The Last Jewish Virgin

Chapter 16

91 16 T hat night, after having watched the film numerous times, with every single nerve in my body ignited, I lay in bed on top of my blanket in my moonlit room, staring at the ceiling and listening to my neighbor’s heavy metal music below. Over and over, I replayed in my mind the love scene between the Count and Miss Lucy, as those blazing orange flames roared behind them. But now it was morning, and once again I was determined not to get out of bed until I heard my mother leave for the day. I wasn’t yet ready to talk to her about Mr. Rock, because I still didn’t know what I would say. What could I say? That my life had been turned upside down by him, and that he had to be avoided by her at all costs? She puttered around in the kitchen for what seemed like years: opening and closing the refrigerator; loudly grinding coffee beans; pacing back and forth on the faded linoleum floor. And then she knocked. I didn’t answer. She knocked again. Cautiously, she opened my door. “I’m glad you’re awake,” she said. “I’m sorry that we’ve been like the proverbial two ships passing in the night. I’ve been overwhelmed, between the book and teaching and some other things that have come up.” She sighed, and I could see by the smile that played upon her lips she was proud of her work schedule and busy life and these mysterious “other things.” 92 The Last Jewish Virgin “So,” she continued, “I’m just checking in to see how you’re doing .” Uninvited, she came inside and sat on the edge of the bed. “Listen,” she said. “I want you to know that you were a great comfort to me on the day Mike and I broke up.” My skull pounded as she waited for me to say something, to acknowledge her gesture in some way, but I was silent. Again, what could I say? That I had resented the fact she’d needed my comfort? And that I felt guilty for feeling that way? And also, by the way, I’d seen Mike with a girl young enough to be his daughter . . . . Oh, and one more thing: Had she, in fact, made a date with Mr. Rock? And if so, what was she thinking? I felt even more on edge, and I sat beside her on my bed, our knees almost touching , my heart beating loudly. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m afraid I’ll be out again late tonight with Molly, working on the book.” Truth or fiction? Was she really going to be with Tante Molly or had she and Mr. Rock made plans to be together this evening? Were they already involved, already more than “phone friends?” “Fine,” I said, forcing myself to answer, and wishing that I could peer inside her mind. When she smiled, appearing to take me at my word, I felt even more anxious, and I tightly gripped the blanket beneath my body, hoping she didn’t notice. She rose and gently closed my door. After a few moments, I heard her leaving the apartment: the snap of tumblers in the top lock, and then the bottom. At last I got up from my bed. In the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator but quickly shut it, wondering whether she had noticed yet how little I’d been eating recently, how my appetite for food had decreased, while, unknown to her—at least, I hoped it was still unknown to her—my appetite for Mr. Rock had grown greater and greater. Or had she become so self-involved that whether I ate or not, was healthy or not, was no longer of any interest to her? Had it ever been? But, no matter. The truth was I had something far more immediate to worry about than my conflicted feelings about my mother. It was Monday, and I was due back at Bennett. And I Janice Eidus 93 truly couldn’t bear the idea of sitting through any more classes, trying to pretend to be a normal student. I looked out the window and saw a steel-colored sky with charcoal clouds. Another overcast day. Mr. Rock, or perhaps my feelings for him, seemed to have sucked the color from the world. Impulsively, I dragged...