Kaaterskill Falls

by Allegra Goodman

  Jeremy is surprised. “But what about their interdependence? How can you have justice without wisdom? and wisdom without holiness?”

  “I think,” the Rav says heavily, almost sadly, “that in each person they may be developed to a different degree. Goodness is not all in the teaching. Some virtues are born in the soul, and some not. I think this must be. The collection of virtues depends on the individual, on his traits within him.”

  “But how can you separate wisdom, temperance—”

  The Rav smiles and murmurs, “Baruch atah adoshem, hamavdil bein kodish l’kodish” Blessed art thou, our God, who separates holiness from holiness. “I am going to teach my shiur next week,” he says.

  “That’s what I heard,” says Jeremy.

  “And I am going to hold my office hours again. Did you hear that?”

  “No,” Jeremy says.

  “They don’t want me to do it,” he says, and casts his eyes ever so slightly upward to the ceiling, to Isaiah and Rachel’s apartment. “But I will do it anyway.”

  “HE SEEMS stronger,” Jeremy says to Isaiah and Rachel, on his way out.

  “Forgive me, you don’t know,” Rachel tells him. “You have no idea. It’s impossible for him to teach. He’s pretending nothing has happened, and he can go back to all the things he did before.”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Jeremy asks.

  “It will exhaust him,” Isaiah says.

  “I think it will keep him going,” says Jeremy.

  Rachel shakes her head. “He won’t admit that he’s ill, but in his condition—the Parkinson’s and now the heart—he can’t drive himself on and on. He’ll have some kind of episode….”

  Jeremy looks at his sister-in-law, intense, severe, and, as always, worried. “What are you so afraid of?” he asks her.

  “I’m not afraid, I’m speaking from experience,” she says, bristling. “Because I care for him. Both of us do. We don’t come in and out. We organize our lives around his minyan, his shiur, his meals, his medication. And if he’s ill or if he suddenly … we are responsible.”

  “I feel just as responsible as you do,” Jeremy says.

  “Feel,” Rachel says, and the word seems to carry the weight of her accusation. Jeremy might feel, but she and Isaiah are there day and night.

  “You chose, you chose to take care of him,” Jeremy says coolly, “and for him to care for you. I’m not going to feel guilty about your life. I’m sorry you resent mine.”

  “I resent it that you suddenly come in and start passing judgment.” Rachel ignores Isaiah’s pressure on her arm.

  “He asks me to come. Is this difficult for you?” Jeremy knows he is wounding them and he’s glad. “Is it difficult for you that we have things to talk about?”

  IN THE library the Rav feels suddenly exhausted. When Jeremy is with him he feels stronger. His speech is clearer when he speaks to his son. Even his body seems to draw itself together, alert and straight and trembling less. But after Jeremy leaves, the Rav is tired, and his illness descends on him again.

  The Rav should lie down, but he won’t let himself. When he lies down, his head becomes heavy. He has strange dreams; his muscles stiffen and it is difficult for him to get up again. Instead, he heaves himself up from his desk and inches along carefully, guiding himself along the bookcases. Then he eases himself into his reading chair with his large gemara. He wills himself through the dense thicket of text on the page, and hacks with irritation at the little paradoxes and conundrums in his path. His new medication makes him impatient, and agitated. He would rather not take the pills, but without them he cannot move. Stiffly, he sits in his brown leather library chair, and tries to bring the words before him into focus. His head hurts with frustration and with disappointment because Jeremy has gone.

  “Do you need a drink?” Rachel asks him. “Do you need a drink of water?” She appears with a glass of water and a straw. The Rav drinks more easily from a straw.

  “No, no,” the Rav says. “Tell Isaiah we must sort through the correspondence.”

  “He already has,” Rachel says.

  “I did not ask him to,” the Rav says sharply. “Bring him here.”

  Then Rachel brings Isaiah and stands silent as the Rav berates her husband for looking at the letters that have come in that day and for organizing the papers on his desk, for touching his manuscripts and looking into his affairs. Rachel burns with indignation to hear Isaiah mistreated in this way and ordered like a schoolboy never to pry into his father’s things again. Suddenly this winter, the Rav will not let Isaiah do the secretarial jobs he has done faithfully for fifteen years. He will not let Isaiah assist him with his correspondence or substitute for him in his shiur, or answer halachic questions or lead services. He berates Isaiah instead, and spends his waking hours with Jeremy.

