Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife by Brenda Wilhelmson Read Free Book Online

dancing with the men.
    “You’ve got to be kidding,” Charlie said when I told him how things were going to go. “I don’t have to go, do I?”
    “Hope and Paul will be there,” I said. “You and Paul can dance together.”
    Charlie stared daggers at me.
    “Oh come on, it’ll be fun.”
    “No it won’t.”
    Audrey had booked an expensive Orthodox musician who played blues and klezmer and had performed at Carnegie Hall.
    “Why spend all that money on a band when you can’t dance?” I’d asked her when she told me I couldn’t eat or dance with Charlie.
    “The men dance together and the women dance together,” she said. “‘Fiddler on the Roof’ kind of stuff.”
    “Why can’t husbands and wives dance together?”
    “The men might get excited seeing women they’re not married to swinging their hips.”
    “Oh.”
    “Make sure you wear a dress or a skirt that hits no higher than the knee,” Audrey said. “And no spaghetti straps or low necklines. Wear something with long sleeves. And don’t hug or kiss my dad or brothers. Women don’t touch men they’re not married to.”
    I wondered if Audrey and Nehemiah were supposed to have sex through a hole in the sheet tonight.
    Charlie and I arrived at Audrey’s shul and a young girl hung up our coats. We moved toward the appetizer tables and Charlie grabbed my arm. “Is that Audrey’s husband-to-be?” he asked, twitching his head toward a large, overweight black man wearing a black hat and black suit. He was surrounded by a bunch of white guys wearing the same thing.
    “Gotta be,” I said. I hadn’t gotten a good look at him through Audrey’s cracked bedroom door. “He’s the only black Jew here.”
    Charlie snickered. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Roger, Audrey’s brother. He was planting his walker and swinging his hips and legs forward and moving in my direction. He pulled up next to me, sweating profusely. “Roger!” I said and gave him a big hug and kiss, ignoring Audrey’s warning. I hadn’t seen Roger since his motorcycle accident several months ago. Roger and I had gone to Sturgis, South Dakota, for bike week eleven years ago. We’d ridden out with the Chicago Hog Chapter, partied with thousands of bikers, saw ZZ Top, and had a blast. Earlier this year, Roger was riding along a canyon road in Arizona when he lost control of his bike, skidded toward the edge of a cliff, and a van ran him over, breaking three of his vertebrae.
    “You look good,” I told him.
    “I been doin’ a lot of physical therapy,” Roger said. “They say there’s a chance I could walk again.”
    “I bet you will,” I said. “You already are.” “Hey you guys,” Hope said, walking over with Paul. “Where’s Audrey?”
    “In a room back there,” Roger said, motioning with his thumb over his shoulder.
    Hope and I grabbed a few appetizers and headed in that direction. The room was packed with women. We looked around and caught sight of Audrey sitting on a throne-like chair surrounded by women.
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    “Everyone’s giving Audrey their good wishes,” Hope said.
    We made our way through a sea of wigs—married Orthodox women have to hide their hair from men they’re not married to—and reached Audrey. She beamed when she saw us and got up and hugged us.
    “We’re here to give you our good wishes,” I said.
    “Make ’em great,” Audrey said. “I have God’s ear now. He’s listening.”
    “I wish you and your family good health, gobs of money, and lots and lots of happiness,” I said. “You deserve it.”
    “Thanks,” Audrey said, tears welling up in her eyes.
    “You okay?” I asked.
    “Yeah,” she said, looking sick to her stomach but trying to appear happy.
    “Well,” I said, squeezing Audrey’s hand. “A lot of women are lined up to see you.” I gave her a peck on the cheek. “Love ya,” I said and stepped aside so Hope could move in.
    Hope and I left the room and returned to the virtually