Miriam rushed to her, wrapping her long arms around Becky. Within moments, Miriam sobbed in tandem with her lifelong friend.
Naomi couldn’t look at either woman, meeting their eyes would trigger her own tears. She stared at her shoes, remembering...
***
The nurse removed the blood pressure cuff from Becky’s right arm and strode out the door. Naomi sat on an old metal chair, holding Becky’s left hand, as a monitor beeped over their heads.
“Why, Naomi? How many more times can I go through this?” Becky asked, between sniffles. She hadn’t stopped crying since Naomi arrived at the hospital three hours earlier.
Miriam dozed in the high-backed chair against the wall. She’d spent the night. Naomi searched for words to console Becky. But how could she say things like next time, or you can try again, after four miscarriages? If only David would agree to adopt--such a hard head. Who cares about the genes, just get a baby. Naomi stroked her friend’s hand. Becky looked away.
***
The sound of Becky’s voice wrenched Naomi’s mind from the memory. “I have to stop him,” Becky said. “My son will not marry a shiksa. I’ll find him a good Jewish wife.”
A week later, Becky strolled into the sanctuary with a girl. A single Jewish girl who just happened to be of prime marriageable age. The young woman wore a dress that was a bit too slinky for a synagogue service. It was obvious to Naomi that the young lady spent a lot of time applying what the magazines called “smokey eyes.” Her lips were precisely outlined with a dark mauve lip liner and filled in with a lighter mauve lipstick. Naomi watched as the young woman tried to peek between the cracks in the mehitza--the great divide that separated the men’s side from the women’s--to get a look at Noah.
When the setup for lunch began, Becky dragged the girl over to Noah and pointed to the seat across from him. The girl sat down, leaned forward, and began chatting with a young man who obviously found the lox and bagels more interesting than her words.
“Look at that poor girl,” Naomi said to Miriam. “I bet Becky failed to mention that Noah was engaged.”
“Do you think he’s figured out what his mother is doing?” Miriam asked.
Naomi shrugged and continued watching the young woman employ all her wiles to get Noah’s attention.
It was a struggle to focus on the conversation between her friends. Her eyes continued to float down the table toward Noah and the girl. A half-hour later, she watched as Noah finished the food on his plate, swiped the napkin across his mouth, and stood up.
“Nice to meet you,” he said.
The young lady wilted like a flower when Noah turned and walked out the door. No request for her phone number or email address.
She was the first in the parade of young women, Becky dragged to shul under false pretenses. Naomi hated listening to Becky describe tapping into all of her email contacts and Facebook friends. Rock bottom occurred when Becky began contemplating the idea of creating a page for Noah on JDate. The insane hunt went on for months.
“Enough, Becky,” Naomi snapped while dishing out hummus. “The wedding is scheduled. They’re getting married in the spring. Stop bringing these girls. Do you hear me? That young lady sitting all alone out there is the last one. No more. Noah loves Maria. Can’t you get it? And these poor girls, you drag them here like they’re baby dolls for Show-N-Tell. It’s cruel--just plain old mean and selfish. They get all dressed-up and made-up, believing Noah wants to meet them. When they get here...Hell, it’s worse than going to a single’s bar and having no one hit on you. You’re probably crushing their egos!”
Silence bounced off the stainless steel appliances. She looked around the table at the rest of the women, waiting for someone to speak--to back her up. Ironically Laurie, the only convert in the group, broke the silence, but not with the words Naomi hoped to hear. “I’d kill Sarah if she brought home a non-Jew. I want Jewish grandchildren.”
“Let it go, Becky.” Naomi shook her head in disgust. “He’s going to marry her.”
Chapter 2
The divan Naomi reclined on faced an enormous stone fireplace that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Out of her periphery, she could see the moon and the bare trees, which appeared to have been strategically placed to enhance the ambiance of the room. Because of the way Miriam’s family room protruded from the rest of the house, the three glass walls presented a panorama of her well-manicured backyard. Some people traveled to mountain cabins to wallow in the atmosphere Miriam created in her family room each winter.
