The Saturday Wife

by Ragen, Naomi

  Chaim, too, was pleased. He liked and admired Josh, despite the unfortunate little incident before his wedding. Josh was considered an illuyi, destined for greatness. He was also a good person, who kept to the strict letter of the law in anything having to do with his ethical and social behavior. He was from a wealthy family but never made a big deal about it, even though it was well known that he had turned his back on taking over his father’s multimillion-dollar diet-drink company to become a struggling rabbi. Josh had never shown him anything but kindness. But the discrepancies in their prospects, backgrounds, and personalities were not conducive to friendship. Josh was royalty. Chaim was one of the peasants. Chaim had always acknowledged this fact without resentment or jealousy, as a given.

  The invitation was unexpected.

  “But why have they invited us? Why now?” he asked, puzzled.

  “She’s been after me for months. I guess she’s lonely. You know she’s always considered me her best friend. And I’m just so busy during the week, I don’t even have time to pick up the phone and talk to her. We never get a chance to see each other. I invited them here, but you know, he can never get away. He’s assistant rabbi, or something,” Delilah said casually, deciding between two outfits. The skirt on one was longer but hugged her behind, as opposed to the one with a looser skirt that hit right above her knees.

  “I’m also assistant rabbi. What makes you think I can get away?”

  “But your grandfather . . . he wouldn’t stop you. You’ve—we’ve—been here every Saturday for months.” Her voice rose petulantly.

  Seeing where this was going, and considering that it really wasn’t too much to ask—he should be flattered and might even enjoy it—Chaim gave in.

  They put their suitcases into their little Ford Escort, and drove off.

  Delilah looked out the window at the ugly red bricks, the billboards, the housing projects, and the few bedraggled trees on the Drive. She took in the graffiti on the sides of the buildings, the rusting fire escapes, the self-storage units, the eyesore of old bricks painted an appalling red, white, and blue. They passed the White Castle on Bruckner Boulevard; the pawn, cash, and loan stores; the horrid rusting cars raised on pedestals in front of used car dealerships and muffler shops. They passed Co-op City, a housing project that rose like some set in a futuristic horror movie, where a hapless mankind is imprisoned and forced to live like ants in gargantuan prison complexes. And then, suddenly, it was all behind them.

  Highway signs flashed by indicating Mount Vernon, one quarter mile; Scarsdale; Mamaroneck. Lakes of mirrorlike water held reflections of beautiful fall colors from overhanging trees. Bridges reached over the road like filigreed bowers. And all along there were glimpses of huge, wondrous homes, larger than any family could ever need, deserve, or use, nestled on huge private lots. Homes with pumpkins on front lawns, and yellow, red, and green forest trees in backyards. The cars that passed them on the highway were gleaming and rich, with suit jackets hung on backseat hooks, driven by men heading home from upscale Manhattan offices who would park in front of trendy updated farmhouses painted maroon, or renovated Colonials with white siding, trimmed in black shutters: places with manicured bushes and huge artistically placed poinsettia, their red leaves like torches leading up to the front gate.

  It was all out there, Delilah thought. Prosperity and peace and success all tied up with a big red bow and a mortgage.

  “Are you sure this is it?” Delilah asked Chaim, as they pulled into the driveway. She looked out, disappointed. She’d been hoping for more, while at the same time prepared to feel horribly jealous and put upon if it met her expectations. As it was, it turned out to be a relatively simple and modest brick house on a generous plot of tree-filled property on a quiet cul-de-sac.

  It was much nicer inside, Delilah saw immediately. The living room had a fireplace surrounded by rough-hewn stones, with built-in holders for logs. There were oak bookcases, comfortable couches, and a whole separate room just for dining room furniture. “Wow,” Delilah said, when she walked in.

  “We didn’t have much choice. We needed something within walking distance to the synagogue, and they didn’t have much on the market. It’s really more than we wanted to spend,” Rivkie said in a rush, almost apologetically.

  “You mean you bought it? I thought the synagogue—?”

