Gravity

by Leanne Lieberman

  Ima met Abba at that first dinner. Disillusioned with his law practice, Abba was also looking for something more.

  Ima said, “Your Abba had a deep baritone voice, and when he sang he closed his eyes.”

  Abba says he fell in love with Ima because she wasn’t only concerned with appearances. That year, before Rosh Hashana, she gave him two scraps of paper to put in his pockets. One said I am but dust and ashes, and the other The world was created for me.

  He still keeps those crumbling pieces of paper in his wallet. “When I see them,” Abba says, “I remember my own mortality and my role in life. I also think of my wife’s beautiful heart and her love for Hashem.”

  Abba and Ima are now both teachers. Ima went back to school to become a preschool teacher and Abba teaches halacha, Jewish law, at the boy’s high school. Neshama likes to refer to the material of Abba’s classes as “mountains hanging from threads,” zillions of Jewish laws derived from scant scriptural basis.

  ON THE FIRST day back to school, the weather still humid, Neshama and I don our uniforms with our usual post-summer despair. The small- and round-collared blouse and long, navy, pleated skirt makes me look like a stork dressed in children’s clothes.

  Neshama and I sit in Abba’s huge station wagon, the vinyl seats streaking our thighs with sweat. I slowly pull each of my knuckles until they crack. At a red light Abba turns and looks at us in the backseat.

  “I want you to do the ritual washing of the hands each morning when you get up,” he announces.

  “Abba, we wash our hands in the morning anyway,” Neshama says, staring out the window at the traffic. “That’s basic hygiene.”

  “Yes, yes, but the prayer, you must do the prayer. I’m not talking hand scrubbing, soap, the nails. I mean ritual.”

  Neshama and I don’t respond. We sit on opposite sides of the car, watching the traffic. Abba makes a left-hand turn.

  The Torah commands us to wash our hands before we eat, which makes sense to me. Even Bubbie agrees. “Those ancient Jews had some good ideas,” she likes to say. “Imagine, all that grit and sand under your nails.”

  Neshama and I say the prayer at home with Ima and Abba before we eat and at school where everyone lines up at the sinks in the cafeteria; otherwise we don’t bother.

  “Yes,” Abba repeats, “you must do the ritual hand washing when you wake up.” He waits for us to ask why as he slows down for the light at Lawrence Avenue.

  Neshama eyes him from the backseat. She yawns. “Abba, you’re not going to tell us some crazy stuff about the devil sleeping on our hands at night, are you? Because Leeba Weinstock already asked about that in Q and A, and Rabbi Lowenstein said—”

  “No, it’s nothing with the devil,” Abba interrupts. “No devil involved. No,” he pauses. “It is because sometimes during the night, we don’t...we don’t always have control of our bodies.” Abba clears his throat. “It is possible one may”—he coughs— “touch parts of the body that are not clean. So, you should wash your hands when you wake up. Then you can be assured cleanliness.”

  Heat reaches up from my collar. The tips of my ears burn.

  “Sounds like the devil sleeping on your hands to me,” Neshama mumbles.

  Abba looks at Neshama in the rearview mirror as he pulls up in front of our school. Neshama stares back while she takes off her seatbelt. “Look,” he says, still staring into the mirror, “as you get older, you may come upon new temptations.”

  “Yes, Abba,” we say quickly. “Bye Abba.” We bolt out of the car.

  “Unclean, my foot,” Neshama says with disgust. “My body is a holy temple and I...” She throws her arms over her head dramatically, striking a pose. “I am the priestess.” People walking by on the street glance our way. “Another dumb rule made up by dumb men to squash women to honor some dumb god.” She goes around the back of the building to look for her friend Ruchi, leaving me blushing on the sidewalk.

  Ruchi has been Neshama’s best friend since kindergarten. She has stick-straight brown hair and the biggest boobs of any girl at our school. So big, Neshama says, Ruchi always has marks on her shoulders from her bra straps. Ruchi’s sister, Jill, is my study partner for Mishna class. I usually eat lunch with her, Becca and Esther.

  Ruchi is the oldest of six. We’re the only family I know with only two kids and that’s because Ima couldn’t have any more kids after me. “Thank God,” Neshama always says. “Could you imagine having a zillion brothers and sisters? I’d never get new shoes.”

  Ruchi has been busier than usual because her mom has been sick a lot lately. Neshama says she’s had so many kids her uterus is practically hanging out of her body.

  Neshama and I aren’t as sexually ill-informed as most of our school friends who only glean sex education from older married sisters or cousins. Bubbie bought us several books, which we’ve read cover to cover. The only Sex Ed we get at school is from Mrs. Lowenstein, the rabbi’s wife. She talks to us once a year about The Laws of Family Purity, which basically boil down to menstruation being tameh, unpure, and how you’re not supposed to have sex or touch your husband when you are bleeding. Blood is always bad in Judaism, bad enough for married women to have to go dunk themselves in the mikvah, the ritual bath, to purify themselves after they finish menstruating. No matter how much Ima and Mrs. Lowenstein go on about what a spiritually uplifting experience the mikvah is, Neshama is convinced the impurity of period blood is just superstition.

