The Best American Short Stories® 2011 by Geraldine Brooks Page A
Authors: Geraldine Brooks
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hands were on his chest, and she realized he had never buttoned up his shirt. He still refused to move; she felt as though she were pushing one of the synagogue's thick marble columns.
They now had the full interest of the tour group. With a kind of herd-animal practicality, she found herself stepping away from her husband. She had felt their eyes picking holes in him, in her, in
them.
Remarkable: after putting only a few feet between her and her husband, no one was looking at her anymore. She was ashamed by her own relief.
"Sir," David said again. There was no need to say anything else.
Watching her husband prepare for an argument was similar to watching a boxer throw off his robe. She knew what was coming but was still not fully prepared for the brazen impudence of what he said, or the sneering pride with which he said it: "So I'm not going to wear a yarmulke."
David blinked. She wondered if anything like this had happened to him before.
"Sir, you must cover your head."
Her husband answered in the same cruel voice he had used two nights ago to disparage her book. "And what's going to happen to me if I don't?"
She had the sense of watching someone fall down a flight of stairs in slow motion and noting the various stages of injury.
David was no longer smiling. "You will have to leave." His voice was tight; each word had a small, cold exactness.
One member of the group, an Englishman no older than twenty-five who was wearing a red Che Guevara T-shirt, said, "Christ, mate—cover your fucking head."
"Why should he?" This was the short, yellow-fingered woman.
"Out of respect," the young Englishman said.
It was to this young prole that her husband now turned. "I would happily cover my head if this synagogue allowed women to sit with men. It doesn't. I don't respect that or the god our friend David here thinks tells him this is right, so why
should
I cover my head?"
Her hand leapt up and landed with an open-palmed smack against her forehead. She said his name again, and again.
"Sir," David said. "This is our place of worship and community. You are here as our guest. If you don't cover your head, I will have to ask you to leave."
Her husband grinned as though this were exactly the argument he had been waiting for David to mount. "You charged me seven euros to come into your place of worship, so I think you kind of lose the right to tell me what I can or cannot wear while I'm in here."
"How does
that
work?" This was the American father in the sport coat. The man's son, she saw, was laughing.
David sighed and withdrew from his pocket a cellular phone. He speed-dialed, spoke a few words in Italian, then snapped shut the phone—a harsh, guillotine sound. He contemplated her husband now as though from a great height. "You will be escorted from this synagogue if you refuse to cover your head."
Her husband's smile was a fragment from some former, exploded confidence. "You're throwing me out of the synagogue."
David nodded. "You will be escorted from this synagogue if you—"
"Get rid of this douche bag!" The boy who a moment ago had been laughing said this. In fact, he was still laughing, which made her husband's stand seem, at that moment, even more ludicrous. "Dude, like what is the matter with you?"
Her husband said nothing while his eyes wandered from one member of their group to another. He avoided her and David, which she hopefully took as an indication that he was about to apologize. Instead he told the group, with great gravity, "Social justice isn't just about hating George Bush."
The bald man in the pink sweater emerged from a room adjacent to the bema and began to walk toward her husband. At this her husband turned to her in something close to lip-licking panic. Not that he was being forcefully removed from a place of worship—she knew he would tell this story, with certain redactions, for years—but rather at the thought of everything else that had been set into motion here.
The man in the pink sweater
They now had the full interest of the tour group. With a kind of herd-animal practicality, she found herself stepping away from her husband. She had felt their eyes picking holes in him, in her, in
them.
Remarkable: after putting only a few feet between her and her husband, no one was looking at her anymore. She was ashamed by her own relief.
"Sir," David said again. There was no need to say anything else.
Watching her husband prepare for an argument was similar to watching a boxer throw off his robe. She knew what was coming but was still not fully prepared for the brazen impudence of what he said, or the sneering pride with which he said it: "So I'm not going to wear a yarmulke."
David blinked. She wondered if anything like this had happened to him before.
"Sir, you must cover your head."
Her husband answered in the same cruel voice he had used two nights ago to disparage her book. "And what's going to happen to me if I don't?"
She had the sense of watching someone fall down a flight of stairs in slow motion and noting the various stages of injury.
David was no longer smiling. "You will have to leave." His voice was tight; each word had a small, cold exactness.
One member of the group, an Englishman no older than twenty-five who was wearing a red Che Guevara T-shirt, said, "Christ, mate—cover your fucking head."
"Why should he?" This was the short, yellow-fingered woman.
"Out of respect," the young Englishman said.
It was to this young prole that her husband now turned. "I would happily cover my head if this synagogue allowed women to sit with men. It doesn't. I don't respect that or the god our friend David here thinks tells him this is right, so why
should
I cover my head?"
Her hand leapt up and landed with an open-palmed smack against her forehead. She said his name again, and again.
"Sir," David said. "This is our place of worship and community. You are here as our guest. If you don't cover your head, I will have to ask you to leave."
Her husband grinned as though this were exactly the argument he had been waiting for David to mount. "You charged me seven euros to come into your place of worship, so I think you kind of lose the right to tell me what I can or cannot wear while I'm in here."
"How does
that
work?" This was the American father in the sport coat. The man's son, she saw, was laughing.
David sighed and withdrew from his pocket a cellular phone. He speed-dialed, spoke a few words in Italian, then snapped shut the phone—a harsh, guillotine sound. He contemplated her husband now as though from a great height. "You will be escorted from this synagogue if you refuse to cover your head."
Her husband's smile was a fragment from some former, exploded confidence. "You're throwing me out of the synagogue."
David nodded. "You will be escorted from this synagogue if you—"
"Get rid of this douche bag!" The boy who a moment ago had been laughing said this. In fact, he was still laughing, which made her husband's stand seem, at that moment, even more ludicrous. "Dude, like what is the matter with you?"
Her husband said nothing while his eyes wandered from one member of their group to another. He avoided her and David, which she hopefully took as an indication that he was about to apologize. Instead he told the group, with great gravity, "Social justice isn't just about hating George Bush."
The bald man in the pink sweater emerged from a room adjacent to the bema and began to walk toward her husband. At this her husband turned to her in something close to lip-licking panic. Not that he was being forcefully removed from a place of worship—she knew he would tell this story, with certain redactions, for years—but rather at the thought of everything else that had been set into motion here.
The man in the pink sweater
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