by Ragen, Naomi
Chaim looked anxiously around at the knots of people, wondering how to untie them and where they were supposed to go.
“What a wonderful idea!” Mariette declared brightly. “So much better than boring place cards. This way, we can all decide. You don’t mind, Rabbi Chaim, if we take it out of your hands? Now, let’s see, I am dying to sit right next to Arthur—you don’t mind, Solange, do you? And why don’t you and Stuart sit over here. And Felice, you and Amber can be here, next to Chaim’s mother and father. And Mrs. Goldgrab, what about here?” Mariette kindly and charmingly filled in for her AWOL hostess, making it all seem like great fun, instead of a major screw-up. “Tzippy, Fréderique, why don’t you sit together over here,” she said, placing them firmly in one corner with smiling efficiency so no one would be forced to speak to them.
Delilah leaned up against the bedroom door. The baby flailed, moist and angry, getting justifiably redder and more furious by the minute. She undid her bra and compressed her generous nipple into its tiny mouth, effectively shutting him up.
A dyke, she thought with horror. Tzippy Rosenfeld, who’d sat next to her in chumash class learning all about the Temple offerings! Quiet, unattractive, frizzy-haired Tzippy, full of sardonic humor no one got! And she’d been introduced to the Swallow Lake board as the rebbitzin’s dearest friend!
Delilah sat down, her nipple aching from all the unaccustomed tugging. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as she thought. Perhaps not everyone had overheard them. As for the hand-holding, after all, good women friends often held hands as a sign of innocent affection, didn’t they? And lots of people dressed strangely these days. It was Britney Spears pollution. Chaim certainly didn’t seem as if he’d noticed anything strange. But she got scant comfort from that. First, because he never noticed anything, and second, because even if he had he’d still be incapable of snubbing someone, anyone, even if his life—or, more importantly, his job—depended on it.
And then, finally, another realization dawned on her: They’d be staying overnight at the Malins! Although she was fuzzy on the details—what, in heaven’s name, was there for two women to do with each other, after all?—a cold shudder of terror crawled up her spine. What if they woke Solange or Arthur’s mother, who would discover them in flagrante delicto?
She sat on her bed filling with despair, imagining how the information would spread like wildfire all over the community Delilah so wanted to impress with her goodness and piety. She could see with clarity how all the eyes in the women’s section would turn to stare at her, people whispering in shocked low tones behind her back how the rebbetzin’s friend, her very, very best friend in all the world, the only one she’d invited to her son’s bris out of all her many, many friends, had performed acts of lesbian lewdness under the roof the president of Ohel Aaron.
People were shifting nervously, beginning to wonder if she was ever coming back, when all of a sudden, Delilah suddenly reappeared. Her eyes looked slightly red, and she had a sweet, sad smile on her wan face, like someone who has witnessed the last act of a Shakespearean tragedy and emerged purified and uplifted by the cathartic horror of it all.
She sat down at the other end of the table, facing her husband, and managed to avoid looking at or speaking to either Tzippy or Fréderique the entire evening. Even though Chaim tried to be hospitable, including them in the conversation whenever he could, they began to shift uncomfortably, exchanging meaningful glances. Finally, just before dessert, Tzippy suddenly answered her cell phone, even though, no one had heard it ring. It was urgent family business, she apologized, rising from the table together with Fréderique, which necessitated their immediate departure.
They said their goodbyes. Delilah walked them to the door.
“So sorry you’ve got to go!” Delilah said brightly. “But thanks for coming!”
“You mean thanks for leaving, don’t you?” Tzippy said, looking at her for what she knew would probably be the last time.
“You always did have a strange sense of humor.”
“Relax, Delilah. There’s no need to pretend. We get the picture.”
Delilah’s smile faded, “And don’t you pretend you don’t know what’s going on here. You went to yeshiva, Our jobs are on the line here.” She sighed. “Look, I’m really sorry. I just never imagined. . . . It’s nothing personal. Goodbye. I wish you both luck,”
“So long to you too, Delilah,” Tzippy answered, looking at her steadily. “I wish you luck too. Take it from me you’ll need it. A person can only pretend to be something they’re not for just so long.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She bristled.
