them. We opened our mouths wide, gestured meaningfully with our eyes, and shook our arms with baritonic temerity while singing in silence. The finale was Z’s solo on the beauty of the Christian night. She stood in the center of a floodlight, caroling into the camera. The boys and I in the back row, covered in darkness, mouthed the words right along with her. There’s something about overheard harmonies, songs sung over
there,
that lends them more weight than music played on your own headphones; the rapture of the soul in anguish, etc. Afterward, Z rushed up to me and said Channel 7 promised the concert, or at least part of her solo, would appear, if not tonight, sometime later this week. Then she introduced her parents, who made Mother and Father look like provincial street peddlers by comparison.
Z said, “Zuh conzert: it wuz—how zoo you zay—a zukzess! Wazn’t it, Jeremy? What iz zuh matter? Why iz zuh azelete zo zilent?”
I’ve never easily accepted my sweethearts’ successes—surely this is little more than an aversion to Mother’s lofty accomplishment in periodicals—and after that night I never felt the same about Christianity, either. I blamed my humiliating silence upon Christendom in general and Ghirardelli Square Christmas shoppers in particular. Chanukah was in its fifth night. Suddenly I was devout.
I’D PERENNIALLY LOVED the candled incantation—
Baruch atoh Adonai Elohaynu melech ha’olom, asher kid’shawnu b’mitzvosawv v’tzivawnu l’hahdleek nair shel Chanukah
—because I didn’t know what it meant and it was pure, tribal sound. Now I wanted to know what it meant, what Chanukah, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur meant, what was contained in the Talmud and the Torah. Now I had something like patience for Father’s explanation of how this night was different from all other nights; something other than contempt for Beth’s Hebrew Youth Group; something other than cynicism for Mother’s assertion that an aunt of hers on her mother’s side was related to Louis Brandeis. The dripping wax on the menorah, the spinning dreydl on the kitchen floor—these things that I had hated with all my heart I wanted to love. As dinner concluded, I announced that as a demonstration of my faith I was going to fast until the end of Chanukah.
Father was opening a present. He put down the package and said, “But you don’t fast on Chanukah. Chanukah is a celebration. You fast on Yom Kippur, Jeremy. That was in October.”
“And
you
never fast past noon,” Mother said.
“Yeah, Jeremy, by ten-thirty you’re already filching cookies from the cabinet,” Beth said. Beth would often use words like “filching.”
“I’m going to fast until the end of Chanukah,” I reiterated.
Father had opened his present and didn’t know what it was. It looked like a miniature guillotine.
“Don’t you know what it is?” Mother said, opening her own present and blowing smoke into the sacred air. “It’s a little device I got at Dubon’s that pumps up your balls when they go soft.”
Beth looked at Mother. Mother looked at Beth. Together they broke into a terrific fit of the giggles. Father held up the guillotine for closer inspection and looked like he was going to cry.
“Oh, don’t look so put upon, Teddy. Your
tennis
balls. It’ll pump up your Tretorns for you.”
Father brightened.
“Oh, how nice,” Mother said, gripping a little black gadget. “A battery charger for my tape recorder. Beth, did you think of this?”
Yes, she had. Beth had thought of this. Beth thought of everything. I’d thought of fasting. Friday night until Tuesday morning: it was a long time. I thought I could do it. While my family ripped gift paper and ate halvah, I’d swallow air.
The impulse of starvation is barely distinguishable from a yearning for death; I understand that now. I see my eleven-year-old self standing before a burning, bright mirror in the bathroom, my absurdly small hands pressed together around my
there,
that lends them more weight than music played on your own headphones; the rapture of the soul in anguish, etc. Afterward, Z rushed up to me and said Channel 7 promised the concert, or at least part of her solo, would appear, if not tonight, sometime later this week. Then she introduced her parents, who made Mother and Father look like provincial street peddlers by comparison.
Z said, “Zuh conzert: it wuz—how zoo you zay—a zukzess! Wazn’t it, Jeremy? What iz zuh matter? Why iz zuh azelete zo zilent?”
I’ve never easily accepted my sweethearts’ successes—surely this is little more than an aversion to Mother’s lofty accomplishment in periodicals—and after that night I never felt the same about Christianity, either. I blamed my humiliating silence upon Christendom in general and Ghirardelli Square Christmas shoppers in particular. Chanukah was in its fifth night. Suddenly I was devout.
I’D PERENNIALLY LOVED the candled incantation—
Baruch atoh Adonai Elohaynu melech ha’olom, asher kid’shawnu b’mitzvosawv v’tzivawnu l’hahdleek nair shel Chanukah
—because I didn’t know what it meant and it was pure, tribal sound. Now I wanted to know what it meant, what Chanukah, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur meant, what was contained in the Talmud and the Torah. Now I had something like patience for Father’s explanation of how this night was different from all other nights; something other than contempt for Beth’s Hebrew Youth Group; something other than cynicism for Mother’s assertion that an aunt of hers on her mother’s side was related to Louis Brandeis. The dripping wax on the menorah, the spinning dreydl on the kitchen floor—these things that I had hated with all my heart I wanted to love. As dinner concluded, I announced that as a demonstration of my faith I was going to fast until the end of Chanukah.
Father was opening a present. He put down the package and said, “But you don’t fast on Chanukah. Chanukah is a celebration. You fast on Yom Kippur, Jeremy. That was in October.”
“And
you
never fast past noon,” Mother said.
“Yeah, Jeremy, by ten-thirty you’re already filching cookies from the cabinet,” Beth said. Beth would often use words like “filching.”
“I’m going to fast until the end of Chanukah,” I reiterated.
Father had opened his present and didn’t know what it was. It looked like a miniature guillotine.
“Don’t you know what it is?” Mother said, opening her own present and blowing smoke into the sacred air. “It’s a little device I got at Dubon’s that pumps up your balls when they go soft.”
Beth looked at Mother. Mother looked at Beth. Together they broke into a terrific fit of the giggles. Father held up the guillotine for closer inspection and looked like he was going to cry.
“Oh, don’t look so put upon, Teddy. Your
tennis
balls. It’ll pump up your Tretorns for you.”
Father brightened.
“Oh, how nice,” Mother said, gripping a little black gadget. “A battery charger for my tape recorder. Beth, did you think of this?”
Yes, she had. Beth had thought of this. Beth thought of everything. I’d thought of fasting. Friday night until Tuesday morning: it was a long time. I thought I could do it. While my family ripped gift paper and ate halvah, I’d swallow air.
The impulse of starvation is barely distinguishable from a yearning for death; I understand that now. I see my eleven-year-old self standing before a burning, bright mirror in the bathroom, my absurdly small hands pressed together around my
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