how very lucky to be a girl

I hardly had time to recover from Hank when Malachi approached.  He was wearing a pajama-like tunic and pants complete with ethnic embroidery work and the obligatory sandals.  He was cleanly shaven with a head of perfect hair, and an all-too-gentle handshake.  He introduced himself to me, asked my name three times and continued to call me Tracey as he offered me a karmic cleanse.  This was somehow not to be confused with a karmic washing and this fact appeared to be of extreme importance to him as well as the source of a certain amount of frustration with his fellow villagers.

Thankfully, Malachi was easily distracted.  He’d asked me whose party this was and where he might be able to find the hosts.  Joyce was abuzz nearby.   Her energy and presence stood out more strongly than the space station, that’s for sure.  I pointed to her, and, in an instant, Malachi was gone.

I don’t know if he’d excused himself or not.  I’d been distracted.  I smelled cologne.  It was the cologne an ex-boyfriend had worn.  Its smell had always elicited a physical response from me, it was so closely tied to him.  My body was reacting to this smell hovering around me.  It had been years since I’d smelled him, years since I’d had that reaction.  I was amazed by the scent memory and my body’s response.  Unchanged after all these years.  Smell has always been able to take me right back to a time and place.  It’s one of the reasons I love it so.  It is as much my memory as sight and sound, if not more.

I looked around to see who was wearing this familiar scent.  It was easy to spot him.  There was only one person nearby that it could possibly have been.  The gallery owner stood there, head to toe, in black.  Pants.  Turtleneck.  Jacket.  Shoes.  Glass rims.  Hair.  I introduced myself and told him I’d been to the opening earlier.  I didn’t want to talk about the horse art, so I quickly redirected the conversation to a local painter whose works were undoubtedly going to wind up in a museum one day.  He spoke animatedly about the artist.  I’d clearly tapped a subject about which he was incredibly passionate.  He was pleasant, friendly, warm.  He smiled a lot.  None of this seemed to match his wardrobe.  We spoke for a while until he was whisked away by a stunning French woman.

And just in that moment, Joan appeared.  It was the first time I’d seen her all evening in the company of only one other person.  I watched her and the other woman.  I was overcome with warmth.  It was obvious that this was an old and dear friendship and I was enraptured by the beauty of their shared moment.  I imagined myself, 20 years down the road, with my best friend.  I could hardly wait to have moments like that.

I walked over and introduced myself.  I was welcomed into their private circle immediately and warmly.  I complimented Joan on what was truly an extraordinary party and thanked her for welcoming me.   The three of us talked for a bit.  Joan’s friend, Helen, was saying her goodbyes.  She’d driven a long way to see her friend and was about to drive back home.  Helen didn’t want to keep Joan from her duties as host.  They hugged one another and Joan was off again like the brilliant butterfly that she was.  Helen stayed behind singing the praises of her friend of 40 years.

She’s an amazing woman – Joan.  She has a heart this big.

Helen spread her arms as wide as they would allow.

Look around you, Staci.  She invited all of these people.

Helen was right.  I’d never seen such an assembly.  There were couples and families and teenagers running carefree, dozens of derelicts, hippies, punks, artists, musicians, bikers, preppies, an aging ex-boxer who’d destroyed his brain in the ring and his body afterward with drugs. He moved like a broken skeleton.  There was a lively British woman and a couple of beautiful French women.  There were young children running wild and old folks who could barely walk.  Lifetime friends and strangers.  All united by one woman.  Joan.  I liked how much Helen loved her friend.

I liked Helen.  She was an energetic, effervescent yenta.  I’d grown up with dozens of Helens.  She was so familiar to me.  She felt like home.  I asked her where she was headed.

I live in South Jersey.  I had to come up here to see Joan.  I wish I could stay but I need to get back home tonight.  I have my bridge game tomorrow.

I don’t know how to play bridge.

You’re too young to play bridge, Staci.

Well, then I’m calling you for lessons when I’m old enough, Helen.

I asked her how long she and Joan had known one another.

We’re friends 40 years.

Just what I’d thought.

That is so incredible, Helen.  I have to tell you, it seemed like it.  I was very touched watching the moment between you two.  There was so much warmth.  I could feel your old friendship.  It made me look forward to having that when I’m your age.

She smiled and began to ask all the probing questions befitting a Jewish mother.

Where was I from?  Was I married?  Was I Jewish?  What did I do?  Where did I live?

She seemed pleased with my answers.  I could see her playing Jewish geography in her head.  She rattled off the names of the Pittsburgh Jews she knew.  I didn’t know any of them, but it’s entirely possible that my parents would.

I have a son.  He lives on the Upper East Side.  He’s not married.  All I want is for him to be married, alevai.  How old are you?

I hadn’t heard Yiddish since my grandparents had passed away.  Warm memories filled my soul.

Thirty-nine.  How old is your son?

She didn’t answer.  She raised her finger and began rifling through her enormous handbag, out of which she pulled a small notebook.  It was filled with photographs.  She flipped through them until she came upon one.  The sun had already set so there wasn’t much light by which to see the photograph that she handed to me, but I could still see that it was a picture of an absolutely breathtakingly handsome man.  He sat with two gorgeous children on his lap.

Wow.  He’s handsome, Helen.  I can’t tell how old he is – it’s too dark out here.

He’s in his 40′s, Staci.

Are these your grandchildren?

Yes, these are my bubellahs.  My daughter’s children.

They’re beautiful, Helen.

She put the photograph away, and sat and spoke with me for a while.  She told me about being an artist, about growing up in Brooklyn, about her family.  Life in Jersey.  She told me that her son had a girlfriend.  One she clearly didn’t like.

You’re Jewish, Staci.  Do you mock Judaism?

Of course not, Helen.  I’m not particularly religious, but my grandparents were raised Orthodox and my parents Conservative.  I have a lot of questions about religion in general, but I’ve always loved the tradition and history that goes with being Jewish.  Why do you ask?

We’re observant in my family.  My son’s girlfriend doesn’t like it.  She mocks it.  My son needs a shana maidel like you.  A nice, smart, pretty Jewish girl.

Thank you, Helen.  It’s too bad he has a girlfriend.  If he’s anything like his mother, I’d love to know him.

She went rifling through her purse again.  This time grabbing a piece of paper and a pen.

Staci, give me your full name.  Just in case.  You never know.  Maybe he’ll get rid of this one.

I gave her my name, and corrected her spelling.  She wrote down the details she could remember about me.  Pittsburgh.  Chelsea.  39.

And you’re listed?

Yes.  I’m listed.  I’m also on Facebook.

She spoke aloud as she wrote out the words “on The Facebook”.  I was giggling inside.

Helen put the paper back in her purse and rose to leave.

You are a beautiful girl, Staci.  Who knows.  Maybe things will work out and my son will call you.

Helen, you are lovely.  I so enjoyed meeting you, even if I don’t hear from your son.

She gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek and was off.  I loved meeting her.  And I loved the fantasy that I would hear from this handsome Jewish bachelor, that we would fall madly in love and that I’d become part of Helen’s mishpucheh, that I could one day call her Ma.  Of course it was only a fantasy.  But it was a lovely one.  The one of how I met my Mother-In-Law.  If only fantasies were real…

start at the beginning…

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