  “No, they only provide a house for the rabbi. Assistant rabbis are on their own. And mostly the bank owns it.” She smiled uncomfortably, already feeling the weekend stretch out ahead of her in endless tedious blocks of time, through which she would have to be on constant guard. She didn’t want Delilah’s envy, or her friendship, or her confidences. She wanted to do the right thing, to offer loving kindness to another human being who seemed troubled and wanted (insisted?) on her intervention and help.

  Delilah dressed carefully for dinner, deciding to wear a wig because Rivkie was wearing a wig. She put on her most pious suit, the one with the ankle-grazing skirt, then went downstairs to light Sabbath candles. Rivkie had already set up two candles for her on the tray next to her own elaborate silver candelabra, the traditional gift of a mother-in-law to her daughter-in-law before the wedding. It was gorgeous, and held at least eight candles. Rivkie only lit three. “I’ll add another with each child,” she explained, blushing.

  Delilah dutifully lit her candles, waving her hands over the flames, covering her eyes as tradition required. When she finished, she saw that Rivkie was still deep in prayer, her eyes shut, as she silently mouthed heartfelt requests for good health, happiness, and good fortune for everyone she knew, an addendum to the candle-lighting blessing that pious women created for themselves over the centuries, convinced that the heavenly gates of mercy were open wide at that moment in time to the prayers of Jewish women.

  Delilah studied her tranquillity, her sincerity, her really, really nice engagement ring, wondering why the words always felt like overchewed gum in her own mouth, a tasteless, meaningless exercise you were only too happy to spit out and be done with. She envied Rivkie her peace of mind, her convictions, the easy way in which things always seemed to work out for the Rivkies of the world. She felt bitter that her own life had been one panting uphill struggle.

  It was so unfair. Which is why, she thought, the Rivkies and Joshes of the world were not being generous when they helped people like her, but simply being just. This was the very least they could do. And so when you asked a favor of them, you were simply giving them an opportunity to behave in a way that was required of them, after all. Excessive gratitude was not only unnecessary, it was counterproductive, the heavenly reward for good deeds being inversely proportional to how much praise and fawning gratitude they netted you from the recipients of your largesse. By not falling all over herself to thank them, she’d be doing them a favor, Delilah told herself, getting ready to pursue her latest goal.

  But just when the coast seemed clear, someone knocked on the door. It turned out to be the wives of the Talmud Torah teacher and the beadle, both of whom had been invited to dinner, Delilah realized to her chagrin.

  She smiled her way through helping to set the table, as the women chattered on about their most recent experiences in their charity work (visiting the sick, helping new mothers, collecting clothes for the poor). When they turned to her and asked in a friendly way what she was involved in, she said, with great conviction, “Old-age homes.”

  Dinner was lively, with lots of singing around the table and many learned discussions among the men, while the women automatically jumped up to clear and serve, without resentment. The women seemed to know each other well and were constantly referring to study groups, exercise classes, and book clubs they were part of. They all lived within a few blocks, no doubt in similar homes, she thought enviously, with big yards and leaves to rake and the smell of burning wood.

  Saturday morning they rose early to the singing of birds. Josh and Chaim left for synagogue together, while Rivkie and Delilah had a leisurely breakfast. Delilah tried
to be chummy and familiar. Rivkie did her best not to offend her but had no intention of paying for unwanted intimacies by supplying similar information of her own. This annoyed Delilah, but she chalked it up to Rivkie’s boring piety.

  The synagogue was packed with young families, baby carriages, toddlers. The other young women greeted Rivkie with warmth, hugging her. They were gracious to Delilah as Rivkie’s guest. It was like being back in school again, Delilah thought, except, being the rabbi’s wife, you would never get left behind on the punchball fields without being chosen. They’d have to pick you. In fact, you’d be the captain, and you’d pick them, your attention and affection a prize to bestow on the fortunate. You were important, because the rabbi was important. And holy. Don’t forget holy. If he was holy, so was she, she thought, smoothing her hair beneath her hat and pulling down her skirt. Yes, this is what it would be like to be the rabbi’s wife in a real congregation, one that was filled with potential celebrations instead of tragic losses.

  Kiddush after the service was catered in a large and airy social hall. In honor of the day’s Bar Mitzva boy, there were trays of piping hot potato, noodle, and spinach kugels; individual quiches; platters of vegetables with dips; and fresh salmon on beds of parsley. The dessert table held giant fruit displays, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and beautiful little petits fours.

