by Ragen, Naomi
Their lives, she realized, were built on beach sand. And she, no less than he, was responsible for keeping the powers that be from washing them out to sea.
The unexpected situation she had fallen into by becoming the wife of a rabbi had dawned on Delilah in stages. Stage one, she had been filled with the romantic illusions carefully nurtured in the classrooms of her youth, places where rabbis and rabbis’ wives held sway. Life, they’d explained, was to be lived in order to earn great rewards that could only be cashed in after you died, in the “next life.” A woman, unable to earn much spiritual change on her own with the measly religious duties that fell her way—drops from the great ocean that washed over the men—could nevertheless increase her bottom line by supporting her husband’s myriad religious duties. And the greater the husband, the more credit the wife earned. The wife of a rabbi who was a scholar, head of a great congregation, a leader of men, never had to worry about her spot in the World to Come. It would be an orchestra seat, center stage.
For this, sacrifices had to be made. Like not being able to express yourself freely, having to dress and behave like a dowdy pious matron. Most of all, you had to defer to your husband, helping to feed the myth that every word that fell from his mouth was a pearl of wisdom.
And then came stage two, the realization that a rabbi was just a man, a husband, who had his moments, good and bad, all that Talmud study notwithstanding. That when he pronounced “too much salt in the kugel” or “that dress seems a little too tight around the hips,” it was not the word of God. That he was capable of locking himself in his study for hours to compose a sermon about the virtues of compassion, kindness, and peacemaking, only to emerge and threaten the rowdy kids next door with bodily harm if they didn’t shut up.
But, then, there were also the times when she saw him secretly donate money from his own pocket to help out divorced moms, or send kids to summer camp, or pull strings to get teens into rehab centers. Times when she felt she might actually be earning World-to-Come credits by supporting him and being part of his work.
And then came the last stage in which the shocking realization dawned that, like it or not, she had no choice: being married to the rabbi, she, too, was an employee of the shul. It was two for the price of one. A package deal. The salary he was paid, and the good life they enjoyed, devolved on her shoulders as well.
She looked out to the back porch where her mother was sitting, with its view of the forests and backyard swings. At first, just the idea of a backyard and front yard, of your own trees and plants, had made her so happy, she’d find herself just sitting outside, tearing up over her good fortune. But now, she was already beginning to feel the small ping of discontent. The beautiful lake view was blocked. The backyard was adequate but small. There was no swimming pool. No Jacuzzi. No sauna.
And while the bedroom was three times the size of the one they’d had in the city, their bathroom had one sink, not two, and it was tiled with plain-colored tiles, nothing imported from Spain or Mexico or Portugal. The refrigerator was a Westinghouse, not a Sub-Zero.
Despite the twinges of discontent, Delilah was still telling herself that she was happy. And in many ways, she was.
Why, just that morning she had lain in bed examining the cards and gifts that had not stopped pouring in. There was a gorgeous sequined diaper bag by Isabella Fiore from Mariette Rolland, who had exquisite taste in everything. The Malins had sent over a classic pram, navy and white patent leather with an adjustable backrest, an air flow adjustment device, and a genuine porcelain medallion, a gift of the congregation. The Grodins had sent over their novelty bears, about ninety-five different models, while the Borenbergs had sent clothing by Minimun, which, someone had explained to Delilah, looked ordinary but cost a fortune.
Despite her sore body, she’d leaned back, sighing with satisfaction and happiness. Even though she was married to a man who catered to the needs of endless strangers, people who claimed and received his time, energy, worry, and interest twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, she felt she could make her marriage, and her life, work in a place like Swallow Lake.
“Why don’t you ask some of the women tonight about a suitable chesed project? Maybe they’ll have an idea,” Chaim had suggested that morning. She’d stared at him, stunned. Finally, her husband had a good idea. This alone, she thought, was worth a celebratory dinner.
