Bertrand Court (16 page)

MOLLY FLANDERS

Molly Flanders, Summer 2006

T
he night Molly met Becca Coopersmith, it rained so hard that it sounded like someone was pelting her skylight with marbles. She seduced her husband, Phil, his keys in hand, ready to drive to Chincoteague to shoot a film about the pony swim. Half naked, limbs intertwined, sweaty and breathless, they lay on the living room floor of their new house, where she clung to him like a war bride, more needy than embarrassed by her terror of thunderstorms and her dread of spending their first night apart. “I'll call as soon as I get there,” he promised, zipping up his jeans.

A cold loneliness overtook Molly. Phil had been the only person to see inside of her. When he'd sent her a photo he'd taken of her at a wedding reception, she felt as though he'd understood her emptiness. She knew right then and there that she'd marry him. But because Phil could see the holes in her, it didn't mean that he could fill them, not even when he was inside her. Every time he took out his camera, she hoped he'd snap another photo that would expose another flash of her essence.

Molly got dressed and settled on the couch to compose a thank-you note to her aunt Katherine for a place setting of wedding silver. She heard a loud boom, and then the room went black and the howl of hot summer winds replaced the hum of the air conditioner. Her first power outage alone. With each clap of thunder, she imagined a new structural defect plaguing their house. Danny Weiss, her realtor, who was related to half the people on this cul-de-sac, assured her that the house was solidly constructed.

She couldn't remember which box contained their flashlights and candles, and the only neighbors she knew, Phil's soundman Eric and his family, were out of town. They'd promised to throw a party for Molly and Phil to welcome them to the neighborhood.

The steady crackle of lightning further unmoored Molly as she sat on the couch contemplating the slender light flickering in the window of the cute house across the street. Strong winds shook the branches of the enormous oak tree in the neighbors' front yard, rocking the swing where she'd spied one of their sons kissing his girlfriend the night before. When she could no longer tolerate the dark — even Hugo, the oversized, obnoxious dog next door, was barking in fear — she slipped on Phil's rain jacket and mustered up the courage to walk the thirty yards to the front steps of their neighbors' house.

She was just about to ring the bell when, through the screen door, she heard a woman chanting an ancient-sounding melody in a minor key. The guttural consonants, the gentle wailing, and the emotion embedded in every note transported Molly back twenty years to Nancy Cohen's bat mitzvah: to the packed sanctuary where her friend recited with authority from a large scroll; to the rabbi blessing Nancy, his eyes closed, his fingertips resting on her newly straight hair; to the hora and Hava Negilah; to the toasts and the tears and the joy. She'd felt so purposeless compared to Nancy. Her parents had always told her that being a Flanders heir meant something. But what? What could possibly mean more than having a bat mitzvah?

“How was I, baby?” the woman called out, her speaking voice much huskier than her singing one.

“You're still doing a little of the Joni Mitchell
Blue
thing,” a male voice responded in a teasing tone.

Molly smiled. She wasn't much of a Joni Mitchell fan. Phil owned
Blue
on vinyl; he'd played it for her once early in their courtship, and she could indeed detect a bit of Joni in the woman's chant as she stood on that soggy porch, flooded with her old ache to share Nancy's heritage. Molly rang the bell firmly.

The woman appeared in the doorway carrying a fat purple candle that illuminated her strong cheekbones and jaw. She wore an ice-blue tank top and a choker, the beaded kind that hinted at exotic travels. She was one of those women who knew instinctively how to draw attention to her best features — in her case, her smooth, olive skin and pretty neck.

“Oh my God, come in. You just moved in, right? It's awful out there. Have you been sitting in the dark?” She clucked.

Molly felt foolish about how long it had taken to talk herself into walking across the street. “Sorry to bother you. I came to ask if I could borrow some candles or a flashlight.”

“Come, come.” The woman placed a warm hand on the small of Molly's back and escorted her into the musky-smelling living room. “I'm Becca Coopersmith.” She smiled, revealing a dimple that could house a whole dime.

“Molly Flanders.” Molly smiled back.

