Books : Fax Me a Bagel : Excerpts

Chapter 1

You haven't lived until you've died in Eternal, Texas.

This particular death hit me on a personal level -- I saw it happen. The shock doesn't wear off even by bedtime, when I drag myself to my computer and type a quick e-mail message to my friend Nan in Seattle. It's midnight in Texas, ten o'clock on the West Coast, and I know Nan will be hovering near her screen. We've saved a fortune on phone calls since we discovered electronic mail.

No salutation - we never bother:

E-mail from: Ruby
To: Nan
Subject: Oy
Today a woman dropped dead in the bagel bakery right in front of my eyes. More later.

Nan's used to cryptic messages from me when I'm in a hurry, but I know this one will have her reeling.

The Day from Hell starts at midmorning -- one of those August in Texas "ninety-nine and ninety-niners" -- ninety-nine degree temperature and ninety-nine percent humidity. I feel bagel lust coming on, so I throw on my day-off uniform, a pair of cutoffs with a split in the thigh I don't notice until I'm halfway to the bagel bakery. On top I'm wearing the Born to Bake tee shirt Joshie gave me last year as a reminder of his culinarily deprived childhood at the hands of a mother who collected gorgeous cookbooks just to look at the food. It's barely eleven o'clock, so I figure, dress-wise, I'm safe from congregational eyes -- after all, who eats lunch at eleven?

Wrong. The place is a zoo. I have to stand in line and take a number from the machine, which turns out to be number 46 -- my age. Not a good omen. Even though they're up to number 36, I know I ought to turn tail while I have the chance, but what can I tell you -- the thought of a piping hot bagel washed down by a freezing can of Diet Coke seduces me.

I'm standing in line daydreaming like I usually do in crowds, not noticing anyone around me, when someone taps my shoulder from behind. I turn around and look. It's Essie Sue Margolis, aka Honorary Permanent ViceChairman of the temple board, dressed in a white silk suit untouched by human hands. I plotz. When Stu was alive he called her the Terminator in Drag. Stu, so shy and soft-spoken in public, survived rabbinic life by privately zeroing in on any sign of phoniness. He had Essie Sue down pat.

She looks at the slightly pinkish spot on my Born to Bake shirt where the pizza sauce wouldn't wash out, offhandedly dusts off her creased white silks in case anything from me got on her, and then gazes at me with a sad smile that would melt chicken schmaltz.

"Ruby Rothman, how are you?" she says. Essie Sue has been giving me her condolence smile for a year and a half now. A full year after Stu was killed, I repeated an innocuous joke in her presence and she told me she thought humor was highly inappropriate so soon after.

Essie Sue's mission when she first laid eyes on me twenty-one years ago was to see that I was never "inappropriate." She landed on our doorstep the day we moved to town. At the time, I was taking doggie-do out of the baby's hands and wondering if the water in the new house had been turned on. Essie Sue was undaunted by mere plumbing -- this was a woman who would dress to take the garbage out, if she were ever in such an unfortunate position.

That's the short version of who Essie Sue Margolis is. Even though I'm not in her power anymore, whenever I run into her the first thing I think of is -- what's she going to try to make me do? One of the first things Essie Sue wanted to change about me was my "unruly" dark red hair -- not a chance, of course. I like it short and curly -- it's easy to care for. She said Jews weren't supposed to have green eyes and red hair and didn't I think red hair, even dark red hair, wasn't dignified? For what it was worth, I told her lots of biblical figures were redheads. Some were, actually, but this was not a woman who sweated the details. She also didn't understand why I became a computer consultant in addition to my true calling as Official Wife, but since the job was freelance, she chose to ignore it.

Essie Sue's totally nondescript sister Marla is standing in line beside her, holding on to their number 47. Marla was number 2 in their childhood hierarchy and still is. She and her daughter Glenda moved here, when Glenda was a child, to be near Essie Sue and her husband. Marla looks like Essie Sue with the air let out. They're tall, and both sport shades of blond -- Essie Sue's short sculpted cut has been Golden Honey for years now, so Marla is stuck with the Ash Wednesday pageboy -- three shades lighter but still coordinated. Essie Sue goes with her to buy all her clothes, I hear, and they apparently compare notes to make sure they never wear clashing colors. Guess who does the coordinating?