Outside the floor to ceiling window, huge fluffy snowflakes fell, glistening from the light of the moon and streetlights. Naomi loved Miriam’s house. It was elegant but comfortable. Jake always said walking into Miriam’s house was like walking into a hug.
Miriam lounged on the oversized beige sofa. Her black corkscrew curls looked stark against the back of the sofa, but her beige cashmere sweater integrated itself into the landscape, essentially making Miriam part of the sofa.
Beside her, Becky’s jewel-toned blue, silk blouse screamed against the background of a taupe winged back chair. Everything about Becky contrasted with the serenity of the room. Her razor cut bob and blood red fingernails stated that she had no desire to blend in with the environment. Naomi smiled because these differences were what she loved most about them. They were never boring.
She watched her friends sip tea, taking note that even the way they held their mugs confirmed their opposite personalities.
Miriam embraced her mug with two hands--a hug.
Becky held the handle of a china tea cup between her index finger and thumb. Her other hand carefully balancing a saucer underneath. Naomi controlled her desire to laugh, remembering when Becky started holding cups this way. During her sophomore year of high school, she did a report on English tea times and traditions. After gathering this new knowledge, she complained that Americans were uncultured, and she refused to hold her cup like a “peasant.”
“Hanukah is a lovely holiday, except for the cold and the four-thirty sunsets. I could learn to like winter if it could just stay light until six o’clock,” Miriam said.
Naomi nodded and set her mug on the marble coaster that protected the rich cherry-wood end table. “I’m in my pajamas by seven-thirty every night.”
“Buy one of those sun lamps,” Becky said. “Did you repaint this room recently?”
Miriam shook her head.
“Something looks different in here.” Becky scanned the room. “There’s more beige than usual. All this beige kind of puts you to sleep.”
A quick walk through their respective homes showcased their natures. Becky designed her home to impress, furnished it with museum quality furniture, and kept it spotlessly clean. The warmest room in her house was the laundry room when the dryer was running. Naomi snuggled deeper into the lounge chair. Nothing in Becky’s house offered the comfort and tranquility of Miriam’s family room. As the women sipped herbal tea, the heat from the fireplace filled the air with warmth and a lovely scent.
Tonight was a tradition started eighteen years ago when all three women found themselves living in Mt. Lebanon, within walking distance of each other. The first night of Hanukkah became a huge event. All three families gathered at Miriam and Joe’s house to light the first candle. In the early years, children ran through the huge rooms, playing hide and seek. They only calmed down when Joe announced “candle time.” Their husbands cooperated by singing holiday songs and eating latkes before retiring to the kitchen to drink scotch and talk sports. Now, the children were away, busy living their own lives. Becky’s husband, David, and Miriam’s husband, Joe, lost interest in the holiday after the children were gone. Naomi’s husband was just gone.
Tonight consisted of three childhood best friends celebrating the miracle of Hanukkah by lighting the first candle together. Naomi missed the old days, but recast this night as a celebration of their friendship. One evening that belonged to them and only them.
�
��If I remember correctly,” Becky said, looking directly at Naomi. “After candle lighting at last year’s soiree, you promised to start writing again.”
Naomi stared at the fire, avoiding Becky’s gaze. The first two years without children and husbands were spent reminiscing about their own childhood. Last year, the conversation moved in a different direction. The first night fell only a month after Becky’s father had passed away.
Their drink of choice that evening was wine, not tea. They all became a bit maudlin. The discussion turned into a confession of broken dreams, goals for the upcoming year, and bucket lists.
“She’s right, Naomi.” Miriam placed her cup on an antique coaster. “Did you start a novel?”
“Just look at her face,” Becky responded before Naomi could form words.