“My husband, Adam Kornfeld.” Becca nodded to a man not much taller than she was, with thick brownish-gray hair and a ready smile. He wore jean shorts and a faded T-shirt bearing a Bowdoin College insignia that was beginning to crack.

By the time Molly removed her jacket, she'd learned that Becca's son Jason had become a vegetarian because of his extreme compassion for chickens, that her husband had just won an award for a social marketing campaign on recycling, that she had just started a new job as development consultant for a community health center, and that she grew her own greens because “everyone labels their produce organic these days.”

“Your basement is going to be a mess.” Adam had an authoritative yet cordial voice. “Give me your key. I'll bail you out.”

She was a little flustered by his kindness, but she handed him her key anyway. “Are you sure?” she asked, her question followed by a loud crash from outside, where a sturdy branch had fallen from a tree, barely missing the hood of her Volkswagen. She wished Phil wasn't driving in the storm.

Becca gave Molly's shoulder a squeeze. “It's a mitzvah.” She smiled. “A good deed.”

Molly wasn't used to people doing nice things for her unless she paid them. “Thank you.”

“Go.” Becca kissed Adam on the cheek and turned back to Molly.

“What a lovely piece.” Molly pointed to a wooden sculpture of a mother holding her baby to her breast.

Becca stroked the mother's arm. “Olive wood. We got it in Jerusalem when I was pregnant with Isaac.”

“Beautiful.” Like the mezuzah necklace Nancy's Israeli uncle gave her for her bat mitzvah. These memories of Nancy kept showing up like unwelcome houseguests, but Molly was far too happy with her life, with her Phil, to fret about her old, fierce spiritual yearnings.

Becca removed her hand from the sculpture and waved Molly into the kitchen. “Let's eat ice cream by candlelight.” She winked.

Molly was sure that Becca was a wonderful mother, the type who could make a trip to the post office seem like a grand adventure. She fantasized about one day baking Christmas cookies with her toddler. No maid would swoop in to erase their messes. She inspected the distressed farm table where Becca had set a candle that cast a warm light on a vase of blue hydrangeas. Molly imagined that the Coopersmith-Kornfeld family had spent many a meal there teasing each other or fighting over the last tofu burger.

Becca plucked a carton of carob-chip ice cream from her freezer. “I really shouldn't get near this stuff.” She patted her hips, camouflaged by a long black peasant skirt that barely covered a tattoo of a dove on her ankle.

Molly just nodded. She'd inherited the metabolism of a hummingbird. “I like these bowls.” They reminded her of the set she had shipped from Spain during her honeymoon.

“Pier One. I think they were three or four dollars apiece.”

“They always have such great sales.” Molly hadn't made this kind of remark in a while, the kind that suggested that she had to cut corners like everyone else.

Becca placed a heaping bowl of ice cream in front of her and sat down with her own. “So tell me about you. What do you do to keep yourself busy?”

Molly was proud of the micro-enterprise programs she managed for the Flanders Philanthropic Fund, the result of long hours with little support from the foundation, but Becca was a fundraiser, and she didn't want to open up that discussion. Once people found out that you had family money, they assumed that you hadn't earned anything for yourself and started treating you with disdain, combined with just enough warmth to hit you up for something.

Before she could answer, Becca removed the spoon from her lips, closed her eyes, and let out a moan. “I need a
cigarette.” She moaned again. “Too bad I quit.”

Molly laughed. It would be so easy to befriend Becca; she was just like Nancy, so funny and open and sure of who she was. They even shared the same dimple. God, she could practically feel Nancy with her in the room.

The rain started to slow down as Molly listened to Becca describe her sons' letters about their Outward Bound adventures and confide how unsettling yet relaxing she found the new quiet of her house.

“You're too good a listener, Molly.” She reached for a bottle of red wine on the table and pulled out the cork. They were on their second glass of wine when Molly got up the guts to ask about Becca's chanting.

“I had an adult bat mitzvah a few years ago, and every year, I read my Torah portion on the anniversary of the date.”

“Adult bat mitzvah?” Molly's stomach tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I figured you weren't Jewish.” Becca smiled warmly.