Essie Sue has now pushed Marla in front of her, and I'm hoping it'll cut down on the conversation. It's strange, to find Marla standing in front of Essie Sue for any reason -- it's usually the other way around. I know why, though -- Essie Sue has put Marla in front so Marla can be the one to give the bagel order to my friend Milt Aboud, the Lebanese version of the Pillsbury doughboy and owner of The Hot Bagel. Essie Sue hasn't spoken to Milt for twenty years, but she's not about to let a lifetime grudge make her miss out on the best bakery in Eternal. Marla gets along with Milt these days, and besides, she doesn't have the energy for grudges.

I'm finally inching up to the head of the line. Milt calls my number 46. Just as I'm ready to give my usual order, Essie Sue says, "Ruby, darling, you know my hubby's blood sugar problem. He has to eat lunch on the stroke of twelve so you won't mind if Marla and I get in front of you."

No question mark here. Essie Sue doesn't know from question marks -- declarative is her permanent mode. She says it and expects you to get it. She steps in front of me, exchanges our numbers, and pushes Marla right to the counter. Marla hands Milt the number and gives Essie Sue's order, plus a dozen cinnamon raisin (it figures) for herself, with a special almond raisin on top for the extra. Essie Sue turns her back to Milt and concentrates on me.

"So what brings you here so early in the day?" she says.

"Just indulging in my midweek bagel craving," I say, trying to anticipate her next move, which I assume will be some not-so-subtle reference to my expanding waistline. I attempt an end run.

"Nice that they give the thirteenth bagel for free, isn't it?" I say.

"Baker's dozen," she says. "They all have to do that."

Of course, Milt is the only one in town who does, but that doesn't stop her.

"I only eat the thirteenth bagel, myself," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"That's the only one I eat," she says, looking at me as if I'm too impaired to understand the obvious. "I allow myself one garlic bagel a week, and I give the rest to Hal -- he can use the extra calories. He likes a poppyseed on Mondays and Thursdays, plain on Saturday and Sunday, and onion on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. Pumpernickel I save for people who drop in."

I stare at her in silent wonder, not dreaming of asking how come. This I learned years ago -- mine not to question why. Another conversation stopper, I tell myself. I mean, what do you actually say to this? Realizing that Milt had more luck than brains to escape from years of conversation with this woman, I simply nod my head mindlessly and hope that MY turn comes soon.

Milt's new place is cavernous, so the air conditioning's lukewarm and has to compete with hot ovens from the back of the counter. His bakers and helpers are in full view -- filling orders at long wooden tables facing the eating area. This morning they look like droopy storks with their grungy white hats wilting in that midday heat.

I'm getting very thirsty when I finally hear my new number called.

"Your turn, Ruby -- don't wait all day." Milt reaches out and turns my shoulder back toward the counter. We exchange a look, but say nothing about our common enemy, who, having made her purchase, is holding her sister's arm as she snakes them both around the tables of seated customers to see if there's anyone in the room worth hello-ing.

"You should talk," I say. "I feel as though I've been in line forever. Now that this place is the gold mine I predicted it would be, how about some more air conditioners? You can afford it."

"Wish we could talk," Milt says as he fills my usual order for twelve plain to take home and an almond raisin as a treat for now, "but this line of customers would stone me. This ain't a good day." He wipes his neck with his big white sleeve and reties his apron around his doughboy stomach.

"Come on, Milt -- you just don't want to let me in on the millions you're racking up in this place."

"Millions from bagels? Try it sometime."

He changes the subject to the usual. "When are you going to help me shop for my fax machine, Ruby? What good does it do me to have a techie in my life if I don't get any benefit from of it? The business customers love to fax lunch orders -- it's the new toy." Milt reaches back to get my overstuffed bagel bag, which has been filled in about two seconds. "I won't charge you if you'll set a date."