“No.” Fear crippled Naomi when she thought about writing anything more complicated than an email to her mother.
“Did you even try to start one?” Becky asked.
Naomi shook her head. “You promised to clean out your father’s house and put it on the market. Did you finish that project?”
Becky rolled her heavily made-up eyes.
“Aha.” Naomi shook her index finger at Becky. “So shush about my novel. It was the wishful thinking of a slightly buzzed middle-aged never-got-to-be writer.”
“It’s not too late.” Miriam’s facial expression dripped with sincerity. “Write a few short stories or magazine articles. Once you start writing it will all come back to you.”
She’s so naïve. Naomi knew that any skill or talent she ever had died a long time ago.
“Well, I plan on having my dad’s house cleaned out before this damn wedding. You need to write something before the house is sold.”
“I’ll write the names on the wedding invitations,” Naomi replied.
“That’s not funny.” Becky sipped her tea and turned toward Miriam. “Do you have any cookies?” Before Miriam could answer, Becky rolled her eyes. “Stupid question, you don’t bake, just dial in your order.”
Miriam’s face reddened.
Naomi gave Becky a disapproving head shake. The “just dial in your order” was yet another stab based on a battle that occurred over a year ago. Becky needed to stop lobbing insults at Miriam.
“Speaking of invitations,” Naomi interjected to move the conversation back into neutral ground. “When will they be going out?”
“End of February and there’s still time for Noah to come to his senses and stop this madness.”
“She’s not that bad.” Miriam spoke the words and quickly turned away from Becky.
“Yes, she is,” Becky shot back. “Unless she converts with an orthodox rabbi within the next four months, she will always be ‘that bad.’”
Naomi looked at her friends. Typical--optimistic Miriam trying to convince Becky, Miss Control-And-Dominate, into altering her life view.
Chapter 3
Becky
A few weeks after the Hanukkah evening, Becky placed the key into the tarnished front door lock of her parents’ house and turned it. The bolt clicked open. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and mumbled to herself, “Here goes.”
Stacks of flattened boxes leaned against her leg. She reached down, grabbing them by the string that held them together, and dragged them through the front door into the living room. The flowered fabric of the sofa appeared dull under a layer of dust. The once-fashionable custom curtains now drooped. She scanned the room. Boxes weren’t enough. It was time to order a dumpster.
The kitchen looked the same as it did when she was a child. The orange, brown, and green flowered wallpaper screamed nineteen seventy-two, but the ancient avocado-colored appliances still worked. At least, they did on the day her father died.
The sight of the kitchen made her heart ache. It was her mother’s domain, as much a part of her as her arms and legs. Becky still missed her every hour of every day, but being in this kitchen...
It was more than grief. It caused physical pain. There was no way to separate the woman from the kitchen. Becky always equated this room with the most meaningful moments of her life. She smiled, remembering the first time she’d brought David home. She pulled him through the living room, ignoring her father, and straight into the kitchen. Her mother pinched his cheek saying “You’re so cute.”
The memory warmed Becky. She’d inherited her mother’s looks, but her personality lacked the softness and warmth of her mother’s. She was her father’s daughter, tough and outspoken. The oak cabinet next to the sink held her mother’s coffee mug collection. A choke rose to Becky’s throat when she lifted the pink mug that read I ♥ Mom. It was the first Hanukkah gift she bought for her mother with her own money. Becky, Miriam, and Naomi had gone shopping on Murray Avenue. Becky spotted it on the shelf and stood on her tiptoes to reach it. The words fit. Her mother loved and nurtured her and her two best friends.
Becky decided to keep the mug. She walked over to the ancient kitchen table and pulled out one of the green-vinyl-and-metal chairs. The room was so small compared to her own kitchen in Mt. Lebanon, but many of her best memories were made sitting at the small Formica table, talking to her mom. Becky stroked her hand over the cool table top and drifted back in time...
