Yet here they were, conversing through pots and pans, through—what was she cooking? The pans simmering on the hob were the fleishig set. Meat, then. Dovid raised himself a little in his place and saw that she was stirring some minced beef. With the red-handled spoon that went with the orange fleishig pans and the burgundy plates. This, too, was a form of communication. The wordless order of the kitchen, the separation of milk and meat, which was not forced but seemed to emerge naturally from each utensil. Of course, each item seemed to say, meat will be cooked in the red pots, and dairy will be cooked in the blue. It is natural, in the same way that trees remain rooted in one spot, that water runs downhill, that the walls of a building do not dance. Such order, Dovid thought, is the simple voice of God, whispering softly in the world.
They had need of order and, in truth, they had need of silence. It had been a turbulent, nauseous week. They were not sitting shiva—the duty was not theirs, being neither parents nor siblings nor children to the Rav. Yet is it not written that a man who teaches Torah to another may be considered his father? Thus the whole community was bereaved, and Esti and Dovid’s house had become a way station of grief.
Every night there had been knocks on the door, murmured words, gifts of food. The visitors blended in Dovid’s mind into a single face, both solemn and demanding. Only a few individuated details remained: Levitsky, who had arrived with a tin of biscuits and had clasped it like a baby throughout his visit, while his mouth worked and his eyes watered; Frankel, who had given them copies of the Rav’s sermons to “help them through this difficult time”; and Hartog, who had visited three times, dressed in his Harley Street suit and accompanied by his wife, Fruma, immaculate in navy blue. Hartog and Fruma had simply sat in silence, until that silence had become so thick, so velvety and deafening that Dovid was forced to ask about synagogue business. Hartog had been pleased to reply gravely and at length, though Dovid was in no way able to assimilate the information he received.
Yet in the face of all of this, Esti was able to retain her inner calm. She showed no signs of distress or dismay. Things with her continued as they had always done. Dovid knew what was said about his wife. It was true that she was often silent, even in company, even when directly addressed. She had an oddness of manner to her, an ability to become suddenly very still. They did not appreciate this other gift, the preservation of order in her inmost self as she stirred and chopped, seasoned and tasted.
And then, something. He had not been paying close attention, it was true, but surely. Surely, that was not right. Esti was holding a pack of butter in her hand, had peeled back the paper, and was slicing a small piece, straight into the beef. Surely it must be margarine. Surely. He hesitated, for a second. And then, seeing the gold wrapper, he was sure. He jumped up, touched her wrist, and said, “Esti…?” intending to begin a conciliatory sentence. But it was too late. The butter had fallen.
In the beginning, it is of separation. But it is not only of separation. It is, more correctly, of appropriate separation.
For when the Lord created the world, His work was not only an act of dividing this from that. He also commanded that certain things should mingle. He created herbage and fruit trees, sea creatures and creeping things, birds and beasts, man and woman. And the first commandment that God laid upon His creations was this: “Be fruitful and multiply.” Thus, it is right for certain creatures in their season to be as one, and for others to be separate.
For us, who have been swept from the dust, who have been taken and formed out of all that is less, our work is of understanding the subtlety of the boundary. It is of tracing it, ever finer and finer. It is of accepting and learning what must be separate and what must be mingled.
The smell hit Esti first, before she even knew that Dovid had grabbed her wrist, was saying, “Stop, Stop!” The smell was wrong—the rich beef scent was mingled with something heavier, sweeter. Before Dovid spoke, Esti knew that she had erred.
She allowed Dovid to take the pack from her. He muttered that the kitchen had become disordered with all these people passing through the house, helping themselves, feeling at home. She nodded. He continued: these things would happen, there was no help for it.
And Esti grew still, because she knew that she had stopped thinking for a moment. As she’d reached for the margarine, she had ceased, for a time that seemed less than nothing, to recite the constant litany that had kept her mind occupied. For four days now, since Shabbat, she had pitched a fence in her mind, had patrolled it relentlessly, listing and relisting the work she had to do, the things to buy, to make, to cook, the people to telephone. And it had worked—she had not thought.