“Oh, I think you know, Rebbitzin,” Tzippy murmured meaningfully. “But hey, to each his own closet.” They closed the door behind them.
She came back to the table and sat down, smoothing her skirt beneath her.
“Lovely girls,” Solange murmured.
Delilah nodded. “I know what you are all thinking. But if it hadn’t been for the accident—”
“What happened?” Amber asked.
Delilah shook her head. “A tragedy. Such a solid, religious girl. She won second prize in the Bible quiz! She was engaged to an accountant from Boro Park and studying to be a—a librarian. At Brooklyn College.” Delilah stared at her hands. “She’s been my chesed project now for years.”
“Head trauma?” Mariette asked sympathetically. “You get all kinds of personality changes,” she told the others.
Delilah nodded sadly. “She was praying so hard one Yom Kippur she actually tipped right over from the women’s balcony into the men’s section. Head first into the bimah. It was terrifying.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Delilah’s father boomed
Solange’s mouth dropped open. Mariette and Felice exchanged wondering stares.
“Most unfortunate.” Arthur shrugged. “How kind of you, Rebbitzin, to be so loyal. Poor thing.”
“Yes.” Mariette nodded. “Emotional support is so important to trauma victims. It’s a really worthy chesed project.”
“That’s the way I brought her up, to do good. It’s our way of life,” Mrs. Goldgrab piped up, poised to elaborate until she caught a glimpse of Delilah’s half-lidded, sidelong glance, which reminded her of a crocodile just about to have lunch.
Chaim, who had been listening to all this in dumbfounded wonder, suddenly cleared his throat. “Speaking of chesed projects,” he interjected quickly. “Delilah has been searching for a new one for our community. I told her she should ask all of you.”
“A chesed project! Why, you are going to have your hands full with your new baby, my dear. That is the biggest chesed project any woman can take on,” Solange said loftily.
“Be real, Solange!” Felice waved her hand dismissively. “You can go crazy in the house all day with a screaming kid. First of all, get a babysitter, so you’ll have a few hours a day for yourself. And whatever you do, don’t get involved in hospitals. All those germs!”
“And you don’t want to get involved in fund-raising either, believe me. It’s too time-consuming,” Mariette pointed out. “And the competition is cutthroat.”
“I’ve got an idea! What about collecting clothes for Israeli terror victims?” Amber said.
“Oh, clothing drives are so passé. Besides, why would old clothes do anything for terror victims?” Solange asked.
“But what about handbags!” Delilah burst in suddenly. “Designer handbags!”
“Designer Handbags for Terror Victims,” Felice mused, rolling the phrase over on her tongue.
Delilah leaned back, pleased. “Well, I was looking at some of those horrible pictures of bus explosions, you know? And on the sidewalk was this handbag, just lying there. And I began to think of all those Israeli women who had lost their handbags . . . and you know, if you give victims money, they’ll just spend it on the house or on food. They would never go out and buy themselves a really, really beautiful handbag. They wouldn’t allow themselves that pleasure, and as we all
know, a special handbag can do so much for a woman’s feeling about herself.”
“That,” Ari said slowly, shoving yet another slice of kugel onto his already overcrowded plate, “has got to be the dumbest idea I ever heard.”
“What do you mean!”
“How can you say that?”
“Spoken like a man!”
Each of the women jumped on him, causing his fork to pause in midair before it could deposit its next unnecessary load. He looked at them, astonished. “You can’t be serious. Come on! I’m Israeli, I know what I’m saying. Israelis have stubborn pride. They hate charity.”
“Has anyone ever mentioned this to the UJC?” Stuart murmured “All right, all right. Explain the logic of it to me,” Arthur said calmly, raising his palms upward, ever reasonable and wanting to spare his hostess further humiliation.
“Well,” Delilah began eagerly, “let’s say you were depressed over your appearance, as I imagine some terror victims are—all that stress, not to mention physical injuries.” She shuddered.
“And maybe no matter what clothes you wear, you still feel fat or you can’t find your size,” Amber joined in.
“But a beautiful handbag never has to fit, and it makes every woman feel special,” Felice concluded.
