Gravity (12 page)

Neshama whispers, “Ima?” Still Ima sings.

Mrs. Bachner’s daughter turns around and stares. She wears a long navy suit buttoned all the way up to her chin and a high-collared white blouse, but her left eye is swollen closed. The skin is a fresh blue, almost purple, fading to green at the edges. I draw in my breath.

Ima hits a particularly high note, and Neshama finally pokes her in the ribs. Ima’s eyes fly open, her voice breaking off. She looks startled.

“You’re too loud,” Neshama hisses.

Ima looks around as if trying to recollect where she is. “Am I?”

Neshama gives a quick nod.

Ima blushes and straightens her blouse. She tucks a strand of hair more firmly under her hat, opens her prayer book again, mumbles quietly under her breath. She sits when the rest of us do.

Throughout the Torah service, my fingers reach up to the base of my skull, trace the spot where I’ve been pulling at my hair. I imagine Lindsay’s hands, first just touching my neck, caressing my head, and then when she pulls me closer, she tugs on my hair, her lips teasing my ear. I grip my prayer book tightly, flick my tongue against the sore in my cheek. I skim the portion, trying to follow the chanting. After the Torah service I excuse myself and go down to the bathroom.

In a bathroom stall, I lean my forehead against the plaster wall, take some deep breaths.

I hear Sari Blum whisper to her mother by the mirrors, “Mrs. Bachner’s daughter is here without her husband.”

“Really? Alone for
yontif
?”

“Wouldn’t you be with that eye?”

On the way back I pause at the open doors of the main sanctuary. I peer into the men’s section, at the sea of bobbing white backs, rows of
kippah
-clad heads. Men and boys, this is what I’m supposed to like. Danny Durshiwitz, the cantor’s son, walks back my way. We used to play tag at recess even though he made speeches in class about the inner workings of the brain. I haven’t seen him since we went on to high school. I should have a crush on a boy like him: tall and dark, although he isn’t exactly handsome. He’s too thin, and his face has broken out in crusting zits. He catches my eye, and I quickly step out of the doorway and head back upstairs.

Six

E
very year at Halloween, Neshama and I begged to go trick-or-treating. We would choose costumes from the dress-up box at Bubbie’s, then wait to ask Abba.

“Abba, can we please go trick-or-treating this year?” Neshama asked politely. She wore a ballet tutu with a turtleneck underneath and her thick navy school tights. I was a cat with paper ears attached to a headband, and a painted-on nose and whiskers.

We sat on the edge of the bathtub watching Abba trim his beard. Our bathroom had an old mauve toilet and matching sink. The tiling in the tub had started to drop off, dotting the tub and whoever was in it with bits of plaster. Ima had tried to make the room more inviting with mauve floral wallpaper and matching towels, but the accumulated steam and lack of a fan made the paper peel at the corners.

Abba looked at us in the reflection of the mirror. “Trick-or-treat? And have the whole community see my girls like
goyishe
children asking for candy?”

Neshama clasped her hands to her chest. “Abba, please. We’ll go near Bubbie’s house. No one will see us.”

“Ima got to go when she was a kid,” I added. “We saw the pictures. She was a princess one year, and a bride and—”

“No.” Abba’s voice was muffled as he trimmed the hairs near his nostrils.

“Just for half an hour? We won’t eat anything until we show you.”

“No.” Abba put down his scissors and held the door open for us to leave.

“Just one street?”

“Out!” We scurried to the door. “I can’t understand how you want to have a holiday where they throw eggs at Jews’ houses.”

“That was just a prank, Abba,” Neshama insisted, standing in the doorway. Rabbi Abrams’ house had been egged two Halloweens before.

“Like a
pogrom
.” Abba’s face grew red, spittle flying out of his mouth.

“You think the kids went looking for a house with a
mezuzah
?” Neshama’s cheeks grew equally red, her hands coming up to enunciate her words.

Abba turned back to the mirror. “Scratch a
goy
and you get an anti-Semite,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Abba! That’s not true,” I insisted. Mrs. Kilpatrick was my math and science teacher that year. We got to do science fair, and I built a volcano and won the prize for the school. I couldn’t go to the city fair because it was on
Shabbos
.

Ima stuck her head into the hallway. She stood behind us at the entrance of the bathroom in her burgundy terry robe, her hair bound up in a towel. “What kind of
mishegas
are you
filling their ears with?” Her quiet, controlled voice made me feel queasy. She pushed past us into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. “You teach our children to hate? Nu?”

