knew she wasn’t. But she wanted to be.”
“Be Jewish?” I asked, for clarity.
“Oh, God knows why. She thought it had some cachet, I suppose. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, if you ask me, in terms of what you have to face in this world.”
“Sure.”
“Now, I admire the Jews,” said Annette.
“Mom.”
“I
do
. I guess everyone does these days. If you don’t, you’re an anti-Semite. But I suppose in admiring them I’m doing something wrong.”
“You’re making them exotic,” said Nora. “You’re
othering
them.”
“Well, I guess I don’t know what you mean. And they
are
exotic. They
are
. To me, they are. I don’t know any, really, except Elly Bergman, and she doesn’t count, she’s not really
anything
. Which not knowing any is a failing on my part. But they’re a very healthy people. Doctors. And they’re a
sad
people, which I like. I like sad people. It’s the way people should be. If everyone was sad, we wouldn’t have all these
problems
.” She cast her arms wide. “Don’t tell me we need all these
problems
.”
While visiting her parents Nora and I slept in separate bedrooms: me in her older brother George’s room (he was living in an apartment a mile or so away and had taken all his things with him, so the room had a neutral, underinhabited feeling) and Nora in her old childhood bedroom with the posters and so forth. Nora wouldn’t sneak in to see me at night, and I didn’t exactly want to take the initiative and go next door, but during the long days, with the father gone and the mother off somewhere with friends, we made up for it in George’s room. Not in hers, Nora insisted, because that would be too weird. And then afterward we’d laze around naked with the light through the windows, listening to the garbage trucks churn through the neighborhood. “I can’t believe she said those things,” said Nora. “You know, she’s always had a thing about Jewish people. I think she’s afraid she’s secretly somehow
one
of them. That her mother was right. That wouldn’t bother you, would it?”
“Your mom’s cute,” I said. “She looks like you.”
“Like me?” She considered this. “Maybe me on a very bad day.”
We were going to be there for about a week, and on the second day, George, the brother, came around to do laundry and to eat. George was thin and dried-out, like a kind of cowboy, and his long fingers fiddled, fiddled, and touched his hair, and pulled his turtleneck sweater up over his chin. Nora loved him and grew sly and contentious with him around. “Mom says you still don’t have a decent job,” she said.
“Oh, but I do. I’m fully employed, soaking the rich.” He rolled his eyes at their parents in the next room. “You know how that goes.”
“No,” she said, “I’m
working
for my money.”
“Sure. You just get the check in the mail. I’ve got to
manage
the little dollies. Manage, manage, manage. They require,” he said, turning to me, “manipulation.”
“I like them.”
He eyed me appraisingly. “Where’d you get this one?” he said.
“Don’t tease him.”
“Actually, I’m not teasing,” he said gently. “The last one she brought around here was a real bastard.”
“Ingraham,” she explained, “from high school.”
“But I like this new guy.”
“I’m likable.”
“Hey,” George cried agreeably, “me too! Okay, let’s play some tennis.” He thrust himself out of his chair and clambered around in the closet under the stairs, emerging with a pair of old wooden rackets.
“Well, George,” Nora said, “we’ve got perfectly good regular rackets.”
“No.” He bowed. “This is the tradition. If you don’t mind.”
“Okay,” I said.
“It is,” he pronounced, “more sporting this way.”
He was better than I was, I think—I mean, he could hit the ball squarely and very hard and he served fast and accurately, he had grown up with the court in his backyard, after all, whereas I had
“Be Jewish?” I asked, for clarity.
“Oh, God knows why. She thought it had some cachet, I suppose. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, if you ask me, in terms of what you have to face in this world.”
“Sure.”
“Now, I admire the Jews,” said Annette.
“Mom.”
“I
do
. I guess everyone does these days. If you don’t, you’re an anti-Semite. But I suppose in admiring them I’m doing something wrong.”
“You’re making them exotic,” said Nora. “You’re
othering
them.”
“Well, I guess I don’t know what you mean. And they
are
exotic. They
are
. To me, they are. I don’t know any, really, except Elly Bergman, and she doesn’t count, she’s not really
anything
. Which not knowing any is a failing on my part. But they’re a very healthy people. Doctors. And they’re a
sad
people, which I like. I like sad people. It’s the way people should be. If everyone was sad, we wouldn’t have all these
problems
.” She cast her arms wide. “Don’t tell me we need all these
problems
.”
While visiting her parents Nora and I slept in separate bedrooms: me in her older brother George’s room (he was living in an apartment a mile or so away and had taken all his things with him, so the room had a neutral, underinhabited feeling) and Nora in her old childhood bedroom with the posters and so forth. Nora wouldn’t sneak in to see me at night, and I didn’t exactly want to take the initiative and go next door, but during the long days, with the father gone and the mother off somewhere with friends, we made up for it in George’s room. Not in hers, Nora insisted, because that would be too weird. And then afterward we’d laze around naked with the light through the windows, listening to the garbage trucks churn through the neighborhood. “I can’t believe she said those things,” said Nora. “You know, she’s always had a thing about Jewish people. I think she’s afraid she’s secretly somehow
one
of them. That her mother was right. That wouldn’t bother you, would it?”
“Your mom’s cute,” I said. “She looks like you.”
“Like me?” She considered this. “Maybe me on a very bad day.”
We were going to be there for about a week, and on the second day, George, the brother, came around to do laundry and to eat. George was thin and dried-out, like a kind of cowboy, and his long fingers fiddled, fiddled, and touched his hair, and pulled his turtleneck sweater up over his chin. Nora loved him and grew sly and contentious with him around. “Mom says you still don’t have a decent job,” she said.
“Oh, but I do. I’m fully employed, soaking the rich.” He rolled his eyes at their parents in the next room. “You know how that goes.”
“No,” she said, “I’m
working
for my money.”
“Sure. You just get the check in the mail. I’ve got to
manage
the little dollies. Manage, manage, manage. They require,” he said, turning to me, “manipulation.”
“I like them.”
He eyed me appraisingly. “Where’d you get this one?” he said.
“Don’t tease him.”
“Actually, I’m not teasing,” he said gently. “The last one she brought around here was a real bastard.”
“Ingraham,” she explained, “from high school.”
“But I like this new guy.”
“I’m likable.”
“Hey,” George cried agreeably, “me too! Okay, let’s play some tennis.” He thrust himself out of his chair and clambered around in the closet under the stairs, emerging with a pair of old wooden rackets.
“Well, George,” Nora said, “we’ve got perfectly good regular rackets.”
“No.” He bowed. “This is the tradition. If you don’t mind.”
“Okay,” I said.
“It is,” he pronounced, “more sporting this way.”
He was better than I was, I think—I mean, he could hit the ball squarely and very hard and he served fast and accurately, he had grown up with the court in his backyard, after all, whereas I had
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