Shira sat between Ben and Liz, her damp hands clutching both Ben’s and Liz’s as the lights went down. They were seated third row center for the performance and Shira was more nervous than Ben had ever seen her.
The temple’s president appeared, and introduced Shira’s father with a lengthy, eye-roll-worthy, superlative-filled salutatory. You would think Cantor Joel Weissmann was the second coming of Al Jolson, Pavarotti, and Frank Sinatra, the way that Morris Lookstein carried on.
“He’s got a voice,” Shira said, “but this is ridiculous. This will do his towering ego no good.”
Liz laughed and shushed Shira.
Ben tried to relax as Shira’s father took center stage. Ben recognized many of the songs and was surprised how much he enjoyed himself. This material was much better than the liturgical stuff Ben had been forced to sit through over the years, and he saw his father-in-law in a new light, his polymath skills on full display. The show ended with a rousing rendition of Neil Diamond’s “America,” in which Cantor Weissmann was joined on stage by a family of Syrian refugees that the Women’s League had sponsored to resettle in Boston.
After a lengthy ovation, Liz turned to Shira and said, “Did I see your dad do a thing with his hips up there? Or am I crazy?” Liz laughed, thrusting out her own hips.
“He can be so mortifying,” Shira said.
“But he’s good!” Liz said. “I got all weepy-eyed during his ‘Sound of Silence’ duet.”
It was a feel-good show, and Ben had almost...
Subscribe now to keep reading
Please enter your email to log in or create a new account.