Crazy in Love (13 page)

Anyway, he came bounding into the kitchen with his
usual unbridled energy. “Hi ya, Sallie!” he cried when he
noticed me in the corner. “Long time, no see. Rachel’s in
her room. Hey, cookies! Where’s Dad?”

I have long wondered if one of the skills taught at
Columbia University is that of speaking in non sequiturs.
Whether it’s an official part of the curriculum or not, it
certainly characterized the speech pattern of Steven Glass.
Maybe it was just because he was always rushing off to someplace or other, so he never had time to light on any one
subject. That day was no exception.

“I have to run, Mom. Got to hit the library. Oh, great, chocolate inside. Good to see you, Sallie.” He grabbed a
fistful of cookies, then disappeared as quickly as he had
arrived.

“It’s nice that Steve doesn’t put on any airs around me,” I commented. “It makes me feel even more like one of the
family.”

“I’m glad you see it that way!” Mrs. Glass
laughed.

“How are
you
doing, anyway?” I asked, suddenly aware
that I’d been so busy babbling on and on about myself that
I’d neglected to ask her anything about herself. “How’s
work?”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ve been busy, as usual, but I prefer it that
way. I’ve been running around like a whirling dervish the
past few weeks.”

Mrs. Glass is an editor on the staff of a magazine for art
dealers. It’s pretty specialized—not the kind of thing you
curl up with in front of a fireplace and read cover to cover—
but I’ve always been very impressed with the copies I’ve
seen lying around the Glasses’ apartment. It’s printed on
thick, glossy paper, and it always has pages and pages
of beautiful photographs of paintings in full color.

“That’s good. And how is Dr. Glass?”

“Oh, fine. He’s busy reading medical journals, I think. In fact, I’m glad you stopped over, Sallie. It seems as if
everybody is off by himself today, wrapped up in some
project or other. It’s nice to have someone to talk to. Would
you like some more tea?”

“Thanks, I’d love some.” I watched silently as she
refilled my cup with hot water. “Mrs. Glass, is it okay if I
ask you a really strange, off-the-wall question?”

“Of course, Sallie. What is it?”

I hesitated, then decided to come right to the point.
“Okay, here goes. What exactly does being Jewish mean to
you?”

“Hmm. That’s not an easy question to answer,” she
replied, her face reflecting the serious consideration she was
giving my question. “I suppose the one thing that most
people who aren’t Jewish have the most difficulty under
standing is that it’s more than a religion. It’s an entire tradition, Sallie, a whole way of life. I feel that there’s a
very strong need to preserve the heritage, to remember the
history, of the Jewish people.”

“I guess that’s mainly because of so much discrimina
tion, especially in the past.”

“Yes, that’s true,” she agreed. “In many countries, Jews
weren’t even considered citizens, even though they had been born there and lived there all their lives. And even now, in this so-called enlightened age
...
well, look at
the oppression of Jews in places like Russia.” Mrs. Glass
shook her head slowly, then took a sip from her teacup.
“We make a special effort to keep our heritage alive in order
to prevent things like that from spreading, to keep history
from repeating itself. I think that every ethnic group and
every religion has some sense of its history, but to us Jews.,
it’s especially important. I’ve made a point of educating
Rachel and Steve about that heritage, and I know that
they’ll teach their children, too.”

“What about the idea of Jews not marrying non-Jews?” I ventured. “All those jokes about finding a ‘nice Jewish
boy’?”

“That’s just one more aspect of preserving the Jewish
tradition, Sallie.”

“But isn’t that limiting? I mean, I’ve gone out with boys
of every religion and nationality you can imagine.”

“I’ve never cut myself off from anyone because of religion or background or anything else. At least, I hope
not.” Mrs. Glass frowned. “But when it comes to marriage
and having children and raising those children ... well,
that’s a different story, and that’s what’s so difficult to
explain. That’s where those ties to the Jewish heritage come in. That sense of common understanding, of shared experi
ence. And then there’s an element of bonding as well. But then, again, that’s true of most ethnic and religious groups,
isn’t it? Catholics are encouraged to marry other Catholics,
and Italians are encouraged to marry other Italians. That
idea just happens to be very strong in the Jewish religion.”
She bit into a cookie thoughtfully. “Am I explaining this in
a way that makes sense to you?”

“Yes, I think so. And I guess Rachel feels pretty much
the same way.”

“Well, as I said before, I’ve always felt it was important to teach my children what being Jewish means. I think
Rachel feels those same ties to Judaism, and that sense of
importance about preserving her beliefs and her heritage.”

“Hmm,” I said, lost in my own thoughts. “That answers
my question, then. Thank you.”

“Glad to be of help. Can I offer you some more tea? Or another cookie?”

“No, thanks. I really came over because I have some
thing important to discuss with Rachel.”

Now another terrific thing about Mrs. Glass is that she
never pries. She’s the kind of person who accepts the fact
that everybody has secrets, and she just leaves it at that. So
instead of acting nosy or looking upset, she just said,
“Well, in that case, I’ll leave you two to each other.” She sighed and rose from the table. “It’s just as well, because I should be proofreading an article on the rising costs of
renting gallery space instead of wiling away the afternoon
chatting and stuffing myself with cookies.”

I followed her example and stood up. It was time, I knew; there was no more putting off what I’d set out to do. I bid
farewell to Mrs. Glass and the safety of the kitchen, and
made my way through the apartment to Rachel’s room.
Without hesitating I knocked in the door and stuck my head
in when she called, “Come in!”

