The Last Jewish Virgin

Chapter 11

54 11 O n Sunday night I lay in bed, again unable to sleep, my nerves jangly as I fitfully tossed and turned. My downstairs neighbor, a twenty-something guy with red, stringy hair, was playing heavy metal music that pounded in my ears. Rising from bed, I searched for Mr. Rock’s necklace in my purse, where it was buried way down at the bottom beneath a crumpled pack of tissues and the slim, unopened paperback of The Yellow Wallpaper. More than a few times, I’d been tempted to remove the necklace, but now I could no longer resist. I held the necklace up to the light. It was as beautiful as I remembered, that intricate, miniature portrait of the raven-haired, naked vampire attached to the long, delicate golden chain. Not Jewish, I thought, as I slipped the necklace around my neck. Back in bed, I pulled the soft, wool blanket up to my chin, aware of how cool the gold chain felt against my flesh. Just as I had on Friday night, I stared up at the ceiling, and that same abstract pattern immediately began to emerge. Almost at once I moaned, and the pattern on the ceiling coalesced once again into a picture: I’m all decked out in my night-black vampire outfit, standing across the crater from Mr. Rock. The sky is dusty; the landscape, forlorn. The two of us look like the sole survivors of some horrible disaster—an Ice Age, an attack from outer space, a nuclear bomb. I throw my head Janice Eidus 55 back, offering my exposed neck to him. He reaches out as though to touch me, but we’re separated by that wide, uncrossable crater. And then, abruptly, the image disappeared. I felt both fired up and close to tears. It was a long time before I was able to fall asleep, and when I awoke, an orange sun was shining brightly into my room, the music had stopped, and I heard my mother moving around in the kitchen. I removed the necklace and placed it gently beneath my pillow for safekeeping. I stood before my closet, trying to decide what to wear to Bennett. It was a fraught decision, since what I chose would, by necessity, revolve around Mr. Rock. Finally, I threw on a pair of scruffy jeans that were frayed at both knees, a faded, once-white T-shirt, and my oldest, dirtiest sneakers. I pulled my damp hair into a simple, unadorned ponytail. I looked uninteresting and insubstantial , nobody’s object of desire, let alone the object of desire of a man obsessed with vampire goddesses—and that was a good thing, I told myself. I found my mother already up and seated at the kitchen table . “You know,” she said, “you’re so much better looking like this, without all that stuff you usually wear on your face, and without all those elaborate costumes.” Her curly hair was wild, and her eyes puffy, as if she’d been weeping all night over Mike’s betrayal . In a way, it was funny that we were both experiencing “man trouble.” But it wasn’t funny enough for me to feel comfortable sharing the joke. I poured myself a glass of water and then sat down across from her. She was silent, halfheartedly nibbling on a piece of toast, and I appreciated that she didn’t ask me any more questions about my supposed visit to the library, and also that she didn’t bring up her ordeal with Mike. We sat quietly until she finished her coffee, and then she rose and put her dishes in the sink. Standing over me, she leaned down and kissed my forehead. Her lips felt warm. It was an unexpected gesture, not the way we typically said goodbye to each other in the morning. Usually, we just exchanged perfunctory words: “Bye.” “See you later.” 56 The Last Jewish Virgin After she left, I postponed going to Bennett for as long as I could. I redid my ponytail, retied my shoelaces, and did some halfhearted sketches of a sweeping silk opera cape updated with black leather trim and a wild splash of metal studs. But finally it was time. I had no choice but to head downtown to Bennett—and to Mr. Rock. ...