I’ve always thought Abba was religious because of the Holocaust. I once overheard Bubbie ask Abba why he “bothered keeping all those crazy rules.” Abba said that if the Jews had been more observant, the Holocaust would never have happened.

“Bullshit!” Bubbie cried. “Is that what your parents believed? No!”

Abba shrugged. “That’s my opinion.”

When I ask Bubbie about it later, her nostrils flared in disgust. “Ellie,” she told me, “the Holocaust happened because Hitler was crazy and because no one cared a damn about the Jews. Now it’s not like that. Everyone likes us, in Canada anyway. We’re like kosher
WASP
s.”

Ima was so angry with Abba she packed us up that Halloween and let us choose costumes from the dress-up box at Bubbie’s. We helped Bubbie give out chocolates, and then we walked around the neighborhood looking at other children’s costumes. We didn’t knock on any doors, but Ima gave us kosher milk chocolate bars. We both chose to be fairies with pink tulle crinolines under our duffel coats.

“Can we go walk in the ravine?” Neshama asked.

“Ooh, too scary,” Ima whispered, her eyes twinkling. She took us to the edge and we looked down into the dark trees. The wind knocked the bare dry branches together and the streetlamps cast the trees into long shadows. The light illuminated part of the path down the bush-covered slope,
and the red and gold leaves covering the bushes. A breeze fluttered behind us, sending leaves skipping past our ankles and into the ravine. Chills ran up and down my arms and legs. “That’s where all the ghosts live,” Ima whispered into our ears, pointing down into the dark. Neshama and I shivered, stomped our feet and clung to her hands.

Neshama and I fell asleep on the white wicker couch in Bubbie’s kitchen, our tummies full of chocolate and milky tea. Ima and Bubbie sat at the kitchen table, drank Kahlua, got drunk and cried.

Every year when we made our annual Halloween plea, Abba said, “Wait until the spring for Purim. Then you can dress up and eat candy ‘til you’re sick.”

“Great,” Neshama always said, her voice thick with sarcasm, “another holiday about people trying to kill the Jews. Let’s cel-e-brate.”

“At least the Jews didn’t get killed that time,” I always pointed out.

“Yeah, and in the end,” Neshama added, “we slaughtered everyone instead.” We didn’t talk about this part of the story much at school.

ON HALLOWEEN THIS
year I tell Neshama I’m going to the library after school. As soon as she’s out of sight, I head toward the subway instead. On the way I stop at the drugstore to look at magazines. I scan the shelves. Fashion. Home Decorating. Sports. My eyes stop on the very back shelf, caught by the gleaming plastic cover of
Hustler
. Glancing around me,
I lift the plastic-covered corner and nudge the magazine out of its slot. A brassy blond pouts on the cover, her pointy nipples overlaid with a thin layer of black lace descending down her belly to meet in a tiny V at her crotch. The full part of her breasts juts around the thin black strips.
“Jordan, a bedroom, a video camera and you.”
My face grows hot and I quickly drop the magazine back in place. Boys, Ellie, find some boys. Pecs and abs and bulging jeans. I crouch down and look at the teen magazines.
Boys: What Every Girl Wants
, the headline of
Teen
reads. I flip through pages of advertisements and features on holiday dresses (sparkles and stars for you), the new bangs (ten easy steps) and a center section of boys. Pages and pages of shirtless, hairless, glossy boys with pecs, abs and tight jeans.

On the way to the till I spot a stack of cheap plastic witch and goblin masks. I stroke the rough edge of the plastic. Lindsay is probably dressing up for a party right now. Maybe if I walk by her house, I’ll ring the doorbell and say trick-or-treat.

I buy a witch mask, the magazine and a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips and head to the subway. At Rosedale, where Lindsay lives, I get off and walk west through quiet streets of stately houses with stretches of manicured lawns. Elaborately carved jack-o’-lanterns burn on front porches. Pictures of witches hang in bay windows or sway from brass doorknockers. I pull the mask out of my bag, but it makes me feel self-conscious, so I pull my toque low over my forehead and snuggle my chin into my navy scarf. I’ve worn my long
shul
coat to cover my uniform.

Children scuttle down the sidewalks with their parents: preschoolers dressed like giant insects, boys as action figures, girls in princess glitter, older kids as ghoulish Halloween monsters. The streetlights flick on, casting circles on the neat shrubbery, pruned bushes and smooth driveways full of mini-vans and
BMW
s.

I shuffle through the dry leaves on the tree-lined boulevard. The houses, Tudor trim or old brick with leaded glass windows, loom large.