“Exactly,” Delilah agreed triumphantly.
“What do you think, Rabbi Chaim?” Ari said, suddenly turning to him.
Chaim looked from the disbelieving eyes of the men to the agitated and defensive eyes of the women, finally staring straight into those of his wife, who looked back at him, expressionless, waiting.
“Well.” He gulped. “Let me tell you a story. Ninety-year-old Moishe is dying. There he is, in his bed, getting ready for his last hour on earth, when suddenly the smell of newly baked fudge brownies comes wafting up the stairs from the kitchen. This was his favorite. There was nothing he loved to eat more than fudge brownies. So, with his last ounce of strength, he lifts himself up off the bed, clutches the wall, and slowly makes his way out of his bedroom and down the steps, gripping the railings with both hands. Finally, his strength almost gone, his heart beating with his last breaths, he leans against the kitchen door frame and stares in.
“There, in front of him, is a wondrous sight: hundreds and hundreds of fudge brownies. ‘Oh, my God, maybe I’m already in heaven!’ he thinks. ‘But if I’m still alive, then this is the greatest act of chesed from my wonderful wife, who knows me so well and has been at my side for over sixty-five years. My darling wife who wants to make sure I leave this world a happy man. I cannot disappoint her.’ With one final superhuman effort, Moishe lunges toward the brownies but ends up on his knees near the table. His old hand trembling, he reaches up to take one, his mind already beginning to imagine the explosion of chocolate in his mouth, the thick fudgy taste that will soon fill him with final joy, when all of a sudden—wham—his wife whacks his hand away with her mixing spoon.
“ ‘What are you doing!’ he cries out to her.
“ ‘They’re for the shiva.’ ”
No one said a word, the women looking aghast while the men tried out tentative little smiles.
“With all due respect, Rabbi,” Ari finally broke the silence. “What’s that supposed to teach us?”
Chaim looked up, surprised, his forehead suddenly glistening with moisture.
“Isn’t it obvious, Ari?” Arthur Malin broke in, raising his eyebrows. “No matter what state a person is in, there is always something that can bring him joy. Is that what you meant, Rabbi?”
Chaim nodded his head gratefully.
“Amber is right. Clothes have to fit. Different people like different syles. And I’ll tell you something else, trying on clothes is depressing. It’s not fun. But a beautiful handbag. It’s a wonderful, original idea. Like brownies for the dying,” Arthur concluded, smiling encouragingly at Chaim.
So he wasn’t the brightest star in the sky, and his wife was even dimmer, Arthur Malin thought to himself. But he would rather have the community collecting pocketbooks than brainwashing their young people to join the black hats. He thought of his grandchildren in their broken-down apartment on a poor Jerusalem side street, their father jobless and probably going to stay that way, living on handouts from America. At least Rabbi Chaim would do no harm.
“I can give you a few handbags, and I know some other women who will be happy to contribute, Delilah.” Felice offered.
After services the next day, they held the bris. They named their son after his great-grandfather, Abraham. It was a very moving ceremony in which the entire community participated. Afterward, there was a sit-down luncheon in the catering hall served on china plates that were a far cry from the plastic forks and paper shnaps cups of the Bronx.
NINETEEN
Delilah’s dreams of spending her time searching for designer hand-bags to cheer Israeli sufferers of posttraumatic shock were not exactly working out as she had planned. In fact, being a rabbi’s wife in Swallow Lake wasn’t turning out as she had planned.
She realized this the morning of the sisterhood meeting. She was in the kitchen, preparing the evening’s food, which Solange had suggested be a dessert buffet in a baby shower theme, because one of the sisterhood members had just found out she was pregnant. So there were going to be baby bottles holding little tulips, and diaper-pin napkin holders, a large stuffed animal in a diaper holding the silverware. There would be parchment paper cones of peanut brittle held in ice-cream-cone holders and tall martini glasses with little silver scoopers holding jellybeans. There would be a blueberry-lemon crème brûlé tart, chocolate peanut-butter diamonds, fudge-covered brownie cheesecake, chocolate-dipped almond horns, cupcakes, plum crumble cake, fresh fruit cut up to look like lollipops, and a peach and berry crisp.
