Page 28, “The Persuasion”
“So you are Jewish. You’ve got a Jewish mother.”
“Technically, yes, except I was brought up Episcopalian. My uncle converted and once Erika walked into St. John’s, she never looked back. Too bad for me. No dreidls or Chanukah gelt.”
He undid his collar button and ran his hand along the back of his neck. Hairy just under the Adam’s apple like my father. He might as well have taken off his shirt. “So I’m talking too much. What about you? Parents, grandparents, country of origin?”
I wasn’t used to being the interviewee—“you ask so many questions,” people said—and I was particularly reluctant when it came to family. “When were you born? You first.”
“May 23, 1947. When’s yours?”
I didn’t know what to say. If I spoke too quickly, he’d think I wanted to make something of it. If I didn’t acknowledge it and he found out later, he might think I actually lied sometimes. Later?
I nodded again.
I nodded and pushed away a curl that creeping toward my mouth.
“Really. How cool is that? We’ll celebrate together next year.” He pumped my hand. "Deal."
“Stop it.” I pulled back and pointed to the book he’d had under his arm with the Herald Tribune. “What’s with the Chekhov?”
“It’s honest. I didn’t bring it to impress you. Double degree from The Sorbonne, Russian literature and architecture. I started this year at Columbia, by the way—hey, we might have seen each other last summer. Were you there?”
I nodded again. “Can’t you tell a story without interrupting yourself?”
“There’s so much to say, Lois Lane. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
“Try chronological order.”