Two of a Kind (26 page)

I
da Stern placed the crystal goblet on the table, peered at it, and frowned. There was a spot on the glass, right near the rim. She brought it to the sink, where she washed and dried it once again before replacing it exactly three inches from the Wedgwood plate and just above the folded napkin. Ida was a stickler about her Passover table; everything had to be perfect. She surveyed the other elements—dishes, silver, linens, and flowers—leaning over to straighten this or adjust that. When she decided that all met her exacting standard, she went into her bedroom to get dressed. The girls—Betty, Sylvia, and Naomi—would be here soon. Andy and Oliver would arrive soon too. But not the
shiksa
girlfriend and her daughter; Andy had told Ida that, no, they weren't coming after all. “Maybe another time, then?” Ida ventured. She had not been sure what this change in plans signified.

“I don't think so,” Andy said curtly. “I'm not seeing her anymore.”

“Oh.” Ida was silent. Her first thought was
Thank God.
Andy might not think it mattered if he got serious with a non-Jewish girl, but Ida knew better. There would always be a line, a clear demarcation, between Jews and Gentiles. It was foolish, and even dangerous, to think otherwise. Those blue numbers on her arm, faded and softened now by time, were proof of that. “What about that nice Jennifer Baum you used to go around with? You could invite her. And didn't you say she had a little girl? She could come too.”

“Jennifer Baum is
not
coming to the seder, Ma,” Andy said. The annoyance in his voice was apparent. “And while I appreciate your efforts to ramp up my social life, I think I can handle it on my own, okay?”

“All right,” she had said. “You don't have to bite my head off.”

Then Andy apologized—he was, at heart, a good boy, a good
man
—and she apologized too because sometimes she did butt in; she couldn't help it, it was just her way. Ida had last seen
her
mother when she was a girl, barely fourteen and with a baby of her own. She remembered how her mother had tried not to cry as she packed things for the baby—an extra cap, socks she had crocheted, a felt ball to keep him quiet on the ride. None of it had done any good; the guard took the wailing baby from Ida's arms before she even got on the train. She had never seen him, or her parents, again. So she didn't know what it was like to be a grown woman and yet a daughter too; she had never had the chance.

In the bedroom, her dress was laid out and waiting. It was black and gold with puffy sleeves and a full skirt. The dress had come from Loehmann's but not the Loehmann's of years ago, when she could find real French, designer clothes—labels cut out—for a fraction of their original price. Today, Loehmann's was a pale shadow of itself, never mind the big flashy store on 236th Street in Riverdale, where Ida nonetheless went with her friends, largely out of habit. “You can go to a nicer store,” Andy had said many times. “Go to Saks or Bloomingdale's and send me the bill.” But Ida saw no point in wasting money, even money that was not her own. Her son, thank God, was a good provider. Let him keep his money; maybe one day he'd have a wife again—a nice, Jewish wife—on whom to spend it.

The bell sounded and Ida hurried to get the door. Betty and Naomi stood outside, each clutching tissue-wrapped parcels. “Sylvia will be down in five minutes,” Naomi said. She came inside, followed by Betty, and handed Ida her package. “She said not to get started without her.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Ida said, tearing the tissue. “Chocolate-covered matzah!” she said. “My favorite.”

“I brought the same thing.” Betty turned to Naomi accusingly. “You didn't tell me that's what you were getting.”

“Yes, I did,” Naomi said. “You just don't remember.”

“You did not!”

“It doesn't matter,” Ida said soothingly. “In my house, there's never enough chocolate-covered matzah.” When the bell buzzed again, she opened the door to Sylvia, who had a tissue-wrapped package of her own.

“Did you bring Ida chocolate-covered matzah?” Betty demanded.

“No,” Sylvia said, looking perplexed. “I brought mixed nuts; is that all right?”

“Mixed nuts are wonderful,” Ida said, ushering her friends into the living room, where the table had been set up. “I love mixed nuts.”

“Ida, everything looks perfect. Including you,” said Sylvia.

“Thank you.” Ida went into the kitchen and returned with a dish for the nuts.