  Mrs. Lowenstein only visits once a year, but she keeps a box in the office where you can write her a note. You don’t use your name or anything, just put some code on the note so that you can pick it up from her box later.

  I sit on the front steps and get a notepad and pencil out of my bag. I tap the pencil on my knee. I’m in love with a girl, I write. I look at it on the paper, feel my throat tighten. Traffic rushes by on the street. A stream of students passes up the stairs.

  Does Leviticus 18:22 apply to women? I pause, biting on a fresh eraser. It breaks off in my mouth, and I chew it into rubbery bits. Finally I write, What should I do? I tape the edges of the note together and assign myself the number 613. Before I go to class I carefully spit a mouthful of eraser shreds into the bathroom trash bin.

  AFTER SCHOOL BECCA invites me to come over to her house. “Esther is going to come too. She just wrote a new song, and she wants to play it for us.”

  “Oh, I just need to do something first.”

  “Well, I can wait for a few minutes.” Becca adjusts the straps on her backpack.

  “No, that’s okay. I need to get home after that.”

  Becca frowns. “On the first day of school?”

  “I’ll call you,” I tell her.

  Becca turns to go, disappointed.

  I wait a few minutes until she and Esther get a head start, then I turn down Lawrence to Lindsay’s school, Havergal College. Lindsay still hasn’t returned my phone messages, so I figure I’ll go see her at school. She might not have heard the messages, or maybe she has her own phone line.

  I pass quickly by the front entrance, with its Gothic windows and turreted stone tower, and head around the back, down a path to the playground and playing field. By the tennis courts, I sit at a picnic table and pull Neshama’s Seventeen magazine out of my bag.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in fashion,” Neshama said when I asked to borrow it.

  “I want to read the article on eating disorders,” I lied.

  She fixed me with her piercing stare, but I glared back.

  I borrowed the summer issue, filled with lots of bikini pictures. Girls cavort on beaches or pose by pools, their breasts barely covered by string bikinis, their nipples pointing through the sheer tops.

  The girls finally come out of the school and disperse to cars, waiting buses and down residential streets. I slip the magazine back in my bag and start to stroll around the grounds. The girls carry stylish backpacks slung over their shoulders, their long hair swinging down their backs.


  If only I wasn’t wearing my uniform. It’s too hot for my new jeans, and I’m too embarrassed to wear my shorts in public. I tried the shorts on this morning and looked in the mirror. My legs were thin and gawky and naked-looking.

  On my second rotation around the school I spot Lindsay under some elm trees in the back corner. Talking to a boy. A private school boy.

  I wedge myself against the fencing of the tennis court. Lindsay stands, legs wide apart, hands on her hips. She smiles at the boy and shoves him square in the chest. He reels back against a tree. He has sandy hair and freckles across his button nose.

  I bet he used to sing in a boy’s choir until his voice broke. Now he probably plays rugby and is on the debating team. His mother plays tennis at the same country club as Lindsay’s mom. I watch them walk away, his hand hanging at his side, dangling close to her. His hand grazes her fingers, then slips into the gray flannel of his school pants. I bet his mother calls them trousers and irons them for him in the mornings.

  I head home slowly, walking away from Lindsay and the guy. It’s probably just a show: her liking boys. She has to cover up, like me. She’ll call back soon, but not too soon. She likes me, I know she does.

  I WALK BY Lindsay’s school every day on my way home. I do a quick perimeter check of the building to see if she’s around, then keep on going. On Thursday I almost bump into her on the front sidewalk as she comes bounding out of the heavy wood doors of the front entrance. I break into a smile when I see her long hair fluttering down her back.

  “Lindsay.”

  She spins around. “Hi. What are you doing here?” She searches over my shoulder for someone.

  “I’m just on my way home from school.”

  “Oh.” She glances up and down the street. “So, what’s up?”

  “I was wondering...”

  Lindsay waves at someone over my shoulder. I turn and look at the guy with the sandy hair I saw her talking to earlier in the week. She smoothes back a ripple of hair. “I have to go. It was great seeing you.”

  “Oh, well, maybe we can get together later.”

  “Sure, Ellie, whatever. I’ll call you.”

  I smile. “That would be great.”

  She takes off down the street.

  I slowly start walking down Avenue Road. She just doesn’t want me around at her school, I can tell. I bet her mom comes home really late, and Lindsay’s lonely at night. Maybe I could invite her to our house, for Shabbos. Yeah, right.

  At the library on the way home, I head to the World Book Encyclopedia. When I think no one is looking I pull out H and walk to the very back corner and wedge myself between the stacks of books. I take a deep breath. It’s just research, and not necessarily about me. I’m just reading. I open the H volume and flip to homosexual. What an ugly word, like a disease. I skim through the entry and learn that some homosexuals may be attracted to members of the same sex and the opposite sex. I also learn that young people may only be exploring with members of the same sex and are not really gay at all. I also learn that in some countries and parts of the US it’s not even legal for men to be gay. It doesn’t say much about women. I go back for the L volume, but there’s nothing about lesbians. Only an entry for the Island of Lesbos: it’s part of Greece and it grows vegetables. I consider looking through the card catalogue for other books, but I can’t imagine checking them out, or even reading them at one of the tables. I choose a book on geology instead.

