56
The rest of that week and the next were a whirlwind of activity, and I somehow wound up in charge of the influx of volunteers. At one point, we had over sixty people, which our office obviously couldn’t hold. It didn’t make sense to rent out additional space for seven weeks, so I had to schedule people in shifts. And the grocery stores were a goldmine for convincing women who were on the fence and reminding women who had already attended one of Michael’s events that the election was coming.
Nancy even came in three days a week, depositing her youngest with my mother, who even more unbelievably, was willing to watch someone else’s child—providing her hands were immaculate, that is.
But as September wound down, I had to keep reminding Linda and Stuart that no, we couldn’t book an event on Rosh Hashanah, which was September 28, or worse, on Yom Kippur ten days later.
“It’s really okay,” Michael said. “I think the last time I was in a synagogue other than to give a political speech was my bar mitzvah.”
I put the heel of my palm on my forehead. “You don’t belong to a shul?”
“My parents do.”
It was way too late to get high holiday tickets for a nonmember, though I did think a synagogue might be willing to make an exception for a high-profile Senate candidate, which Michael now was, thanks to that kiss photograph. “You’ll come with us,” I said. “You can use Larry’s ticket.”
“What if Larry is planning to go?”
I shrugged. “The tickets are at my house. If he wants to go, that’s his problem.”
“Just a minute,” Stuart said. “I don’t think that anything ... polarizing ... is smart this close to the election.”
I looked at him. “We have a Catholic president. People don’t care what you believe in anymore, they just want to know that you believe in something . Besides, Jesus was Jewish.”
“Did you just compare—?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I stated a fact. And my father always said that it was important that your constituents see that you do normal things. You think he wanted to miss congressional votes for the High Holy Days? No. And if he did have to miss them, he would much rather be home watching the Senators play. But he did it because it showed he put his family and his faith above himself.”
“If it’s good enough for Bernie Gelman,” Michael said.
“Oh no,” I said.
“What?”
“I didn’t think of that.”
“Didn’t think of what?”
I scrunched up my nose. “We sit with my parents.”
“So?” Stuart asked.
“Are they still not speaking?” Michael asked. I shook my head. “Well ... at least there isn’t a swimming pool at the synagogue.”
I closed my eyes for a few seconds. “I will get them to behave,” I said. “You’re welcome to come to Rosh Hashanah dinner as well, if you’re not going to your parents’ for that. Stuart, Linda, you too.”
Stuart and Michael both said their parents would probably expect them, and Linda wasn’t Jewish. “That doesn’t matter for dinner,” I said.
“I think—I probably shouldn’t,” she said. And I realized she was referring to her situation with Larry. It had only been a couple of weeks, but I already thought of her as part of our team. It seldom occurred to me anymore that she was the one who set this whole thing in motion.
When I went home that evening, I waited until the kids were in bed to sit down with my mother. “We need to discuss Rosh Hashanah,” I told her.
She looked up at me. “We’ll do dinner here. Just us.”
I shook my head. “You’re not leaving Papa out of this.”
“Beverly—”
“He’s my father. He’s the kids’ grandfather. And he’s your husband, like it or not. He’s not spending Rosh Hashanah home alone.”
Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “And what about your husband? Your children’s father, then?”
“Did Papa publish photographs of you in a newspaper to humiliate and blackmail you? No? Then it’s apples and oranges, Mama.” Her lips disappeared entirely. “And you’re going to behave in front of the kids, both here and at shul.”
“I’m not going to shul if he’ll be there.”
“Yes,” I said. “You are. Because Michael is going and using Larry’s ticket, and we are presenting a unified front.”
“You can’t bring Michael to synagogue!”
“Why not? He’s Jewish.”
“Of courses he’s Jewish, but think of the gossip.”
She had a point.
“We’ll sit you, the kids, me, Papa, then Michael in the row,” I said, thinking aloud.
“You and Michael should be at opposite ends.”
I looked at her again. “That puts you next to Papa.”
Her lips vanished again. “Your father will have to be enough of a buffer.” She thought for a moment. “What happens if Larry shows up?”
“I think the odds of him even realizing it’s the holidays without me reminding him ninety-seven times are slim. It was a fight to get him there every year anyway.”
“Was it?” she asked.
The first year it hadn’t been. When Mama invited him to attend with us before we were married, he jumped at the chance. Which had likely been about my father. As soon as I had a ring on my finger, it took every trick in the book to coax him into going.
“Yes,” I said. “And if you’re not nice to Papa at Rosh Hashanah, you’ve only got ten days to atone for it. So be civil.”
“I’ll be perfectly civil,” she said, standing up to leave the room. “As long as he doesn’t try to talk to me. Good night, Beverly.”
It was likely better than nothing. And I would pass the warning along to Papa. Whatever his plan to get Mama back was, Rosh Hashanah services were neither the time nor the place.