  Quickly, angrily, Rachel prepares dinner in her father-in-law’s shadowy kitchen at the back of the apartment. The winter light from the one small window is gray. The sky looks strained and overwrought, about to snow. When Isaiah passes the kitchen door, she gestures him inside.

  “I don’t understand him,” she tells Isaiah. “Why is he punishing you?”

  “He isn’t punishing me.”

  “He’s taken everything away from you. Now of all times, when he can do the least for himself!”

  She opens the oven and checks on her lemon tarragon chicken. She pricks a chicken breast with a fork. “Does he ask your opinion? Does he talk to you about your place in the community? He treats you like a stranger.” She slides the oven rack back fiercely and shuts the oven door.

  “He’s very sick,” Isaiah says slowly, as if to convince himself. “I don’t think we can expect him to—I don’t think he is acting as he usually would. He can’t control his actions.”

  “That’s not true,” Rachel says. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. And he’s trying to humiliate you.”

  It seems to Rachel that the Rav has decided to show the whole community that he doesn’t favor his son and his son’s wife; that he is not going to abdicate his authority to them or to anyone. And it seems to her that the Rav, having trained Isaiah so carefully, is now betraying him. With a kind of jealous pride he is competing against the learned man his own son has become. She does not make excuses in her mind for her father-in-law. She knows him, and she never underestimates him.

  In the library the Rav is getting sleepy. He closes his book and puts it on the table next to his chair. It is a strange childish sensation: he does not want to sleep, and yet he cannot stay awake. He imagines they are talking about him somewhere in the apartment. In the living room or in the kitchen. He knows they talk about him. He knows that Rachel is angry. She has a temper. He has always respected his daughter-in-law, but despite her many virtues, her intelligence and talents, there is something in her character—a selfishness. From the day she married Isaiah, she has wanted him to herself. She wants him to do only as she says.

  The Rav had originally planned for Rachel to marry Jeremy, but Jeremy would have none of it. Although he’d only spoken to her once at a dinner his mother had planned, Jeremy announced that he’d taken an instant dislike to Rachel. He refused to call on her, and told his mother he would never marry her. Hearing this, his mother was, of course, dismayed. The Rav was furious. Now, however, the Rav looks back with some amusement at this youthful distaste. Perhaps Jeremy knew more than any of them realized.

  3

  THE synagogue is crowded with men, and warm despite the November chill outside. When Isaac arrives for services on Friday evening, he sees neighbors and friends all clustered together in the entryway. The Kollel students are coming in from the little chapel where they study. Dressed alike in their rumpled black suits, carrying their great black-bound books, they pass through the crowd into the main sanctuary where the older men are arriving, businessmen coming from downtown, the storekeepers from the neighborhood, the retired grandfathers. Young and old mix together, and their languages mix: English and German
, a little Hebrew, a little Yiddish. Isaac does not notice the mixture; he grew up with it, and he understands all the languages equally.

  “Did you hear that the Rav is holding his office hours again?”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “He’s holding them on Tuesdays again.”

  “The same hours?”

  “Yes. Of course, he’s limiting his visitors, but baruch hashem, he’s well enough.”

  The men speak cheerfully. For of course this is good news. Isaac is annoyed at himself for being troubled by it. He walks into the sanctuary; and, as the service begins, he tries to put the talk out of his mind. He stares intently at the pages in front of him, although he knows the prayers by heart. He closes his eyes as he sings and tries to concentrate on the words. Lechah dodi likras kallah, pinei Shabbas nikabelah. Come, my friend, to meet the bride; let us welcome the Sabbath. And he turns with the other men toward the door of the synagogue. All of them bow to the door expectantly, as if, like a bride in white, the Sabbath were coming to walk down the aisle between them. They sing as if to make it so.

