Miss Stoner. You’re a smart cookie. Plus I don’t have to talk you into a thing, you little tramp.”
It was true. I was crazy for sex with him, the way he tossed me around so handily, as if I were still just a girl. I was planning on having sex with him as soon as he had finished his story, and I my ice cream. Calling me a tramp only amped up my arousal. Not a lot of people think to call Ph.D. candidates in biology “tramp,” but we like it just like everyone else. Not “hussy,” though. We hate that.
“So Mom started dating the jeweler’s son, Jonathon Wolfowitz. ‘Great birthday presents,’ she said.”
Alan winked at me. My birthday was two weeks away. He had been hinting at something special for a month.
“It’s a huge chain now, actually,” he said. “You know Wolfowitz and Sons?”
I had seen their ads in the paper since I had moved to Chicago, the most recent one depicting a bejeweled array of Mrs. Wolfowitzes, with their highlighted hair and perfectly lined lips, the younger ones displaying their propped-up cleavage, all beaming saucily at the camera. The tagline underneath the photo read, “It’s Either Half Now or Half Later.”
“I found a condo for one of their cousins last year,” said Alan. “A two-bedroom, great light, an OK view of the lake. Some people, they don’t care about the view, they just care about the light.”
Alan was a highly successful real-estate agent, and as far as I know, he still is. At the time, he represented a couple of Chicago Bulls, a handful of politicos, and was making headway with a bunch of United Airlines honchos, all seeking something special on Lake Shore Drive.
That was Alan’s shtick. “I will find you something special,” he would say, in such a way as to make the clients feel that, because they were so special, they simply could not live in anything less than special—that it would be a crime! That’s what it’s like when you have a lot of money. You can pay people to make you feel good about yourself.
“ HE BROUGHT HER home to meet the family, took her to all the school dances, she wore his class ring. The whole nine. His folks even offered to take her to their winter cabin back east for the holidays.”
He stopped talking for a moment, loosened the spoon from my hands, and took a bite of ice cream.
“And I remember my mother made a point of saying—I guess it was a big deal—that her family and their family sat next to each other at shul over the high holidays.”
“For the whole world to see,” I murmured.
“Exactly. A public proclamation. Wolfowitz was a catch. My mother has told me that a million times.”
“Why is she still talking about him after all these years?” I said. I meant to say it in my head, and was surprised to hear it come out of my mouth. The public questioning of any and all Naomi actions was a privilege extended solely to Handelman family members. All civilians were required to keep their mouths shut.
“Because he’s part of the story, their story,” Alan snapped. And then he relented with, “But I know what you mean. I wouldn’t want to hear about my competition for the rest of my life.”
I nodded. I looked down at my bowl. It was nearly empty. I thought about getting some more ice cream. I decided it could wait. “So let me hear the rest of the story,” I said.
“I should have waited for her to tell you,” said Alan. “I don’t do it justice.”
I was in no hurry to meet his parents again. I’m not going to say it was a total disaster, but there was no way I was going to win, looking like I do, which is to say: not Jewish, at least not enough to count anyway. I’ve got dark curly hair, but my clear blue eyes, Irish and smiling, betray my shiksa identity. That’s what his mother called me after she met me. “A very nice shiksa.”
Alan thought that was a good thing, the “nice” part anyway.
OH, ALAN, I would have been nice to your mother forever!
“
It was true. I was crazy for sex with him, the way he tossed me around so handily, as if I were still just a girl. I was planning on having sex with him as soon as he had finished his story, and I my ice cream. Calling me a tramp only amped up my arousal. Not a lot of people think to call Ph.D. candidates in biology “tramp,” but we like it just like everyone else. Not “hussy,” though. We hate that.
“So Mom started dating the jeweler’s son, Jonathon Wolfowitz. ‘Great birthday presents,’ she said.”
Alan winked at me. My birthday was two weeks away. He had been hinting at something special for a month.
“It’s a huge chain now, actually,” he said. “You know Wolfowitz and Sons?”
I had seen their ads in the paper since I had moved to Chicago, the most recent one depicting a bejeweled array of Mrs. Wolfowitzes, with their highlighted hair and perfectly lined lips, the younger ones displaying their propped-up cleavage, all beaming saucily at the camera. The tagline underneath the photo read, “It’s Either Half Now or Half Later.”
“I found a condo for one of their cousins last year,” said Alan. “A two-bedroom, great light, an OK view of the lake. Some people, they don’t care about the view, they just care about the light.”
Alan was a highly successful real-estate agent, and as far as I know, he still is. At the time, he represented a couple of Chicago Bulls, a handful of politicos, and was making headway with a bunch of United Airlines honchos, all seeking something special on Lake Shore Drive.
That was Alan’s shtick. “I will find you something special,” he would say, in such a way as to make the clients feel that, because they were so special, they simply could not live in anything less than special—that it would be a crime! That’s what it’s like when you have a lot of money. You can pay people to make you feel good about yourself.
“ HE BROUGHT HER home to meet the family, took her to all the school dances, she wore his class ring. The whole nine. His folks even offered to take her to their winter cabin back east for the holidays.”
He stopped talking for a moment, loosened the spoon from my hands, and took a bite of ice cream.
“And I remember my mother made a point of saying—I guess it was a big deal—that her family and their family sat next to each other at shul over the high holidays.”
“For the whole world to see,” I murmured.
“Exactly. A public proclamation. Wolfowitz was a catch. My mother has told me that a million times.”
“Why is she still talking about him after all these years?” I said. I meant to say it in my head, and was surprised to hear it come out of my mouth. The public questioning of any and all Naomi actions was a privilege extended solely to Handelman family members. All civilians were required to keep their mouths shut.
“Because he’s part of the story, their story,” Alan snapped. And then he relented with, “But I know what you mean. I wouldn’t want to hear about my competition for the rest of my life.”
I nodded. I looked down at my bowl. It was nearly empty. I thought about getting some more ice cream. I decided it could wait. “So let me hear the rest of the story,” I said.
“I should have waited for her to tell you,” said Alan. “I don’t do it justice.”
I was in no hurry to meet his parents again. I’m not going to say it was a total disaster, but there was no way I was going to win, looking like I do, which is to say: not Jewish, at least not enough to count anyway. I’ve got dark curly hair, but my clear blue eyes, Irish and smiling, betray my shiksa identity. That’s what his mother called me after she met me. “A very nice shiksa.”
Alan thought that was a good thing, the “nice” part anyway.
OH, ALAN, I would have been nice to your mother forever!
“
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