Back in the 90s I deserted New York to spend the Christmas holidays with my family on the South Shore.
Despite my abandonment of God as a child my mother persisted in requesting my attendance at Midnight Mass. It was a small sacrifice to make for the woman who brought me into this world and I always said, "Sure.”
One Christmas Eve I dressed in a dark-gray suit with a black cashmere polo shirt.
My mother came into the bedroom and asked, “Where’s your tie?
“Mom, this shirt is pure cashmere.”
“But you look better in a tie?” My mother was old school.
“You can’t wear a tie with a polo shirt.” I had worn a tie every day at Our Lady of the Foothills.
My mother frowned with disappointment at both my wardrobe and rejection of her God.
“I hope at my funeral you’ll wear a tie.” Her eyes were dewy with tears.
“I will.” Refusing my mother was impossible and I changed my shirt and put on a tie. It felt like a garrote.
"Better?" I asked in the kitchen. My father was seated at the table in his best suit.
"Much better.” She smiled with triumph and kissed my cheek. “You’re a good boy.”
Upon my return to New York I related this story to the mother of my diamond employer. Hilda tsked and said, “That’s the difference between Jews and goyim.”
“What?” Her son and I were befuddled by Hilda’s statement.
“Your mother simply asked for you to wear a tie at her funeral, if it had been me I would have said, “Once you kill me, I want you to wear a tie to the funeral.”
“Aha.” I replied, for Hilda had explained the true depth of Jewish guilt in a single sentence.
Matricide.
We were all bad boys, except to our mothers.
To them we were saints.
