by Una LaMarche
I’m probably getting a little carried away (I might have even stayed up until three AM planning), but I need this to be perfect. The last time Devorah and I were alone together was five days ago, and with everything we have to deal with, it could be another whole week before we get our next chance. Each of our dates has to be like a dozen normal dates, to tide us over during the fast. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.
Luckily I’m off the hook in terms of coming up with an alibi for today. After a week or so of post-storm cooling, summer is back with a vengeance, and it’s supposed to hit ninety-five this afternoon, so Mom took the girls out to Rockaway Beach on the A train. I was invited, but I said I had too much homework, which is never an excuse she’ll argue with. And Dad still has repair work from the hurricane keeping him busy; he’ll be fixing a broken skylight on a Park Slope townhouse all day.
I know I’m gonna be dripping with sweat by the time I get to our rendezvous point, but I still take an extra-long shower, double up on deodorant, and run my electric shaver over my chin and upper lip. I’m on my way out the door, grabbing my Mets cap and some five-dollar wraparound shades for stealth purposes, when I hear the unmistakable weary stomp of my dad’s size-eleven Timberland work boots in the stairwell.
“Hey, J,” he says as I open the door, awkwardly cradling my backpack full of damning, unexplainable items. He frowns, confused. “I thought you were studying today.”
“Yeah, I am . . . I just thought I’d go to the library for a while. Fewer distractions.” I swing my bag onto one shoulder and give my dad my best what can you do? smirk.
“Oh, sure,” he says, patting my back as he steps past me into the cool AC. “Good idea.” He bends down and shuffles through a pile of tools stacked haphazardly on the entryway table we use for mail, finally pocketing a paint-encrusted slide rule. Then he walks to the kitchen, and I hear the hiss of tap water. When he comes back his face is dripping wet, but he’s smiling. “Hey, want a ride?” he asks. “It’s hot as Hades out there.”
“Thanks,” I hedge, “but I don’t want you to go out of the way.”
“It’s on my way,” he says, wiping droplets from his neck with a yellowed handkerchief. “I gotta drive down Prospect Park West anyhow.”
It’s not on my way, though. And I’m meeting Devorah in half an hour, so I can’t afford to lose the time.
“Nah,” I say, trying to sound disappointed. “I shouldn’t. I have a Spanish lesson on mp3 that I was gonna listen to on my walk. Kill two birds, or whatever.”
He laughs, revealing a mile-wide row of big white teeth and red gums. “Man, I wish I had your discipline,” he says. “Probably would have got me farther than this.” He gestures down to his dirty T-shirt and cargo pants, a tool belt slung low on his hips. “You know, your grandmama used to say to me, ‘Goats don’t make sheep.’ Meaning children always turn out like their parents. But not you, Jax.” His dark eyes turn serious, his smile a little sad now. “You’re so much better than I could ever be.”
“Dad—” I protest. I’m half embarrassed by the earnest compliment, half horribly guilty that it’s based on a lie. The only thing worse than betraying trusting parents is having them reward you for it.
“Don’t be modest,” he says. “I’m proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself.” He claps me on the back with another laugh. “Now get on,” he calls, as I start out the door. “Go hit those books.” I take the stairs two at a time and break into a run on the street, even though the thick, hot air makes me feel like I’m moving through stew. I just want to get around the corner before my father comes back out to his truck. I can’t look him in the face again, or else I might not be able to go through with it.
• • •
By the time I get to Wonder Wings, my T-shirt is damp to the touch and stuck to my skin in places, but being the detail-oriented guy I am, I packed a fresh one in my bag. Now I just need to get inside without drawing attention to myself. Cora doesn’t open until noon on weekends, since even in the most desperate circumstances our hot wings don’t qualify as brunch, but she’ll be rolling up around eleven thirty, which means I have only twenty minutes or so to get in and out, provided Devorah shows up on time. I try to look confident and nonchalant as I pull my key ring out of my pocket and open the padlock at the bottom of the grate that pulls down over the storefront like big steel window blinds at night. I squat down and pull up on the grate to get it off the ground, and then transfer the weight from my biceps to my shoulders as I push it up, Superman style, above my head. I leave it at about six feet since I’m just going to drag it back down in a few minutes, and then let myself in through the glass front door, leaving the sign turned to CLOSED.
