Meet the Judge: Spotlight on Janice Eidus and Her Latest Novel

You may have heard that shaking like a mountain is hosting a fiction contest—and you heard correctly. But you may have overlooked the fact that Janice Eidus, award-winning author (Pushcart, O.Henry, and Redbook to name a few) will be judging it. We’re very excited to have Janice on board with us as a guest judge, and look forward to announcing our winners later this season.

Aside from being a contributing editor to shaking and judging our contest, Janice has been exceptionally busy promoting her new book, The Last Jewish Virgin: A Novel of Fate. The novel is being loosely classified as “vampire-lit,” but don’t cringe yet, all of you Twilight-skeptics. She’s put a new spin on the genre, creating a story where Meetup.com says, “Jewish myth meets Jewish reality.”

Check back soon for our Q and A session with Janice about her new book, but for now, check out an excerpt from  Janice Eidus’s The Last Jewish Virgin: A Novel of Fate:

After my first morning as a student at The Bennett Institute of Art and Design, I returned home to our Upper West Side apartment. Opening the door, I saw my mother sitting cross-legged on our living room rug, curly auburn hair tucked behind her ears, and wearing a shapeless olive green jumper with a neckline just low enough to show the silver Star of David my Mexican-born father had given to her shortly before his death from leukemia back when I was an infant.

A Sephardic Jew, my father’s ancestors had fled to Mexico during the Inquisition. He’d been my feminist mother’s soulmate, her bashert, determined, like her, not to leave the fold, but rather to update traditional Judaism for our times. They recited original Shabbat blessings, which included prayers in Ladino, poems celebrating the femininity of the moon, and language reflecting a gender-fluid, deeply empathic G-d.

Now my mother sat between her best friend, Molly, whose skin was cocoa-colored, and whose dark eyes were enormous, and Mike, who was only the second man she’d had a relationship with since my father’s death.

She, Mike, and Molly, whom I called Tante Molly because she was like an aunt to me, were leaning against the sagging sofa and snacking on cheese and crackers. Some crumbs had settled in Mike’s thick mustache, but even so, he was undeniably handsome, with a strong, ruddy complexion and probing eyes. A psychology professor, his single claim to fame was his book about “Freud’s Woman Problem.”

I was disappointed that my mother wasn’t alone. Even though she strongly disapproved of my fashion obsession, I wanted her advice about Mr. Rock, the moody, almost Machiavellian-seeming professor whose class, “Drawing from the Imagination,” I’d taken that morning. Despite myself, I found myself fiercely attracted to him — yet frightened, too.

My mother, Mike, and Tante Molly waved for me to join them, but I remained in the doorway. They turned back to each other. “No, Beth,” Mike said to my mother, leaning his large frame forward, “I disagree. Fantasies cannot be legislated to conform to sexual or religious politics.”

Politics, feminism … couldn’t they ever discuss how to cook Brussel sprouts, or knit a scarf? Right now, they were clearly discussing my mother’s recently published essay about the fantasy lives of Jewish women. “Jewish women,” she’d written, “have a responsibility to shape their fantasies along feminist lines.”

“I agree with Mike,” Tante Molly said, surprising me. “We’re free to fantasize in the most retrograde ways about macho brutes and nubile maidens and still lead good, principled lives.” Tante Molly had grown up in Brooklyn, the daughter of a Caucasian Jewish mother and a Christian African-American father. She acted off-off Broadway, and I adored the fact that despite her politics she loved costume and fashion, unlike my mother.

My mother frowned. “Our fantasies do define who we are. And we can — and should — be responsible for them.” Knife in hand, she leaned over and lopped off a chunk of cheese.

I cleared my throat, so irritated by their argument that I preferred to call attention to myself rather than to listen to them. My mother swallowed a bite of cheese before looking at me: “You really dressed up for your first day at Bennett.” Her gaze unhappily took in my black vampire outfit, slinky cape and all.

“Come join us, Lilith,” Tante Molly said, in her cigarette-scarred voice, taking an attenuated drag of her cigarette. She was the only feminist I’d ever met who smoked. “We could use your perspective,” she exhaled loudly. “I’ve just taken a role in a play as a divorced woman in love with a man who’s secretive about his past.” She ran her fingers through her braided hair. “The woman’s daughter, who’s your age, is determined to break them up, and.…”

“…Neither the mother nor the daughter are behaving rationally,” Mike broke in. “The mother is fresh out of rehab, and she’s lonely and scared.” He smiled at me with too much intensity. “And the daughter,” he went on, talking and chewing, “senses that something isn’t kosher with this man. And she’s right. He’s a sociopath. But no one knows this yet. In the meantime, the daughter is jealous because she wants all of her mother’s attention.”

Was he trying to tell me he thought I was jealous of him? I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. What chutzpah, if that were the case. I yawned loudly. “I’m really worn out. Can I have some time to think about it?” And it was true: I suddenly felt desperately in need of a nap. Maybe when I woke up, my mother would be alone, and I’d be able to tell her privately about my disquieting attraction to the seductive Mr. Rock.

Barely saying goodbye, I headed into my bedroom, shutting them all out and closing my door. Fully dressed, I lay down on top of my covers, too tired to undress. Within seconds, I was dreaming, although I was still half awake. I heard myself moan slightly, a low, aching moan, a sound that had never before come from my lips, and I had what seemed like a vision:

I’m wearing my black vampire outfit, and I stand facing Mr. Rock. He’s also clad in black, and wearing those mirrored sunglasses. We’re on opposite sides of a wide, deep, un-crossable crater. The landscape is as bleak and apocalyptic as a dead moon, and as minimalist, spare, and brittle as bone. The air around us is laced with gritty, thick dust. Across the wide expanse of the crater, he parts his lips, revealing teeth that glow like tiny stars.

The vision evaporated, just like that. Had it been a dream? Or a message sent to me from some otherworldly source? One thing I now knew for certain, as I shut my eyes tight and tried to calm my pounding heart: Mr. Rock and I were already enmeshed, already entwined.