SEVENTEEN
The Grodins arrived first, bearing a bottle of expensive wine. Amber was a large woman who wore custom-made clothes that seemed to float over her body benignly, giving away no secrets. Like many heavy women, she had a strikingly lovely face that people bemoaned, as if it were a tragedy. “Such a shame!” they’d say. “Such a beautiful face! If only she could lose a little weight, she’d be such a knockout.” Since Amber had been overweight from the age of thirteen months, she had been waiting her entire life for someone to call her beautiful without an addendum.
Her husband, Stuart, was equally heavy and gave the impression of being a laid-back guy with a killer sense of humor. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Far from being easygoing and self-satisfied, he was the opposite: a kind of fat Richard Dreyfuss in The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz, constantly looking for a new angle to exploit, seeing in every social relationship the hidden opportunity for scoring.
Whenever he was together with the rich birds in his neighborhood, he never ceased hoping they’d molt when he was around, leaving behind some golden feather he could scavenge and cash in. Sometimes it was a stock tip, but often it was just the small talk that went on between very wealthy men, about investment advisers and commodities and real estate opportunities. He lunged for the information like a Venus flytrap, before anyone could catch on.
He was always a little nervous around people like the Malins, feeling that he was a fake, a one-trick pony, who had had some luck that could always peter out. He and Amber had been in the novelty business for years—producing instantly breakable and forgettable objects—until they hit the jackpot with the bears.
“Delilah, sweetheart, mazel tov! Let me see the baby. . . . Oh, Stuart, look at this baby!” Amber cooed, looking him over. They had one grown son who lived in Miami whom no one had ever seen. There didn’t seem to be a daughter-in-law in the offing or a grandchild on the horizon.
“Cute,” Stuart agreed, giving the baby a quick little look over, then nervously canvassing the room. “Are we the first?”
Delilah nodded. “But they’ll be home from shul soon. Please, sit down.”
She didn’t offer them anything, because traditionally one didn’t eat or drink Friday nights before hearing kiddush over the wine, which would only take place when the rabbi walked in and the meal began.
The Borenbergs came next. Felice was in her late forties, but you would never have guessed it. She was tiny and wore her hair down her back almost to her waist, like a fairy princess. The cost of dye necessary to keep it that shade of platinum could have put a deserving student through medical school, Amber once snickered to Solange, who was only too happy to join in, resenting the woman’s overt sexiness along with everything else about Felice.
Women of a certain age, Amber and Solange were in whispered agreement, should cut their hair to a sensible length instead of running around like Venus on the half shell. Whenever Felice walked into the women’s section, the two of them—and many many others—seethed at the way the head of every man in the synagogue turned to look at her. Men never realized how tacky that kind of behavior was, Solange and Amber agreed. But they never said any of these things to her face because Felice was constantly throwing the most wonderful parties in her exquisite home. She always had the best cook, the most wonderful gardener and florist, the most efficient and pleasant household help that stayed with her for years. Amber and Solange would have been devastated to be cut from her guest list.
Felice was also a terror on the StairMaster and never skipped her private pilates and yoga sessions, giving her the figure of a junior h
igh school cheerleader. That was bad enough. But what was truly unforgivable was that she had actually founded the multimillion-dollar company that allowed her to maintain her lifestyle at Swallow Lake, rather than having married the man who did.
A rabbi’s daughter who had wound up at Harvard Business School, she had come up with the brilliant idea of putting pushcarts along the center aisles of malls, in which she sold everything from back massagers to pearl jewelry, amassing countless millions. She had actually been written up in Fortune as one of America’s foremost entrepreneurs. There had been three husbands, the first two long gone and forgotten. She had a number of children away at college, leaving behind only her baby, now a pimply sixteen-year-old sophomore in the local yeshiva high school. She had sold half her shares in her thirties and had been pursuing a life of leisure ever since. Her current spouse, Ari, was the son of Israelis who had left the country when Ari wras ten in search of the American dream. And although Ari had been back only twice in the last twenty years to visit his grand-mother and relatives, he considered himself the resident expert on anything to do with Israeli politics, culture, or economics, insisting on having the last word on Middle East history and politics. He was at least fifteen years younger than Felice, the only man on the board who still had all his hair in its original color.
