Good for the Jews

6. August 2006

Chapter Six August 2006 He wasn’t going to come. “But Mose—” Ellen began. She was at the kitchen table, arranging tulips in a vase, as she talked on the phone. How could he not be there? “Honey, I’m far too sick.” He snuf›ed once, then blew a wad of something into what Ellen knew was the cloth handkerchief he carried around in his pocket. They were talking on the phone. He said the only thing that would make him miss her party was the possibility of vomiting on the bride-to-be, and that, he had to confess, was a real possibility . “Is this about Hyman Clark? We couldn’t help but invite him, but you—” “No, no. I wouldn’t let him make me miss your engagement party. I’m really sick.” “What will Barbara think?” “She’ll think I’m sick. I’ll see her later in the weekend, but really I’m coming down off this fever, and . . .” “Right, oh, of course. I’m just sorry you won’t be here.” She shouldn’t feel like he was denying a blessing by staying home, but that was exactly what she felt. “But, listen, honey, that’s not the only reason I called.” “It’s not?” 228 “No, I got something in the mail today that I want you to see. I’m going to put it in the mail.” “What is it?” “It’s another piece of hate mail.” “You’re kidding.” Ellen put her hand to her check. “I got it in May, just after graduation, I came back to my of‹ce and I found it on my desk.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I’m telling you now.” “I meant in May. Why didn’t you tell me then?” When he didn’t answer , Ellen said, “Well, what was it?” “I’ll tell you what it was. It came in a yellow envelope. On it, someone wrote, ‘Thought this might interest you.’ And inside I found . . . my merit review letter.” “Mose! I can’t believe it! So what did it say, why didn’t you . . .” “Ah, she can’t let me ‹nish a sentence without interrupting.” Though she was on the phone, Ellen clapped a hand over her mouth and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up. Finish.” And he did, saying that he had wanted to show her the letter right away, but he was aware that there might be “interpretive differences” and, too, that she’d want to show the letter to Alex, which might not be good for Mose, might prove politically dif‹cult later on. So he’d sent it off for some independent con‹rmation. “And that means?” Ellen asked. “I sent into the ADL.” “You’re kidding? The Anti-Defamation League? It’s that bad?” “Maybe you won’t think so. That’s why I sent it off.” “Well, read it to me. Will you? And . . .” But Mose said no. He was going to mail a copy to her, along with the ADL letter. That had just come today. When she had read both, he said, they should talk. “Don’t make me crazy. I hate mystery,” Ellen said. “No, no . . . if I read it out loud, I’ll in›ect it the wrong way or something. I want you to read it, as you’d read it, then tell me what you think.” A loaded proposition made no easier by the astonishing swiftness of the United States Postal Service, which contrived to place the letter in 229 Ellen’s rural mailbox at 11:03 A.M. the very next day, when Alex and Ellen were doing the last neatening for the party. “For you, for me, for me, for me, for you,” Alex said as he sorted the mail, which largely consisted of catalogs. “That was fast,” Ellen said, picking up the envelope with Mose’s handwriting. She’d told Alex last night that the letters were coming. “I guess we had better see what’s in this.” “Now?” Alex said, his mouth gaping open. In ›ashes, there was something so decidedly dumb about Alex’s manner that Ellen froze up, thinking she had made a mistake and wondering if it was a mistake that she would be able to weather over several decades, but then he’d close his mouth and seem perfectly intelligent once again. “I’m sorry...