Page 109 of Succubus

We are supposed to rise and recite the mourner’s kaddish now, so I stand with Fran, who only comes up to just above my shoulder, and clumsily murmur the transliteration. The words are a rumble that rises and falls in gentle, haphazard waves as people speak together, slip apart, rejoin. I feel the weight of this ritual, even though I don’t understand what we’re saying. Maybe we’re saying that we won’t forget.

And then it’s over, and we’re sitting down, and the cantor is singing a closing song, and then we’re filing back into another room where there are cookies waiting on platters. It’s time for me to go. But Fran has latched on to my arm, and she’s asking me what I do for a living, and then she’s waving Joel over, and now there’s no escape.

As he approaches, so handsome in a navy button-down shirt and gray pants, I feel suddenly bashful, suddenly very awkward and young. As though I haven’t learned yet how to be myself. I think of the feeling I had when he healed Ella. The feeling of divinity.

“Good Shabbos, Fran.” He bends down to kiss her cheek. He straightens. “I see you’ve met Tempest.” I try to breathe only a sip of air, so I won’t inhale too much of his sun-onwood scent.

“Tempest!” cries Fran, “with the niece?”

I am taken aback. Joel looks uncomfortable. “You remember everything,” he says.

“Oh, how wonderful that you’ve gotten so close,” she says, smiling a little wickedly between us. “Joel talked about you and the little girl . . . Ellie?”

“Ella.” I am still looking at him. He talked about us.

I think he’s slightly flushed. He pushes the curls back from his forehead. It seems improbable that I have already touched them, too. That I have already touched him, decadently, in all the ways I wanted to.

I clench against a shiver.

No, not all the ways. I haven’t, for example, ever held his hand.

“I hope it’s okay that I’m here— ” I start, and he says at the same time, “It’s nice of you to be here.”

I’m relieved, surprised, that he has interpreted me as nice, instead of assuming a sinister ulterior motive. Or maybe he’s just keeping up a front for Fran.

Now some other older women are coming over, and I get introduced around and have to explain what a doula is. One of the women used to be a surgeon; she is clearly unimpressed. The rabbi comes over and pulls Joel away, and Fran says, “Have you heard him play the cello? My God! What a sound! Like heaven!”

The other women agree rapturously. “When he played the Kol Nidre—it was like being at Carnegie Hall.”

“You know, we get some very good acts here in town, at McCarter.”

“I’m not saying we don’t. I’m saying it was like Carnegie Hall because of the beauty of the playing.”

“He’s very modest,” says Fran to me. “You wouldn’t necessarily know about all the things. But he is a remarkable man. I hope you realize that.” She raises her eyebrows at me, teasing and warning at the same time. I am aware that I am being surveilled.

“I realize that,” I say. And maybe there’s something accidental in my tone, because Fran clutches my arm again.

“Sweetheart, the way he talked about the two of you, you and the little girl. He sounded happy for the first time since his brother died. I wouldn’t worry.”

“I’m worried,” I admit in a rush. “Fran, I’m definitely worried.”

“You aren’t Jewish, are you.” She gives me a strong look.

I shake my head.

“And would you convert? I have to ask!”

I smile. Does she have to ask? “Oh, I . . . I hadn’t really thought about it. . . .”

Aside from sex fantasies, before we were enemies, I hardly dared to imagine myself reaching out to touch Joel’s hand with my fingertips, let alone in what religion we might raise our future children. The gulf between my mind and Fran’s is Grand Canyonesque.

“Well, maybe it’s time to do some thinking.” Her eyes dig deeper into mine, conveying a serious meaning.

“Hmm. Okay.” I try to return the serious stare with equal force. It’s hard.

Joel is turning back to us, leaving the rabbi’s side.

“Yes?” Fran probes.