It Won't Always Be This Great Page 12

  Carl shook our hands in a grave yet firm way, in a way appropriate for the occasion. He was in his mid-fifties but seemed a lot older than me. But then to me, all authority figures feel older than me. Not wearing a coat gave him a vigorous aura, like Reagan wearing next to nothing for his meeting with Gorbachev in Iceland. On the Island, Carl was a longtime political hack, but the only sign of the old days was his pinkie ring, which looked wrong on a finger that should have been a knuckle longer.

  If Carl knew then that the next election would sweep him out of office, he probably would have stayed home and sent out some press release effectively saying, Dear Jews: Fix your window and move on, which would have been a good suggestion. But Carl didn’t know he’d lose by fourteen points to a nervous, bony Democrat named Marcus King, so he made his virile appearance before a constituency that would soon help end his career.

  Actually, Carl was indicted about a month ago, but I don’t think I need to get into that now.

  Jesus, it’s twelve-thirty. How are you holding up, Commie?

  Good. So as Alyse, Charlie, and I reached the crowd (which would be overestimated at “over three hundred and fifty” by Newsday), one of my Orthodox patients came over to say hello. I went into a mini-panic trying to remember his name, but all I could come up with was Infected Ingrown Toenail. I turned to Alyse and urgently whispered, “Denton Cooley!”

  Okay, I’ll explain quickly: Alyse and I were once discussing how there were no famous doctors anymore except Kervorkian. And then we got into how, when we were kids, everyone knew about Michael DeBakey and Christian Barnard and—we couldn’t come up with the other big heart surgeon. Then, finally, we simultaneously said, “Denton Cooley!” Since then, that’s been our code for when we can’t remember people’s names. Usually, we just introduce ourselves. But with Charlie there, Alyse got flustered too, and, just as Infected Ingrown came over, she said, “You know what? I’ll take Charlie up front, closer to the action.”

  I said, “I’ll find you,” and they hustled off with only seconds to spare.

  Covering both podiatrist and concerned citizen bases, I shook Ingrown’s hand and super-sensitively asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, thank you. I just can’t believe we’re still dealing with this crap in the twenty-first century.”

  “So true, so true,” I said, feeling truly full of shit.

  “Even my shagetz lawyer said to me, ‘It never ends, Jerry.’”

  Jerry. Jerry Feinerman!

  “Yeah, Jerry, he’s right. It never ends, Jerry. Never, Jerry.”

  We went on for another minute about how the planet Earth was no place to raise kids, and then I wound through the crowd to find Alyse and Charlie. I nodded at some other Denton Cooleys before winding up face to face with Audra.

  It never ends, Jerry.

  Tapping away on her cell phone, she said, “Hold on one second.”

  “Audra, are you allowed to text on the Shabbat?”

  Without looking up, she said, “No.”

  She finished texting and smiled, “Charlie’s adorable.”

  “Thanks, Audra. He’s a great kid.”

  She smiled as if cuing me for my next line.

  “Look, Audra, I felt awful about what I said to you yesterday.”

  “About looks being deceiving.”

  “Right. I just—Well, let me be honest with you. The looks of my marriage are not deceiving. I just said that because I enjoyed talking to you and you’ve become so pretty and sophisticated—you were always sophisticated—but, whatever. Somehow something kicked in inside me and gave me the utterly insane impression that we were flirting. I know, it’s the most idiotic thing in the world, and later I came up with the idea of the government handing out cards to guys like me officially pronouncing us out of the game. That’s how . . . Anyway, I’m sorry and I hope I didn’t disillusion you about the possibilities of true love.”

  Audra smiled, “Nice speech,” she said. “But unnecessary. The truth is, I thought we were flirting too. I know I was.”

  “Audra . . .”

  “The fact that you love your wife so much was kind of a turn-on. In fact, if instead of saying ‘Looks are deceiving,’ you had said, ‘I’m crazy about my wife,’ who knows what kind of fantasies I might have had about you?”

  Jesus. Let me repeat: No one, but no one, sticks to the script.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “I had no idea you were into age-inappropriate relationships.”

  “How could you know?”

  “Jesus, Audra, you’re killing me.”

  “Well, don’t be upset. Actually, at the moment, I’m into culturally inappropriate relationships.”

  “Culturally inappropriate? You mean you’re dating a non-Jew?”

  “Non-Jew would be an understatement.”

  “Audra, you came to my office a bunch of years ago with an apology for your family and I accepted. I hope you’ll take my apology and just accept it to so I can live my life in some fucking semblance of peace.”

  Audra burst out in that killer laugh. “How did I find such an adorable podiatrist?”

  “Your father fixed us up.”

  “Right. And speaking of my father, I better get close to him for the festivities.”

  “Is he alright?”

  “Yeah. Righteous indignation agrees with him.”

  “Really. Does he know about your inappropriate boyfriend?”

  “God, no. That he couldn’t handle.”

  “You know, Audra, that’s the second time you’ve told me about something you didn’t think your father could handle, and this is the second time I’m going to tell you he may be stronger than you think. I’m getting the feeling you’ve always tried to live your own life, but to do it, you’ve had to be in the protection racket, shielding your father’s feelings. And that’s not fair to you.”