"No, go ahead and charge me," I say. "I can't do it this week. Definitely next. I thought you couldn't talk now."

"Now who's doing the avoiding, Ruby?"

"Soon. I promise, Milt. And just for your information, faxes aren't new -- you're probably the last business in town without one."

He makes a last try before going to the next customer. "They're toys and you know it."

Now for the worst part -- I have to get out of here without running into yet more yentas. Hello-ing is definitely not my cup of tea, and besides, I hate spending an extra half hour just working my way to the front door. I've learned that being a rabbi's wife is not something you graduate from in this life. I once thought that maybe with Stu gone -- much as I miss him -- my title would go, too. No such luck.

Of course, my role would have been easier if I'd been able to master even some of the most elementary tricks of life as a public person. One well-meaning rabbi's wife once told me I should practice learning the names of each group I ran into. If I were at a Women's Guild board meeting, I should jot down the names of those attending and count them out before I fell asleep at night -- like sheep jumping over low stone walls. Right. I tried it and my sheep with congregants faces all jumped over cliffs and disappeared.

As I'm edging my way out of The Hot Bagel (I've learned that the side of a room is a much better escape route than the middle) I see that Essie Sue has found someone worthy of her attention. She and Marla have joined a group of anorexically fashionable people, which I notice includes two of the ladies on my permanent list of avoidables. I'm almost at the door with my mind already in neutral, when I'm vaguely aware of something going on in the middle of the room. Or rather, I'm aware of something not going on.

There's this certain decibel level of crowd chatter that suddenly dies out. It takes me a few seconds to take in the scene. Almost in slow motion, I'm aware of people circling back from an open spot in the center of the room. The round space in the circle enlarges from doughnut size to wading pool. Tables are pushed back and people stand up and step backward.

It's eerie -- like a huge, collective breath is being held. At first, there's only this hushed vacuum in the center of all the tables. The silence pushes out in concentric circles -- then it breaks.

The next thing I know, someone is yelling, "She's having some sort of seizure. Do something." I finally snap into focus. Without thinking what I'm doing, I look toward the table where Essie Sue and Marla had been seated. I head around pant legs and past big bottoms and endless chairs until I find the table. Marla is sprawled on the floor, and all I can think of is that she's "crazy dancing." One Halloween -- years ago -- Joshie had this witch toy connected to a pumpkin base. When a button at the base was pushed, the Witch's segmented arms and legs twitched in all directions, and it bent and jerked at the waist. Joshie said to me, "I'm scared, Mommy. This witch is crazy dancing." That's what it reminds me of -- Marla's upper body folded at the waist like that black and orange toy on its base.

I bend down to put a hand on Marla's shoulder when all of a sudden the stiff movements stop. Marla's rather pale gray eyes stare wide open and her mouth contorts like one of those photos halted in mid-action. The seizures just end -- as if an immense shudder is passing through her body, leaving her a rigid stick figure.

That coordinated pantsuit is absorbing a trickle of pink pop dripping from a bottle on the table. She lies on her back, her left leg twisted at an outlandish angle. The bag of bagels spills at her side almost daintily. Her mouth is open, terribly crooked, and absolutely silent.

I've noticed details all my life, and I have really strong intuitions. I don't know what details make me so absolutety certain that Marla is dead. Maybe it's the absence of detail.

I hear somebody shout, "Call a doctor." A doctor I'm not, but she looks dead and I know this was no ordinary heart attack -- I've seen too many heart attack victims.

I look up from her lying there and catch Milt's eye. He's frozen behind his Formica counter. Then he gazes beyond me and I turn around to see what he's looking at. I've forgotten about Essie Sue. She's totally speechless -- pale and just staring down at her sister on the floor.

* * *

I'm finally ready to try sleep, but I log on to the computer again just to see if Nan received my e-mail message. There's a short note from her:

E-mail from: Nan
To: Ruby
Subject: Riveted to the Spot

Don't dare forget to write me tomorrow with the whole story -- this sounds awful!

P.S. I know you, Ruby -- Don't get too embroiled.

Embroiled? Me?