13

In 1913, Babe marries Madelyn Saloshin: a little—a lot—older than Babe, because seven years is an age to a young man of twenty-one. Madelyn Saloshin is not pretty, but this is of no consequence. Madelyn Saloshin likes Babe, and Babe likes Madelyn Saloshin, and the very large are sometimes very lonely.

So Babe marries Madelyn Saloshin.

Babe marries a Jew.

Did it ever enter into proceedings? he asks Babe, when Babe is no longer married to Madelyn Saloshin.

—What?

—Her religion.

Babe gives him the frown, the one familiar to the Audience: the face of a man presented with thin soup, who will eat it because, in famine, even thin soup is a feast.

Yes, Babe replies, it mattered to me.

—How?

He is curious, but also fearful. There is no shortage of Jews in Hollywood, and no shortage of those who hate them, either, but such individuals are generally discreet in their discrimination, and gentlemanly in their cruelty. No, this club is not for you, but down the road, well . . .

—Because she had to learn to step lightly, just as I did. Because, had I asked, they would have said she was beneath me.

A flicker of the eyes, Babe’s voice softer now.

—And some of them did say it.

Them. Who are they? The same ones, he supposes, who in 1915 hanged Leo Frank from a tree in Marietta, Georgia, partly for being accused of killing a thirteen-year-old girl, but mostly for being a Jew in charge of a pencil factory.

And Miss Emmie, the doting mother: was she disappointed in her son’s choice of a Hebrew bride? Oh yes, and Miss Emmie will die disappointed in Babe, for this as for so many other deficiencies of character, although neither of them will ever refer to the sundering in such explicit terms.

I say, I say, I say: what’s worse than marrying a Jew?

Marrying an old Jew.

Take your bows.

Take your bows, and leave.