But, reaching for the margarine and, perhaps, feeling Dovid watching, her mind had stumbled. And while she reached, and poured, and stirred, Esti had been thinking about the things she had long ago decided to forget. She had been thinking of the change that would surely come now. Of what might happen this week, next week, the week after. And she had been thinking of her. Of the tips of her fingers, lightly brushing the back of her neck, moving around, stroking her jaw, until her thumb rested on her lips.
Staring at the pan, still bubbling its cross-breed aroma, Dovid and Esti both felt it recede from them. They could, perhaps, have called a Rav—another Rav, from some other community—asking for a way to make it kosher again. But the pan seemed scarcely theirs anymore—Esti would never cook with it; Dovid would never eat from it. Dovid wrapped the butter-beef in layers of newspaper and put the soggy bundle in the dustbin outside. Esti left the pan on the step—when it cooled, she would wrap and discard it.
She did not have the heart to begin again. Dovid brought bread from the cupboard and cheese from the refrigerator, and they ate at the kitchen table. He told a story of a similar event from his Yeshiva days. It was a humorous anecdote; a young man had mistaken his containers, and made a cheese lasagne with real beef instead of soy. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but he’d invited the Rosh Yeshiva for lunch. The whole thing, of course, had to be thrown away, and the Rosh Yeshiva had made all the students spend three weeks reviewing elementary kosher food law.
Esti laughed. She took small mouthfuls of her bread and cheese, chewing slowly. Then, carefully, as though the thought were occurring to her for the first time, and it was nothing to her whether she ever heard the answer, she said:
“When is Ronit coming?”
Dovid looked at her sharply.
“You haven’t mentioned her to any of the visitors?” he said.
Esti gulped, shook her head.
“I just…I just don’t know if she’d want that,” Dovid said.
Dovid looked down at his plate and watched Esti eating in silence. Esti wondered if he’d forgotten the question. Then, staring intently at a space a hand’s breadth to the right of Esti’s head, he said:
“Tomorrow. She’s coming tomorrow. You don’t have to see her if you don’t want to. I can talk to her about the family things, she can stay in a hotel. This doesn’t have to be complicated—it can be very simple. Business. She doesn’t need to know you’re here if you don’t want her to.”
If Dovid had been looking at Esti’s face, he would have seen the blink of surprise, the visible start. As it was, he heard her say in a voice a little choked:
“She should stay here.”
He looked at her, as though weighing her resolve. He nodded, said:
“It’s your decision.”
They ate for another few moments in silence. Then Esti asked:
“Does she know about us?”
“She knows I’m married.”
“But to me?”
“No.” Dovid looked down at the empty plate before him, pushed it away slightly, swept a few crumbs from the table into his hand, and then brushed them onto the plate. “No,” he said, looking back up at Esti, “I had no words.”
I told myself it would be easy. How hard could it be? Go back to London for a little while, pick up some family knickknacks, make nice with my cousin Do
vid and his wife, come back home. And after all, even if it turned out not to be easy, it was the right thing to do, the grown-up thing to do. Dr. Feingold approved of spending some time in London, not that she said so, but I could tell in the way she didn’t question, didn’t ask me why I felt I had to. Getting the time off work was no problem. Scott had obviously primed Carla about my loss, because she was all ready with the sympathetic face and the offer of however much time I needed, which so isn’t her style. In fact, she offered me a month:
“That’s the Jewish period of mourning, isn’t it, Ronit? A month?”
I didn’t want to go into it, so I just said:
“Yes, a month.”
And, like that, it was done. I guess sleeping with your boss’s boss really does have some advantages. I booked my ticket. So far, so easy. Just like planning a vacation.
Only, then came the insoluble, irreducible, unavoidable problem: what to wear. Eight hours before my flight, I was standing in front of my closet, still looking. I’d gone through to find the long skirts. I had thirteen, but all of them were wrong. Half had slits—impossible. Most of the others were tailored or clingy or rode below the navel. Absolutely impossible. So I was left with a gray skirt that I sometimes wear around the house if I’m feeling bloated. It’s elasticized.