The baby was screaming, so she picked him up and balanced him on her hip, as she creamed the confectioner’s sugar into the butter. The phone was ringing.
“Chaim, can you get that? Chaim?”
It kept ringing.
“Hello?”
“Rebbitzin Levi?”
“Yes, who is this? Shhhh. . . . No I’m not shushing you, it’s my baby. How can I . . . ? Oh, Mrs. Stein. You really should discuss that with my husband. . . . I’m sorry he’s so hard to catch, but he’s. . . . Yes, I realize that it’s important. . . . Of course, I’ll remind the cleaning staff to wash off the plants in the synagogue lobby before your son’s Bar Mitzva. . . . No, I don’t think it’s petty, not at all. You have out-of-town guests; of course you should feel comfortable. Ssssssssshhhhhh! No, no, really, it’s the baby—”
Was that the damn doorbell ringing?
“CHAIM!” Where was he?
“Sorry, I’ve got to go. ‘Bye.”
She hung up the phone and ran to the door.
“Oh, Mrs. Cooperman. How are you?” She smiled as best she could at the young woman on her doorstep, who wordlessly handed her a white envelope, turned her back, and fled. Delilah held it in her fingertips gingerly, imagining the piece of cloth tinged with vaginal secretion inside, releasing it over the pile of mail on the dining room table meant for Chaim.
The baby was not going back to sleep, she realized, sitting down and pulling out her breast. She sat down on the couch and closed her eyes as the infant nursed, pulling on her nipple, which was sore and cracked. She put him over her shoulder to burp. He let loose a large wad of goo, which, as usual, managed to miss the diaper and run down her shoulder, thus destroying yet another blouse.
No, things were not going as she’d imagined. For starters, there she was sitting in the front pew in the synagogue, a sitting duck, listening to all the whispers as Chaim was speaking, wondering if they were laughing at him or angry at him or just ignoring him and discussing where to buy shoes, as he gave his weekly sermon. At first, she had concentrated on his every word, tense and defensive, cringing when she heard him say anything the least bit controversial that might wind up with some incensed synagogue member accosting them at kiddush to bawl him out.
But as hard as she listened, it was impossible to predict. Once, he told a touching story about the daughter of a friend who had celebrated her twenty-first birthday in Jerusalem by preparing a Sabbath dinner for friends. He compared that to the twenty-one-year-olds who celebrate by getting drunk in bars with friends. Who could have predicted that this would lead to a half-crazed congregant cornering him over the potato kugel, shouting, “Not every American kid gets plastered on his birthday! What are you trying to do, talk all of us into sending our kids to Israel where they’ll be blown up by suicide bombers?”
After that, she’d tune out his speeches completely. It was bad enough she had to show up at the synagogue every Saturday morning, baby or no baby, rain or shine. And it wasn’t enough just to come, she had to show up in the best possible outfit, with a matching hat or wig that covered all or most of her hair.
Never in her wildest dreams had Delilah ever imagined she’d wind up covering her hair. The custom, as far as she knew, had started with the biblical phrase in Leviticus that described the sotah ordeal that a woman had to undergo if her husband suspected her of committing adultery but didn’t have any actual proof. The poor floozy was taken to the temple where, the Bible says, “The priest shall present the woman . . . before God and uncover the head of the woman.” How that had morphed into every married woman being obliged to shave her head—or wear a wig, or tuck every last strand of her hair inside some dorky-looking snood—was beyond her. But there it was. Her own theory, adopted from a talkative and rebellious classmate who had wound up marrying a Gentile, was historical: Given the fact that only prostitutes had not worn a hat in the Middle Ages, medieval rabbis had found some way to update biblical Judaism to be in tune with the times. Unfortunately, Orthodoxy’s innovations sort of froze in the fourteen hundreds. So when women all over the world stopped covering their hair, Orthodox rabbis forgot to update. Now, women were stuck with two impossible-to-explain ideas: that a wig was more modest than your own hair and that being the only woman in the entire city to wear a hat—thus calling undue attention to yourself wherever you went—was a source of modesty.