Goodbye, Columbus by Philip Roth

that.”
    “Then why did you say it?”
    “Oh Jesus!” I said, and went outside and drove my car down into Millbum Center where I had some eggs and coffee.
    When I came back, Brenda was gone, and there were only Carlota, Mrs. Patimkin, and myself in the house. I tried to stay out of whichever rooms they were in, but finally Mrs. Patimkin and I wound up sitting opposite each other in the TV room. She was checking off names on a long sheet of paper she held; next to her, on the table, were two thin phone books which she consulted from time to time.
    “No rest for the weary,” she said to me.
    I smiled hugely, embracing the proverb as though Mrs. Patimkin had just then coined it. “Yes. Of course,” I said. “Would you like some help? Maybe I could help you check something.”
    “Oh, no,” she said with a little head-shaking dismissal, “it’s for Hadassah.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    I sat and watched her until she asked, “Is your mother in Hadassah?”
    “I don’t know if she is now. She was in Newark.”
    “Was she an active member?”
    “I guess so, she was always planting trees in Israel for someone.”
    “Really?” Mrs. Patimkin said. “What’s her name?”
    “Esther Klugman. She’s in Arizona now. Do they have Hadassah there?”
    “Wherever there are Jewish women.”
    “Then I guess she is. She’s with my father. They went there for their asthma. I’m staying with my aunt in Newark. She’s not in Hadassah. My Aunt Sylvia is, though. Do you know her, Aaron Klugman and Sylvia? They belong to your club. They have a daughter, my cousin Doris—” I couldn’t stop myself “—They live in Livingston. Maybe it isn’t Hadassah my Aunt Sylvia belongs to I think it’s some TB organization. Or cancer. Muscular dystrophy, maybe. I know she’s interested in
some
disease.”

    “That’s very nice,” Mrs. Patimkin said.
    “Oh yes.”
    “They do very good work.”
    “I know.”
    Mrs. Patimkin, I thought, had begun to warm to me; she let the purple eyes stop peering and just look out at the world for a while without judging. “Are you interested in B’nai Brith?” she asked me. “Ron is joining, you know, as soon as he gets married.”
    “I think I’ll wait till then,” I said.
    Petulantly, Mrs. Patimkin went back to her lists, and I realized it had been foolish of me to risk lightheartedness with her about Jewish affairs. “You’re active in the Temple, aren’t you?” I asked with all the interest I could muster.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “What Temple do
you
belong to?” she asked in a moment.
    “We used to belong to Hudson Street Synagogue. Since my parents left, I haven’t had much contact.”
    I didn’t know whether Mrs. Patimkin caught a false tone in my voice. Personally I thought I had managed my rueful confession pretty well, especially when I recalled the decade of paganism prior to my parents’ departure. Regardless, Mrs. Patimkin asked immediately—and strategically it seemed—”We’re all going to Temple Friday night. Why don’t you come with us? I mean, are you orthodox or conservative?”

    I considered. ‘Well, I haven’t gone in a long time … I sort of switch…” I smiled. “I’m just Jewish,” I said well-meaningly, but that too sent Mrs. Patimkin back to her Hadassah work. Desperately I tried to think of something that would convince her I wasn’t an infidel. Finally I asked: “Do you know Martin Buber’s work?”
    “Buber … Buber,” she said, looking at her Hadassah list. “Is he orthodox or conservative?” she asked.
    “…He’s a philosopher.”
    “Is he
reformed?
” she asked, piqued either at my evasiveness or at the possibility that Buber attended Friday night services without a hat, and Mrs. Buber had only one set of dishes in her kitchen.
    “Orthodox,” I said faintly.
    “That’s very nice,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “Isn’t Hudson Street Synagogue orthodox?” she asked.
    “I don’t know.”
    “I thought you belonged.”
    “I