Little Cat

I’d stayed inside synagogue longer than Ezrah because sometimes I liked hearing the people singing, that wailing coming out of their nostrils.

Ezrah always made fun of me for wanting to stay. ‘Being a good little Jew?’ he asked when I got in the back seat with him.

‘No. I don’t understand what they’re saying.’

‘Yeah? That’s because it’s in Hebrew.’

‘I know, Stupid, but it still bugs me. You’d think I would understand something after all this time.’

‘Why?’

Ezrah was staring at my dress.

‘Because what’s the point of being there if you don’t understand anything? What’s the point of standing up and sitting down if you don’t understand what the rabbi says?’

‘You’re not supposed to.’

‘You are too. People understand a priest when they go to church.’

‘Whatever, Mira. You want to go to church?’

‘I would understand it at least.’

‘No you wouldn’t. You’re Jewish.’

‘Because our family is.’

‘No, because you are.’

‘Well, I’m not. I don’t feel it.’

‘That’s really fucked up, Mira. You know what the Jews have been through to survive? You know how amazing our religion is? Don’t say that.’

Ezrah always acted the same. Ezrah always looked the same. It was something about his eyes – he always scrunched them up to sound moral. I wasn’t going to be Jewish just because he made me feel guilty. I knew there was something I was really supposed to feel. What was the point of doing it all if I didn’t ever feel a thing?

I assumed everyone felt something when they were in the temple. I remember how proud Nadia looked when she went to church with her mother. In a taffeta skirt that was black blood red and high heels, she looked like God was going to personally inspect her. She told me once that her mother said that they had to dress up for God so that God could feel their respect. I’d never even imagined that God could be in a man shape, with man thoughts. I thought God was more like a bird than a man, whipping and trapped up at the rafters.

‘All Jews believe in God,’ said Ezrah. ‘It’s totally different than believing in God if you’re Christian. God, for Jews, in case you care, is a moral force.’

That was fucking funny. I imagined moral God as some light-sabre Luke who whispered in people’s ears as they stood up and sang. Keep singing for me, Sir. Keep singing for me, Miss. Moral God’s voice would be deep and fulfilling: I’ll watch you, Man. I’ll protect you, Woman. Just keep rocking back and forth. Isn’t this the only reason people would do it every Saturday? Because they felt God as a moral force breathing inside them, because they could feel some real presence worming into their heads? I knew that the feeling of God would have to exaggerate things like this. Until there was some kind of needy hole in your system – like the beak of a baby bird waiting for its mama, shrieking until she drops nourishment through. If you prayed every day you developed this hole and God would stick his little moral tongue through.

Ezrah reached into the front seat and put on the radio. ‘I want you to come and visit me at Thanksgiving. You should really meet some of my friends, Mir.’

The song was on loud, something about a baby shaking conga.

‘Will you shut that off,’ I snapped.

Ezrah turned the radio off and looked at me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing.’

Then silence.

‘What the fuck is up, Mira?’

‘You look like you’re working hard these d

ays,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘What’s up? You a doctor yet?’