58
We parked, waving to the police officer who was directing traffic on the holiest of days to make sure people who chose to walk to shul were safe on the busy street, and we each took a child’s hand as we made our way to the front doors of the synagogue.
Services had already started—we never went for the very beginning, especially not with the kids, but planned to arrive in time for the Torah service. And we weren’t the only ones, as there was a crowd of people in front of the building, talking and admiring each other’s finery before going inside.
As a teenager, I often felt that our two-holidays-a-year trips to synagogue (three, if you counted Kol Nidre, the night before Yom Kippur, as a separate holiday) were hypocritical at best. Yes, my father said the Hebrew prayers, but as we seldom even hosted a real Shabbat dinner unless someone Jewish and important was coming to the house on a Friday, it felt like lip service to the congregation to secure votes. And for my mother, it was purely a chance to preen and show off.
But Papa had explained to me, when I announced at sixteen that I was not going, that it was about community more than religion. And that it was a mitzvah to go, not because we believed we would be punished if we didn’t, but because our religion required a minyan—ten Jews—to say certain prayers. “If we stop going,” he said, “who will be left?”
And I understood that he didn’t mean “we” as a family. He meant “we” as the Jewish people overall.
My heart swelled as I saw Michael standing in the congregated group. He was next to my father and speaking to several men as my father nodded approvingly. I didn’t know if Michael had shared his rationale for entering politics with my father, but it felt like the sun was shining entirely for this moment, a sign from the heavens that I was doing the right thing.
Michael turned his head as if he sensed my presence and smiled broadly when he caught my eye. My father saw where he was looking and excused himself, then both men came toward us.
I smiled back, perfectly content.
And then a voice called my name from across the parking lot.
A voice I knew all too well.
As I turned to look, Larry walked in our direction, dressed in a suit and carrying a blue velvet tallis bag.
“Daddy!” both kids yelled, throwing off my mother’s and my hands and running into the parking lot toward him.
I swore softly, then felt a hand on my arm. Nancy was there. She nodded at me, and I felt my spine stiffen, bolstered by her presence. We exchanged a look, no words needed.
Larry embraced the children, and my irritation rose. He needed to get them out of the parking lot, where a car swerved around them. But he eventually stood, swept Debbie up into his arms, wrinkling her dress in the process, and then took Robbie’s hand to join us on the sidewalk.
“Beverly,” he said with a nod. “I was hoping we could talk.”
“You have some nerve—” I started, but Nancy interrupted me smoothly.
“Come on,” Nancy said to the kids, taking Debbie from Larry and smoothing her skirt, then holding out a hand to Robbie. “Eddie and Patty are inside already and kept asking when you’d be here.” She nodded to me again and led them inside.
Michael moved to her place at my side, and Larry looked from me to him and back to me. “I see,” he said, setting his jaw firmly. “I should have known he would be here today. Sitting in my seat, I assume.”
“What are you even doing here?” I asked. “You hate coming to services. And if you think after that stunt with the newspaper—”
“Well, it was right, wasn’t it? Is he sleeping on my side of the bed too?”
“Now see here,” Michael said, stepping in front of me. “You can’t talk to her like that.”
“Can’t I?” Larry asked. “She’s still my wife after all, no matter what the two of you are doing in my house.”
“Larry,” I said warningly, “this is not the time or place.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “You don’t see me bringing the people I’m sleeping with to synagogue, do you?”
And then the floodgates opened.
It happened so fast that at first, I wasn’t sure that it wasn’t me. Michael pulled an arm back, presumably to defend my honor in a way that would have ended his campaign—which might have been what Larry wanted in the first place—but my father grabbed his arm, stopping him. And then, from nowhere, a fist advanced, and suddenly Larry was clutching his bleeding nose.
I looked down at my own knuckles, expecting to see blood on them, but they were clean. And then I turned my head and saw my mother shaking out her right hand, a smear of red on her glove.
My mouth dropped open, as did those of the people around us. And for what felt like minutes, no one moved or spoke.
Then the yelling began, people shoving each other out of the way to get a better view of what had happened, a million voices going at once. Someone offered Larry a handkerchief; someone else patted my mother on the back. I stood rooted to the spot until a whistle shook me from my stupor.
The police officer who had been directing traffic ran over, parting the crowd like the Red Sea, until he reached the five of us. He took in the scene. Larry’s nose. My father still holding Michael’s arms. Then his eyes settled on my mother’s glove.
“Did you assault this man?” he asked her.
She looked him right in the eye. “Why, yes. I did.”
“Did he harm you first?”
“Only my daughter’s reputation.”
And then, unbelievably, he pulled the handcuffs off his belt and ordered my mother to place her hands behind her back.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re under arrest,” he said. “We’ll sort the rest out down at the station.”
“I most certainly am not,” my mother said adamantly. “And you will not be putting those ... things on me. Heaven knows the last time they were cleaned.”
“Ma’am,” he said, “I don’t want to have to use force. But you are under arrest and are coming to the station with me.”
The two of them stared at each other, saying nothing for what felt like a week. Then finally, my mother said, “I’ll go to the station with you, but you will not put those on me.”
Somewhat flummoxed, the officer agreed and began escorting her to his car.
“Wait,” my father called. “Officer, I’m Representative Bernie Gelman, and this is my wife. I think you’ll find there’s been some kind of mistake.”
“No mistake, Congressman,” he said. “And I know who you are.”
“Officer—”
“Take it up with the chief at the station,” he said, opening the door for my mother.
She looked at the seat, making sure it appeared clean enough to sit on. “Bernie, give me your coat. I don’t want to ruin my dress.”
My father did as she asked, laying it across the seat, and then she sat on it. “Thank you,” she said quite civilly. “I suppose I’ll need a lawyer. But they’re all in there.” She gestured toward the synagogue.
“I’ll take care of it,” Michael said, his eyes wide.
“Thank you, darling,” she said to Michael, then she turned to the police officer. “You may go now.”
I hadn’t yet moved, as I watched the police car drive away with my mother—MY MOTHER—on charges of assault.