MY COUSIN NATHAN'S TUXEDO

This is not a story of how I came to believe. At best, it’s the story of how, with Hanukkah and Christmas colliding into each other, I came to believe that there might be something to believe in. 

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He cut quite a figure entering the cocktail reception, not only a cummerbund but tails and a stripe on each trouser leg, a tuxedo like from Tuxedo, where they were invented. And the guy in the suit wasn’t half bad, either.  I gave the hi-sign to my friend Priscilla, pressed into service as the guest-welcoming flautist. I was the guest-welcomer in chief. Prissy turned it down a notch. Everything out here was perfect; the breastwork screens and flowers on the wall, photo spread of the happy couple, my brother Jon and his intended, Bethany. And a hunk at 11 O’clock headed my way.

“Hello, welcome to the Sandrowitz-Jaffee wedding. Bride or Groom?”

“Your side. The groom’s side. I’m not actually invited, though. Nathan Sands”

Trace of an accent. I was thinking Bela Lugosi. After all, way back, we were from Romania. Does hunkiality compensate for accent? I was thinking yes. Then thinking scam artist. I counted the early-bird guests in the Irving’s of East Egg Swan Suite filling station. Six guests. Nathan would be the seventh guest. Was that the source for Don Giovanni? No. Stone Guest, that was it. Seventh Guest is a video game. He took my hand and kissed the palm, narrowly missing a tray of mimosas perambulating the room.

“Hilda Sandrowitz. What can I do for you, Mr. Sands?”

“You can accept my wedding present, if you like.” Somehow, the tux managed to have room for a giftwrapped tube, no mean feat for a garment designed for people who would never have to carry things. He pulled it out and offered it to me.

“This is the Ketubah of our great grandparents, Obadiah Sandrowitz and Miriam Levi. There’s also a strip of negatives from the wedding taken in 1890 in the Wooden Synagogue in Chisinau, Moldova. It used to be Romania. I was in a party exploring the crypt beneath the Shul, which had been destroyed by the communists during the Bender Revolt, but then rebuilt as part of Romanian cultural heritage. It wasn’t until recently that a reference was found about a crypt safeguarding tombs, documents, holy relics, sometimes people. I was shocked when I found this. Nobody in my family told me they spent time in Moldova. Then I had to trace what parts of which family went where. I’m on Ancestry.Com and 23 and Me, searchable.  My contact info is in the tube. We’re second cousins, you and your brother and myself. Please accept this piece of history as a sign that weddings will still continue, Boruch Hashem, Blessed is the Name.”

He passed me the blue and white tube and turned to leave.

“Wait. At least have a mimosa and some of those horse’s ovaries they’re pushing,” I half-giggled out.  “Have I seen you somewhere, like, recently? A bar? Shenanigans? Mets game?”

“It was Temple Emmanuel in Oyster Bay. I came to your brother’s Aufruf on Saturday. I was tossing nuts and raisins after he finished being called to the Torah. But so was everyone else. I think I will have a drink and a little snack, thank you.”

I pinky-beckoned a server and she set us up with a discrete table and got one of Bethany’s bridesmaids to fill in for me. 

“So, tell me the story. You must have loads of second and third cousins. Why are you giving us the Ketubah? Why not them?”

“Sadly, most of us didn’t make it during the war. My grandfather was a Party member and had some backup. So was Papa, but it was safe by then, Romania was more or less communist after Yalta. I grew up in Bucharest, went to school, got a degree in Plastic Arts, then decided to go to America. And here I am.”

“Plastic arts?”

“Mainly sculpture. It was a jumping off point. Grad school at Princeton for materials science and engineering, lots of cross-over there. If you want a lightweight chair that won’t collapse or rust, someone like me decided what went into it. One of my professors was a Sandrowitz; he heard my accent, which was thick back then, I think he was a second cousin once removed. I’ve never figured out how that worked. At least in Russian there’s a unique word for what kind of cousin is which. He gave me some leads; most didn’t pan out. But then I was in town and I read the social page in the Times, and there you folks were. You know, I should tell you, there’s more to the wedding present than a marriage contract and some pictures. Wanna do something cool? Can you absent yourself for 20 minutes?”

Jill, the junior bridesmaid, was okay with extended greeting duty. I was trying to parse what a Romanian cool thing might be. Something that might last for 20 minutes. In a facility with lots of rooms that involve changing clothes. I decided that Nathan wasn’t the type to put the moves on either a woman he had just met or a relative.

“Twenty minutes. Sure. Lead on, McDuff.” He led me by the arm to a cocktail reception three suites away. He waved to the greeter at whatever affair that was and she waved back. Hunkitude wins. We took a little table and we each had another mimosa, some stuffed mushrooms, pigs in blankets (kosher!) and ikura sashimi in cucumber curls. And sat and had a little chit chat.

“So what’s the deal with the petty larceny, cuz?”