***
Becky arrived home from her first-grade Hanukkah party and sat down at the kitchen table for her afternoon snack--milk, a cookie, and orange slices neatly arranged on her special pink plate. She popped a slice into her mouth. “Why don’t I have grandparents like Miriam and Naomi? They get presents for Hanukkah and their birthdays.”
She stared at her mother, waiting for an answer. Finally, her mother turned off the tap on the kitchen sink, wiped her hands on a towel, and walked over to the table.
As her mother sat in the seat next to her, Becky noticed the tears streaming down her mother’s cheek.
“At one time, Daddy and I both had parents, but we were born during a horrible time. There was an awful war, where an evil man named Hitler wanted to kill all the Jews. He hated people just because of their religion. My parents knew our city, Warsaw, was a very dangerous place to live, so they sent me to my aunt’s house. She lived far away. I don’t remember how I got to her house. I was only two years old. But my aunt took care of me, like a mother. Eventually, she escaped from Poland, with me, to another country called England.”
“What was her name?” Becky asked.
“Her name was Aunt Sarah.”
“Weren’t your parents upset when she moved you to England?”
Her mother didn’t answer right away, swiping at her cheek with the back of her hand. “While Aunt Sarah was taking care of me, my parents were sent to a concentration camp called Auschwitz. It was an evil place where they killed Jews. Like millions of other Jewish people, my parents died,” she said, reaching out, and clasping Becky’s hands. “Your father’s parents also died at Auschwitz, but before they were sent there, they put your father and your Aunt Gitte on a train to England. For a long time, he and Aunt Gitte lived in a school building before a family took them into their home.”
Becky looked at her mother’s face. Her eyes were filled with tears.
“Your grandparents loved me and your father so much, they made sure we were safe. Because of them, we didn’t die in the war.”
“Do you have a picture of your parents?”
Her mother shook her head. “No, sweetheart. I don’t have a picture of them. I don’t know what they looked like.”
***
Becky blinked hard and shook her head. She wasn’t there to indulge in sentimental memories. The plastic trash can still sat next to the back door, the very spot where her mother kept it. Her dad left everything exactly as her mother left it. Becky walked over and picked it up. Damn, why couldn’t her brother take a few days off work to help with this? He lived in Los Angeles, far from this old house in Squirrel Hill. On the last morning of the shiva period, he told her that he needed to get back to work and couldn’t stay to help clean o
ut the house, nor did he know how long it would be before he could return to Pittsburgh. It became apparent that emptying the house and disposing of the contents would be her job. The only things he wanted, if she agreed, were their father’s watch and his tallit. Becky tried to convince him to take a few pieces of their mother’s jewelry for his daughter, but he refused them, believing their mother’s rings and necklaces should stay with her. He told her to give them to Noah’s future daughter.
Becky contemplated the irony. His daughter would get all of it, after all. There was no way in hell the daughter of a shiksa would ever wear her mother’s precious engagement ring or her diamond necklace.
Becky ripped black trash bags from the roll and marched up the stairs to the second floor. As she climbed, she wished she’d packed the can of Fabreeze sitting in the cabinet under her kitchen stink. The housed smelled musty and old. When she reached the landing, the door directly in front of her was closed--the bathroom. She shuddered as nausea rocked her stomach--No, don’t think about it. She shook her head, turned, and walked down the short hallway, stopping briefly outside her parents’ bedroom--a private sanctuary she rarely was allowed to enter.
Her mind flip-flopped as she continued toward her old room, but avoidance wasn’t her style. She turned and walked back to her parents’ room.
The brass knob turned easily, but the door stuck a bit. When she pushed her shoulder against it, it creaked open. The first glimpse of the room caused her heart to lurch, and walking into it felt like a violation of her parents’ privacy. It was easy to imagine her father’s powerful voice, chastising her for entering. As an eight-year-old, she didn’t dare to even knock on the solid oak door.
The Kiddush Ladies Page 3