A New Voices Fiction Piece
I was still young so out of respect I tried to call celebrations by their technicalities, but what we referred to as my cousin Gideon’s Bar Mitzvah was really my Aunt Tamar’s Bar Mitzvah. The weekend fell under Tamar’s rule, making it Tamar’s ceremony and Tamar’s party, no matter how much we wanted to bring her underdeveloped, occasionally hyperactive son into the spotlight.
I stood to the side of the bright room, surveying Tamar’s friends, eating Tamar’s food in Tamar’s club, trying to make my last bit of herring-topped cracker—and the plate I was holding—last as long as possible. If I freed up my hands they would have nothing to do and would just be there, twisting into each other over my stomach, making me look pregnant.
I finished the cracker and herring and tilted the plate into a garbage can tucked near a buffet, then weaved between pinstriped businessmen and made-up women to the drinks table. The crowd yielded a display of amber, brown, and green-colored glass bottles, rather than the plastic carbonated ones for which I’d been hoping.
“I didn’t know you drink.”
I turned to find another cousin of mine, six-foot Elazar, standing over my shoulder. The oldest of Tamar’s children, he was two years younger than me and while he had yet to outgrow his paunch or acne, his charm made him a considerable catch in the high-scale village of Persden.
“Oh, I don’t,” I replied, too bored to make a clever retort. “Just looking for the soda.”
I followed him to the table I was looking for and poured myself a Diet Coke.
“So,” I said, trying to feign focus elsewhere. “Is Yosef here?”
“Which Yosef?” Elazar paused. “Hammersmith?”
“Yeah.”
“He should be here. Why?”
“I’m looking for other people to talk to. Ask Moshe if he’s seen him.”
Elazar went off to find his brother without complaint, probably to find out what I was really after. He returned only after I had refilled my cup twice, with avague promise of Yosef’s appearance at the celebrations later that night.
After Shabbos ended everyone went to change for the nth time and while I was pulling on the outfit I had spent the week deciding on, I heard my aunt calling me from the next room.
“Quick, I haven’t got much time,” she said, reapplying her makeup before she had to rush back to the club to set up. “I told your mother I’m getting rid of some old jewelry, and she said if you liked anything you could have it.” She pointed to a small pile of charm bags on the bed.
This happened regularly: Tamar would amass piles of Things—be they clothes that were five years out of style, a stock of lip glosses in every shade of pink and peach, or jewelry that she had since replaced. Then she would throw them all on the bed and offer them to me. This was her way of being generous and I appreciated it, and besides I felt like there was always something in those piles worth having. If this apparel belonged in Persden, I wanted it.
I rummaged through the hodgepodge of silver and gold while she concentrated on her reflection. The bunch was not surprising in that it turned out to be disappointing. Most of it was clunky boho pieces I would have had to buy a new wardrobe to accommodate—monstrous wooden bangles, cloth-wrapped charms, costume kitsch—and the rest seemed too gaudy for me to wear.
Then I spotted it.
A sterling silver split-shank David Yurman Albion ring with a blue topaz. The stone was square and large, so clear that you could see through it to the skin, and surrounded by diamonds on a raised setting. It sat atop a band that was made of two ropes twisting separately at the top and then melding together where they met under the finger.
I pulled it out from among the large stones and ostentatious earrings to hold it for a moment. Then I slipped it onto a finger and admired the aquamarine. My mother had the same ring, acquired at my parents’ last anniversary. The clear blue of the stone, the subtlety of the surrounding diamonds—the ring embodied taste and beauty.
“Did you find anything?” Tamar glanced at me through the mirror.
I pulled the ring from my hand. “I recognize this one.”
“You do? Oh right, your mother and I got them together. I’ll tell her you found something.”
I shouldn’t take it, I knew. It was too much. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
“I’ll ask your mother. It’s up to her.”
“I’ll leave it with you until she says it’s okay.”
“Don’t be silly. Take it.” She returned her full concentration to her eyeliner.
If nothing else, I could never be silly.
Tamar’s staff had transformed the country club from Kiddush hall to party room for the Saturday night dancing. An ivy-covered wrought-iron mechitzah separated the genders as it had in shul, but this time it was surrounded by dance floors, tables and uncannily tall flower arrangements. The It Jewish singer of the moment, a musical comedian type who knew how to channel the 13-year old boys’ rowdiness while simultaneously keeping the adults entertained, was just getting started as Persden wives in spring-colored formal wear twisted around the tables, seeing and being seen.
The dancing started up after the first course. Tamar was in the middle, wearing a dress she had called “off-white” but which was the only near-white thing in the room, making her look like a bride. The ladies competed for her attention, executing newfangled moves they’d learned in their weekly dance classes, from claps and circle steps to shimmying and belly dancing. I kept up well enough, I thought.
The first music set ended and I wandered toward my table, too high on endorphins and sweat to care how expensive the dresses of my tablemates were. I grabbed my glass of water while still standing and downed it, then reached for a refill.
“Hey there.”
I turned around, brandishing cup and pitcher, to find myself staring up at Yosef Hammersmith. “Hi!” My cheeks were red. I had met him the year before on Purim and we’d spent the entire night talking to each other, though about what I couldn’t remember. What I knew was that he handled himself well and looked good—in a nerdy, professionally successful sort of way.
“How have you been?”
“I’m good,” I gulped my water down. “Yourself?”
“Good, Baruch Hashem. You’re still at school?”