“Oh, it’s just a thing I do whenever I’m at a tux event. It started out as an exercise in being American. To see if I could pass. I’ve never been busted. My observation is that these affairs are fungible. Perhaps the brides and grooms could be switched without anyone noticing. Perhaps rolls of wedding film could be shuffled without an eyebrow being raised. But sometimes I get a little networking done. Once I got into a conversation and wound up with a contract for materials analysis for a new type of bicycle. Once I got, well, if we’re both Romanian, I’m sure you know the lyrics to “Romania, Romania.”

I poked him a zetz in the ribs with my elbow.

“Cousin Nathan, just make sure you keep you karnatzelah to yourself. At least until the Sandrowitz-Jaffee wedding is over. So, what was that you were saying about another part of the wedding gift?”

“Let’s head back to safe territory.” Nathan waved at the greeter and, again, she smiled and waved back. Jill was happy to see us; the photo shoot was coming up and the cocktail reception was coming to an end. We took our old seats.

“Tell me about the bicycle, why don’t you?”

“Three-wheeler. Two in the front, one in the back. A legal motor scooter in New York State. You can pedal and get some exercise or switch on the electric booster motor. Take the kids to day care, pick up stuff from the deli, much cheaper than having a second car, no emissions of anything. I determined that it could be made cheaply from PVC piping. I hope it makes it to the market; I already cashed my check. Tell me, Hilda, are you more curious about the bike or the gift?”

“Well, I’m going to have to live the rest of my life in fear of global warming, so your scooter is interesting to me. I’d hate to see East Egg, West Egg, Orient Point, Long Beach, or Montauk lost. But I didn’t know it was a carbon reduction product as well when you mentioned it. You know, women like men who can build things. Must be genetic. Okay, Nathan. Tell me about the gift.”

“I notice you didn’t mind losing the Hamptons.”

“Who would mind, really?”

“Anyway, about the rest of the gift. It’s really two gifts. The first is knowledge. If you didn’t already know, our family has the BRCA 2 gene mutation. It’s far more common among Ashkenazi women than the general population. Men are at increased risk as well. You and your extended family should get tested. Women and men both. It could save your lives.”

“I haven’t heard of that before. I’m an Ashkenazi woman, and so is my doctor. You’d think someone would say something. And the last part of the gift?”

“Obadiah owned a farm. Grapes. And a winery. Its ownership got buffeted by the political winds. It’s in a trust now, but you and your brother Jon have what’s called a remainder interest in the estate. My mother must have pissed someone off, so I’m out. Along with my contact info in the tube, there’s documentation you can present to the Consulate on East 38^th Street in Manhattan.   Remember the song? “Oy, sis ah mechayah, trinken Raimish wine.”

I shot him a “huh?” look. I might have forgotten that part.

“A thing so good it could only be when the Messiah comes, is drinking Romanian wine.”

“It’s coming back to me. And a man who sleeps with his own wife is crazy.”

“I’m a bad influence on you at a wedding, aren’t I?”

“I believe mamaliga is one of the appetizers.” I gave him another zetz in the ribs. “So what are we going to do with you, Nathan Sands?”

“Talk to your zaydeh. He’ll know what to do.”

It was time. Prissy cued the organist who dove right into Mendelsohn’s Wedding March. The flower girl with her seeing-eye dog did a fabulous job. None of the wedding party got too drunk to do their parts or to have any of their parts pop out of their minimalist bridesmaid dresses. The Rabbi got everyone’s names right and he pulled out a mathematical trick from deep in the gematria when there were eight people for the seven blessings, the huppah canopy didn’t collapse, and no one who didn’t already know fingered Bethany as being knocked up. Vows and prayers were said, rings were exchanged, lips were kissed, and my big brother was now a husband.

The moveable feast irised outward to the banquet area.

Grandpa had a knowing look when I briefed him on the new arrival to the family and he diplomatically handled the Nathan situation. He was treated as an honored guest and given the empty seat at the right of the dais, the one saved for Elijah the Prophet should he decide to come to East Egg to announce the coming of the Messiah.

It was a boilerplate wedding, which is what everyone really wanted. Bethany and Jon had their first dance, “At Last,” as a married couple, then her father danced with her, and Jon led me across the floor. The machetunim, the four parents, were hoisted on chairs and paraded around the Grand Salon. The band backed up my cousin Bernie singing Romania, Romania; he had rehearsed for weeks to get the Yiddish right and the time signature for “zetz, ah diggity dum.” The correct number of teen guests were caught feeling each other up, smoking, caging drinks, or some combination of all of the above. The arguments about who was sitting at which table, and why, were vintage. Checks for wedding gifts were written out while the guests were waiting for the Viennese table. Toasts were made, stories were told, some tears were shed, someone found a hair in the vegetable soup. Jon and Bethany changed and headed to the Throgs Neck Bridge and up to the Finger Lakes for their honeymoon.

