An American Dream
““No.”
“I was hoping perhaps you were Polish Catholic. Rojack, you know.”
“I’m half Jewish.”
“What is the other half?”
“Protestant. Nothing really.”
“Nothing really,” she said. “Come, take me home.” And she was depressed.
It took eight years for me to find out why, seven years of living my own life and a first year of being married to her. It took all of that first year for me to understand that Deborah had prejudices which were as complex and attractive as passions. Her detestation of Jewish Protestants and Gentile Jews was complete. “They know nothing about grace,” she finally explained to me.
Like any other exceptional Catholic, Deborah was steeped in her idea of grace. Grace was a robber bridegroom, grace was the specter in our marriage bed. When things went badly, she would say sorrowfully, even remotely, “I used to be filled with grace, and now I’m not.” When she had been pregnant, grace had come to her again. “I don’t think God is so annoyed at me any more,”
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