“I’ll take you to dinner a different night,” she says.
“You promised tonight.”
She sighs, frustrated. I notice she’s frustrated with me a lot lately.
“Why don’t you come with us?” Mom says.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I think you’re being selfish,” Mom says. “Why can’t you help me? Why does everything have to be a fight?”
“It’s not a fight—” I start to say, but I stop myself. Because if I disagree with Mom, then it is a fight. At least in her mind. Anything short of total agreement is a fight.
She doesn’t want a son; she wants a follower. No wonder she likes the guru.
“Forget it,” I say.
“No. Not forget it,” Mom says. “I made you a promise, and I’d like to keep that promise at a later date if it’s alright with you.”
“It’s not alright with me.”
She glances over her shoulder at the guru.
“I don’t understand you, Sanskrit. What if Jesus came to visit? Would you leave him to fend for himself at dinnertime?”
“We’re Jews. We don’t believe in Jesus.”
“You’re a Jew,” she says. “Not me.”
“Don’t say that.”
It’s one thing to feel like you’re not a Jew, but it’s something else to say it out loud like that.
“If you don’t want to hear the truth,” Mom says, “that’s your issue, not mine.”
“Let’s drop the subject,” I say. “I’ll get dinner with Sweet Caroline and do my homework.”
Mom exhales, relieved. She puts her arm on my shoulder.
“I like when you kids do things together,” she says.
“I know you do,” I say.
Mom reaches into her pocket and comes out with a twenty. That’s one of her best parenting tricks. Folded twenties. Unfortunately, they only arrive for necessities like food. We never get one to have fun or buy something crazy.
Unless Dad is around, that is. Then she likes to whip them out just to show Dad what a loser he is. Zadie wanted Dad to work for him in the terry business, but Dad refused and tried to start his own business, thereby dooming us to a life of poverty and handouts. That’s how Mom tells the story, and she’s never forgiven him for it.
Mom looks towards the guru now and makes a big point of handing over the money.
I’m a good mother, guru. Look at me taking care of my family.
I want to throw the money on the floor and stamp on it, but to be honest, I’m hungry and that would be counterproductive. I smile like I’m a good son and she’s a good mother.
“Take care of your sister,” she says. As if Sweet Caroline and I are close. Now who doesn’t want to hear the truth?
“Thanks, Mom!” My voice is cheerful, too loud. I’m trapped in a movie I don’t want to be a part of.
Mom tussles my hair, then walks back towards the guru.
“Have fun, you two!” I say, and I wave good-bye.
The guru is watching me, his face placid. I move, and his eyes follow.
I stare back at him, and he smiles.
It’s a kind smile, but it reminds me a little of Barry Goldwasser. A smile for no reason, so you don’t know if the person likes you or if they’re making fun of you.
“I’m worried about you.”
That’s what Talya Stein’s mother says when she sees me. I walk out of the Center, and she’s right there on San Vicente getting into a Lexus. I’m so surprised, I almost run away.
“How is your mother?” she says.
“Touch and go.”
“Oh my God,” she says.
I gesture back towards the Center. “I was just taking care of a few things for her.”
What if Mom walks out of the Center right now? I have to get rid of Mrs. Stein fast.
“We’re all with you,” she says. “You know that.”
I know that her daughter, Talya Stein, wears tight, long-sleeved sweaters and has barely spoken to me in three years. I know she’s best friends with The Initials. That’s all I know.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Of course. Shabbat is starting soon,” she says. “Do you have dinner plans, Aaron?”
I think about sitting at a dinner table with Talya Stein. Maybe we’d hit it off, and that would connect me back to The Initials. But probably not. She’d probably hate me for being in her house, only she’d pretend to like me because I’m going through a family tragedy. I can’t take something like that tonight.
“I’m going to the hospital with my sister,” I tell Mrs. Stein.
“If you change your mind,” she says.
I thank her and walk away fast.
I glance over my shoulder and I’m relieved to see her driving away.
I’m safe for now, but the clock is ticking on this lie. Somebody is going to see Mom, and I’ll have serious explaining to do.
Maybe they’ll even see her at A Votre Sante tonight, and the whole story will blow up. That might be a relief.
I hurry down San Vicente to Barrington, then I turn south and cross over Wilshire where Brentwood becomes West L.A., and the expensive houses become little houses and so-so apartments. West L.A. is on the doorstep to Brentwood, but it’s a whole other world. A cheaper world. The real world. Or at least our version of it.
It’s Friday night, a few minutes before sundown. All over the city, observant Jews are rushing home before Shabbat starts. Jewish mothers are putting pots on the stove in timed pressure cookers, setting the table for a big family dinner. Kids are taking showers and changing. Final calls are being made and important messages returned. From sunset to sunset, there will be no work done, no power used. There will be services and prayer and community. People remembering and honoring God.
At the same time all over the city, non-observant Jews are not observing, not setting timers or preparing, not even remembering Shabbat until they see the black hats walking to shul in their neighborhoods. What do they think then?
Do they feel guilty that they’re not observant like their brothers and sisters?
Do they feel embarrassed that they belong to a religion where some people wear furry hats and long black coats and walk through the streets on Friday night and Saturday morning?
All religions have extremists, people who have drifted from the center towards the edges, others who have drifted from the edges back to the center. And still others like us who have drifted so far away that they don’t remember who they are anymore.
Maybe that’s what Zadie Zuckerman was worried about. Once he was no longer around, who would be there to urge us towards Judaism? Only his money is left to keep the fires lit at the Temple.
But how long will that last?
“Mom is in love.”
I say it gravely, so Sweet Caroline will understand how serious the situation is.
“What does that have to do with our dinner?” Sweet Caroline says.
“We’re not getting any dinner. We have an absentee mother. I’m trying to explain the situation to you.”
“She gave you a twenty, didn’t she?” Sweet Caroline says.
She knows how Mom works. Instead of taking care of us, she gives us the means to take care of ourselves. It’s like the United Nations food program.
“We can go to Whole Foods,” Sweet Caroline says.
“With twenty dollars? So much for dessert. Besides, if we go to Whole Foods, we’ll run into people from the neighborhood, which means we’ll run into people from school, which means we’ll have to do a lot of lying about Mom. So let’s just make something here.”
“Fine,” Sweet Caroline says. She snatches the twenty out of my hands. “I’ll take it as payment. You’re good for this week. But Monday is coming up fast.”
“Mom is in love, and you’re worried about blackmailing me.”