Hmm, Benny said, enjoying his bourbon. He was sitting on a loveseat, wearing gym shorts, tzitzit, and a shirt that read, I climbed Mount Parnassus; he’d stretched his long, bare legs out on top of the coffee table. He was waiting.
The bourbon warmed the back of my throat, my stomach.
You knew Romei and you kept it from me, I said.
Benny said nothing. He was still waiting.
I wasn’t going through your stuff. There was a kitten in your annex.
I still hadn’t said what I needed to say.
Look, I said, putting down my glass, you took the photo off the wall and you hid it under your desk, I’m guessing so I wouldn’t see it. It wasn’t dusty; it hadn’t fallen there.
Ah, Benny said.
You wanna tell me what’s going on?
I can’t, he said, and removed his legs from the coffee table.
I beg your pardon?
I hid the photo. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
You’re not going to explain? I was flabbergasted.
I can’t, he said, leaning forward and swirling his drink in his glass. Secrets of the confessional, as it were.
You’re Romei’s rabbi? I asked, stunned. I thought he was Catholic.
Not exactly.
I stared at him.
Not exactly, he’s not a Catholic, or not exactly, you’re not his rabbi?
Would you be prepared to trust me, just as I trusted you weren’t going through my stuff?
You’re Esther’s rabbi?
It shocked me to think of Romei’s muse as a real person, someone who looked to Benny for spiritual direction.
This is exactly the position I didn’t want to be in, he said, standing. Once standing, he didn’t know where to go.
Why on earth would Esther have a rabbi in New York if she lives in Rome?
She doesn’t speak Italian. Also, she buys books from me; it’s a two-bird, one-stone thing.
All these years, she doesn’t speak Italian?
Benny shrugged.
What’s she like?
Shira, this is exactly what I can’t do. I can’t talk about her, I can’t talk about either of them — please don’t ask me.
But you couldn’t have referred Romei to me. You didn’t know about Vita Nuova.
True. Can I get you more bourbon?
I recognized the strategy — I often changed the subject when I wanted to distract my daughter. It didn’t work with her either.
Wait! I said, as Benny started toward the kitchen. Wait!
Benny turned.
I don’t believe this, I said. I looked around: Was it the bourbon? The unfamiliarity of my surroundings? It can’t be, I said. Romei referred you to me, didn’t he?
Benny looked miserable, he didn’t want to answer.
You solicited my first story all those years ago, you said you heard me read it at Trixie’s. “Confessions.”
I did.
Why did you go to the reading?
I often went to readings. I edited a literary magazine, remember?
Was Romei there?
Benny didn’t reply.
I need to know, Benny! It’s possible to lie by omission.
He was there. He told me about the reading. I went because he invited me.
I tried to remember who else had read that night. It was nearly ten years ago! Paula, the tired language poet? Franky, the funky fabulist?
Can we leave it at that? Benny asked.
It’s weird that Romei saw me read and didn’t mention it. Did I talk to him? I asked.
Could he have been part of the crowd swarming the tahini millet balls? I wondered. A lurker in the macrobiotic reading nook?
He couldn’t have! I said. I’d have recognized him, right?
I’m going to get more bourbon, Benny said. When I get back, we’re going to change the subject, okay?
I was distracted when Benny returned. Romei? At Trixie’s? But Benny’s face said, We’re changing the subject, right?
Feeling better about the holidays? I asked gamely.
I guess I deserve that, he said as he settled back into his loveseat.
What?
No, I’m not feeling better. The holidays are difficult. I’m angry; I can’t get over it.
Angry about?
The usual, Benny said, and he began playing with his beard, as if pulling at loose threads. My father, you know. The way he treated us. Me. I can’t get over it.
Ah, right — I remembered. The great Nazi hunter. He made fun of Benny because Benny was skinny and studious. Called him ghetto Jew, asked if he would have walked willingly into the gas, gave Benny barbells he knew Benny couldn’t lift. For Christmas, no less. Yes, the family celebrated Christmas. Benny was what you might call a self-made Jew.
His father had been dead a dozen years.
When I was in therapy, we decided I don’t want to forgive him. Every year I tell myself I do, but the truth is, if I let go, who would I be? Don’t answer that.
I thought about this, stretched my legs out on the coffee table, where our toes nearly met.
You don’t seem angry, I said.
That’s ’cause you’re not going out with me.
I thought of crazy Marie.
What do you do? I asked. When you get involved, I mean.
Jesus, he said, not looking at me. What don’t I do? Then he stood, walked to the kitchen, returned with a bag of blue corn chips, opened it with a pop, muttered a Hebrew blessing, and passed me the bag. Nothing’s as boring as the blatherings of the self-obsessed, he said finally.
I’ll tell you what I do, if you tell me what you do.
You first. You’re a woman of courage; I am a lowly worm.
Benny!
Inspire me, he said, leaning back.
I do nothing, I said, swirling the bourbon in my glass so I wouldn’t have to look at him.
That’s cheating! You don’t do nothing.
I do nothing. I don’t get involved.
You’re not seeing anyone? I don’t believe it!
Not since my divorce. Not really. Not in any real way.
That was ten years ago! It’s possible to become a virgin again, if you don’t do it enough.
I didn’t want to get into the distinction between getting involved and doing it. In fact, I’d done it rather a lot.
Your turn, I said.
Benny shook his head, leaned back again.
I get involved. One after the other, he said, sometimes more than one at a time. I take them under my wing, treat them like baby birds. When they try to fly away, I get angry. Very angry.
You, angry? I can’t picture it.
I say things, he said, looking away. Bad things. I tell them they’re artistic frauds, they suck in bed, whatever it takes. I usually know just how to get them. The joke is, they’re never as vulnerable as I think. They bite back — which I guess is the point. At least, that’s what Sigmund said.
His name was not Sigmund!
That’s what I called him. To be hostile.
To his face?
That’s what I paid him for, right? To absorb my displaced Oedipal rage.
I watched my toes for a moment, wiggled them, realized what I was doing and tucked my legs under.
I’d rather be alone than go through that, I said finally.
I’d rather be dead than be alone. You’re not eating your share of chips.
Knowing the pattern doesn’t help?
I can’t get off the bus, Shira. I can’t change who I’m attracted to. I’m on a Circle Line, trying to revisit some primal scene with Pop so I can give it a happy ending. But I can’t change the ending: it’s ordained. Like me, he added, giggling. Then he sighed and looked at his knees. There is no new life. Not for me. Life for yours truly is an endless, cycling loop.