“So now we're waiting for the doctor son,” Naomi said, settling on the sofa and popping a nut in her mouth.

“And the
shiksa
girlfriend,” Betty added.

“No
shiksa
girlfriend,” Ida said.

“A Jewish girlfriend?” Sylvia asked. Her hand hovered above the nuts but did not alight.

Ida shook her head. “Just Andy and Oliver.”

“Do you think he wants to be fixed up? My niece is divorced and she's a
prize
.”

“I don't know,” Ida said. “I'd have to ask him first.”

“Feh!” said Sylvia, taking a sizable handful of nuts. “These kids. If you ask, they always say no. Better to arrange the meeting without telling them.” She punctuated this with an audible crunch.

“Sylvia's right,” Betty said. “Kids can't tell what's good for them. They're all holding out for some Hollywood idea of romance. And that's nice in the beginning. But after ten, twenty, thirty years, who cares about any of that? You want someone you can get along with, someone compatible.”

“Two of a kind,” Sylvia mused. “That's what Myron and I were. . . .” Myron had died only last year and it was true: he and Sylvia had seemed especially well suited to each other.

“My Andrew is not a kid,” Ida said. “And he's stubborn. Always was. He knows his own mind, goes his own way.” She was proud of him too, even though he could be exasperating.

“You have to be stubborn to get ahead,” Naomi said. “Look at how successful he is.”

“So where
is
he, anyway?” Sylvia asked. “Mr. Big-Shot-Successful-Doctor?”

“He's very busy,” Ida said. “And I'm sure there's a lot of traffic.”

“Well, I hope he gets here soon,” said Sylvia, taking another handful of nuts. “Otherwise we're going to polish these off and we'll have to break out the chocolate matzah before we even sit down to dinner.”

“That won't be a problem.” Ida smiled at both Betty and Naomi. “We've got plenty.”

•   •   •

There
was a ton of traffic on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Oliver didn't care, but he could tell it was making his father crazy. Andy drummed the wheel with his fingers and craned his neck out the window—as if any of that were going to help. He also consulted his watch, like, twenty times and let the occasional
shit
or
fuck
slip from his lips when it was clear that they were going nowhere. But Oliver had his iPad with him and was able to tune his dad, and all his tapping, drumming, cursing impatience, out. Eventually the traffic began to move and pretty soon, they were at his grandmother's building.

“Boychick!” Ida said, and kissed him twice, once on each cheek. She wore a red checked apron over a gold and black dress and her hair had a three-inch pouf. “We were waiting for you.”

“The traffic,” Andy said. “Horrendous.”

“That's what I told the girls,” Ida said, nodding at the three older women who sat around the table. “But now you're here and we can start.” She ushered Andy into a seat at the head of the table and put Oliver right next to her. “You remember my friends? Oliver shook his head. “This is Betty, that's Naomi, and that's Sylvia.” Each of the women smiled at Oliver and Andy; Andy, the doctor-god son, smiled back like a king waving to his subjects. Oliver wanted to put his face right down in his matzah ball soup; he didn't know how he was going to sit through a whole night of this shit. Christina and Jordan were supposed to be here tonight, but that was before his dad had made the colossally stupid move of dumping her.

The seder itself was abbreviated and apart from the reading of the Four Questions, Oliver kept his mouth shut. This was more than okay with him; Grandma Ida was a good cook and he happily scarfed the meal she made. No one really bothered him as long as he was stuffing his face. Andy kept the three ladies entertained with stories from his practice, stories in which he came across as a superhero, a magician, or both. Oliver had heard them
all
before.

There was an awkward moment over the brisket when Sylvia asked what grade he was in, but before Oliver could answer, Andy swooped down with the phrase
gap year
. Sylvia did not seem entirely sure what that was, but she didn't pursue it and Oliver could feel the relief that passed between his father and grandmother. Not that he was dying to talk about being expelled from school, but still, the question had been, like, addressed to him and he should have been given the opportunity to answer it.

“Andy, can't you tell the girls about the celebrity who's your patient now? I'm sure they would love to hear.” She put seconds of the brisket, carrots, and roasted potatoes on each of the plates without waiting to be asked.

