m a letter—handwrite it—
eir house, ask if you can
to them , then let it go.
“I was with you up until the ‘go to their house
and read it to them’ part,” I said.
“Yeah, you’ve got to go to their house and
read it to them. We’ve got a prayer.” He
switched boobs. “I don’t remember it verbatim,
but basically it says, ‘how can we expect God
to forgive us, if we can’t forgive the sins of
others?’”
“Hmm,” I said. Great prayer, but handdelivering a letter, and opening myself up to
being yelled at, slapped, or spit on, seemed rough
to me.
He then went on to say that once a year
everyone from his temple gets together, goes
down to the ocean, and watches all their sins and
grudges float out to sea.
“Josh and Rachel are good Jews,” I said. “I
don’t suppose I should mention anything about
speaking to you and the Yom Kippur prayer in
my letter, should I?”
“Probably not. You’re not Jewish. They might
think you’re being manipulative. Get dressed
and meet me in my office.” He was about to shut
the door, but poked his head back in and said,
“You’re not a bad person, Kath. You made a
mistake. Unintentional. You caused your friends
a lot of pain, but you’re not a bad person.” He
shut the door.
This, coming from the guy whose last name
is Rickles and whose parents happened to have
liked the name Donald. Yup, Dr. Don Rickles,
the gynecologist. Don Rickles, the deep-thinking
spiritual guide/gynecologist. Never once has he
called me a hockey puck. I love Dr. Don Rickles.
He didn’t think I was a bad person. Now I love
him even more.
That afternoon, I went home and wrote Josh
and Rachel an amends letter and said things
like, “My actions were indefensible.” I closed it
out with, “I understand if you want to end the
friendship, but I love you guys dearly and hurting
you is the last thing I’d ever intentionally do.”
No, I didn’t read it to them at their door. No,
I didn’t handwrite it. I typed it and sent it the
exact same way the original letter bomb was
delivered. E-mail. Turns out, old Josh is a way
better person than I would be if the situation
were reversed. He agreed to meet my husband
and me for dinner.
My husband grumbled the entire way there,
but endured the encounter, and on the way home
said, “You were like a Judo master.”
“What do you mean?” I was thrilled at the
prospect of hearing something nice, since the
entire focus of the dinner was about what a piece
of shit I was.
“You used the might of their blows to disable
them. They were ready for a fight, and you didn’t
give them anyone to fight with.”
“Oh.” I lit a cigarette. “There wasn’t anything
else I could do.”
“Hey!” he said as he pulled his quiet Prius up
to the light. “You can stop beating yourself up
now.”
“I guess we’re not invited to the annual Breakthe-fast this year either, huh?”
My Jewish husband laughed. He’s always
said I’m more Jewish than he’ll ever be. “I could
give a shit about Break-the-fast,” he said. “I’m
proud of you.” He tousled my hair. “When we
get home, I’m going to teach you how to send
someone an email address. In the meantime, how
about you not say anything in an email that you
wouldn’t say standing on a street corner with a
megaphone. How about that?”
“Good call,” I said and we drove home.