Don't Forget to Write: A Novel(2)

Something cracked loudly and suddenly we were falling backward.

The next thing I knew, both of us had tumbled through the open ark, shards of colorful glass all around us, and the whole congregation staring in horror at the remains of what had been the rear of the vessel that contained the holy Torah scrolls. Apparently the stained glass in the rabbi’s office was the backside of the one that was visible when the sacred texts were removed. I glanced at Daniel, whose face was smeared crimson with my lipstick, then back out into the sanctuary. Everyone was on their feet, as was customary while the Torahs were paraded through the congregation for people to touch with their books or prayer shawls.

“It could be worse,” I whispered to Daniel. If the Torahs had been in the ark and we had knocked them to the ground, everyone present would have to fast for a month.

“Marilyn Susan Kleinman.” My father’s voice boomed as my mother sank into her seat, her friend Mrs. Singer fanning her with a prayerbook.

“It’s worse,” he whispered back as his father came storming up the aisle, the poor cantor following behind him as fast as he could while carrying the Torah, which jiggled precariously in his grip.

I glanced down and saw blood on my dress. I examined myself, looking for the source. I would hate to die from a stained-glass injury obtained while making out in the rabbi’s office on Shabbat. But, a quick glance at my father’s now-purple face told me there were worse ways to go.

Finding no injuries, I looked to Daniel, who had turned whiter than the robe his father wore, blood pouring from his left hand. I grabbed the first thing I could find, which was the altar cover, snatched it free, and wrapped it around Daniel’s hand while everyone except our two fathers watched with eerily identical expressions of horror.

Daddy reached me first, yanking me off the raised platform of the bimah at the front of the sanctuary and ordering me outside. Everyone was still staring at me, so I pulled my right arm free from his grip and waved to the assembled crowd. “Thank you, Temple Beth Shalom,” I said loudly. “I’ll see you next week!”

My father grabbed my other arm and dragged me out of there, his neck resembling an eggplant.





CHAPTER TWO


I picked at my bedspread in annoyance at being sent to my room like I was a child. I was twenty, for goodness’ sake!

And come to think of it, it was time to redecorate this room. The pink wallpaper and bedding had been cute when I was nine, but now I felt like I was trapped inside a piece of Coney Island cotton candy.

But I could still hear my father ranting downstairs, and there were no sounds of the midday meal being prepared over that. I crossed the room to the window seat, complete with pink cushions, and gazed out the window onto the city street below our brownstone.

When I was little, I used to daydream that I was a princess trapped in a tower, waiting for a prince to come rescue me. Like every little girl did, I supposed.

But now? Princes were overrated. Look at that eleven-year-old kid with the Dumbo ears who was eventually going to become the king of England. And if you married a prince, sure, you got nice jewelry, but you never got to have your own life again. No thanks. I’d much rather rescue myself.

Which was easier said than done in 1960.

Sighing, I went to my closet and changed into a pair of cigarette pants and a short-sleeved sweater.

Eventually, my father’s yelling died down, and I heard the telltale sounds of lunch being prepared. I wondered if I would be summoned or left up here to starve. I could always start a fire, Mrs. Rochester–style, if they didn’t feed me. Probably said a lot that I preferred her to Jane Eyre.

But it wouldn’t come to that. I had been in trouble enough times to know I would soon hear the soft footsteps of my mother placing a plate outside my door. Jewish mothers didn’t let you go hungry, no matter what you had done.

To be fair, this was one of my bigger offenses. But a few moments later, those familiar sounds appeared in the hall. I waited until she was gone to retrieve the sandwich—brisket from last night, sliced thin on thick slabs of challah bread. Shabbat lunch was always leftovers from the previous dinner.

My stomach full, I lay down and fell asleep quickly, unbothered by any of the twinges of conscience that should have accompanied my misdeed.





I awoke to the sound of the doorbell and muffled voices downstairs. The alarm clock on my nightstand told me it was nearly five—I had slept over three hours.

Then my father bellowed my name.

What now?

I thought about not going. But that would only make things worse. The best way to handle Daddy was to pretend I was sorry, then go back to doing whatever I wanted to when he wasn’t looking.

I opened the door a crack. “Coming, Daddy,” I called. Then I went to the bathroom down the hall to relieve myself and put on a little lipstick. Whoever was down there would be easier to tame if I had my armor on.

I dashed down the stairs and skidded to a stop at the doorway to the living room. Rabbi Schwartz was seated on the white sofa. The one that I still wasn’t allowed to sit on at twenty unless my parents were telling me someone had died. Daniel was next to him, a bandage wrapped tightly around his hand, and Mrs. Schwartz was on the other side.

I weighed my options. I could run away and become a nomad. But tents really weren’t my style. And joining the circus would come with the same tent issue, plus I couldn’t walk a tightrope or grow a beard to save my life.