Rachel was sitting at her desk, pen poised in midair over
a pad of white paper, eyes glazed from having been
absorbed in some world other than our own. When she saw that it was me, her expression changed from blank to gleeful
to serious, all in the matter of about two seconds. I could
tell exactly what ran through her mind: first came the joy of recognizing a familiar, friendly face; second came the jolt of
remembering that she was mad at me.

“Hi, Rachel,” I said cautiously, bracing myself against
possible attack, verbal or otherwise. “Are you busy?”

“Um, no. I guess not,” Rachel replied in a stilted voice. “I’m working on this paper for Spanish, but it can wait. It’s
not due for a couple of weeks.”

“Don Quixote?”

Rachel nodded. She continued staring at me as if she expected me to start tap-dancing or something. Instead, I
moved around her tiny bedroom awkwardly, picking up various items, examining them, and putting them down
again. Finally, when I couldn’t tolerate the silence any longer, I
said, “Rachel, we have to talk. There’s still a lot that needs
to be said.”

I have to confess, I’d memorized that opening. I tried
to make it sound spontaneous, and I think I even succeeded.
But the truth was, I’d already gone over this scene a
hundred times in my mind. And that always seemed like the best way to begin. Nothing harsh, nothing judgmental.
Simply an invitation for discussion.

“Okay,” she said in that same strained voice. She put
down her pen and turned her body around so she faced me. I
sat on the edge of her bed and folded my hands in my lap.

“I—I think you know what it is I’m here to talk to you
about.”

“Well,” Rachel said, “it could be one of two things,
actually. It could be my relationship with Saul, or it could
be my relationship with you.”

“You’re right.” I hadn’t exactly thought of it that way,
but I had to agree with her. “They
are
two separate issues,
aren’t they?”

“Before you start yelling at me, Sallie, can I say
something first? Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday. It was stupid of me to blame anything at all on you. I should never have lit into you the way I did when we were at Carl
Schurz Park. The idea of letting something like this come
between us is ridiculous. Our friendship is much too
important for that.”

I broke into one of those Christmas-morning type grins.
“I’m glad you feel that way, Rachel, because I do, too.”

“However,” she went on, “I don’t think you have any
right to interfere in my relationship with Saul. What would
have happened if you introduced me to some guy and I
refused to go out with him because—I don’t know— because he was too immature or not smart enough?”

“But that’s not true!” I interrupted. “Saul
is
mature, and
he
is
smart...
.”

“You’re missing the point,” Rachel said calmly. “The
basic problem here is that you’re my friend, and you’re
Saul’s friend as well. And so, matching the two of us up
seems like the most natural thing in the world.”

“But there’s more to it than that!” I cried. “You like Saul, and Saul
likes you, and, Rachel, believe me, you’re making a huge
mistake.”

“Sallie, I know you think the world of Saul. That’s pretty
obvious. And maybe he is terrific. But there are other
factors that you simply cannot understand.” I thought of the conversation I’d had with Mrs. Glass just a few minutes
earlier.

Rachel stood up, then joined me on the bed. “Can we just
drop this whole thing now and get on with our friendship? After all, discussing it forever is not going to accomplish anything except getting both you and me more frustrated.”

“Okay,” I agreed. I know when I’ve been defeated. I’d given it my best shot, but there was nothing I could do.
Besides, I was pleased as punch, as they say, that my
friendship with Rachel had been restored. “Well, you can’t
blame me for trying. I promise I won’t ever mention it
again. Oh, Rachel, I’m so glad we’re friends again! You
can’t believe how much I missed you!”

“I missed you, too!”

We hugged each other, and I felt good for the first time in ages. I felt as if there was so much I needed to tell Rachel—
the little things that had happened in school and with my
family and with my songwriting over the past week—and
the two of us ended up chattering away for the next three
hours. Poor old Don Quixote got left by the wayside.

When Mrs. Glass popped her head in to invite me to stay
for dinner, I remembered that I still had to write a short piece
that evening for Monday’s music theory class, and I got ready to leave. I stood up after giving Rachel another quick hug, and said, “Today turned out to be a wonderful
day. I really wish I could stay for dinner, but Mom is
expecting me, and I have a bunch of stuff to do for
tomorrow. But listen, next Saturday night is the WROX
competition, and I’m having a little party Friday evening.
Nothing fancy, just enough people to supply Saul and me with a small audience. We’re going to perform the song.  It’s
sort of a dress rehearsal. Can you come?”

“Of course!” Rachel cried. “I wouldn’t miss it for the
world!”

Then her face darkened, as if it had just registered that
Saul would be there. I could see she was torn between her recently renewed friendship with me and her wish to avoid seeing Saul. Happily, however, friendship won out. “What
time should I come over?”

“I’m telling everybody to come at eight, so why don’t
you come a little earlier?”

“Okay. I’ll even bring some of my Show-Stopping
Brownies.”

Show-Stopping Brownies are Rachel’s specialty, a
scrumptious combination of chocolate chip cookie dough
and a cream cheese mixture, layered in a pan and baked like
a cake. There are people who have literally become
addicted to those things. In fact, I happen to be one of them.

“That would be terrific. Of course, I may be too nervous
to eat....”

“Then you can save them for after the competition.”

“Good idea! Then I can have both cookies
and
fame and fortune. Well, look, I’m sure I’ll end up talking to you on the phone in a couple of hours. I’d better get going now.
Bye, Rachel!”

“Bye. Hey, Sallie?”

“Yeah?”