Flinch Factor, The Read Online Free PDF Page A

appearance.
    â€œIt’s the same suit you wore on that CNN program.”
    â€œIt’s my TV suit, Sarah.”
    â€œIt’s your only suit.”
    â€œSame difference. They make me wear a suit and tie. That’s the one I wear.”
    â€œBut always the same? What’s your mother say?”
    â€œShe sounds like you.”
    â€œShe’s a smart woman, your mother.”
    â€œShe’s a Jewish mother. You’re all alike, Sarah. Because I refused to be a doctor for her like her sister’s son Maury, now I should tear out her kishkes a second time by wearing the same suit on TV every time.”
    I looked on from the kitchen doorway. They were seated across the table from each other—Benny facing me, my mother with her back to me.
    â€œThat’s because she’s proud of you,” my mother said.
    â€œNo, that’s because her friends ask her, ‘Shirley, your son the teacher doesn’t make enough money to afford a second suit?’” He shook his head, amused. “You’re all meshuggah , Sarah. How many Jewish mothers does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
    â€œWhat?” she said.
    Benny caught my eye and winked. He looked back to my mother, who turned to see me standing there.
    â€œHow many, Sarah?”
    She looked back at him. “A light bulb? What am I? An engineer? I give up. How many?”
    â€œIt’s okay,” he said in a resigned Yiddish accent, “I’ll sit in the dark.”
    â€œVery funny, Milton Berle. Meanwhile, they have a sale at Macy’s. Tomorrow I’ll buy you a tie. Next time you go on with that Matthews fellow, you’ll have on something new. Your mother will be thrilled.”
    She turned and gestured. “Come sit, Rachel. I made you tea.”
    I joined them at the kitchen table, where Benny had already consumed almost an entire platter of my mother’s kamishbroit , a crunchy Yiddish cousin of the Italian biscotti —except that my mother’s version would make a Venetian baker jealous.
    She poured me a cup of tea. I took a bite of a kamishbroit.
    â€œDelicious,” I said. “Is this the batch Sam helped you make?”
    â€œWe baked them this afternoon.”
    Sam was only two when Jonathan—his father, my husband—died in a plane crash. My mother, God bless her, quit her job and moved in to help me raise Sam and my two stepdaughters, Leah and Sarah. Eventually, my mother sold her condo and moved into our coach house in back, which Nick Moran had beautifully renovated for her. Leah is now a sophomore at Brandeis University, and Sarah is in her senior year of high school. Although the two girls call me Rachel, all three of my kids call my mother Baba, which is Yiddish for grandmother. Their Baba is hard-headed and opinionated and sets high standards for her grandchildren. Don’t ask the girls how many times their red-headed Baba made them rewrite their college application essays. Though she can exasperate me like no other human on the face of the earth, we all adore her. Even me.
    Now that Sam was in kindergarten, she’s been talking about going back to work part-time or increasing her docent hours at the St. Louis Holocaust Museum. Meanwhile, seemingly endless queues of elderly Jewish suitors await their turn to take the lovely Widow Gold the Elder to dinner and a show. She has gone on record that the developer of Viagra deserves a special place in Hell. I try my best not to think about the implications of that statement.
    â€œSo?” Benny said. “Let’s have some juicy details.”
    I checked my watch.
    Ten minutes to nine.
    My stepdaughter Sarah was at a boys varsity basketball game against her school’s big rival. Although a high school senior today knows more about life and sex than I did after college, there were some details I didn’t want her to overhear, especially because she had been so fond of Nick Moran.
    I probably had