“I hope I’m not too late to help,” Mariette Rolland said briskly, as she walked in alone. Her husband, Joseph, the heart specialist, was a man whom no one ever actually saw, although his existence was a well-established rumor. Mariette was cover-girl beautiful, with strawberry-blond hair cut into a shoulder-length bob.
A clinical psychologist with a thriving practice, she was also the mother of four children—a fifteen-year-old son and three very beautiful daughters aged sixteen through twenty-three, the oldest of whom was already married and the mother of two babies.
She was also very kind. She never gossiped. She contributed generously to every imaginable charity, as well as baking cakes for them, and opening her home for countless fund-raisers. She gave dinner parties for her husband’s medical colleagues. She ran support groups for women with osteoporosis. She volunteered at battered women’s shelters, taught quilting, and took gourmet cooking classes. All this, she managed single-handedly as her husband jet-setted all over the globe, attending medical conferences and tending to an international roster of patients, including a member of the Saudi royal family, making him one of the few Jews to have gone in and out of that country alive.
Mariette did it all with aplomb, patience, good nature, and good cheer. She was also one of the few women who insisted on a token head covering for her hair, out of respect for the rabbinical injunction. She always found the perfect hat to match every single one of her perfect outfits, which was in itself enough to make you want her dead.
“Delilah, how are you? Tell me how I can help. Oh, look at the baby! Such a little darling. How was the birth?”
“Oh, it was an amazing spiritual experience. You know, I didn’t have any drugs. I had this doula. And I never felt closer to God, believe me. I felt He was directly responsible for everything that was happening to me.”
“How inspiring! Usually a first birth is pretty difficult,” Mariette said, impressed.
“It all depends on your spiritual strength.” Delilah nodded. “Baruch Hashem. It’s an experience I’ll never forget. In fact, I’m thinking about giving a shiur about it.”
“Mariette, that’s such a lovely suit! Wherever did you find it?” Amber asked enviously.
“I got it in this little shop in passy the last time I was in Paris.” She sighed mournfully.
Mariette’s married daughter lived in Paris, so she had a perfect, morally iron-clad reason to travel there often. In between her shopping trips to the Galeries Lafayette, there were often side jaunts to Provence and the French Riviera. But she made it a point to disavow any enjoyment from her travels. “I am counting the days until my family finds their way back to America, or even to Israel, believe me!” she’d say fervently, shaking her head as she fingered the exquisite rose-shaped sequined buttons on her suit jacket—such as can only be found in Paris. “Such anti-Semites,” she’d murmur, shrugging helplessly, steadying her upper lip. “But what can I do? She’s my daughter.” In answer to any question that broached the subject of when her daughter was actually planning on leaving France, she’d exhale slowly, explaining for the umpteenth time that there was a business that needed to be sold, some big factory her son-in-law had inherited, was now in charge of, and was unfortunately unable to sell. “Everyone has their burdens.” She’d smile bravely, planning her next trip.
There was the obligatory oohing and aahing over the sleeping infant, who slept under the watchful eye of the au pair, who stood by ready to whisk him out of sight and hearing range the moment he showed any actual signs of life.
EIGHTEEN
Delilah, look who I’ve brought,” Chaim said cheerfully as he walked in from shul, accompanied by the Malins and two women. Delilah walked over to him, a big smile on her face. She gave the strangers—whom she assumed were shul strays—the barest of smiles and an offhand nod, before turning her attention fully to the Malins.
“Solange, Arthur, thanks so much for the beautiful carriage! And for hosting my dearest friend! I can’t wait to see her!”
A strange look came over Solange. “You’re very welcome, Delilah. Your friends also couldn’t wait to see you!” she said, gesturing pointedly toward the strangers.
“Don’t you recognize me, Delilah? It’s me, Tzippy.”
