“Well, Goldie. Each week, we try to bring an essay to read. It doesn’t have to be long,” I said, shooting Mr. Goldman a meaningful look. “Just a page or two.”

“Oh, I know all about the essays. Mrs. Maitland told me everything.” Mrs. Maitland was Shalom’s saint-cum-administrator. “I took lots of writing classes back in Paramus.”

“That’s wonderful,” Mr. Goldman boomed, staring worshipfully in the general direction of her cleavage. “Taking classes is just wonderful!”

Goldie shot him another smile, followed by yet another wink.

Mrs. Pechter saw the wink and sniffed in disdain. Mrs. Rubin, who played Robin to Mrs. Pechter’s Batman, sniffed, too, only not quite as loud as her more imposing friend.

“In fact,” Goldie announced, “I brought something to read tonight.” She rummaged through her purse and took out a piece of paper. “It got an A in my last writing class.”

“An A!” Mr. Goldman boomed. “How about that? An A!”

“You’re only supposed to read things you wrote for this class,” Mrs. Pechter pouted. “Isn’t that right, Jaine?”

“Well, yes,” I said, “that’s true. But as long as Goldie brought it, she might as well read it.”

As far as I was concerned, anything that took the spotlight away from Mr. Goldman was okay with me.

“But Abe wasn’t finished reading,” Mrs. Pechter protested.

It had to be the first time in the history of the class that anyone ever asked to hear more of Mr. Goldman.

“Oh, I talked enough,” Mr. Goldman said. “Time to give somebody else a chance.”

Mr. Goldman giving somebody else a chance? Alert the media!

“Go on, Goldie,” he urged.

She unfolded her piece of paper, which had obviously been in her purse for decades, just waiting to be whipped out, and began:

My Favorite Things, by Goldie Marcus.

It was a shameless ripoff of the Julie Andrews song from The Sound of Music. Instead of raindrops and snowflakes and whiskers on kittens, Goldie preferred rhinestones and lip gloss and herring in sour cream, preferably with a side of dill pickles.

With each Favorite Thing, Mr. Goldman let out an explosive burst of approval. “Me, too! I love that!”

The other ladies in the class looked at one another and rolled their eyes.

Goldie finished to a hostile silence. Normally the ladies applauded each other’s essays in a show of sisterly support, but not that night.

The silence was finally broken by Mr. Goldman, who leapt to his feet and shouted: “Wonderful! Wonderful! Such terrific writing. Jackie Collins couldn’t have done better.”

“Very nice, Goldie,” I managed to lie. “Although next time, it might be better to write about something that actually happened to you. That’s what we try to do in a memoir-writing class. Now, who wants to read next?”

Mrs. Pechter raised her hand. “I’ve got an essay,” she said. “Not a list.”