Coffee was perking, chipper as rhythm, and Miriam Perloff, Sylvia Simon, Elaine Iglauer, Shelley Goldkorn, Rose Pickler, Naomi Shore, Fanny Tupperman and Joan Cohen were everywhere at once, pulling cups and saucers out of cabinets, spoons out of drawers, shuffling napkins, placemats, preoccupied as stagehands in darkness. Out my high kitchen window like an embrasure in a fort I could see two of their station wagons drawn up casual and unattended in my driveway as police cars on a lawn.
“Does the rabbi want milk and sugar with his coffee?” Elaine Iglauer asked me, coming into my study.
“He drinks it black, Ellie,” Rosie Pickler told her. “Don’t you, Rabbi?”
“That’s so he doesn’t have to worry about mixing dairy with meat when he’s out at a function,” Syl Simon glossed.
“Oh,” said Miriam Perloff, “but that’s so interesting!”
“They teach us that in yeshiva,” I said. “It’s a trick of the trade.”
“Yes,” chorused Fanny Tupperman and Naomi Shore, crowding into my study with the others.
“But what about the sugar?” Joan Cohen wanted to know.
“It’s only forbidden during Passover,” I told her.
“I didn’t know that,” Naomi Shore said.
“Sure,” I said, “black coffee is a bitter herb.”
“The rabbi has a sense of humor,” Rose Pickler said carefully.
“I speak for my people,” I shrugged.
“Sometimes,” Shelley said, glaring in my direction, “my Jerry likes to tease-e-le.”
These women had been coming to the house seven years yet I was still a curiosity to them. People put us on a pedestal. Shelley, giggling, once told me they’d wanted to know about our sex life. “What did you tell them?” I said.
“I asked how they thought we got Connie.”
“What did they say to that?”
“You could have knocked them over with a feather-le.”
Yet I’d never doubted that they waged a kind of mass flirtation with me, even the dedicated fuss and bother of their preparations a pattern of honeybees, their hitherings and hoverings about our rooms some domestic cross-pollination. They treated me with an almost congregational deference which, if it wasn’t patronizing, may have been a kind of actual tilting with God — guarded, circumspect Godtease. Women, and men too, are sometimes burdened by their pious curiosities. Mystery makers, what, they wonder, do priests do with their hungers? Were they so different from Shelley, turned on by her own awful wonder? Into my holy leathers, my phylacteries and parchments, as well as the garments, the shtreimel and kittel and gartel I did not even own (let alone wear), and embracing who knew Whom in her head?
As I’ve said, these women were all attractive and I could, I knew, probably have made time with them if I’d shown more interest. Miriam Perloff and Fanny Tupperman had been divorced and were now remarried. And, according to Shelley, Rose Pickler and Naomi Shore had had affairs. (As “The Sabras” they’d entertained at both Miriam’s and Fanny’s second marriages and, during the period when Rose Pickler and Naomi Shore were fooling around, it wasn’t at all unusual for the group to work either Naomi’s or Rose’s favorite love songs into the program. Not wanting to abet immoral acts, Shelley, God bless her, was a little reluctant to go along with these practices even in the face of Sylvia Simon’s argument that supporting these lovesick ladies by singing their songs showed sisterhood. Shelley was a sucker for argument, she loved pleadings — I was privy to these proceedings, the rehearsals were held in my house, Shelley’s demurrers and Sylvia Simon’s justifications came through the thin walls of my study — and countered with an argument of her own: “My dear girls,” Shelley said, “of course we would want to show support, to come when we can to the emotional service of a sister in trouble. Why, in Old Testament, in Old Testament, didn’t Judith’s very own maidservant help her mistress chop off Holofernes’ head? Wasn’t that sisterhood? To make oneself an accomplice? If that isn’t sisterhood I’d like to know what is. But some principles outweigh other principles. That’s plain as the nose. So I ask you, if, as Sylvia Simon suggests, we went ahead and sang ‘My Man’ at Phyllis Levine’s bat mitzvah Saturday, what would that do to our artistic-e-le integrity?” Good old Shelley!) Good old Shelley! No wonder I’m uxorious. Who ever had a better, sweeter uxor?
Though if those assorted Sabras, balebostes and chaverot, the Fannies, Joans, Sylvias, Miriams, Elaines, Roses and Nao-mis, showed an interest in me — I mean in the fascinated, spellbound sense of the word — why, I was no less interested in them, all my powerful, exiled scholar’s instincts alerted to their own peculiar gynarchic routines. Joan Cohen shopped, one of those lanky, elegant women who wore her boots and leathers, suedes and woolens, their textures graduate as the gauge of knitting or the finish on sandpaper, and all her colors flat and dull as the shades on maps, as camouflage, as if fashion were only a step from actual blood sport. It was as if, her tints bleached by distance, you perceived her through binoculars, some quick tweed movement in a field. She looked like someone who could hold liquor. Because she seemed so efficient, she was probably the least credible of the women in the group when she opened her mouth to sing.
Joan Cohen shopped and Elaine Iglauer moved. She was one of those Jersey rovers — it’s a phenomenon I’ve only observed here — who regularly changed houses, trading up or down or even. Changing towns, following the school systems, following the country clubs, on the spoor of the fashionable synagogues. Once, it’s claimed, she actually bought a house because the town it was in was reputed to have a good newspaper. In the years we’d lived in Lud, Elaine Iglauer had lived in seven houses in six different towns and, word had it, was now on the trail of another.
But all these women—good old Shelley! — were on one trail or other, hot pursuit a way of life. Joan Cohen’s shopping sprees, Elaine Iglauer’s house hunting, Naomi Shore’s and Rose Pickler’s romantic involvements, even, I suppose, Fanny’s and Miriam’s divorces and subsequent marriages, and their flattering, collective forays into my (as the rabbi of opportunity) customs — oh, oh, how they stormed my fort! — and secrets — the question of sugar, the mystery of milk. The dietary proprieties and pieties. For openers, for conversational spur-of-the-moment ploys — a fishing expedition.
What, fishing myself, I might have told them!
That Lord-of-Kit-and-Kaboodle set Eve up, that He was never any equal opportunity Creator, that He disdains women — He doesn’t like the way they smell, as a matter of fact, and that’s why He makes such a big deal out of the mikvah, the ritual bath they’re supposed to cleanse themselves in after their menses — and why He never took a Goddess; that He isn’t even very interested if you want to know the truth, and never came on to one as a shower of gold or swan or any white bull either, and that the only books in the Bible named for women, Ruth’s and Esther’s, are — what? — ten lousy pages. That He’s this man’s-man God; that that’s why He gave them periods in the first place and relented only after He invented hot flashes and then gave them those instead; that as far as He was concerned they could stay in the tent barefoot and pregnant forever at the back of the bus, and that that’s why he made them beautiful, snappy (looking at Joan Cohen) dressers, good (glancing at Miriam Perloff) at real estate, interested (tucking my thumbs into my suspenders and taking all of them in at once) in the big questions. That this was why I had seen my Connie cry but never heard her whistle.
But this is what I thought, not what I would ever tell them. I’m only the Rabbi of Lud. You go along to get along.
Telling them nothing and settling instead for the cheap — my God, how difficult it is to have power, to be, I mean, however adjunct, however peripherally, in the glamorous way — some idol of the amateur, a rabbi, any insider — thrill-a-minutes of any on-site, backstage reality. Giving them instead, Shelley’s susceptible ladies, eyewitness, hands-on experience.