  That was the first time I said something that shifted the dynamic between us to where I was the adult and Audra was the kid.

  Audra quietly said, “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re right,” she said, in a voice that sounded like it came from the future.

  Audra looked at me and lifted her chin, her small goodbye, and walked off to the podium set up in front of her father’s store. I watched her for a few seconds before setting off to find Alyse and Charlie.

  VI.

  Now, Commie, you must think I was in agony with having heard Audra say she was flirting with me. But I wasn’t. I actually felt great. Knowing a girl like that could be attracted to me was enough. A great flirtation is better than sex. It’s a monster ego boost without the mess. When I found Alyse, she was talking to a guy holding a reporter’s notebook. He looked more like a better dressed, socially adjusted version of Bernard Goetz. Leather bomber jacket and chinos, mid-forties, but still kind of sallow.

  As I got closer, I heard Alyse say, “I’m just not the person to talk to. I’m not religious really and, actually, I don’t really even know Mr. Uziel. My husband—”

  Right on cue, she glanced around and there I was. Alyse introduced me to Don Graydon, metro reporter for Newsday, and said, “I’ve been telling him I’m not a good interview subject for this story, but maybe you . . .”

  Not to brag, but it made total sense the guy focused on Alyse. Graydon wasn’t wearing a wedding band and found himself on assignment on a Saturday among people (mostly) dressed in the grave-side fashion of Orthodox Jews. Who would you zero in on?

  Charlie said, “Dad, you want to be in the newspaper?”

  “Only if they say nice things about me.”

  I shook Graydon’s hand and said, “I thought all reporters used digital recorders these days.”

  “Yeah, they do,” Graydon said, holding up his pad, “but my dad was a reporter for the Tim
es and, I don’t know, I’m just old school.”

  “No offense, but couldn’t you get a job at the Times? Maybe as a legacy?”

  “I actually worked there for a year and a half. It was a hell hole. The editors pitting everyone against each other. All these illiterate Ivy Leaguers thinking they’d bring down the next president like—”

  “Woodward and Bernstein?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Woodward was actually a pretty crappy writer. I was a journalism major at Maryland—”

  “Maryland? I went to UVA.”

  Charlie perked up. “UVA beat Maryland in football this year.”

  I wound up telling Graydon about the cops interviewing me the night before and how they didn’t really know much. Then, like Alyse, I told him I probably wasn’t the juiciest interview subject since I wasn’t Orthodox.

  Graydon said, “Does an anti-Semitic act like this give you pause? Maybe rethink your religious convictions?”

  “Look, we don’t really know it was an anti-Semitic act. It could just as easily have been some bored, stupid kid getting a cheap thrill. It’s not exactly on the level of shooting off mortars from the Gaza Strip. I mean, if you’re truly an anti-Semite, couldn’t you find a better way to express yourself than by throwing a bottle of horseradish through the window of a kids’ clothing store?”

  Graydon wrote fast, then said, “But the horseradish has that whole Zionist marketing concept.”

  With a little suggestive smile, I said, “Well, I’m not totally sold on that either.”

  “You’re a major skeptic. I like that.”

  All jocular, I asked for his card and said, “Maybe I can help you out on deep background. We can break the case together.”

  Handing me his card, Graydon said, “Don’t count on it. My source in the police department tells me they’re close to making an arrest.”

  Oh shit.

  Needless to say, I got less jocular. Reflexively, I looked around. I guess I was checking to see if any cops were scoping me out. I didn’t see any, but then: They wouldn’t be uniformed cops. They’d be plainclothes. Detectives. How do you spot them in the middle of four or five hundred people? Wait! With all these Orthodox, it shouldn’t be that tough to pick out a cop—

  “What are you looking at?”

  It’s amazing how you can be standing beside your wife and still go into such a personal panic that you completely forget she’s there.

  “Nothing really. I was just wondering if the detectives from last night were here.”

  “I can’t believe they already have a suspect,” Alyse said, more impressed than you’d expect. “That was fast. “

  I nodded and glanced back toward Stratification. The cars parked on the street were the usual array of imports as opposed to the impossibly ugly American cars where you’d expect to see detectives sitting and drinking coffee on a stakeout.

  “If they bring the guy here, these people would probably . . . what do they call it in the Mideast or in ancient times when they trot out a crook in front of a big crowd?”

  “Stoning.”

  Another glance to see if there were any suspicious vans outfitted with zoom lenses and nosy audio equipment.

  “Right. Stoning.”

  That’s when I said to myself, Are you nuts? Surveillance and undercover cops for a minor little vandalism case? The cops were probably sitting around laughing at the staff meeting this morning: “Men, put on a good show to make the Jews think we actually give a shit about this case.”

  “It’s been a while since Long Island had a good stoning.”

  “What’s a stoning?”

  Charlie’s voice snapped me out of my fugitive head and back to reality.

  “Mommy’s kidding, Charlie. A stoning is when a mob of people throw rocks at a bad guy. It doesn’t happen anymore, only in olden times. Today, the police take care of criminals, you know, like the two detectives we met last night.”

