Free Sweet Like Sugar by Wayne Hoffman Page B

was anything but blond— the universe’s churlish way of throwing me off my future husband’s track?
    The blonds I’d dated weren’t exactly a parade of winners.
    There was Rick, my boyfriend senior year at Maryland. A psych major. Seemed like a catch: funny as hell, well-read, the body of an athlete without any of the actual annoying athletics. We dated most of spring semester before I realized that Rick was studying psychology for a reason—because he was crazy.
    Brad lasted half a summer after graduation. He was gaga over me, bringing me flowers and cooking me dinner and giving me massages every night. Too bad I didn’t find him sexually attractive. I mean, I tried, I really tried. But at some point you have to open your eyes. Literally.
    Gordy was a dog groomer. Sexual attraction was definitely not a problem with him. Men would stop in their tracks and peer over their sunglasses to get a gander at Gordy. “I don’t even notice those other guys,” he’d say. “You’re the only one for me.” I believed that for a solid six weeks, until he gave me a case of something itchy that he assured me were fleas, but turned out to be crabs.
    A bunch of blonds. And me, still single, without anyone whose photo belonged in a tacky frame over my fireplace.
    Should I have taken the hint? Or kept trying until I found the right blond?
    I went over the photos for Paradise again, imagining how each model might look in the ad, trying to see which one could most convincingly represent pure evil. Surprise, surprise: The blond guy—with his coolly mischievous eyes and broad shoulders—turned me on. I took a Magic Marker and drew horns and a tail on his eight-by-ten glossy. It was a good look on him.
    Better the devil you know, I thought. I called the photographer and told him the blond was my favorite.
    â€œHe’s hot, right?” the photographer said.
    â€œHot as hell,” I said.

    As I pulled my car around to head home, services at B’nai Tikvah were letting out across the parking lot.
    Black yarmulke. Black yarmulke. Black yarmulke.
    I stopped at the end of a row to see if Rabbi Zuckerman would appear in the doorway. He did, again, lagging behind the other men. As I looked at him, he looked up and met my eyes through the windshield. And then, a second later, his knees gave out and he crumpled to the ground.
    One young congregant saw it happen; he turned and ran back to assist Rabbi Zuckerman, calling several other young men to come with him. I pulled into the nearest parking space and raced to the rabbi.
    The men had pulled the rabbi to his feet by the time I approached. He was leaning against the wall of the synagogue, his hands trembling, his face pale even for him. One of the young men was using the rabbi’s hat to fan him.
    â€œRabbi, are you okay?” I asked.
    All the black yarmulkes turned and stared. They said nothing; they wouldn’t have known where to begin to engage me in conversation. I was wearing camouflage shorts and a powder blue T-shirt that said “Rehoboth Beach.” No suit, no hat, no yarmulke. I might as well have been naked.
    â€œI’m fine, Benji,” said the rabbi. “Just a little lightheaded.”
    If anything could have surprised the congregants more than me rushing to the rabbi’s side, it was finding out that the rabbi knew me by name. Their confusion was evident in their expressions.
    â€œI work right behind his bookstore,” I said to them.
    No response, except for fewer raised eyebrows.
    â€œBenjamin Steiner,” the rabbi said to them, gesturing toward me with one shaky hand, to introduce me. And to indicate by mentioning my name that I, too, was a Jew. Not quite one of them, but not quite not, either.
    After a minute or two, the rabbi’s color had started to return and his breathing was steady, but he still didn’t look ready to tackle the hill to his house.
    â€œI think I just