And then, a shirt? Pulling out every item of clothing in my possession, I discovered that I own over three dozen shirts and blouses, including eight white ones. But not a single one buttoned right up to the neck, with sleeves that reached the wrists. And my sweaters, again, clung. In the end, I found a blue turtleneck, loose and baggy, that had fallen to the back of the closet.
I put this outfit on and stood looking at myself in the mirror. I knew I couldn’t wear it. Not only because I looked like the “before” picture in some style magazine, but also because I looked nothing like them—those frum, respectable women who spend their lives driving Volvos between Kosher King and Hasmonean or Bais Ya’akov School. I looked like an unhappy parody of them. The thing is, you see, it’s not just about covering up the right bits—it’s also about their style.
For one bizarre moment, I seriously considered taking the subway to Brooklyn and buying myself a whole new wardrobe: pinafore dresses and loose long-sleeve T-shirts, velvet hair bands, white tights and brown lace-up shoes. I even imagined getting a sheitel, one of those long blond ones with a deep fringe that so many of those women wear on festivals—so that I could arrive in London pretending to be married. I could invent some kids, Breinde, Chanale, Yisroel, and Meir, whom I’d left with my husband, Avrami Moishe, in Crown Heights. Yes, I’d say, I work as a speech therapist while Avrami Moishe learns Torah, of course. I could question how kosher their kitchens are. I could say—you know, you were right, it was just a phase. Look, now I’m all cured.
I found something shockingly delightful in this idea—I played around with it, called a friend to share. We made the fantasy wilder and wilder. What if I shaved my head, because even my husband shouldn’t be allowed to see my hair? What if I wrote on a chalkboard, rather than talking, so as not to speak in front of men? What if I told them I’d only eat meat that had been slaughtered by my own Rabbi? We laughed. I didn’t go to Brooklyn.
Which left me still in front of the closet. I pulled out everything and laid it on the bed again. I considered going as Ronit, independent career woman of New York. They wouldn’t be surprised, but maybe intimidated. I’d wear one of my somber, serious trouser suits, with a pair of high-heeled boots. I’d take my business cards, offer to shake hands with the men, pretend I’d forgotten absolutely everything. I’d make out that I was puzzled, and faintly amused, by their quaint ways. I imagined myself standing in the synagogue, making a cell-phone call on Shabbat. I imagined the shocked faces.
Dr. Feingold said this obsession with clothing is a displacement activity. She told me I need a grieving ritual, and the obsessive choosing of costumes is standing, in my mind, in place of a more profound expression of my loss.
I wanted to ask her, “And what does it say about you, Dr. Feingold, that you live by yourself in an immaculate white apartment, with a pristine cat you call Baby?” Of course, I listened and nodded instead, because I so didn’t want to get into another conversation about aggression, my boundary issues, and my habit of what she calls “resisting the process.” What she doesn’t know is, I’ve built my life on resisting the process.
At four hours to go, I was still no closer to a decision. I thought of calling Dovid for advice, but he wouldn’t even have understood the question. Besides, when I’d spoken to him earlier he didn’t seem to have the firmest grasp on reality. I’d been thinking through people to contact in England—people I might actually want to see. I asked him about a few: his brothers, a couple of girls I went to school with, and Esti. He didn’t even seem to hear when I said Esti’s name, barreled straight on past her. I didn’t push it—I figured she must’ve left soon after I did.
He filled me in on some of the details of his life. He’s been working as my father’s assistant for the past few years, which means, as I suspected, that he’s been groomed for greatness.
I said, “So, you’ll be the next Rav then, Dovid?”
There was a long pause.
“No,” he said. “No, I can’t. I mean, it’s not. We don’t want that.”
“We?” I said. “Your wife doesn’t want it either?”
“My wife?” As if he’d never heard of such a thing. “No, it’s not. I don’t. I don’t want that.”
He turned the conversation to family news. I think he was just being coy. It’s too early for him to voice his ambition. Over there, people who hardly knew my father will still be lamenting his passing vocally. Whereas I…I find it hard even to bring his face properly into my mind. It’s been six years since I last spoke to him and that was only a brief Happy Rosh Hashanah call; it’s not like I miss his company.
