“Excuse me?”
“Sheila, you have to do it. It could really bump you up the ladder!”
I start mumbling something about how it doesn’t feel right, and Dina!, and that it would be insensitive, and what would everyone say, and Dina!, and how could I even consider such a thing, and Dina!, and when he takes a step closer and grabs my hand, I feel his fingernails digging into my skin.
“This is a golden opportunity for you,” he whispers and leans even closer, his face inches from mine, “and I won’t let you pass on it, capisce?”
How did you become such a loser?
“I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this opportunity, so here is, it finally came; now don’t let it slip by!” The subtext assails my ears: don’t let this slip by as well, loser.
He finally releases me from his clasp, but the fingernail marks will stay with me for the rest of the day.
The commotion on the other side of the door lets me know my group has arrived.
Efraim smiles at me. “See? You got a special group, so you won’t let all the fame go to your head.”
I want to tell him just where he can shove all that fame, but I hear the sound of a chair being thrown and a panicked scream outside, and I take a deep breath and steel myself for a bumpy ride.
Because “special” is our euphemism for any group whose members meet the definition of challenged – from the ADHD kids to the developmentally handicapped.
I usually enjoy being their instructor. They don’t try to impress anyone with wisecracks and stale witticisms, they don’t usually demand anything of me and the instruction usually amounts to a few short educational videos and a quick stroll through the wax pavilion. But it does require an extra security guard in the pavilion, because the kids usually ignore our warnings and touch, poke and pinch the figurines. I always get the feeling that the figurines tense up whenever a “special” group arrives, apart from our mother Leah, who just gives them her patient, hollow look.
I venture into the foyer armed with my most professional smile, and who do I see there, standing by a loud group of kids and their chaperoning special ed assistant? The queen of make-up don’ts, Taliunger, her face plied with cakey foundation, blinking with a surprise that matches my own. That’s what you think.
“Tali! What a surprise!” I drag out the words.
“Yes, yes, it certainly is,” she blurts but quickly pulls herself together, “so this is your kingdom?”
And she holds her hand out with that sweeping gesture as if she’s in her private living room, the tiny empress’s magisterial wave, painted fingernails sparkling. But this time I’m the empress.
I wave the assistant over and together we start seating the children in front of the screen. Some of them sit down obediently while others refuse and burst into loud squeals of protest. I wonder why Taliunger came with them, and as if reading my mind, she says, “I’m just filling in for one of the instructors, only for today. I’m a counsellor, not some instructor.”
My comeback is an uncontrollable outburst, “I’m starring at next week’s Bible conference, it’s going to be me and a super-famous singer. I’m not at liberty to say who yet, but let’s just say jaws are going to drop. Should I get you and Neria tickets?”
Her tiny body tenses, and I wonder if it’s because of the mystery musician or the way I dragged out that Neria, as if savouring the name on my tongue.
I sweep my eyes over the kids to make sure they’re all sitting comfortably for the opening movie, and my gaze lingers on a girl who, for some reason, is still standing. She’s an itty-bitty thing, sweet and owlish, with pigtails and glasses with lenses like bottle bottoms. I gently help her to sit, and she extends a tiny finger and shows me a fresh scratch. “Meir did that to me,” she purrs. Her speech is garbled and she repeats the sentence several times until I manage to parse the words.
“That’s not nice of him at all!” I say, and she smiles at me, flashing Bazooka pink gums. I can’t make out how old she is. Seven? Eight? She looks like an underbaked baby, and her birdlike features and sugary smile tug at my heart.
The lights are switched off and the movie begins. We always choose the same video for “special” groups, “The Fathers and the Mothers.” It’s a cartoon musical, not exactly thought-provoking, but it does the job. Nine times out of ten, it keeps the kids quiet and glued to the screen.
Tali and I lean against the wall at the far end of the dark room. To anyone looking from the outside, we probably seem like two chummy instructors, but no one’s looking. We’re both staring at the screen without blinking, inhaling and exhaling the same sour air, while in the video, our mother Sarah starts torturing Hagar. The animator chose to draw Sarah as a ghoulish hag with hook nose. A childless shrew. It’s only after she has Yitzhak that the animator will magically smooth out her wrinkles and she’ll go back to being the pleasant, loving woman she once was.
Taliunger leans closer to me.
“I’d appreciate it if you backed off Neria,” she says.
“What?” It takes me a moment to understand what she said, as if the words were in a foreign language.
“You heard me. And don’t come over to our house again,” she replies, emphasizing the our.
With vindictive relish, I recall Neria’s text. It took me some time to answer, and after quite a few carefully worded messages which I deleted, restored and deleted again, I sent: We’re cool, Neria.
A simple, elegant answer. We’re good. From my experience, the more stoic you pretend
