Three Balconies Read Free Page A

account.
    â€œStill and all,” said Bobby, “I’d like to go.”
    â€œThen it’s case closed,” said Kate, who had no history of denying Bobby the smallest pleasure. (Bobby, it should be noted, did what he could to hold up his end.)
    â€œAnd besides,” she added, “I’ve never been to a bar mitzvah.”
    When Timmy and his wife came out to meet Bobby and Kate at the Sacramento Airport, Bobby was struck by the dramatic change in his friend’s appearance. He had expected him to have aged, of course; but Timmy’s shoulders were now stooped, he had on rimless glasses, and he had a full head of gray curls, worn much
in the style of the noted attorney Alan Dershowitz. To Bobby’s way of thinking, Timmy, whose face had once resembled the much remarked upon Map of Ireland, now looked Jewish. Rebecca was a petite, dark-haired woman whose features indicated that she had once been a beauty. But her face now seemed sallow and disappointed. Bobby chalked this up to the strains of preparing for a major religious event. Or perhaps it was the nature and rigors of her medical specialty. Both men took turns introducing their wives, Timmy and Kate exchanging a complex look, an ex-Catholic meeting a casual if not a lapsed one.
    As they prepared to leave the terminal, Timmy dropped all formality and embraced Bobby with undisguised emotion.
    â€œTo come all the way out here for my kid’s bar mitzvah is above and beyond. You have no idea how much this means to me and Becky.”
    Though he was still unsettled by the steep price of the roundtrip tickets, Bobby replied: “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
    A small dinner was held for friends and immediate family that night at Timmy and Rebecca’s home, several miles from the city. Timmy mixed cocktails for Bobby and Kate. He said they had bought the spacious Colonial from a Vegas entertainer whose career was on the downslide.
    â€œFrankly, when we first took a look at the place, it was tacky as all get-out. But then Becky here took over,” he said, with a fond gesture in his wife’s direction, “and voila.”
    â€œI did use a decorator,” put in the oncologist, modestly.
    â€œNever mind,” said Timmy sharply. Then he turned to the visitors. “Trust me . . . it was her eye all the way.”
    The interior was indeed warm in feeling and tastefully decorated. There were several Chagalls on the walls, originals, for all Bobby knew, and handsome items of Judaica on the various tables and mantelpieces.
    Timmy caught Bobby staring at an exquisitely carved Menorah.

    â€œIn case you’re wondering,” said the host, “we picked that baby up in the port of Haifa.”
    Bobby was seated between Timmy’s in-laws. Benjamin Glassman, a retired CPA, barely spoke. When he asked for the salt, it was in a whisper. Mrs. Glassman, a formidable, full-bosomed woman, had the same aggrieved look as her daughter. She brightened only when she learned that Bobby was to be her seatmate. Bobby, no doubt with some presumption, felt he could read her thoughts: “How come my daughter couldn’t have met a nice Jewish boy like you?”
    After the Hispanic couple – hired for the evening – had served dessert and coffee, Timmy took Bobby aside and asked him what his name was in Hebrew.
    Bobby, who could not recall what he had done three nights before, surprised himself by replying instantly.
    â€œYitzchak.”
    â€œGreat,” said Timmy, scribbling down the name . . . and not even asking how it was spelled.
    He then said that Bobby, as a dear friend, would have the honor of reading a section of the torah at the bar mitzvah ceremony. He handed Bobby a sheet of paper with the passage printed in Hebrew; after a quick glance, Bobby was surprised once again. Though it had been years since he had looked at a passage of Hebrew text, he remembered how to pronounce the words, though