“Ma, I told you I can't discuss that, not with you, not with anyone.”

“Can't you at least tell them who it is?” Ida said.

“Well, since that's already common knowledge . . . It's the singer Xiomara.”

“Xiomara!” said Sylvia.

“That voice!” added Betty.

“And a beauty besides,” Naomi said.

“Andy says that she's very nice too,” Ida said. “Not stuck-up or snobby in the least.”

“Imagine,” said Sylvia. “Beautiful, talented, rich . . .
and
nice. Some people have it all.” She looked at Andy. “Speaking of having it all, I want to tell you about my niece. Divorced, an attorney with a very fine firm, two boys. Also a real looker.”

Oliver, who'd been counting the minutes until this would be over, was suddenly alert. Was there a plan to, like, fix his dad up? But there was already someone in his dad's life. Or someone who should have been. Someone who was absolutely perfect.

“Ta-da!” Ida said. Ignoring Sylvia's last remark, she set out a huge dish of chocolate-covered matzah and a round, multitiered Jell-O mold.

“You better move fast,” Sylvia said, playfully wagging her finger in Andy's direction. “I promise you she won't be single for long.”

“That's very thoughtful of you, but you see, I, that is—”

Oliver listened to this exchange with interest. Well, if his dad could answer for him, why not return the favor? “Oh, you don't know?” he said to Sylvia. Everyone turned to look at him. “My dad's dating this terrific woman named Christina. Christina Connelly. They're, like, practically
engaged
.” There was a brief silence in which all heads swiveled to stare at Andy. Then everyone started talking at once.

“But you said—,” began Ida.

“Well, that's very nice—,” added Sylvia.

“We'd love to meet her,” Naomi said.

“Connelly?” asked Betty. “So she's Irish. Don't they say the Irish are one of the lost tribes of Israel?”

Oliver sat quietly and observed the little flurry he'd set in motion. Now, why had he said that about Christina? To bug his dad? Maybe. Wishful thinking? Maybe that too. He'd like it if Christina married his father and came to live with them.

“Christina and I are hardly engaged, Oliver,” said Andy. Again, there was silence and this time it was broken only by Ida.

“That's enough about Andy's lady friends,” she said as she cut into the mold; the translucent layers quivered a bit from the assault of the knife but otherwise remained intact. “Now, who's having Jell-O?”

•   •   •

The
Sunday after the seder was bright and clear, perfect for raking and bagging dead leaves, and picking up the random soda bottles, candy wrappers, and all the other crap that had blown into the garden in back of Old First Church. Oliver hauled a big black bag over to the far end and took another bag to fill. He had not stopped coming out here; even though his dad was being such a dickhead about Christina, there was no reason
he
had to give up seeing her. And to his relief, Andy had not suggested it.

And hey, there was Christina now, dressed in jeans, a gray sweater, and those cool white Keds she liked to wear. Oliver stopped his raking and went over to say hello. She gave him a hug; if she was thinking about his father, she never let on. Then she picked up a pair of clippers and went over to the hedge along the church wall where a couple of people were clipping back dead branches. Summer was one of them.

Oliver stood with the empty bag in his hand, watching Summer twist and stretch. Her boobs strained against her sweatshirt; he could stand here all day looking at them. For the past couple of months they had been hanging out. They hadn't actually, like,
done it
; Oliver had not
done it
with anyone. But Summer would be the one, so he could take things slowly, get to know her first. It felt kind of good.

“Louise said I'm your partner for today.”

Oliver turned around to see Liam, a pudgy sophomore whose dad occasionally dropped in for the monthly church meals.

“Sure, whatever,” Oliver said. “Want to grab a bag?”

Liam got the bag and joined Oliver in the cleanup. He didn't talk much, but that was okay; he worked hard.

“They let dogs back here?” Oliver scrutinized the turds he'd just uncovered.

Liam looked over. “Cat shit,” he said succinctly, and went back to bagging.

It was getting hot. Oliver unzipped his hoodie and peeled it off, leaving it in a heap on the ground. When it got in his way, he nudged it aside with his foot.