Laughing, he tried to sop up the spilled coffee, but it ran toward the edge of the table and then dripped onto her slip.
“Ick, you’re a slob,” she said, and pulled the wet slip up over her thighs. “I tell him I’m Jewish, so he spills half a gallon of coffee all over me!”
“Are you really Jewish?” he asked.
“Sure, I’m really Jewish. What do you think? Yeah, really, really. I mean, I don’t go to synagogue or anything like that. I’m not even going to my mother’s Seder this year. But I’m Jewish, all right, the same way you’re Jewish. In fact, the same way Adlai Stevenson is Jewish.”
“Well, I don’t know about me,” Buddwing said, “but Adlai Stevenson ain’t Jewish.”
“Sure he is.”
“No, I think he’s Protestant. Maybe Episcopalian.”
“What’s that got to do with it? Only a very small percentage of the Jewish people in this world are Jews. As a matter of fact, there are many Jews who aren’t Jewish at all. Being Jewish has nothing whatever to do with religion or culture or background. Harry Truman, for example, is Jewish.”
“Oh, I see,” Buddwing said. “Ah, yes.”
“But she isn’t.”
“Who?”
“Bess.”
“No, of course not,” Buddwing said. “Come to think of it, we’ve had very few Jewish Presidents.”
“I know, I know,” she answered. “And that’s odd when you realize some of the signers of the Declaration of Independence were Jewish.”
“Like who?”
“Benjamin Franklin, for one.”
“Right, and John Hancock.”
“Sure. But did we have any Jewish Presidents in the beginning? Was George Washington Jewish?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Or either of the Adamses? Or Jefferson? Do you know who the first Jewish President in this country was?”
“Who?”
“Abraham Lincoln.”
“That’s right,” Buddwing said.
“Eisenhower certainly wasn’t Jewish.”
“Neither was Mamie.”
“Or Nixon.”
“Which is why they couldn’t get along with the Russians,” Grace said.
“Why?”
“Because Khrushchev is Jewish.”
“Of course he is,” Buddwing said. “He’s an old Jewish grandpa.”
“Right, and Castro is a rabbinical student. That’s why they get along so well.”
Buddwing snapped his fingers. “Hey! You know who else is Jewish?”
“Who?”
“De Gaulle.”
“Right. And Senator Dirksen.”
“Right, right, and Mayor Wagner!”
“Very Jewish. You know who isn’t?”
“Who?”
“Nelson Rockefeller and Barry Goldwater.”
“Abdel Nasser is Jewish,” Buddwing said.
“Sam Levene and Molly Berg are not Jewish,” Grace said.
“No, they’re Jewish impersonators. Sophia Loren, on the other hand, is Jewish.”
“Oh, of course! So is Vittorio De Sica and Marcello Mastroianni. For that matter, Italy is a Jewish nation entirely.”
“No, not entirely. Gina Lollobrigida is not Jewish.”
“How about Federico Fellini?”
“I think he’s only half Jewish on his mother’s side,” Buddwing said, and they both burst out laughing.
“Philip Roth is not Jewish,” Grace said.
“Neither is J. D. Salinger.”
“But you know who is Jewish?”
“Who?”
“James Jones.”
“Naturally.”
“Norman Mailer isn’t.”
“Neither is Sammy Davis, Jr., or James Baldwin.”
“No, nor Elizabeth Taylor.”
“Marilyn Monroe was Jewish,” Grace said.
“Yes, but Arthur Miller isn’t.”
“Neither is Frank Sinatra.”
“But Pablo Picasso is very definitely Jewish,” Buddwing said.
“So’s Pat O’Brien.”
“Right. And Spencer Tracy!”
“Certainly. And Jack Paar.”
“But Johnny Carson isn’t.”
“Neither is Hugh Downs.”
“Or Helen Hayes.”
“Never! Listen,” Grace said, “for that matter...” and then she stopped with a shocked expression, and buried her face in his shoulder and began giggling.
“What?” he said, smiling.
“Oh, no!” she said, giggling.
“Who? Tell me.”
“I think...”
“Who?”
“I think Adolf Hitler was Jewish!”
“Oh, my God, you’re right!” Buddwing said, and he erupted into laughter. He held her in his arms, rocking with glee, while she giggled into his shoulder.
“Oh, please,” she said, giggling.
“I’m not doing anything!” he said, his stomach aching, tears running down his face.
“Please, I’ll wet myself,” she squealed, and they both burst out laughing again.
“Hey, watch it!” he shouted, laughing, losing his balance on the chair.
“Oh, my God!”
“Hey!” he said, and they fell noisily to the floor.
“Oh, I broke my arm,” she said, giggling.
“Here, let me kiss it,” he said, laughing, bringing her arm to his mouth and running his lips over the length of it with small noisy kisses.
“That tickles!” she screamed, and began tickling him in return, under the arms, on the soles of his feet, across his belly, until finally they both rolled onto their backs and roared hilariously to the ceiling. The rain was gentle against the windowpanes. There was the smell of coffee in the small kitchen. Their laughter trailed. She sighed gently, and closed her eyes, and he put his hand on her breast and felt the beat of her heart.
In his eyes, she was an enchanted being who had magically come into his life and filled it with a radiant glow. Never very imaginative himself, he entered into each new preposterous game she invented and played it with delight. He was even willing to listen to her astrological prognostications because somehow there seemed to be a distorted kernel of truth in each of her predictions. When she consulted her charts and then dolefully wagged her head because a Philosophy examination happened to fall on a day when Venus or Saturn were in conjunction with whatever the hell — he could never keep her signs and symbols straight — he felt a small pang of terror in spite of himself. He began to believe he had married some sort of woodland witch who stirred frogs and bats and eyes of newt into a huge caldron and muttered incantations to the stars to keep herself forever youthful, forever desirable, forever innocent.