Dovid told me about his last few months. Months of coughing and retching, he said, bringing up mucus and blood, months of blackouts and dizzy spells. He was always thin, never strong, even when I was young. Sometimes, after a difficult day, he’d sit in the tapestry chair in our living room, finger and thumb pressing the bridge of his nose, where his glasses sat. He would become so still, almost as if he weren’t breathing at all. And his hands were so white, and the veins in his wrists were so blue. Sometimes, finding him like this, I’d almost convince myself he was dead, so I’d tug on his coat and he’d open his eyes and mutter something in Yiddish, which I didn’t understand, but which didn’t sound angry, at least.
Even once I was a teenager, even once we’d started arguing about so many petty things—the way I wore my skirt, or my habit of watching the televisions in our local Dixons when I thought no one would see me, or when I started waiting three hours and not six between meat and milk—even then, I was always so relieved to see his eyes open. I think of this, and I do feel sad, and I do feel sorry. And then I think about how those slow-dying months were also months of waiting. And he didn’t call for me. And he didn’t ask me to come. It’s when I think about these things that I start to feel a tight pain in the back of my throat, a stinging in my nose. And that’s when I call someone else to tell them the Fantastic Brooklyn Wardrobe Stratagem. Because I refuse to cry over him.
In the end, I took it all—skirts, blouses, sweaters, sneakers, boots, trouser suits, sweatpants, and a formal evening dress. I thought: better to leave my options open, better not to tie myself down. Better to have both the outfits that say “I come in peace” and the ones that say “screw you.” Because, really, who knows what I might need to say in this situation? It meant I had three giant suitcases to check in at JFK, but hey, I spent eighteen years of my life arguing with one of the Torah giants of our generation. Staring down airline employees comes naturally to me.
On the flight, I slept. I had a strange dream, a jumble of images, only one part of which remained vivid when I woke. I dreamed of Dovid, as I’d known him when I was little a
nd he used to stay at our house in the summer holidays. I dreamed of him sitting at the falling-apart desk in his bedroom, studying. The desk slanted to one side unless you braced it against the wall and kept holding it with one hand as you worked. I dreamed of that desk, which I hadn’t thought of for years. I dreamed Dovid was working at the desk and we were arguing, he and I. Some old argument, though I don’t remember ever arguing with Dovid in my life. I was shouting and shouting, but he just kept on speaking softly; I couldn’t catch what he was saying. And I knew suddenly that if I could just open the desk drawers, I’d understand everything. He tried to stop me but I pushed past him. And when I opened the drawers, I found they were filled with hydrangeas, pile upon pile of them, spilling out onto the floor. I woke up as we were landing, with a sensation in the back of my throat like the end of a smell, the tail of it. As if someone had wafted a bunch of hydrangeas past my nose. And I was in London.
Scott once said to me that you belong in three places: the place you grew up, the place where you went to college, and the place where the person you love is. I’d add a fourth component to that: the place where you first sought professional psychological help. Therapy has a way of tying you to a location, of fastening you to its way of thinking. In any case, by either reckoning, I now belong in New York more than I belong in London. I went to college here, Dr. Feingold is here. If you can stretch “person you love” to “person you like to have sex with,” then Scott’s here, too. Of course, this doesn’t stop Americans from offering me “a spot of tea” whenever they hear my accent, but still, it feels true. I’m a New Yorker.
According to that calculation, though, I still belong in London as well. Which doesn’t feel true at all. I took a cab to Dovid’s house and, as we entered the heartlands of northwest London—Finchley Road, Hampstead, Golders Green—I spotted more and more familiar places. A bakery where they made the best iced cakes in the world: pink and yellow and white. The WH Smith where I spent hours after school reading forbidden magazines. The Sara Rifka Hartog Memorial Day School itself—hiding behind a thick screen of pine trees, but I knew it was there, another one of these public spaces cobbled together from hollowed-out houses. I didn’t feel any pleasure, though, no nostalgia. I felt more like a jaundiced tourist, gazing at England with a cold and unforgiving eye, than a native coming home. No, I wasn’t looking at England in that way. It was the English Jews. I don’t really mind England so much, not that I ever saw a lot of it when I was here. But the way Jews are here…it just makes me want to kick over tables and shout.
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