I glanced down and saw blood on my dress. I examined myself, looking for the source. I would hate to die from a stained-glass injury obtained while making out in the rabbi’s office on Shabbat. But, a quick glance at my father’s now-purple face told me there were worse ways to go.
Finding no injuries, I looked to Daniel, who had turned whiter than the robe his father wore, blood pouring from his left hand. I grabbed the first thing I could find, which was the altar cover, snatched it free, and wrapped it around Daniel’s hand while everyone except our two fathers watched with eerily identical expressions of horror.
Daddy reached me first, yanking me off the raised platform of the bimah at the front of the sanctuary and ordering me outside. Everyone was still staring at me, so I pulled my right arm free from his grip and waved to the assembled crowd. “Thank you, Temple Beth Shalom,” I said loudly. “I’ll see you next week!”
My father grabbed my other arm and dragged me out of there, his neck resembling an eggplant.
CHAPTER TWO
I picked at my bedspread in annoyance at being sent to my room like I was a child. I was twenty, for goodness’ sake!
And come to think of it, it was time to redecorate this room. The pink wallpaper and bedding had been cute when I was nine, but now I felt like I was trapped inside a piece of Coney Island cotton candy.
But I could still hear my father ranting downstairs, and there were no sounds of the midday meal being prepared over that. I crossed the room to the window seat, complete with pink cushions, and gazed out the window onto the city street below our brownstone.
When I was little, I used to daydream that I was a princess trapped in a tower, waiting for a prince to come rescue me. Like every little girl did, I supposed.
But now? Princes were overrated. Look at that eleven-year-old kid with the Dumbo ears who was eventually going to become the king of England. And if you married a prince, sure, you got nice jewelry, but you never got to have your own life again. No thanks. I’d much rather rescue myself.
Which was easier said than done in 1960.
Sighing, I went to my closet and changed into a pair of cigarette pants and a short-sleeved sweater.
Eventually, my father’s yelling died down, and I heard the telltale sounds of lunch being prepared. I wondered if I would be summoned or left up here to starve. I could always start a fire, Mrs. Rochester–style, if they didn’t feed me. Probably said a lot that I preferred her to Jane Eyre.
But it wouldn’t come to that. I had been in trouble enough times to know I would soon hear the soft footsteps of my mother placing a plate outside my door. Jewish mothers didn’t let you go hungry, no matter what you had done.
To be fair, this was one of my bigger offenses. But a few moments later, those familiar sounds appeared in the hall. I waited until she was gone to retrieve the sandwich—brisket from last night, sliced thin on thick slabs of challah bread. Shabbat lunch was always leftovers from the previous dinner.
My stomach full, I lay down and fell asleep quickly, unbothered by any of the twinges of conscience that should have accompanied my misdeed.
I awoke to the sound of the doorbell and muffled voices downstairs. The alarm clock on my nightstand told me it was nearly five—I had slept over three hours.
Then my father bellowed my name.
What now?
I thought about not going. But that would only make things worse. The best way to handle Daddy was to pretend I was sorry, then go back to doing whatever I wanted to when he wasn’t looking.
I opened the door a crack. “Coming, Daddy,” I called. Then I went to the bathroom down the hall to relieve myself and put on a little lipstick. Whoever was down there would be easier to tame if I had my armor on.
I dashed down the stairs and skidded to a stop at the doorway to the living room. Rabbi Schwartz was seated on the white sofa. The one that I still wasn’t allowed to sit on at twenty unless my parents were telling me someone had died. Daniel was next to him, a bandage wrapped tightly around his hand, and Mrs. Schwartz was on the other side.
I weighed my options. I could run away and become a nomad. But tents really weren’t my style. And joining the circus would come with the same tent issue, plus I couldn’t walk a tightrope or grow a beard to save my life.
“Sit,” my father commanded in a tone that implied the death I was about to learn of on that sofa was my own. I did as he said, on the love seat opposite the Schwartzes.
“Look, he kissed me—” I began. “I might have said it was okay, but it takes two to tango and all that jazz.” My father’s eyebrows came dangerously close to meeting in the middle. Apparently accusing the rabbi’s son of misdeeds didn’t make the situation better. I closed my mouth and folded my hands demurely in my lap.
“This is obviously a scandal for both of our families,” Rabbi Schwartz said gravely. “As well as the whole congregation.”
Great. I ruined the entire synagogue now. I debated going for broke and telling him that if his sermon hadn’t been as exciting as watching paint dry then we wouldn’t be in this situation. But then I wasn’t sure a crowbar would be strong enough to separate my father’s eyebrows. So I said nothing.
“Luckily, we have a solution that Daniel has agreed to.” Rabbi Schwartz prodded his son, who looked first to his mother, then his father. When neither budged, he slid off the sofa and knelt in front of me.
“So, uh,” he said and swallowed, looking decidedly less attractive than when he was nervous in his father’s office. “They think—I mean—I think”—he cleared his throat—“maybe we should get married?”
I stared at him for a long moment. “You’re joking.” He looked at the floor. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“I—uh—it’d fix the situation.” He finally looked up at me. “And you’re a nice girl. I like you.”
“You like me? You don’t know me! Haven’t you ever made out with anyone before?”
“Marilyn!” My mother sounded horrified.
“Mama, honestly, it wasn’t even that good of a kiss—”
“MARILYN!”
“Look, I appreciate that you all want to save face, but it’s 1960, not 1860. I’m not marrying you just because we got caught kissing.”
“You absolutely will marry him,” my father thundered.
I stood up, hands on my hips. “I will not. I barely know him. And I want love, not like, if I ever do get married. Besides, it’s not like we did anything that would get me pregnant—”
There was a soft thud behind me. I turned around to see my mother unconscious on the ground. Apparently that was a step too far in front of the rabbi.
Grace, our maid, came running in and began fanning my mother, confirming my suspicion that she listened outside doors. She tapped her wrist urgently. “Mrs. Kleinman! Mrs. Kleinman!”
I turned to Daniel, who was now standing awkwardly, unsure what to do about his unconscious intended mother-in-law. “I’m sure you mean well and all, but ask a girl on a date if you like her.”
CHAPTER THREE