  They were so full by the time they reached home, they couldn’t even imagine lunch. But there it was, a beautiful buffet laid out in all Rivkie’s best Mikasa wedding china. Thankfully, there were no other guests. She felt happy and sleepy and content, unwilling to pressure her hosts or disrupt the pleasant atmosphere. There’d be time for that later, she told herself.

  And as they lay down for the traditional Saturday-afternoon nap in the comfortable guest room, which smelled of lavender and newly ironed sheets, she realized just how lonely she’d been the last few months. And just how much she really hated the Bronx, her apartment, and the synagogue full of old people.

  She reached across the bed, taking Chaim’s hand. “Are you having a good time, Chaim?”

  Half asleep, he murmured, “I suppose so. But I prefer the city.”

  She drew back, scowling. In the dappled shadows of the afternoon, his figure in the bed suddenly didn’t seem human anymore. He seemed like a bottle wrapped in cloth. And his head was the bottleneck, she realized, something she would have to pull herself through, kicking and screaming, to get where she wanted to go.

  Delilah chose the quiet private third meal of the day to make her move. Seated across from her hosts at a table filled with coffee and cake and various salads, Delilah said, “We had such a lovely time. This is such a great congregation. So many young people! Chaim is always saying if he had a young congregation, he could do so much. You know that image of writing on blank paper, rather than paper that’s got writing all over it?”

  Chaim, who had never expressed—or felt—any such thing, just stared at her.

  “Really, Chaim? Would you prefer youth work?” Josh asked him.

  “Well, I can’t say I wouldn’t like it. I just don’t have much experi—”

  Delilah laid her hand on his arm. “You know Chaim, he makes modesty into a fault. He has so much experience! The NCSY youth groups. Yavneh. Hillel House,” she said, smiling, winking, and waving her arms in all directions.

  Chaim, who had never worked with any of those groups, coughed until Rivkie brought him a glass of water.

  “He is wonderful with the seniors. But he is wasted in the Bronx. Wasted. You wouldn’t know of another congregation that has an opening, would you, Josh? In some small, pretty place like this? A young congregation?”

  “Well, usually you need about four or five years as assistant rabbi before you can even apply for a position as rabbi,” Josh explained.

  “Usually, but not always,” she said cryptically, with a secret smile.

  “I suppose, theoretically, that’s true.” Josh nodded, wondering how long they would be held captive before the Sabbath was out and they smiled their goodbyes and the Ford disappeared down the road.

  “I don’t think an ad in the Rabbi’s Forum of Bernstein’s Bulletin is theoretical. It looked pretty practical to me,” she said, pulling out the paper. “Especially if someone with your connections and reputation could pull a few strings—”

  “Really, Delilah,” Chaim murmured, mortified.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked around, innocent and bewildered. “Did I say something I shouldn’t?”

  “What congregation is it?” Josh asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

  She smoothed the Bulletin down and licked her finger, turning the pages. She jabbed at it, the way one would spear a particularly delicious hors d’oeuvre. “There!”

  Josh took the paper and read. “You aren’t talking about the ad for that synagogue by the lake, are you?” His look was incredulous.

  “Young, affluent community, interested in open-minded spiritual leader,” Delilah read. “How can you tell where it is?”

  “They’ve been running that ad for months,” Chaim informed her.

  “Congregation Ohel Aaron. In Connecticut,” Rivkie said quietly, raising her eyebrows at her husband and quietly taking Delilah’s hand in solidarity. “She couldn’t possibly have known that,” she admonished him.

  “Well, maybe not,” Josh conceded. “But Chaim, surely, you’ve heard the story.”

  “What story?” Delilah demanded, turning to her husband.

  “The story of why Congregation Ohel Aaron of Swallow Lake, Connecticut, will never get a rabbi,” Chaim said quietly. “Isn’t it time we got back to the synagogue for the evening prayers?” Josh nodded gratefully, and the men started the song that ushers in Grace After Meals, putting an abrupt end to the discussion.

