Free This Is How It Happened by Jo Barrett Page B

shorts and a T-shirt, I hop in my car. I zip over to Starbucks and buy a pound of Kenyan roast. A gift for Heather. And a little baby Starbucks mug. It’s an eensy-beensy little toy coffee cup for kids. She’ll get a kick out of it.
     
    I arrive at the Wasserstein residence. A quaint one-story “fixer upper” Michael bought when he was still in law school. The house used to be crumbling around the edges, a bachelor pad that smelled faintly of spoiled milk; but after he and Heather got married, she turned the place into a little jewel. She’s got a knack for homey stuff—potted plants, frilly curtains, tassel pillows, the whole nine yards.
    I buzz through the screen door and see that Heather’s outdone herself in the kitchen. On the table are heaping plates of food. She’s got olive bread drizzled with honey, and a platter of creamy, white cheeses. I also spot a salad of cucumbers, fresh mint, and vine-ripened tomatoes. And for Michael, sausage and biscuits, of course.
    Michael is sitting at the table, pounding his fork and knife down.
    “Food, food,” he chants in a booming voice. “The King requires food.”
    “Hey Maddy!” Heather says, rushing over to give me a hug. She smells good, my friend. Like peaches. And her face is rosy and healthy looking. Even pregnant, my girlfriend could be in a Pond’s cold cream commercial.
    I notice she’s wearing a Star of David around her neck.
    “That’s beautiful,” I say, peering closely at it, and turning it over in my hands.
    “A gift from my adorable husband,” she says.
    “What’s the occasion?”
    “I don’t need an occasion to tell my wife how darned beautiful she is,” Michael says, in his Texas twang.
    I give Heather a meaningful look.
    “I know, I know,” she says. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”
    “Hell, I’ll be the luckiest man in the world if I get to eat!” Michael booms.
    “The necklace suits you,” I say. “It’s perfect.”
    Heather sets a plate in front of Michael, wipes her hands against her shirt and goes, “Ta-Da! Breakfast is served.”
    “It’s Tel Aviv with a dash of South Carolina mixed in!” Michael says, pouring thick white gravy over his biscuits, and licking his fingers.
    Heather spoons a small dab of hummus onto a slice of bread and takes a tiny bite. The problem with my pregnant, size 2 girlfriend is she eats like a ballerina.
    Meanwhile, Michael and I shovel—I mean, literally shovel—food down our throats. We clean our plates. Michael scrapes gravy and licks his fork, before Heather even sits down with her small portion of cucumbers and yogurt.
    He leans back in his chair and pats his belly. “Ahh, that was real terrific, honey,” he says, in his Southern drawl.
    Heather beams at him in that way that makes my stomach twist. If only I could have that, I think, as the Perfect Relationship kisses each other and smiles at me from across the breakfast table.
    “So when do you officially become Jewish?” I ask Heather. “Does it happen before the baby is born?”
    Heather looks at me and I can tell she’s nervous because she twists her napkin in her hand.
    Michael rubs her on the back. “The conversion exam with the Rabbi is next week. She doesn’t think she’s ready,” he says.
    “I’m not ready,” Heather repeats.
    “Of course you’re ready,” I say, pointing to the stack of books on the kitchen counter. “Look at all these books you’ve read— How to Become a Jew; So You Want to Convert; The Book of Jewish Customs—”
    “It’s not sticking,” Heather says. She bites her lip and stares down at her empty breakfast plate. “Becoming a Jew—is so hard,” she says, in a quiet voice.
    “Come on, Heather. You graduated from the University of South Carolina with flying colors,” I say. “So what’s the process? What is it? A written test?”
    “Oral,” Heather says. “I have an oral exam with the Rabbi.”
    Michael pipes up, “Then she’ll go through the rituals of conversion.