The Metropolitan Museum of Art is one of the most European-looking structures in Manhattan. As Josh leads me towards the entrance, it feels as if we’ve time-travelled back to October. Back to Paris. The white facade, the gargantuan columns, the long steps. If only we were headed towards a date at the Musée d’Orsay and not this meet-the-parents extravaganza. If Josh’s mom is that intimidating, what will his dad be like?
Josh catches my expression and squeezes my arm. “You’ll do great.”
“Your parents hate me,” I say.
“They don’t hate you. They hate me.”
“Let’s go back to my place and make out in the hallway.”
He grins down at me. “This place has a lot of hallways.”
I’ve been here many times before, but the museum’s Great Hall is still impressive. The domes and arches of its grand entryway – so reminiscent of the Panthéon near our dorm – are decked with gold ribbons, swags of evergreens, and giant ornaments and baubles. The echoing hall is filled with a buzzing stream of men and women in black tie. I’m glad Maman helped me dress for the occasion. At least I have confidence there.
Josh hands our tickets to an elderly woman in pearls and a black spangled top, and then we follow the crowd towards the party in the Medieval Sculpture Hall. He leads me in a gentlemanly manner, adultlike and formal. The surrounding couples move in a similar fashion. They look as if this stilted sort of behaviour is routine, but it’s a first for us. I want to walk against him, wrapped into him, arms and hands entangled in one mess of limbs. This careful entrance only heightens my self-consciousness.
He guides me like this towards the distant sound of a string quartet – aside the main staircase, through a narrow room of Byzantine artefacts, through another room with a masterfully marble-carved altar canopy, and straight into the bustling Sculpture Hall. The room is larger and taller, though still not as big as I’d remembered. Banners of heraldry in mixed patterns of red, blue, yellow and white hang down on each side. Below them, the walls are covered in tapestries of stags and ladies in medieval garb. And in the centre of the room – the clear star of the collection – is a massive iron gate. From previous visits, I know it’s a choir screen from a cathedral in Spain.
Centred before the screen is an equally massive blue spruce surrounded by hundreds of crèche figures from the eighteenth century. The tree itself is covered in angels and cherubs and lights that look like candles. It’s dramatic, to be sure, but it’s also…stiff.
“Merry Agnostic Christmas,” Josh says. “Welcome to the most Jewish Christmas party in America.”
I smile.
“There.” He smiles back. “More of that.”
We scan between the alabaster sculptures for his parents. Best to get this over with. We find them along the edge of the room beside a rough-looking statue of a clown. When we get closer, I realize that the statue’s pointy red hat is a pope hat. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t say any of this out loud. I still feel stupid.
Josh’s parents have their backs to us. They’re holding glasses of white wine and conversing with a short man in perfectly round spectacles. “Judge Lederman,” Josh whispers in my ear. “New York Supreme Court.”
Yeah. Sure. No big deal.
“Joshua.” The judge smiles and waves us over.
I try to act like it’s normal for a state supreme court judge to know my boyfriend on a first-name basis. Josh’s parents turn around. Their initial reaction is happiness, but it’s quickly masked by a demeanour better described as professionally pleased. With a layer of curiosity. And perhaps another layer of mistrust.
Josh guides me forward by the small of my back. I imagine that I look like a mouse, weak and easy to discard from the premises. “Judge Lederman,” Josh says. “It’s good to see you.” How bizarre to hear his interview voice being spoken live from his actual mouth. “This is my girlfriend, Isla Martin.”
The judge shakes my hand. “A pretty little thing you are.”
Gross. I smile. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
“Mom, you remember Isla,” Josh continues as if our last encounter wasn’t a shame-filled agonyfest. “Dad, I’d like to introduce you to my girlfriend. Isla, this is my father.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Senator.”
Wait. Was I supposed to call him Senator? Mr. Wasserstein? Senator Wasserstein? I should have said “sir”. Why didn’t I say “sir”? Oh no! I called the judge “sir”. Was I supposed to call him “your honour”, or is that only in court? But Josh’s dad smiles and reveals a comforting pair of familiar dimples. He pumps my hand. “Great to meet you. I’ve heard so many stories that I feel like I already know you.”