“Yup. It’s good.”
He laughed, asked about my courses and other random news, details about life that made for awkward conversation and seemed mundane in the middle of Tamar’s society of the rich and famous.
“So, anyway, I have to get moving,” he said, blushing himself. “I’ve got two hours of driving up ahead. Here’s my card.”
His hand shot out abruptly and I accepted his offering. “Cool. Awesome. Thanks.”
I smiled, he smiled, then he left and I sat down to eat.
The gourmet food was small-portioned and satisfying. When the rest of my table had either dispersed or fallen asleep, I went outside for a breather only to find two women holding cigarettes, standing in that self-conscious way smokers do, with their free arms tucked under their chests and their hips thrust out. I recognized them as friends of Tamar and tried to seem like I wasn’t listening.
“She pulled it together nicely.”
“It’s impressive. Your Shlomo is Bar Mitzvahed next year?”
“He’ll be the first in his class.”
“Jeff says he wants Chaim’s to be in Israel. I’m just worried none of his friends will be able to come.”
“That’s always the issue. By the way, isn’t Jeff furious about the elections? I know Efraim is. He can’t believe that a black man is running our country.”
“Well, Jeff says that he’s only half black, so it’s not really the same thing.”
I reentered the club just as Tamar was approaching the microphone. Orthodox custom usually dictated that women wouldn’t speak at mixed functions, but for Tamar we let it go.
She gave her usual brilliant smile and nervous laugh. “I’d like to thank you all for coming to our son Gideon’s Bar Mitzvah. We cannot be more proud of him. We’re so excited that you could share in our simcha – whether you came from Israel, L.A. or right here in New York, we appreciate all the time and effort it took you to be here with us.”
I tried to stop my finger from tracing through the condensation beads on my glass and my mind wandered to my new ring, tucked into a camera case at the bottom of my purse. The last time I had seen my mother wearing it I had stolen it off her finger and put it on, trying to forget it was there but never quite able to, until she asked for it back.
“As you know, Gideon is the last of our family to make this transition into the rest of his life. For the past year he has been studying with his rav, Rabbi Feldman, learning in honor of this special day. If this morning’s service is any indication of the future, then I have no doubt he will lead a spiritual life filled with Torah.” She reminisced about Gideon’s achievements and goals, wrapped it up with a few tears and hugged her son while the guests applauded.
I returned to my dorms that Sunday. It was always odd to come back from Persden, back to the dirty wood floors and aging pipes, the New York apartments that—like the subway system—will always be a step behind the times. This was always the moment when I would daydream about living in Persden, where I would never have to worry about my career or settle for anything less than outstanding in a single area of life.
Determined to distract myself, I called Kayla. She allowed me half a minute to display my new ring, pretended to be genuinely interested and insisted on moving on. Rather than see a movie, which would cost an obscene amount of money, we headed for a Starbucks and meandereddown the streets before getting back to the dorms that night.
Helen, who liked emo music and wore clothes that were too tight, appeared from the front lounge just as we were coming in, showing off her new boyfriend Sam, an attractive catch with fuzzy hair. They were an unlikely couple: Sam was going to go to med school in a couple years; Helen spent her time watching reruns of “The Hills.”
“Hey!” she ran up to us, blocking Sam off from the group.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” she grinned. “We just got back from dinner.”
“Hey look,” Kayla interrupted, nodding towards Helen’s right hand. “Helen’s got your ring.”
Confused, I looked at her finger, expecting one of those oversized plastic eyesores. She held out her hand. “Do you like it? I just got it.”
And there it was, glinting in the fluorescent lobby light. It most definitely could not have been the real thing. Instead of a blue topaz it had some kind of deep red stone, and underneath the framing “diamonds” there were tiny hearts. It even had the same split-shank band. I was mortified. Of all people to find a copy of my ring—a copy I myself might have bought and worn, had I seen it three days ago—it was unbearable to think that it would be Helen.
“I like the hearts,” I said.
“Really?” said Helen. “That’s the part I actually didn’t like.” No shit. “So you have the same one?”
I smirked. “It’s similar, but just a little different. Mine –”
“So where’d you and Sam go to dinner?” Kayla interrupted, and then, as Helen prattled on, she touched me on the shoulder and whispered, “I know. I know. It’s okay.”
I sat at my computer that night, trying to forget about it by drowning myself in YouTube, when I got a call from Elazar.
“This is a surprise.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m just doing it for my mom. She wants me to tell you that she’s really sorry, but you know that ring you took?”
Oh, that ring. “Yes.”
“Well, she really is sorry, but she just realized that she promised to give it to Reesa.”
“Cousin Reesa?” The Nice One. The Attractive One. The One Who Can Dance.
“Yeah, she’s coming in in a couple of weeks and my mom just remembered.”
“Oh. Well that’s nice, that she’s coming in.”
“Yeah. My mom says you should come for that Shabbos.”
To bring the ring back. “Yeah. Thanks. For sure.”
“Great. Oh yeah, and by the way, Yosef asked my mom about you.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. Did you talk at the party?”
“He gave me his card.”
“So you should call him.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
After we hung up I went to my dresser to pull out the ring that was no longer mine, put it on my finger, took out Yosef’s card and began to dial his number.
| Alisa Ungar-Sargon is a senior at Stern College for Women and a first-time contributor to New Voices. She enjoys spontaneous adventures, retro fashion and using semicolons. |