The bathroom is around back next to the kitchen, invisible from the street, so I don’t bother to close the door as I peel off my shirt and set my backpack down on the sink. I sift through all the clothes in my bag until I find my red T-shirt, the same one I was wearing when I first met Devorah in the elevator. I hold it up for a sniff test and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my bare chest glistening with sweat under the fluorescent lights. What would she think if she saw me like this? I think about seeing Devorah naked way more than I probably should, maybe because she’s always so covered up. And it’s not even the dirty parts, either, although those cross my mind more than she would like to know. But I also want to see those jet-black curls cascading over bare shoulders, the small of her back, her knees, her ankles. I wonder idly if she ever fantasizes about me that way, and my face starts to get hot in a way that has nothing to do with the weather.
“Oh!”
I hear her voice before I see her in the mirror, standing frozen in front of the grease trap, taking in the sight of me with a mix of shock and amusement. I snap out of my daze and pull the shirt over my head as quickly as possible.
“Hey,” I say, trying to regroup, my tongue suddenly feeling heavy, as useless as a mop in my mouth. “I was, um . . .” Devorah blushes and breaks eye contact, examining a poster one of the line cooks has taped up to his work station, which shows a busty model eating a chicken wing in a . . . suggestive fashion. I clear my throat. “You’re early.”
“Only by about sixty seconds.”
“Well.” I sigh, launching into a nervous comedy act, “Still, I’m sorry you had to see that. My striptease usually has better choreography.”
“No need to apologize,” she says. We stare awkwardly at each other for a minute. I’d wanted to hug and kiss her as soon as I saw her, but now that she’s just seen my nipples, that seems way too forward.
“I need to tell you something,” Devorah finally blurts out. “Jacob knows.”
“Oh no.” I sit down on the closed toilet lid, my heart in my stomach. “I’m so sorry. I should have known leaving the kite was way too obvious.”
“No, not because of that,” she says quickly. “He saw us, last week. On this block. He followed me.”
“What? That’s crazy!”
“I know,” she says. “He thinks he’s some kind of one-man morality police force.”
“What’s he gonna do?” My eyes drift up to the kitchen wall clock. It’s 11:21; we have to get moving.
Devorah shrugs, but her eyes are full of fear. “He says he won’t do anything, as long as I stop seeing you.”
“So I guess you’ve made up your mind.” I know it’s serious, but I can’t help but smile. Knowing Devorah risked getting in major trouble to come meet me solidifies what I’ve been hoping the past two weeks: that she’s falling in love with me, too. Why else would she put everything on the line like this?
“It’s not that simple,” she says. “But I can’t let him control me. I’m not going to give him that power.”
I stand up and make a move to hug her, but she holds out a hand like a stop sign. “We can’t,” she says with a nervous smile. “Shabbos rules, remember?”
“Damn,” I whisper, and she laughs.
“Speaking of which, where are we going?” She’s warming up now that she’s gotten the Jacob business off her chest, and bounces excitedly from foot to foot.
“Not far,” I say. “But just to be safe”—I hold out my backpack—“I brought you a change of clothes.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“I figured you might feel more comfortable undercover,” I say. “Especially now that I know you’re being tailed.” As soon as Edna and Ameerah left this morning, I raided their closet, taking all the hoodies, long dresses, and hats I could find.
Devorah starts to rifle through the backpack. “Don’t worry,” she says. “There’s no way Jacob followed me today. He’s in synagogue until at least noon. Plus, I had Hanna walk me over.” She holds up a floor-length teal cotton dress and a yellow-and-white striped sweatshirt with the word PINK scrawled across the back. “You’re a genius.” She grins.