  Later that evening, when they finally stood at the door to say their goodbyes, Josh put his arm around Chaim’s shoulder. “It’s an honor for you to follow in your grandfather’s footsteps. He has quite a reputation. I envy you.”

  “Thank you, Josh. They are enormous shoes to fill,” Chaim said gratefully.

  Delilah felt all her dreams slowly stop, the way the bubbles of Coke stop when the bottleneck slows them down and the cap puts an end to their escape.

  She kissed Rivkie. “I’ll call you,” she murmured, clutching her a little more tightly than was appropriate.

  Rivkie nodded uncomfortably. “I’m sure you will.”

  The moment they were in the car on the open road that led inexorably back to the Bronx, Delilah turned to her husband and said stiffly, “Tell me, Chaim. Why is it that Congregation Ohel Aaron in Swallow Lake, Connecticut, will never get a rabbi?”

  NINE

  In the 1950s, the Orthodox Jews of Connecticut joined the national movement out of the inner cities into the suburbs. Jews began showing up in places they were hardly ever seen or wanted. By then, the offspring of Eastern European Jews were already college educated, working in their families’ businesses, or successfully developing their own. They sought an area outside of Hartford or New Haven, where they could build and enjoy their prosperity. And so they found their way to beautiful Swallow Lake. They built a large, imposing synagogue and called it Ohel Aaron, after a major donor. They built large, imposing homes with lake views and private boat docks.

  Studies in the 1980s revealing that 52 percent of Jews in America were intermarrying sent shock waves through the American Jewish community. Jews began to rethink their values, the education they were giving their children, and the dilution of religious rituals in their synagogues and in their lives. Many decided to send their children to religious day schools. When a decade later the dot-com bubble provided new wealth to many, yeshiva high school graduates bought into the Swallow Lake community at an unprecedented rate. One of them was a stock market trader who later wound up serving ten to fifteen in a federal penitentiary. To atone for his sins, he built an elaborate Orthodox Jewish day school on part of his Swallow Lake estate, naming it after h
is parents, who had both died of heart attacks.

  The school was soon attracting the offspring of Orthodox Harvard Law and Business School alumni, Orthodox heart surgeons and cancer specialists, and Orthodox venture capitalists. Joining them were Jewish immigrants from South Africa, Iran, and the former Soviet Union, people who, while not Orthodox themselves, were not put off by the Orthodox way of life and were hopeful the day school would prove a bastion to keep their children from the drugs and sex that were rampant in other schools. They were also attracted to the school’s reputation for getting kids into the Ivy Leagues. And most of all they wished to join other Jews who could afford homes in the high six-to seven-figure category.

  When the aging rabbi of Ohel Aaron had a heart attack, they searched high and low for an Orthodox rabbi who would meet all of the community’s needs. The problem, as usual, was that no one could agree on what, exactly, those needs were.

  The day school graduates wanted the kind of rabbi they were familiar with from the synagogues of their youth, places with oversized barriers separating men and women; a rushed, rather melancholy, songless service; the words read in Hebrew so fast they sounded like watermelonwatermel-onwatermelon. They wanted a rabbi they could look up to, an eminence grise with an iron will, who would be uncompromising and didactic in anything related to law or ritual. Someone who, when you pointed to a phrase in the Talmud, could complete it by heart and tell you the rest of the page for good measure. Preferably, they wanted the scion of a rabbinic family, or at least someone who had served a prestigious congregation and had earned a reputation for honesty, piety, warmth, and leadership.

  The immigrants, however, had quite a different view of the situation. They saw Saturday as their day off. While they were willing to join the synagogue service in order to network, and didn’t mind putting their wives where they could be neither seen nor heard for a few hours, what they absolutely didn’t want—and would not tolerate—was being subjected to weekly exhortations about what they ate, how they lived, or anything else connected to the Ten Commandments, five of which couldn’t possibly fit into their lifestyles. They wanted a rabbi who would look the part, but would be friendly and understanding. Someone who would kid around and take things easy. Someone who knew not only how to tell a good joke, but how to listen to one (even if it was just a little off-color). In exchange, they were prepared to let him pick their pockets for whatever cause he wanted.