Free The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel by Laurie Graff

containing leftovers, hangs on Tova’s wrist, the concert program held in her hand. She smiles approvingly, giving Josh the once-over before the doorman, who’s just rushed out, will usher her in.
    “Hi, Tova,” I say to the dynamo of an older redhead. She wears a beautiful mink. The top unbuttoned, her artsy pewter-and-tur-quoise necklace peeks through.
    “I just heard the most marvelous Rachmaninoff,” she tells us in her animated Israeli accent. “Lorin Maazel. What a conductor. What a talent.” Willie, our doorman, looks on with pride as if she was speaking of him. “So who is this? Introduce me.”
    “Tova Steinman, meet Josh Hirsch.”
    Josh extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Tova. You can teach me a thing or two about classical music.”
    “Ahhhh!” She laughs out loud. “Wonderful. This is a sweetheart,” she exclaims. “What did you say your name was? Hirsch?”
    “Yes.”
    “Aimala . . . it’s about time,” she says, and gives my arm a not-so-subtle squeeze before Willie escorts her through the doors.
    I look at Josh and hope he didn’t catch the remark. Tova always liked Peter. A great deal in fact. A singer herself, she encouraged me to encourage him, supporting all artists and all art. But I always knew she’d prefer I’d be with someone Jewish.
    “It’s about time what?” Josh asks. “What’s up with Hirsch?”
    “She thinks it’s about time she sees with me with someone so handsome, and she wants to remember your name. That’s all,” I say. Sweetly.
    “Oh yeah?” This makes Josh feel good. “That other dude wasn’t as handsome as me?”
    I don’t want to say anything negative about Peter. Especially something untrue, so again I simply smile. Josh feels great and pulls me out of Willie’s eyesight so he can give me another kiss. I can’t believe how easy this smiling is. I mean, you can use it as an answer for anything. No one knows what you’re really thinking, but no one really cares because you’re smiling. When I think of all the words I’ve needlessly dispelled. But I stop thinking because Josh is kissing me again, and it is so soft, so warm, so sweet, so . . .
    “Can I come up?” he asks.
    “Mmmmm.” Okay, as noncommittal goes, you have to admit that
mmmmm
is a good match with the smiling.
    “Is that a yes?”
    “Mmmmm,” I say, again. But I’m already imagining Josh in my apartment.
    Kissing me again in the elevator as we ride to the fifteenth floor. Walking down the burgundy carpeted hallway to 15J. Pushing me up against the door frame as I fumble for my keys. His head hovering over mine, eyes gazing. Seeing my mezuzah nailed inside my doorpost.
    Carrying me across the threshold into my living room. Ravaging me on the sofa with
Stars of David
, my newest coffee table book, staring straight up for all to see.
    Thank God he won’t be hungry after that meal. The kitchen will be off-limits. Did I finish the Golden cheese blintzes? I know I ate the last of the lox. Tova gave me the other half of her challah. And you can bet donuts to dollars my freezer’s full of bagels.
    But Josh is hungry for ambience. He will search for candle-sticks and find my grandma Frieda’s ceramic pair—Hebrew letters hand-painted on each—atop the bookcase. Set on the shelf below my bat mitzvah album, right next to my menorah.
    Interested to know what kind of books I read, he will skim titles.
Remember My Soul: A Journey Through Shiva and Jewish Mourning, The Committed Life
, by Rebbetzin Esther Jungreis, and
The Haggadah with Answers.
(I’m sure he’ll want a few.) All bookended by the siddur presented to me when I was a bat mitzvah. AIMEE ALBERT and the date, embossed on the cover in gold.
    And should he want to share a romantic glass of wine, he will not have to look much further. Because beside the books is a silver kiddush cup. The front engraved with AYAH, my Hebrew name. Translated, it means “vulture.” Its meaning is not lost on me.
    “eMay?”
    I stare at him.