Peep Show by Joshua Braff Page B

sedentary men now airborneand feather light, whirling me round and round and all I can think about is what would happen if the Polaroid fell from my pocket. Avram has a monkey-wrench pinch on my already sore shoulder and it kills so I leap out of this fucked up situation by counting to three before diving out and nearly tripping on the sofa. But I’m out and on the other side of the
mechitzah
. All the woman glare at me like I just shot God and I take my mother’s hand in mine. “I need to talk to you.”
    â€œWhy are you pulling me?” she whispers.
    â€œGo back and dance, David,” says Becca.
    â€œI don’t want to dance. I want to talk to my mother. In private.”
    â€œWhen the song is over,” Becca says.
    â€œIt’s ended twice, it’s just repeating now.”
    â€œWhen it’s over, David,” my mother says.
    â€œNo!
Now!
” I don’t plan to say it that loud but it comes out in a shriek.
    Peter Rabbi walks around the divide. “David!” he says. “What are you doing?”
    â€œI told you I don’t dance.”
    â€œMay I talk to you in private, please?”
    â€œNo. You may
not
.”
    â€œMom? Are you gonna talk to me? Huh? Mom?”
    She stares at the dancers, the song repeating again. “I am celebrating, David. I don’t want to do anything but celebrate this blessing.”
    I fling open the front door, leap from the top step tothe sidewalk, and run to the car, where I turn on the ignition and blast the radio. Then I yank out the keys and slam them on the dash. “Fuck
yooooooooou
! You lying, two fuckin’ faced Hasidic wannabe
stripper
! You have to be fucking kidding
meeeeee
!”
    A person is there, suddenly there, on the sidewalk, a coat wrapped around her. It’s her. I do not know if she heard me. Her eyes are bloodshot but her mouth shows fury for the disruption on this day of days for the Danowitzes. I open the door and get out and walk to her.
    â€œI told them I didn’t dance, Mom.”
    â€œYou were rude to the rabbi.”
    â€œI drove here to talk to you. I found something today and I wanted to talk about it.” I reach for the Polaroid and put it in her hand. She takes it, glances at it. Her eyes widen before blinking, and then I see tears.
    â€œProud of yourself?” she says softly.
    â€œWhat?”
    She looks down at it again, then gives it back to me. “So what?” she says.
    â€œYou were a dancer?”
    â€œAnd now I’m not.”
    We stand there, staring at each other and I can see that she despises me.
    â€œI’m someone better,” she whispers. She takes a long deep breath that has her face pointed up at the sky. “It was exciting for you,” she says. “To come here today. To my friend’s home. You found that. Or your father gave it to youand you couldn’t wait to hand it to me. Couldn’t contain the thrill of seeing me, of hurting me.”
    â€œNo. This was in a box in the garage and—”
    â€œYou decided to come here, in front of my friends?”
    â€œMom?” I say and touch her arm.
    She flinches. “I want you to leave.” I see a tear jump from her eye. “I love you,” she says and cries harder. “You’re my son, David. But I want you to leave here. I want you to leave.”
    The feeling is in my bones and blood. A trickling of nerve endings that prickles my skin. She walks back on the sidewalk, then runs to Becca and Debra on the porch. I get in the car and drive past them, watching them crane their necks as I go. My sister raises her hand to wave and I instinctively do the same, but she can’t see me. There’s no way she saw me. My mother’s tears are on my hand. Or maybe they’re mine. I’m crying, just here alone, driving and moaning like an idiot, like an actor in a movie, weeping as he goes, somewhere, nowhere, back to my father.
    T HE DANCER IS an