Don't Forget to Write: A Novel(3)

“Sit,” my father commanded in a tone that implied the death I was about to learn of on that sofa was my own. I did as he said, on the love seat opposite the Schwartzes.

“Look, he kissed me—” I began. “I might have said it was okay, but it takes two to tango and all that jazz.” My father’s eyebrows came dangerously close to meeting in the middle. Apparently accusing the rabbi’s son of misdeeds didn’t make the situation better. I closed my mouth and folded my hands demurely in my lap.

“This is obviously a scandal for both of our families,” Rabbi Schwartz said gravely. “As well as the whole congregation.”

Great. I ruined the entire synagogue now. I debated going for broke and telling him that if his sermon hadn’t been as exciting as watching paint dry then we wouldn’t be in this situation. But then I wasn’t sure a crowbar would be strong enough to separate my father’s eyebrows. So I said nothing.

“Luckily, we have a solution that Daniel has agreed to.” Rabbi Schwartz prodded his son, who looked first to his mother, then his father. When neither budged, he slid off the sofa and knelt in front of me.

“So, uh,” he said and swallowed, looking decidedly less attractive than when he was nervous in his father’s office. “They think—I mean—I think”—he cleared his throat—“maybe we should get married?”

I stared at him for a long moment. “You’re joking.” He looked at the floor. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I—uh—it’d fix the situation.” He finally looked up at me. “And you’re a nice girl. I like you.”

“You like me? You don’t know me! Haven’t you ever made out with anyone before?”

“Marilyn!” My mother sounded horrified.

“Mama, honestly, it wasn’t even that good of a kiss—”

“MARILYN!”

“Look, I appreciate that you all want to save face, but it’s 1960, not 1860. I’m not marrying you just because we got caught kissing.”

“You absolutely will marry him,” my father thundered.

I stood up, hands on my hips. “I will not. I barely know him. And I want love, not like, if I ever do get married. Besides, it’s not like we did anything that would get me pregnant—”

There was a soft thud behind me. I turned around to see my mother unconscious on the ground. Apparently that was a step too far in front of the rabbi.

Grace, our maid, came running in and began fanning my mother, confirming my suspicion that she listened outside doors. She tapped her wrist urgently. “Mrs. Kleinman! Mrs. Kleinman!”

I turned to Daniel, who was now standing awkwardly, unsure what to do about his unconscious intended mother-in-law. “I’m sure you mean well and all, but ask a girl on a date if you like her.”





CHAPTER THREE


I paced my bedroom for a solid hour after I was sent back upstairs. The Schwartzes left in an insulted huff, my now-conscious mother moaning that we could never show our faces at the synagogue again. And apparently my suggestion that Daddy just donate a new ark—preferably one with a sturdier back—went over as poorly as Daniel’s proposal.

They couldn’t make me marry him. But they could disown me. The only family I knew who had sat shiva for a daughter had done so when she eloped with a Protestant boy. But they were orthodox, and even my father said that was too steep a consequence. Granted, he said that with a warning that I’d better not get any ideas. He didn’t seem to understand that I had no ideas about getting married anytime soon. Not that either of my parents could grasp that the world was different now. When they got married, it was still the Great Depression, and they were worried about war breaking out. Now we worried about the Soviets, but that was no reason to rush to the altar. I didn’t want to be married by twenty-one and a mother by twenty-two.

I shuddered at the thought. I wanted to live my life first.

Supper was a plate left in the hall outside my bedroom. But around eight, my mother knocked on my door.

I opened it, plate in hand, assuming she was cleaning up and remembered she was missing one. She looked at it blankly for a moment. “Your father wants to speak with you,” she said.

“Mama, you have to calm him down. It was just some kissing—even you had to have kissed someone before Daddy—”

She held up a hand. “Downstairs.”

My mother had always been on my side. I was a daddy’s girl when I was younger—what little girl wasn’t? But he didn’t have a lot of tolerance for my rebellious streak. And she always smoothed him down when I broke the rules.

Steeling myself for the lecture, I sighed and followed her down the stairs.

But this wasn’t a living-room-white-sofas conversation. Instead, he was in his office, seated behind the mahogany desk that he swore once belonged to one of the lesser Rockefellers. He inclined his head toward the chair opposite him, and I took it, my mother going behind the desk and perching on the arm of his chair. He hated when she did that, but he didn’t comment on it or shoo her away.

“You’ve gone too far this time,” he said. “And now I’m forced to issue an ultimatum. If he’ll still have you, you’ll marry the Schwartz boy.”

If he’d still have me. Hah! But no. That wasn’t happening.