“I try,” I say. “The only downside is, you’re gonna be sweltering.”
She laughs gamely. “What else is new?”
• • •
“Do I look okay?” she whispers, keeping her back to the street as I lock the grate back up a few minutes later. Cora will be showing up any second; we’re cutting it dangerously close.
I look my date up and down: The breezy summer dress reaches almost to the sidewalk, barely showing the soles of her black leather shoes. She’s got the hoodie zipped up tight, with the hood on and her hair tucked in. A pair of Ameerah’s enormous, bug-eyed black sunglasses covers about two-thirds of her face.
You look like the Unabomber went shopping at Victoria’s Secret, I want to say. But I know that will make her feel even more nervous than she already is, so instead I say, “You look beautiful.” Which is also true.
I take her hand, and she reflexively stiffens, but I lean in and whisper, “The more natural you act, the less people will look.” I drape an arm around her shoulder and pull my Mets cap down so it’s shielding my eyes. “Just trust me. Talk normally; stay close to me. Pretend you don’t even see anyone else.” I look around; the restaurant’s corner doesn’t usually get a big Hasidic crowd since it’s on the Caribbean fringe, but until we get across Eastern Parkway, I won’t be able to relax, either.
“Just think,” I say under my breath, trying to distract her as we rush across the street to make the light, “someday soon we can go wherever we want without worrying about who sees us.”
“Promise?” she whispers.
“Promise.” I hope I’m telling the truth.
It’s hot and relatively early for a weekend, so there aren’t too many people milling around as we start down Nostrand, trying to adopt the unhurried, in-sync steps of a normal young couple in love. A couple of old dudes sitting in plastic lawn chairs outside of a pizza place look at us a little funny, but it’s probably because my costume-design efforts have turned Devorah from a pretty, unflashy Orthodox girl into what probably looks to a lot of people like a bougie, over-the-top Sikh.
“Want to know something funny?” she asks, loosening up as we near the big Dunkin Donuts near the intersection at Eastern Parkway. “I’ve never worn sunglasses before.”
“What?!”
She shrugs helplessly. “We just don’t wear them. I only see them at Purim.”
“That’s like Hasidic Halloween, right?” I ask.
“Sort of,” she says, laughing. “There are masquerade parties, but it has nothing to do with ghosts or pumpkins. It’s about a woman named Esther who saved the Jews.”
“So what do you go as? Let me guess: a Ghostbuster!”
Devorah looks at me blankly. Oh, right. The great pop culture divide.
“I usually go as Esther,” she says with a self-conscious smile.
“What does she look like?”
“Well, she’s a queen. So my mom sewed me a dress out of red velvet and gold brocade. But other than that I just look like me.”
Devorah stops at the corner and looks over at the flashing red hand at the other end of the crosswalk, totally unaware that she’s just summed up exactly what it is that makes me love her so much. Right now she’s dressed ridiculously, but that’s my doing; if left to her own devices, Devorah would never be anybody but herself. It would never even occur to her. Other people put on disguises every single day—brand-name clothes to make them seem cooler than they are, makeup to cover up their flaws, personas carefully cultivated to make them more popular—but Devorah never does. She is always, almost helplessly, genuine. And that is endearing as hell.
The light changes, and we start to walk across the street, when I hear a sharp male voice call out after us.
“Hey! You two! Hey, stop!”
It feels like every muscle in my body clenches at once. Devorah grabs my elbow and digs her nails in.
“What do we do?” she whispers. The crosswalk light is already starting to flash, counting down from 25. 24, 23, 22 . . . We could run. I think we can make it if we run. But—
20, 19 . . .
—there’s no point in running blindly. If it’s Jacob, fine. But if it’s Devorah’s father, or the police—
17, 16 . . .
