was open Saturdays, she didn’t go in. She kept coin in her pocket, spent it if she wanted to, used the television, the car, the oven, her curling iron, in fact, all manner of things electrical or requiring fuel. During the week, Laura Anne served as store accountant and worked the floor with the sales force. Her specialties were kitchen and bedroom furnishings. Most days, she put in long hours, but her duties were light on Sundays. She recorded the Saturday receipts and sent out invoices, monitored both incoming and delivery orders while her daddy did the payroll and inventoried stock. Laura Anne had an associate’s degree in business administration from the junior college, but her real preparation for her job came from life with Daddy. She liked to think he taught her everything she knew. It was only rarely that she wondered what else in the world she might like to learn, but somehow her ruminations tended to lead to bouts of agitation, so whenever fancy chanced to visit she distracted herself by chanting one of Daddy’s maxim’s, “If it was that much fun, they wouldn’t call it work,” or lost herself in numbers.
Although the women of the house observed the Sabbath in their fashion, the patriarch didn’t at all. Motivated by social obligation as much as piety, Laura Anne and Mama often went to services at Temple Ohabai Shalom, the largest Reform synagogue in three counties, while Daddy took Saturday mornings off to sleep in. In the afternoon, he went to the store. Sometimes, fresh from rabbinical exhortation, Mama resented his behavior and cajoled him to change his heathen habits on his way out the door. Daddy would respond, Dang it all, I have a living to make in Babylon. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. No one, especially not Laura Anne, dared criticize him or point out his amalgamation of empires. Nor did she think to complain that she and Mama were restricted by religious law solely because of their gender. In those days, there were many restrictions upon young women of both secular and religious nature. The rules of living in the Needleman household seemed as natural to a child of the river as breathing moist air.
That particular Sunday, she worked hard at keeping Daddy in the dark about her moment of truth the previous evening. Out of fear he’d know everything if he looked in her eyes, she kept her back to him as much as she could, pretending to be busy with lists and sales slips, responding to his small talk with pleasantries and noncommittal expressions like uh-huh and mmm.
Lot Needleman knew his little girl well. After half an hour of evasive chitchat, he made a phone call. Although he used a phone out of range of her hearing, she caught his tone and knew he’d called Mama. When he hung up, he pushed back his chair. It screeched against the linoleum. The sound sent a chill down her spine. He approached, put a hand on her arm, turned her around to face him, and looked her up and down, slowly, head to toe. It was like being seared in a skillet.
Lot Needleman, né Laurence, was so nicknamed by his employees not on his own account but for his wife’s strange habit of glancing over her shoulder regularly while in ordinary conversation as if she were pursued by an army of avenging angels. It stuck because his proportions were this side of biblical. He was tall and red as a cedar post, a stocky man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, a man who exuded an air of physical power much in contrast to the fragile figure of his wife, Rose, a hothouse flower, who struggled to support his every decision in return for the security he provided her. He wore a large gold-and-diamond ring on his right pinkie, the kind of ring that looked as if it could rip a nostril off the face it took aim at. Everything about him indicated he was a man with fire in the blood.
Accustomed to only the gentlest of looks from the man, Laura Anne liked to shake in her shoes. He said, That boy last night treat you right, baby?
O
Although the women of the house observed the Sabbath in their fashion, the patriarch didn’t at all. Motivated by social obligation as much as piety, Laura Anne and Mama often went to services at Temple Ohabai Shalom, the largest Reform synagogue in three counties, while Daddy took Saturday mornings off to sleep in. In the afternoon, he went to the store. Sometimes, fresh from rabbinical exhortation, Mama resented his behavior and cajoled him to change his heathen habits on his way out the door. Daddy would respond, Dang it all, I have a living to make in Babylon. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. No one, especially not Laura Anne, dared criticize him or point out his amalgamation of empires. Nor did she think to complain that she and Mama were restricted by religious law solely because of their gender. In those days, there were many restrictions upon young women of both secular and religious nature. The rules of living in the Needleman household seemed as natural to a child of the river as breathing moist air.
That particular Sunday, she worked hard at keeping Daddy in the dark about her moment of truth the previous evening. Out of fear he’d know everything if he looked in her eyes, she kept her back to him as much as she could, pretending to be busy with lists and sales slips, responding to his small talk with pleasantries and noncommittal expressions like uh-huh and mmm.
Lot Needleman knew his little girl well. After half an hour of evasive chitchat, he made a phone call. Although he used a phone out of range of her hearing, she caught his tone and knew he’d called Mama. When he hung up, he pushed back his chair. It screeched against the linoleum. The sound sent a chill down her spine. He approached, put a hand on her arm, turned her around to face him, and looked her up and down, slowly, head to toe. It was like being seared in a skillet.
Lot Needleman, né Laurence, was so nicknamed by his employees not on his own account but for his wife’s strange habit of glancing over her shoulder regularly while in ordinary conversation as if she were pursued by an army of avenging angels. It stuck because his proportions were this side of biblical. He was tall and red as a cedar post, a stocky man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, a man who exuded an air of physical power much in contrast to the fragile figure of his wife, Rose, a hothouse flower, who struggled to support his every decision in return for the security he provided her. He wore a large gold-and-diamond ring on his right pinkie, the kind of ring that looked as if it could rip a nostril off the face it took aim at. Everything about him indicated he was a man with fire in the blood.
Accustomed to only the gentlest of looks from the man, Laura Anne liked to shake in her shoes. He said, That boy last night treat you right, baby?
O
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