Allen Zadoff - Since You Left Me

Slight problem: Sweet Caroline was twelve.

Despite it all, Sweet Caroline walks around like she doesn’t have a problem in the world, like she’s got a loving family that shows up for her no matter what. But she’s got the same family I have. The one that has her picking at herself so much she got sent to a psychologist.

“Sanskrit?” she says.

“What?”

“Better you than me.”

She hangs up.

I look back towards school. Herschel is coming out the front door, his suit panels flapping in the wind.

“What’s happening here?” he says.

“I’m taking a cigarette break.”

“Very funny. Where’s your mom?”

“Two guesses. Both involve tights and a gong.”

“Did you call her?”

“Forty-seven times.”

“Your father?”

“Jesus, Herschel.”

“Language,” he says.

“I’m sorry. Jesus H. Christ, Esquire.”

He looks at me deadpan.

That would have made him laugh in the old days. You’re not supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain, so when we swore, we’d add an honorific. Like instead of saying, “Oh, God!” we’d say, “Oh, Doctor God!” Or “God, Master of the Universe , damn it!”

In the old days it was funny. Herschel used to hate Jewish school as much as I did. That was before he went to Israel and got flipped. That’s what we call it when kids visit Israel and find God. One look at the Western Wall, and they think they’re Maimonides.

These days Herschel’s sense of humor has been overwhelmed by the study of Torah. Not a lot of laughs in Torah class.

“Call your father,” Herschel says.

“No.”

“This is serious. You’re on thin ice with the administration.”

“Maybe this is my ticket out.”

“We’re all out after next year.

Think about college,” Herschel says. “Think about Brandeis.”

A cramp seizes my stomach. Brandeis. A Jewish university without much Judaism, all the way on the other side of the country. My ticket to freedom. But I need the grades to get there.

“Do you want me to call your dad for you?” Herschel says.

“I’m a big boy,” I say.

Just then Barry Goldwasser pokes his head out the back door.

“Sanskrit!” he shouts. “They’re looking for you.”

Here’s Barry to save the day again. I swear, the guy thinks he’s Jewish Superman. What’s worse is that he knows I can’t stand him, but he doesn’t care. He’s one of those guys who likes you even when you don’t like him. Such is the incredible generosity of spirit by which he lives. It’s nauseating.

“Could you tell them I’ll be there in a minute?” I say.

Barry says, “Your family is in turmoil. You have to confront it sooner or later.”

I flip Barry the bird.

“Look where your finger is pointing,” he says.

I look up.

“God can handle your family problems, Sanskrit. Not me.”

“Screw you, Barry. And screw God.”

He shakes his head like I’m a lost cause.

I take a big step towards the door like I’m ready to fight Barry for my family’s honor. But he’s already gone.

“Can you believe that?” I say to Herschel.

“Your dad,” he says, completely unfazed by Barry or anything else.

I stare at Dad’s number on my phone. I imagine me asking—and Dad turning me down with a lame excuse like he usually does. It’s too much for me right now.

I turn off the phone.

“What are you going to do?” Herschel says.

“Take the hit. Like I always do.”

I walk back into the gym through the crowd of parents and students. They’ve all had their conferences now, but it’s tradition to stick around and socialize until everyone’s parents have had their turn. That means they’re all waiting for me.

I glance at the snacks table. It’s looking pretty scarce over there. Once the snacks run out, there will be a riot.

The Israeli office lady sees me and gestures for me to hurry.

I glance to my left, and I see a girl. Not just any girl.

The Initials.

In God’s case, we don’t say his name as a sign of respect. In her case, it’s because it’s too painful.

The Initials is standing with her parents. She looks gorgeous. Her mom looks gorgeous.

I catch myself staring, and I look away. It’s like looking into the sun. If you become distracted by the majesty, you’ll burn out your retinas.

“Sanskri—” the office lady starts to say.

“Coming,” I say.

“Your mother?”

I shake my head.

Can breasts look disappointed? Maybe I’m imagining it.

“Follow me,” she says, and we walk in silence down the hall.

She stops in front of the large conference room. She opens the door and holds it for me.

I step into the room.

All my professors are sitting there. They look past me to the door, expecting an adult to walk in behind me.

But it’s just me.

“Aaron,” the dean says. He always calls me by my middle name. The Jewish-sounding one. Sometimes he even pronounces it in Hebrew, like Ah-roan .

“You’re not wearing your kippah ,” he says.

“Sorry,” I say.

Kippot are required to be on our heads at all times in school. Some kids wear them out of school as well, but I don’t like to wear mine at all, so I usually stuff it in my pocket.

I pull it out. I’ve got a tiny one the same color as my hair so you barely notice it.

“Where’s your mother?” the dean says.

I look across the table of professors, all of them staring back at me. Professor Hirschberg glares at me below a severe unibrow. The dean sighs.

“We’ve talked about this numerous times,” he says. “The Family Contract…”

I think about all the times I’ve made excuses for Mom, all the embarrassment I’ve suffered.

I’m ready to take the hit again. I always take the hit.

I’m about to apologize on Mom’s behalf, when I’m overcome with anger. No more hits. No more embarrassment.

I don’t tell the teachers that my mother forgot or that she’s stuck in another appointment.

Instead I say, “There’s been a terrible accident.”

The entire room gasps. Professor Schwartzburg, my English teacher, clutches his chest. He’s been doing that a lot lately. In fact, there’s a betting pool on the next professor to have a heart attack, and Schwartzburg is in the lead.

I say, “I don’t have all the details yet. I’m waiting to get an update from the hospital.”

I don’t know why I’m saying any of this, but I’m not exactly in my right mind. When I think about it later, I realize I should not have used the word terrible to describe the accident. It’s hard to recover from terrible . If you say accident and you want to backtrack later and claim it was a fender bender, you’re okay. But it’s very hard to get from terrible back to minor .

But I tell the professors Mom was in a terrible accident, and after the initial shock and several oy vey s, Professor Feldshuh leaps up and takes matters into his own hands.

“I’ll give you a ride to the hospital!” he says.

I say, “No thank you, sir. I have a ride.”

All the professors are on their feet then, reaching for me, patting my shoulder, offering their support, and asking if there’s anything they can do.

“I have to go,” I say. “Right now.”

“I’ll pray for you,” Professor Skurnick says.

She puts a hand on her chest and pats herself. I make a quick note to check her rank in the heart attack pool.

Then I rush out of the room.

The Israeli office lady jumps out of my way.

I run back through the gymnasium. There are startled reactions all around me. Maybe they think something awful happened in my conference, like I’m being suspended or expelled.