  When the short Kabbalat Shabbat service ends, Isaac closes his tiny siddur and puts it into its blue velvet tallis bag. Quickly he walks out into the chilly evening, the air filled with voices, “Good Shabbes, good Shabbes,” the streetlights shining brighter than stars, filling the night with their dusty light. The men are walking home to their waiting families. They are hurrying along the tar-black city streets, past fire hydrants and blue mailboxes, telephone booths, shop windows covered with roll-down steel grids. All the Kirshner stores are closed, dimly lit only for security. The butcher, the florist, the bakery, and the specialty groceries, Grimaldi’s with its pyramids of fruit, Eisen’s Bookshop with its hand-lettered placard, GIANT SEFORIM SALE. They are all closed for Shabbes; the shul closed and locked until morning. But the night is filled with the sounds of the city, the sirens, the thumping beat of music pouring out of cars. The screech of taxis, the rumble of the trains.

  Hands in the pockets of his good coat, Isaac walks on. He feels distracted and a little nervous. He knows Elizabeth will want to go to the Rav’s office hours, now that they have begun again. She is still thinking about the store. Isaac has not spoken about it to Elizabeth or even told her he called Andras. Still, Elizabeth’s idea weighs on his mind, his doubts chafing with his desire to make Elizabeth’s store possible. Impractical as it seems, beginning her own project would be such a joy to her. Of course he must tell her that the Rav is holding audiences again. Perhaps he should say that he will go with her to see the Rav. The question tugs at him as he hurries, almost runs, home. Above him the apartment buildings crowd against the sky, not tall and slender like the buildings in midtown, but stocky, shouldering against each other like people in a crowded room.

  Isaac lets himself into his building. Loosening his scarf as he goes, he runs up the three flights of stairs to the apartment. Then, at last, he opens the door and steps into the warmth of the living room. It’s so warm and bright, the table dazzling white, the toys put away, the candles lit. Every Friday he is amazed at the transformation. The apartment is more than clean; it glows with warmth and safety. In Kaaterskill, Shabbes is somehow not such a surprise. It’s beautiful there on all the ordinary days. But in the city, and especially in winter, Isaac is amazed at the way Elizabeth makes their home shine against the black streets. Against the sirens and traffic, the dirty ice outside, the apartment seems to rise like a great yellow moon.

  The children are scrubbed pink and clean, dressed in their Shabbes clothes. They are playing Chinese checkers on the coffee table. In the kitchen Brocha stands on a chair and tries to wash the pots.

  “That’s enough soap,” Elizabeth tells her.

  “But the bubbles are all gone,” Brocha protests.

  “The soap is still there in the water. It’s hiding.”

  “Hiding?” Brocha echoes dubiously. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! I’m washing the dishes.”

  “Yes, I see,” says Isaac.

  “Brocha, you aren’t supposed to use soap,” Malki calls out from the living room. “You aren’t supposed to use soap on Shabbes.”

  “She’s just playing,” Elizabeth assures Malki. “And it’s liquid soap.” Isaac puts his arm around Elizabeth. He can hear through the wall their neighbors the Steins, already singing. In Kaaterskill the Steins have a place on Maple. The Buchsbaums upstairs will be singing too. They are old, and bought a big house in Kaaterskill early on, a huge place with a circular drive, and neat symmetrical flower beds and fir trees. The building is full of Kirshner families, and their Shabbes guests, hearing kiddush and drinking the wine. Somehow, their faint voices reassure Isaac. Of course, if Elizabeth opened her store in Kaaterskill it wouldn’t be a store outside the community, it would be a business among neighbors, a service rendered among friends.

  At the table Isaac and the girls stand next to their chairs and sing to Elizabeth, as all the Kirshner families serenade the mother of the house on Friday night. “Ashes chayil miyimtza? V’rachok mipninim michrah….” Who can find a virtuous wife? She is more precious than rubies…. She seeks out wool and flax, and works with eager hands. Isaac smiles as he sings the verses from Proverbs. He is thinking about the words. Is it really such a question whether a woman can start a business? This is the work of the virtuous wife, the “Ashes Chayil” in the ancient song: “She considers a field and buys it; / With her earnings she plants a vineyard.” And “Ta’ama ki tov sachrah; / Lo yichbeh balaila nerah. She finds that her trade is profitable; / Her lamp is not snuffed at night.” That could be Elizabeth, his wife, his businesswoman.