Delilah took in the woman’s gelled black hair that stood up in spikes, the ends tinted blond, the low-cut vintage dress, the chains with numerous symbols. For a split second, the rather overweight, studious girl with glasses she remembered from high school peeked out at her.
“Tzippy? Is that really you?” she said in a tiny, hoarse voice. She felt breathless, as if she’d swallowed a fish bone and was afraid of inhaling it into her lungs.
“Yes, it’s really me. And this is Fréderique.” She reached out, threading her fingers lovingly through the hand of a petite blonde in a red pantsuit and bringing it to her lips.
Delilah froze in horror.
A gay person in the Orthodox community is like a beer-guzzling Muslim in a mosque: totally impossible for the faithful to publicly embrace. While the rest of the world might have moved on, and even certain Reform and Conservative Jewish congregations in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Boston might have graciously finessed their way around it, most people in the religious Jewish world continued to view homosexuality in biblical terms, i.e., as an abomination worthy of, if not currently punishable by, stoning. The more widespread its acceptance, the more Orthodox religious leaders pointed to it as proof of the current decadence of modern life, and to themselves as guardians of the last bastion left standing against it. The depth of one’s horrified rejection was often the yardstick to one’s piety.
“It’s so good to see you! Mazel tov on the baby!” Tzippy went on cheerfully, oblivious, hugging her. “I don’t know if this is the right time to announce it—I know you’re not supposed to mix one simcha with another—but I just can’t resist: I also have a mazel tov coming to me!” she looked lovingly at Fréderique. “We’re engaged!” she announced. “We hope to have a commitment ceremony as soon as our rabbi gives birth. We’d be honored if you’d be one of our chuppah holders.”
People standing within hearing range turned astonished faces in their direction. Delilah shrank.
“I was really surprised you called. Frankly, I’m not in touch with most of the girls we grew up with anymore. Nothing personal, just, you know, nothing in common. And even my family—well, you can imagine. Inter-marriage is bad enough. But intermarriage with a same-sex partner who’s Catholic and French—which is almost as bad as being German these days—was too much for them. So we thought it was a pretty important statement, didn’t we, Fréderique? I mean, you being the rabbi’s wife and all of an
Orthodox congregation and still being willing to invite us and introduce us to your community as your friends.”
“Best friends,” Solange said slowly. “Isn’t that what you said, Delilah?”
“She told you that?” Tzippy beamed at Fréderique, who beamed back. “I had a pretty big crush on her too.”
Delilah stepped back, dizzy, rapidly reevaluating all those times she’d worn her bikini and shared a beach blanket with Tzippy during the summer of her sophomore year.
“Bon soir, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Fréderique said, looking her up and down. “And it was all true.”
Delilah touched her sweating forehead.
“Is that French I’m hearing?” Mariette called from the other side of the room. “Ça va?” she ventured, moving toward them, smiling. Having used up her entire French vocabulary except for How much? My size is the American size eight, and Give me a low-calorie soft drink, Mariette returned to English. “I’m afraid my French is pretty bad,” she said. It was not. It was nonexistent. “So, are you two roommates? I remember how much fun it was when I was in college to bunk with a roommate—”
“Yes, we live together, but not as roommates,” Tzippy began instructively, as if she were about to deliver the main address at the Gay Pride parade.
Delilah suddenly plucked her peacefully sleeping infant unceremoniously out of his carriage. He howled.
“Oh, what do you know? He’s hungry again. And I just fed him! What an appetite!” Delilah said in a booming voice over the baby’s screams, putting an end to all conversation. “Chaim, why don’t you seat everyone? I’ll just feed him and be back in a jiffy.” She ran up the stairs to the bedroom.
Felice arched a brow, while Solange and Amber went silent, staring at their feet. The lesbians and the disappearing act were bad enough, but nothing compared to not having provided place cards and having left the responsibility for seating in the hands of a husband at the last minute. That could only be characterized by one hyphenated word: low-class.