—not that we’ve broken any laws, unless letting myself into Wonder Wings counts . . . the Korean man who runs the deli next door has always seemed suspicious of me, I bet he called it in—
“Jax,” Devorah whispers, more urgently this time.
“HEY!” the voice calls out again.
13, 12 . . .
I turn around.
“Oh, good,” says a middle-aged man in flip-flops and a wife-beater. “I thought you couldn’t hear me.” He holds out my wraparound sunglasses, which I had stuck in the outside pocket of my backpack when we left the store. “You dropped these.” Devorah lets go of my arm with an audible sigh of relief.
“Thanks, man,” I say.
9, 8, 7 . . .
“Run,” I tell Devorah.
We make it. Just barely, but we make it. And ten slightly less dramatic minutes later, we’re standing in front of our destination: my perfect, secret Shabbat date spot.
“What is this?” she asks, pulling off the hood and sunglasses and peering up at the crumbling brick facade.
“Welcome,” I say, with a stupid little bow, “to my house.”
• • •
The basement of our building is only partially finished, which is a nice way of saying butt-ugly. There’s a cement slab for a floor, cinder-block walls, exposed beams on the ceiling, and one entire corner is taken up by a huge gas boiler, which looks kind of like a super-sized file cabinet with pipes sticking out all over. The rest of the basement is lined with boxes and furniture the tenants aren’t using, and of course I have my little training corner, which has always seemed action-movie badass but feels sort of embarrassing now that Devorah’s seeing it, the duct-taped vinyl bag standing proud on my mom’s old yoga mat. At least the candlelight helps make it look classier.
Under the guise of kickboxing practice, I came down this morning and pimped out the space a little bit. First, I cleared the center of the room and laid out a blanket. I stole some throw pillows off the couch, too, plus a few big Yankee Candle jars left over from Christmas and a folding breakfast tray. Then I went out and got some kosher snacks (again, thank you, Internet): pretzels, grapes, almonds, and—you learn something new every day—Twizzlers. It looked a little bit too much like a make-out den, though, especially with nothing but candles, so I brought down an old game of checkers to up the wholesome quotient.
We stand on the bottom step, and I watch her eyes as she takes it all in: the puffy rolls of insulation leaning against the wall, the bin of half-clothed, lazy-eyed baby dolls in the dim light, the musty smell barely hidden by the unseasonal synthetic scent of fresh-baked gingerbread.
>
“It’s perfect,” Devorah says, throwing her arms around my neck.
“Hey, hey—I thought you said we couldn’t do that,” I say, leaning in for a kiss. It’s downright sexy in here, and the checkers aren’t doing much to kill the vibe.
“You’re right; we shouldn’t.” She hops down the last step to the floor and kicks off her shoes. Gathering her long dress in one hand, she climbs gingerly between the candles and settles onto the blanket cross-legged. “Come sit,” she says. “Let’s talk.”
“Well, to be fair, though,” I say, playing devil’s advocate, “we’re already breaking yichud, so we’re batting oh for one.”
She claps her hands together and laughs, throwing her head back. “Jaxon!” she cries. “You’re speaking Yiddish!”
“I try,” I say with a grin as I slide onto the blanket across from her.
“So, first of all, Shabbat Shalom,” she says, waving her hands around her face. She looks at me expectantly. “Now you say it.”
“Oh, um, Shabbat Shalom.”
She grins. I’ve never seen her this happy, and it’s contagious.
“Now we do the kiddush,” she says. “Do you have anything to drink?” I slap my palm to my forehead, and she laughs. “It’s okay; grapes are almost the same as grape juice, right?” Devorah picks two grapes off the bunch and tosses one to me. Then she says a long string of Hebrew words, and at the end we raise our grapes in a symbolic “cheers” motion and pop them into our mouths. She shows me how to mime washing my hands in preparation for the challah—which will be played this afternoon by its understudy, strawberry Twizzlers—and then blesses the neon red candy with her eyes reverently closed.