  The children are standing at their places, the gold-rimmed plates in front of them. Chani and Malki tall and thin on one side of the table, Ruchel and Sorah on the other side, much shorter, their hair in their eyes, their faces still chubby, and Brocha is standing next to Elizabeth, only her head showing above the table, her Peter Rabbit plate in front of her. “She makes a garment and sells it, and delivers a belt to the merchant…. Let her have the fruits of her hands….” The children are singing, although, of course, they aren’t listening to the words; no one really listens. But tonight Isaac sees Elizabeth in that poem, the song everyone sings. He sees that the poem is not simply about the ideal wife, but about Elizabeth in particular. For Elizabeth is the woman who would plant a business, buy and sell, create something with her industry. She is the woman who deserves the fruit of her hands.

  The song warms him. Magically, the words open up to him. He grasps them with recognition and relief. At the yeshiva, mastery of halachic arguments never came easily to Isaac, nor did quick recall of the narrative texts. But in his daily studies he still strives to understand, identify, take a text to heart, to reach through the centuries of commentary, those layers of responsa, and grasp a meaning that is strong, believable. And when it happens, and the words unfold for him and touch his life, this is a moment of great joy. The burden of decision falls away, and he is free, for he knows what he should do.

  Isaac looks at Elizabeth at the foot of the table. She is clear eyed, smiling and half laughing at them as they sing to her. He is going to tell her that they should ask to see the Rav. After dinner he’ll tell her. He will promise to go with her and help her. She will jump up to hear him say it. Even now, standing at the table, Isaac can see her, spinning on her heels. He can already feel it. He is dancing with her in his mind, spinning with her in delight.

  THEIR appointment is November twenty-second, just before Thanksgiving. Isaac wears his best black suit and his Shabbes hat; and Elizabeth, a good but plain dress, navy blue. The Rav doesn’t approve of women who attract attention with their clothes.

  They don’t speak as they stand at the Rav’s door. They wait there, not afraid, exactly, but apprehensive, excited, as if they were about to go up on a stage and perform. Quiet and pale, the Rav’s son Isaiah opens the door. In the cool entrance hall he takes their coats. Isaac has been once before to see the Rav, but Eliza
beth never. She notices every detail, the black-and-white-tiled floor, the old-fashioned brass knobs and keyholes on the doors, the scent of furniture polish.

  Isaiah leads Elizabeth and Isaac through the front parlor into the library’s back room. Now they see the Rav’s great desk, a table royal in scale, its top covered in red leather, and stacked with folio volumes of the law, covered with cardboard manuscript boxes, and a row of three fountain pens, neatly arranged, lined up behind three glass bottles of blue-black ink. Elizabeth and Isaac stand at some distance from the great desk where the Rav sits wearing his black suit. He is small and bent, but he holds his head up, keeping abreast of the books around him.

  Isaiah walks around to the Rav’s side of the desk and bends down to his father’s ear like a translator. “This is Isaac Shulman and his wife,” he announces.

  The Rav looks straight at Isaac with keen dark eyes. “Very good,” he says clearly, his voice remarkably steady. His voice is bearing up.

  Isaac comes forward. “Rav Kirshner,” he says, “my wife and I would like to ask your permission to open a small store in Kaaterskill.”

  Here again, Isaiah bends down as if to translate, but the Rav waves him away with a blue-veined hand. “I hear this,” he says. “Now, again, Mr. Shulman, the facts. Who?”

  “My wife and I,” Isaac replies, gesturing to Elizabeth, who stands at a little distance.

  “Your wife,” the Rav says. “In addition your wife. And what will be her role?”

  Elizabeth shivers at the question.

  “What will she do?” the Rav asks.

  “Mimerchak tavi lachma,” Isaac quotes.

  Elizabeth nearly forgets herself and laughs. It’s such a lucky reference for him to happen on, a cardinal virtue of the virtuous wife in “Ayshes Chayil,” the song sung on Friday nights. She bringeth food from afar.