AT THE END OF NOVEMBER, my cousin Lucy stops through Toronto. She’s the eldest of the four Pick granddaughters, a senior lecturer in the history of Christianity, in the divinity school at a big American college. She’s also a world-class authority on Spanish medieval Jews. Luce takes me out to a French bistro on the nicer end of St. Clair. I order a spinach salad; she orders the duck confit poutine. While we’re waiting for our food to arrive, I explain the pain I’m experiencing, the visceral desire to reclaim what’s been lost.
“I’m thinking about it all the time,” I say.
“I understand,” she says. “I went through something similar.”
From across the restaurant we hear another patron: “He’ll never learn that Torah portion.”
We both laugh. I look at Lucy across the table, taking in her freckles, her hazel eyes. How she looks like me, how we both look like our great-grandmother Marianne. “I’m taking a class,” I say. And then, on a whim: “I’m thinking of converting.”
Her eyebrows go up. It’s not judgment or disapproval, just curiosity.
“What would it involve?”
“The class. And then the beit din—”
She nods to show she knows the term.
“Would you have to go in the mikvah?” she asks, referring to the Jewish ritual bath.
“Yep.”
The waitress places our orders in front of us. Lucy has ordered well as usual. She prods her poutine with the tines of her fork.
“Granny had to go in the mikvah before she married Gumper. Because she’d been baptized.” She takes a bite. “Granny hated the mikvah,” she says. “She felt it implied that she was unclean.”
“She told you that?”
“She did.”
“Don’t all Jewish women immerse before getting married?”
“Ones who practise, sure. But Granny never practised. I mean, she was baptized! So the mikvah would have been a requirement from the rabbi. Who Gumper’s family would have furnished.”
“Because Gumper’s family was more observant?”
I know the answer, but I defer to Lucy’s authority. She had a decade of adult conversations with our grandparents while I was still a little girl.
“Yes,” she says. She lifts a french fry from the mess of duck and gravy, and chews, her face softening. “Gumper was always so sad at Christmas.”
I cast my mind back but can’t access any memories of Gumper at Christmas, only the kind of recollection that comes from seeing a photograph again and again. The shot that keeps appearing in my mind’s eye now is of Gumper on Christmas morning. He’s unwrapping a novelty licence plate, the type you might see on the back of a red convertible, inscribed with the French words J’aime ta femme.
“I love your wife.”
Who would have given him such a gift?
There’s a rumour in our family that Granny had an affair. Several affairs. Dad remembers Gumper taking off his shoe and hurling it across the room at his wife. But in the Christmas photo, Gumper’s head is tilted back, his mouth wide open as he laughs.
“It’s Gumper who makes me want Judaism back,” I say. “Thinking of what he went through, what he lost.”
“He hated Christmas,” Lucy says. “The whole big show.”
Not if I was the last Jew on earth.
I put my fork down; it makes a small chiming noise against my plate.
“Maybe I’ll convert,” I say, as though thinking of the idea for the first time.
Lucy asks, “What does Degan think?”
I shrug. “He’s supportive.”
She smiles. Says, “The only way to really get it back would be to marry a Jew.”
Eli’s name pops up on my computer screen. It’s a Friday afternoon, the autumn light waning outside my study window, the Sabbath coming slowly closer, a steamship filling more and more of the horizon. He writes, “Do you want to have coffee?”
We have a subtle power struggle over where we will meet, who will be the one to travel across Toronto. I’m the one who ends up taking the bus south, and then the subway east to the Danforth. I sit on the bench outside the Big Carrot, where Eli is picking up some groceries.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. “I’m inside,” he says.
I see him before he sees me, in front of the dairy fridge, the bushy hair, the wool sweater. He’s not classically handsome, not exactly, but my body responds with sweat, an uptick in my heartbeat. I sidle up. “Hey.”
There is broccoli in his cart—just the crown—and rye bread. Almond butter, organic yogourt. The contents of his shopping cart look exactly like mine.
Eli turns to me and grins, puts a hand casually on my shoulder. “Well,” he says, “I hear you’re engaged.”
“Who told you?”
“You did. By email.”
I exhale. “I forgot.”
“Do you have a date for the wedding?”
“No,” I say. “Not yet.”
Eli is paying for his groceries, not looking me in the eye.
“And they won’t let you convert because your boyfriend isn’t Jewish?”
I nod. The cash register dings and he pockets a handful of change.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he says. “It makes me so pissed.”
“Are you surprised?”
He shakes his head. “Unfortunately not.” He pauses, runs a hand through his messy hair. “They’re like that,” he says.
As though he isn’t one of them.
Outside in the autumn dusk, the street lights are coming on one by one. We walk down the Danforth, each carrying a bag of groceries. At Broadview we head south. The neighbourhood is affluent, the red brick houses wrapped in big front porches. Behind the gauzy curtains are domestic friezes: a man cutting onions, a small girl practising a cello. To an outsider, Eli and I would comprise another domestic scene: a couple carrying their groceries home for dinner at the end of a long week.
Eli touches my elbow. “Look.”
I follow his gaze. It’s only five o’clock, but the moon is already out. It shines, full and bright, like a fisherman’s lantern, like a little portal to infinity punched in the darkness.
Degan gets panic attacks from looking at the stars; perhaps it’s an existential fear of our human insignificance, maybe an inner ear imbalance—we’re not sure. My instinct, developed over the seven years of our relationship, is to pretend I don’t notice anything celestial. But Eli wants to give the moon its due. We stand in silence, shoulder to shoulder, availing ourselves of its exuberant beauty.
When we arrive at his house, he shows me in, shows me around. Thick, creamy carpets, antiques. I remark on the beautiful claw-foot tub in the bathroom and check my email on his laptop. I notice a framed photo on a coffee table by the window—a redhead with red lipstick and her arms thrown around Eli’s neck. “Your girlfriend?”
He nods. “She’s away for another month.”
Downstairs, he lights a fire. I watch the curl of his back as he bends over kindling and newspaper, listen for the hiss of the match. He straightens, turns to face me, wiping his palms down his thighs. “I have some nice Scotch,” he says.
“Do I look like a girl who says no to Scotch?”
We settle on the pillowy couch, talk for a while about memoir as a genre, the writer’s responsibility to the truth. There’s an onus on the writer to get the essence right, we concur. But the order of events, the dialogue—a reader should understand that any book is creative.
“I’m glad I’m working on fiction,” I say.
“Will you ever write about your family?”
“I doubt it.”
“You should.”
I tell him about my visit with Lucy, what she said about Granny and Gumper’s wedding.
The fire cracks and spits.
I sigh. “I really want to go in that tub. Like, really.”
Eli’s eyebrows rise. “Upstairs? My tub?”
I laugh. “The mikvah.”
“Have a bath,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”