The Last Jewish Virgin

Chapter 20

123 20 E arly the following evening, after a day in which I’d avoided my mother for the umpteenth time, I forced myself to get up and walk over to my closet. The New Age Workshop was scheduled to begin in a little over an hour, and I needed to be strong in order to confront whatever awaited me there. But first, I would have to decide what to wear. Not my vampire costume, of course. In fact, I hoped never to have to wear it again. And not my insipid jeans and T-shirt; I needed to appear formidable, since I didn’t have any idea what I was in for. I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that purple was a favorite color of New Age types, representing “peace and happiness ” or something like that, and I did own one purple lycra skirt and one slim purple hair barrette. I wriggled into the clingy skirt, clipped the barrette to my hair, and added a long, white blouse to the ensemble. I hoped that despite my inner turmoil, I looked like a spiritual New Ager. And then that irresistible urge came over me again to violate the outfit, to reach beneath my pillow for Mr. Rock’s necklace, and to fasten it around my neck. The gold chain felt icy as I slipped it on, and I remembered the frosty yet tantalizing feel of his lips when he kissed my neck, so different from Colin’s warmth. 124 The Last Jewish Virgin The phone rang, forcing me out of my reverie. I walked into the kitchen, glancing at The Great Jewish Women Throughout History calendar hanging on the refrigerator as I picked up the cordless phone, missing the woman my mother had been when she bought it. The caller was Tante Molly. “Sorry, Mom’s not here,” I told her, walking toward my bedroom, moving in slow motion. “Where is she, Lilith?” Her voice was matter-of-fact, as if my mother’s whereabouts were of no great concern to her. What if I told her the truth? Might she then reveal to me how much—if anything—she knew about my mother’s relationship with Mr. Rock? What did I have to lose? What could she possibly do to me? I slowly opened the door to my bedroom, took a deep breath and didn’t try to hide my sarcasm. “She’s taking some kind of ‘New Age’ workshop tonight with Baron Rock.” My throat tightened. “I see.” Her usually flamboyant voice remained measured. “Tell me about him.” I heard her take a deep drag of cigarette, and I pictured a graceful stream of smoke streaming from her full mouth. I moved to my bed and sat on the edge. The veins in my neck were throbbing. “She thinks he’s terrific.” I stroked the decadent oval pendant resting between my breasts as if it were a lucky rabbit’s foot. “But you’re not sure about him.” Ever the actress, her voice was as neutral as a therapist’s; she was trying to bring me out, because she really did want to know more. She too must have noticed the strange, rapid change in my mother—from Jewish feminist to Jewish femme fatale. My hand clutched the necklace. As a small child, I fantasized about running off with her, because she was fun in ways that my mother was not. I loved her wild, over-the-top costumes, her rich, theatrical voice, and her daring, shifting allegiances to male and female lovers. Ever since meeting Mr. Rock, however, I trusted nobody. Except for Colin. But how wise was that? I barely knew him. I lay down and curled my knees to my chest. After a long, tense moment, she took another noisy drag of her cigarette. “Beth has suddenly lost all interest in working on our book. She speaks of nothing but him.” She harshly cleared her Janice Eidus 125 throat: a cigarette smoker’s sound. “I’m worried. What do you think is going on?” This was an unprecedented moment: Tante Molly asking me for advice about my mother. That she was worried enough to do this made me sure my mother was in real trouble, in danger of losing her identity, her . . . life? No, that was absurd. My eyes suddenly felt pasty, as if I’d just woken up. Sweat felt heavy on my...