JOINED AT THE HIP

Brenda and Barry wore matching navy-blue windbreakers with detachable hoods. If he had his hood up, you could be sure that hers would be up on her head and firmly tied under her chin. They held hands and walked lockstep wherever they went. As a matter of fact, Brenda told me, “We do everything together.” I didn’t care that she insisted on sitting next to him at my dinner table, or that they answered questions in unison, but it was her tone of superiority that irritated me, because W.S. and I knew we’d go nuts if we had to do “everything” together.

After dinner, she joined me in the kitchen as I was making coffee, and I spilled some grounds on the floor. “Don’t you hate it when that happens?” I asked, wiping up the spill. “Oh, that never happens to us when we make coffee,” she replied. “You make coffee together?” I said. “We do everything together,” she smirked. Then she began the mantra of togetherness; “We do dishes together. We do laundry together. We clean house together. We grocery shop together. We bank and post office together. We pay bills together.” I interrupted, “You don’t go to classes with him, do you?” “No,” she replied, “but I bring him his lunch and we eat together.

“Come on, Brenda,” I teased, “surely, there’s something you do on your own.” “Not really,” she said, “but,” she whispered, “He is going to do something without me.” Relieved, I asked, “And what’s that?” “You can’t tell anyone,” she said. “Promise, and I’ll tell you.” “Okay,” I won’t tell anyone except W.S., because I don’t keep any secrets from him, but you don’t have to worry because it’s exams week and he never listens to me during exams week.” “Well, you know,” she began hesitatingly, “that Barry’s father is a rabbi.” “Yes,” I replied wondering what this has to do with anything.

“Is Barry going home to visit his parents without you?” I prodded. “No.” she replied, “He wouldn’t do that!” “Then what is it?” I asked, running out of patience. “He’s going to be Santa Claus.” I looked at her. “We need the money. The department store is hiring for Christmas. Barry will have time between semesters, so he’s going to be Santa Claus.” “And you couldn’t do this with him.” I said. “I tried.” she sadly replied, “but they weren’t hiring any more elves.” She brightened when I said; “You can always go sit on his lap if you miss him.”

A few weeks later, we spotted Brenda and Barry strolling across campus. They were still wearing those windbreakers, but it was a nice day so their hoods were down. “So,” I said, conveniently forgetting my promise, “how was the Santa gig?” Brenda gave me a dirty look, but Barry just laughed and said, “It was fun. The kids were cute. I only got spit-up on twice. I did have one unusual experience.”

W.S. perked up, “What was that?” “A mother brought her little boy for a photo-op with Santa. He sat on my lap, and I gave him the usual, ‘Ho, Ho, Ho, and how old are you?’ and he said, ‘I am five years old.’ ‘And have you been a good little boy this year?’ I asked. He looked at me and hesitatingly said, ‘Yes.’ And then I asked him what he wanted me to bring him, and he listed a dump truck, a football and some game I had never heard of---and some books. ‘His mother kept saying, ‘Morris, smile for the picture,’ but the kid wouldn’t smile, so I whispered, ‘Is there something you’d like to tell Santa. You know you an tell me anything.’ The kid hesitated, looked at his mother and whispered into my beard, ‘Santa, I’m Jewish.’ ‘That’s okay, kid, I replied, so am I.”’ Barry told us that the kid had a big grin on his face, his Mama was happy, and Santa had earned enough money to buy a couple of matching parkas for winter.

I wondered, years later, when Brenda was in labor giving birth to her third child, what she really thought of all that “togetherness.”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006