  “Oh.”

  Alyse looked up like she’d just remembered something. “Hey, isn’t it funny that the cops were named Byron and Shelby? Almost like the poets.”

  Of course, having gone to Maryland, I never read any poetry. As if subconsciously proving my ignorance, I said, “Did you ever read Byron and Shelby?”

  “Shelley. Byron and Shelley. And yes, I read some of their works.”

  “At Maryland?”

  “Yeah. English 430. Junior year.”

  “Good school, that Maryland.”

  Charlie chimed in, “I want to go to Maryland!”

  Alyse said, “Great. You’ll study hard and go to Maryland.”

  “And we’ll visit you.”

  “Go Terps.”

  Commie, can you believe how hard it is to get into Maryland now? Esme’s friend Harley has a big sister who made Maryland her second choice after Dartmouth. She applied to the honors program and, frankly, I didn’t know Maryland even had an honors program. Or I thought the honors program was called “the basketball team.”

  Kids sweat the application process so much these days you’d think they’re trying to get onto an organ donor list. Charlie and Esme are younger than our friends’ kids because of all the miscarriages, which is fine except for how we’re always being told what’s going to happen with our kids next. Like their kids are blueprints for ours. Alyse is sick of it too, but what can she say? We’re not worried about college because we intend to force them to join the military?

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I don’t want to take up too much of your time on the Shabbos . . .”

  Carl Penza’s pronunciation of “Shabbos” was flawless, his long years around Jews put to good use.

  “The cowardly act that has brought us here today will not go unpunished, I assure you. We are using all of our resources to find the perpetrator of this senseless vandalism and, when we do, you have my word that we will prosecute the offense as a Class A felony.”

  People looked around. Class A. That’s the worst, right?

  I have to tell you, Commie, after a moment’s thought, the Class A threat didn’t scare me much. If I were caught, I’d fess up and they’d knock it down to a misdemeanor. After all, I’m a first offender. And a podiatrist.

  “Good Yontiv.”

  Nat Uziel’s appearance at the podium brought the kind of hush to the crowd that made you think you were about to hear from Mandela.

  “In the annals of grievous acts perpetrated upon our people . . .”

  Alyse whispered to me, “Ah, he switched it to grievous.”

  “. . . the impotent gesture inflicted upon us last night may seem rather benign. But therein lies the danger. No act of prejudice, large or small, can be ignored lest its virulence be allowed to flourish and metastasize. The financial damage to my place of business is trivial, but that won’t be the case if we turn the other cheek and simply move past the cultural and spiritual damage we have suffered. I, for one, will not simply turn the other cheek. I will pray to the Almighty that our community will be blessed with justice and peace.”

  And so much for the rally.

  VII.

  The crowd dispersed. Alyse, Charlie, and I gave everyone a head start before we walked to our car for the furtive drive home.

  Charlie asked, “Do Catholic people have rallies too?”

  “Sure.” Alyse said, “if they have a good reason to rally.”

  “Are they the same as Jewish rallies?”

  “Pretty much,” Alyse said, “except at their rallies, they play Bingo.”

  That cracked me up. Charlie, prompted by my laugh, got that it was joke and laughed loud enough to make sure we knew he got it.

  Laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh . . .

  . . . and wait for the shit around the next corner.

  This particular shit was detectives Byron and Shelby wait
ing in our driveway.

  Yeah. So, after the Newsday reporter told us the cops had a suspect and the County Executive promised to prosecute a Class A felony—not to mention the fact that I was guilty of said felony—there were two familiar cops in my driveway. I immediately could feel that the good will from the previous night’s coffee had worn off. I could also (almost) feel the Zoloft calling for a Code Red, capping my panic at, Please don’t cuff me in front of my son.

  Oh, and speaking of Zoloft, did I mention that, in my early forties, there was a month or so when I constantly thought I smelled something? No shit. I’d go, “What’s that smell?” But no one else smelled anything, so I thought maybe it was the smell of my own body rotting away. Then I read a piece in the paper about how dogs could smell cancer so, for a while, I’d walk up to dogs and let them smell me to see if they got some edgy look on their faces, like, Get to a hospital, pal. But the dog reactions were pretty inconclusive.

  Sorry. Bad time for a digression. I got two cops on my lawn and, out of left field, I tell you about another of my psychosomatic disorders.

  Okay, so, the cops looked grim; I was anxious. For a second, I only remembered the name of one of the cops. Byron. In an effort to seem composed and unthreatening, I thought I’d just say hello to him. But my terror slipped out:

  “Good afternoon, Defective Byron.”

  Alyse whipped her head toward me to make sure I wasn’t making the most ill-timed joke of all time.

  “Detective Byron. Sorry. That was a slip of the tongue. Not Freudian in any way.”

  Detective Byron stamped out a cigarette on the driveway which, I gotta say, was a little offensive. I mean, litter is litter, and this is my fucking home, you know? But, seeing as I was seconds away from having my head pushed down to avoid the roof of the unmarked car, I let it slide.