“I went to a bat mitzvah once. My best friend in elementary school was Jewish,” Molly offered, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “Nancy Cohen.”

“I never had one, so I wanted to have this moment with God.”

Molly didn't know how to respond; she couldn't remember the last time she'd discussed anyone's religion, much less so casually.

“This is something I do for myself.”

With no warning, Molly began to feel a humming in her body, the precursor to the pins and needles that had invaded her skin right before she'd reached into Nancy's jewelry box. She held the cool silver of the mezuzah chain in her hand while Nancy waited for her to come watch
The Partridge Family
with her Israeli cousins in the den.

“I hate to talk about it, because I probably sound like I've joined a cult or something.” Becca wiped a carob chip from the table.

“Oh, no. Please go on. I'm fascinated.” Molly was more than fascinated. She couldn't tear herself away from Becca's talk of the bat mitzvah, just as she couldn't stop biting her nails or cracking her knuckles. She felt like she was thirteen years old again, sitting in a red upholstered chair, trying to ignore the way her new pantyhose constricted her breathing, wishing she was up on that altar thanking her grandma Esther for flying in from Miami for her special day. The tingling was rising now, teetering on the verge of becoming that itch, the sensation distant and familiar at the same time. Goddammit. Not now, not Becca.

Adam appeared in the kitchen. Talk about divine intervention! Maybe the tingling would go away if Becca just stopped talking about her bat mitzvah.

Adam wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “When the power comes back, I'll bring over a few fans to dry the edges of your carpet.”

Molly took care not to make Adam feel like he was her hired help, to sound gracious and avoid what Phil called her “master of the servants” tone. “Thank you so much for everything. You must have saved us hundreds of dollars.”

He grinned. “Glad to help. I'm going to hose off.”

“Thanks, Adam.” She knew she should leave, but instead she took a big breath and begged Becca to tell her more about her bat mitzvah.

“Okay, but I get emotional when I talk about this one part.”

“Now you
have
to tell me about it.” Molly wanted to dig her nails into every square inch of her skin.

“Do you know what a tallis is?” Becca didn't wait for Molly to answer. “You know those prayer shawls you see people wearing around their shoulders?”

“Yes, they're beautiful.” Even the insides of her ears were beginning to itch.

“Adam asked my mother to give him my grandfather's tallis from his bar mitzvah back in the old country. Lithuania.” Her face began to flush. “So the night before the kids left for camp, we all went out to celebrate my forty-fifth birthday. Right after I blew out the candle on my raspberry mousse, Adam handed me this package he'd wrapped in lavender tissue paper, decorated by Isaac, the artist in the family. I opened it, and there was my grandfather's tallis — I recognized it right away.” Tears flooded her little eyes.

Becca was assailing Molly with the meaning in her life, admittedly at Molly's request, but still. “How incredible that must have been for you!” Molly clenched her hands in her lap so she wouldn't scratch.

Becca wiped her eyes with a dish towel and sniffled. “God, this is so embarrassing!” She disappeared into the living room and returned with a navy blue velvet case embroidered with gold Hebrew letters. She removed the long, rectangular piece of fabric gingerly from the bag. It smelled musty. She combed her fingers through the fringes of
the shawl. “When I wear this, I can practically feel generations of Jews passing right through my soul. I can feel God.” She shuddered, folding up the tallis and returning it carefully to the bag.

How could this be happening? Molly thought she'd grown out of her Nancy envy, as she had her excessive use of the word “like.” But here she was, yearning for what belonged to Nancy and Becca: grandparents who'd escaped pogroms, intense friendships formed at Jewish summer camps, a compulsion to complain about constipation from eating too much matzoh on Passover. She wanted Becca's highly compassionate sons, she wanted the adult bat mitzvah; she even coveted Becca's big rear end. She felt so beige, so meager. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to replicate Nancy's spiritual abundance. In college, she joined a Quaker group. She hated it, and it wasn't just because of the mouth-breather who sat next to her. She'd grown up in a home with enough silence to last a lifetime.

“Becca?” Adam called from the top of the steps. “Can you bring me another flashlight? My battery died.”