I managed to have one dance with Cousin Nathan; I absolutely wanted a picture of me dancing with a guy in an original monkey suit. He actually clicked his heels and did not quite bow, but executed a 45-degree head nod when he asked me to dance. Mom pressed me into service as the bag man, walking the floor and having people put envelopes in an antique carpet bag. Mr. Jaffee was a reverse bag man, passing out tips to the band, the photographer, and the catering staff. Seven hours and twenty-three minutes after I arrived, it was time to leave fantasy land for the real world. The band was actually playing “The Party’s Over.” I sought out Nathan, my new frelative, but he was nowhere to be found. I looked at the dais and at zaydeh, who had that knowing look again. The right-most chair had an empty tux draped over it, cummerbund, boutonniere, starched shirt and all. A pair of high-gloss wingtips was on the floor under the seat. I drafted the remaining ushers and maids to look for a tall, barefoot man in his gatkis, but no luck there. Hmm. An old Hebrew School engram neuron or three decided to fire and I suddenly remembered that Elijah had the ability to travel between heaven and earth. Bubeh Mainsers, old wive’s tales.

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After Nathan’s contact info turned out to be a drop box, the case of the missing relative was presided over by cousin Rona, a police captain at the 50^th precinct in Riverdale, now retired. She found one case of a complaint about a guy in an old tux crashing an affair in Suffolk County and “being creepy and mysterious.” Nothing about an accent, nothing about being tall. Rona called the complainant and texted her my picture of Nathan dancing with me. It wasn’t him.

Cousin Dan, Doctor Dan with the ABS News regular medical segment, briefed us all on a conference call about the genetic mutation, which likely started out in a shtetl somewhere between the Balkans and at what used to be Poland and had a well dug through a layer of pitchblende.  The test had been expensive and not covered by insurance except in special circumstances, so it usually wasn’t on a GP’s checklist. When the extent of the issue became known, the test got cheaper and was now just starting to be generally recommended to affected communities. Of the forty-two living descendants of Obadiah and Miriam, nine of us, including me, had either BRCA 1 or 2 or both. We would all have some thinking to do and plans to make. Dan assured us that knowing the results of the test would lead to the best clinical path. Being a science and data guy, dan estimated that running the tests on the family would save the lives of at least five of the nine. Rona asked him if he thought the test was now widely promoted because a target community was located and the testing company could make a massive profit because of the scale; Dan told her that was likely and that he wasn’t surprised she made a good cop.

Dad, Jon, and I walked zaydeh into the Romanian consulate after he spat on the sidewalk in full view of the security cameras. Who could blame and old guy for doing some public hocking? We presented Nathan’s documents; Jon and I were entitled to the vineyard and winery. If we resettled on the land, the deed would be passed to us. That was a non-starter. We asked if we could just sell it, and the Consular Officer assured us that we could, and then printed out a list of the transfer taxes, real estate taxes due, foreign investment taxes, sales taxes, and the tax on stupidly believing that we could walk away with a deed or some cash. Ultimately the Officer and Jon, far more soft-spoken than Dad or zaydeh, negotiated a deal in which Jon and I would each receive two cases of wine every year. The oh-so-impeccable in speech brother of mine managed to slip in a rider that we would have the trademark rights to Sands Wine, Sandrowitz Wine, Raimish (a Ladino word, not a Romanian one) wine, or any combination of those words. Apparently, Nathan was the real deal after all, even if we couldn’t find him.

Jon and I were the last of us to obsess over Nathan. Maybe except for zaydeh, who added a smile to his knowing look when we talked about it. Jon decided on one big push before dropping it, and my big brother brought all of his lawyerly chops to the task. He went all-out Watergate, the John Doar method, every fact with its time, location, and persons involved on seven different colors of index cards. We met at a Blarney Stone on the East Side, sat in the back, handed the bartender two hundred and told him to bring us Jameson’s until the money ran out. He laid out the cards, we looked at them. Shuffled. Looked. Repeat. On one layout of the cards in chronological order, it hit us. If none of us had been tested, and the test wasn’t done in the last generation and wasn’t available before that, how could Nathan have known we had BRCA mutations? It was points-for Jon’s wedding being a visitation. Pretty cool.

As for me, I went out and bought triple-cute cocktail dress, a red carpet-worthy evening gown, and fuck-me shoes. Like Nathan, I would wander down three suites from the affair I had been invited to, have a drink and a nosh, maybe chat, maybe let myself be ogled. After being invited to two Bar Mitzvahs and a wedding, I finally saw the tuxedo sitting at a discrete table with a red-haired, slightly zaftig pre-matron who was paying my—what? Cousin? Apparition?—her full attention. When Mrs. Greenberg returned to the call of duty of the Morgenstern—Greenberg wedding, the tux pivoted my way and made the universal phone gesture, pointed to himself, and then to me. He would call me. I was happy he was here, but I wouldn’t be holding my breath.