Not All Jewish Families Are Alike-A Story
THERE was only one policeman, very young, his hands already on the steering wheel, by the time Merry got down to the police car. Holding out a pack of Chiclets, he said, “Want a piece of gum?” as if he were a casual acquaintance, someone’s friend or down- stairs neighbor agreeably giving her a lift because they were going in the same direction.
Much too quickly Merry said, “No thanks,” and because she was sure there had to be some protocol, some formality that would relieve them both of this strained unreality-slipping so rapidly through familiar city streets-she said, “I’m Merry Slavin. His daughter.” Because on that point there had already been enough confusion.
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