she say, exactly?”
“What didn’t she say?”
“Do I need to go ask her what she said? Why is it difficult for you to answer the question? Why, Richard, is it always so difficult for you to answer the goddamn question?” Robin’s crying stopped in a choke, regrouped, and then commenced even louder than before. Edie moved closer to him, and he found himself backing up flat against the front door. “Why do I have a child up there losing her mind?”
“She was completely disrespectful to the cantor,” he said. He stood up straight. He was taller than Edie. He was her husband. He was allowed to make decisions.