I’ll knock on Lindsay’s door and say, “Trick-or-treat, I just happened to be in the neighborhood.” I’ll lift my mask and give her a dazzling smile. She’ll be just putting on her bunny costume for a school dance. Or maybe a Hawaiian outfit with a grass skirt and a bikini top. She’ll say, “Ellie, I’m so glad you’re here.” Then she’ll ask me to the dance. We’ll make me a ghost costume so no one will know who I am, and we’ll dance to “Stairway to Heaven.” That’s what Neshama says they play at the end of every school dance.

I turn the corner onto Lindsay’s street, Briar Hill.

Maybe I’ll just keep my mask on and ring the bell for candy, see if Lindsay recognizes me. I’d go in, but I’m wearing my school uniform with the dorky blouse.

I start counting the numbers toward her house.

Maybe I’ll just wait ‘til she comes outside, then I’ll go talk to her. I can hide in the bushes.

Lindsay’s house is brick with wooden trim. A hall light illuminates the living room and farther back, the kitchen. A Jeep is in the driveway.

I walk by without stopping.

I circle the block three times, munching on the chips. On my fourth round, the door opens and Lindsay’s mom gets in her Jeep, her coat open over a tight flapper dress and fishnet stockings. Her breasts peek over the top of a heart-shaped bodice, a giant green feather sways from her head. She drives off, leaving the house totally dark.

I sigh and start walking back.

I’ll go by Lindsay’s school and see her there. She’s probably decorating the cafeteria right now, with orange and black crepe paper, and blacking out the windows with garbage bags. I could still wear a ghost costume, or even just the mask. We could dance a fast song with lots of other girls.

I shiver on the cold deserted street and cram a handful of chips in my mouth. Ima will be wondering where I am.

On the subway back home, I flip through the teen magazine.
Ten tips to thicker eyelashes. Are your breasts too big? The secret inner passions of New Kids On The Block’s Joey McIntyre
. I flip to the centerfold. Joey McIntyre stands shirtless, oiled, his chest hairless, nipples like raisins. His dark hair is combed back except for one greased piece falling over his lowered, sultry eyes. He looks mean and unhappy. The photo cuts off his legs just below the bulge of his jeans. Lindsay’s nipples are more like Rosettes, bigger and pink. I twist a lock of hair behind my ear, slowly pull at it. Blood star,
Henriscula levisca
.

You might think a delicious hunk of malehood like Joey McIntyre would be all ego, but Joey is just like any other guy. He likes football, pizza, watching movies and hanging out with his friends.

But Joey has one difference. Millions of young woman swoon whenever he appears on stage.

AT HOME I
flop down beside Neshama on her bed and pass her the photo of Joey McIntyre.

“Would you swoon?”

Neshama uses her nail file as a bookmark in her textbook. She studies the picture. “Cute,” she says. “Very cute, but way too girly.”

“Girly? I’m practically...swooning.”

“You don’t look like you’re swooning.” She flips the magazine to the cover. “And since when do you read
Teen
?”

I shrug. “Some girls in my class were talking about him.” I take the magazine from her and flip back to Joey. “You’re not into cute?”

Neshama stands up and nudges aside a stack of notebooks. “I want a man, a real man, not some cute little boy. Like Patrick Swayze in
Dirty Dancing.
” She swivels her hips. “He was hot. Hey, wanna see something cool?”

“Sure.”

She hands me a sheaf of forms.

“What’s this?”

“University applications,” she says.

“Wow. They’re all done?”

She does a pirouette. “Yep.”

“Business?”

“Uh-huh. University of Toronto and York—the first part of my magic disappearing trick.

“Now you see me”— she steps behind the closet door— “now you don’t. And”—she pops back out—”soon you won’t see me at all.”

“You won’t live at home next year?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“You’ll really need Houdini to get that kind of money.”

“We’ll see.” She flits back down the hall.

I go into the bathroom and turn on the water. I want to bathe in a pink-and-white chrome bathroom with shining faucets, not in our scratched tub with the spider cracks running through the tiles. The windowsill peels from where the shower scalds the paint. I slide into the delicious heat, the window steaming over, my hair floating on the surface as if anchored by small minnows. My body is sleek, like a seal, a slippery fish. I brush my hands over my breasts, down my belly. If I drew close to Lindsay, our bodies would click together like two magnets. Two skins like one. The water washes over my head, swallowing me up. Holding my breath, my hands slide down my flat stomach to the crease between my legs. I press, one toe jammed in the faucet catching the drips. I catch my breath, release my hands. Rose star,
Crossaster papposus
.