  I leave the library somewhat relieved. Maybe we just experimented, maybe I’ll grow up and learn to like men. Maybe.

  AT THE END of the day I check Mrs. Lowenstein’s box. A small envelope with the number 613 waits for me. I shove it in my pocket and scurry outside to the parking lot behind the bank next door. I lean against the brick wall, take a deep breath and rip open the envelope.

  Dear Student 613, Mrs. Lowenstein writes.

  Lots of girls your age get schoolgirl crushes. It’s really nothing to worry about. Most girls outgrow the crushes when they leave school.

  About Leviticus 18:22, you are right that it only applies to men. However, women are also prohibited from having homosexual experiences in the Shulchan Aruch (20:2).

  It’s important to remember that people overcome evil impulses every day. I myself sometimes feel like saying something hurtful to one of my family members or even hitting them, but, Baruch Hashem, I have the power to control myself.

  Evil impulses are often just like a bad habit. You can change them! I think of them like biting your nails, or chewing on the ends of your hair. Reciting psalms or giving yourself a pinch when you feel yourself guided away from the path of Hashem is a good way to stop yourself from committing a sin.

  Please write again if you need advice, or make an appointment if you’d like to discuss this or any other matter in person.

  Zai Gazunt, Mrs. Rabbi Lowenstein

  I STAND ON the pavement, gnawing on my lip. Evil impulses, like wanting to yell at Abba that he’s crazy or give Ima a shove when she stares endlessly out the window. I stop myself every time. But Lindsay is different.

  Becca and Esther pass by me on the way out of the school.

  “Hey, Ellie,” Esther calls, “are you walking home?”

  “Not quite yet,” I manage to say. Becca looks away. All week she’s been talking to me about some boy. “You’re not listening,” she accused me.

  I push through the heavy double doors back into the school, weaving between the streams of students still exiting the building. I head up the linoleum stairs, my schoolbag bumping against my hip, back to the beit hamidrash, the room where we pray, meet for assemblies and have religious classes. Bookshelves line the walls, and a series of high windows overlooks Bathurst Street. In the far corner is Rabbi Lowenstein’s office, a paper- and book-jumbled mess with overflowing filing cabinets and an enormous picture of the old city of Jerusalem.

  I need to know exactly what the Shulchan Aruch says. Maybe kissing a girl is only a minor misdemeanor, and I can just wash my hands in the morning or say an extra prayer.

  I scan the shelves for a copy of the Shulchan Aruch and slide into a chair behind a bookshelf by the back corner. I flip through the pages. Sexual relations between women are forbidden. The punishment: lashing.

  The fan whirs above me, cool air swirling down over my sweaty head. A sob catches in my throat. Eyes closed, I take some deep breaths until the tears recede.

  Hunching over my lap, I read Mrs. Lowenstein’s note again. My head aches, and my hands leave sweaty splotches on the thin paper. Evil impulses. I choke back nausea and carefully hide the note in the inside pocket of my bag.

  I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Just as I am replacing the book, Rabbi Lowenstein enters the room. He is a tiny man in his early sixties with a gray beard, crinkly brown eyes and a rounded belly. Unlike the rest of our teachers, he talks, leaning back in his chair, without using his hands to accentuate his points. “Doing some homework, Ellisheva?” he asks pleasantly. He balances a stack of texts against his chest.

  “Oh, just some research,” I mumble, staring at my loafers.

  “Very good. It’s nice to see a student starting the year off right.” He glances at the cover of my book. “Doesn’t your father teach halacha?”

  “Um, yes he does.”

  “Well, I’m happy to answer any questions you have. I’m sure your father is a great help.”

  I blush. “Yes, yes he is.” I smile weakly and nod good-bye.

  I burst out of the building and jog toward the ravine, not stopping until I reach the slope down into the trees. The dense green foliage tunnels the sun-dappled path, the maples touching overhead. Shuffling toward Bubbie’s house in Forest Hill, I pass afternoon joggers in sleek running tights; moms walking their kids; elderly couples, their lapdogs yapping at the squirrels.

  “Ellie, come on in.” Bubbie plants an air kiss near my ear. I breathe in perfume, cigarette smoke and blue cheese. I follow her through the paneled hall past the living room with its black-
and-white floral wallpaper. Bubbie’s house is full of pristine white sofas and black hard-edged furniture

  She wipes her hands on the apron covering her wool slacks and turtleneck sweater. “I’m just cleaning up from my bridge group. The girls brought all this sumptuous food. Would you like some sandwich loaf?” She points to a cream cheese-covered dome of bread layered with tuna, egg and salmon.

  “Is it kosher?”

  “Kosher style.”

  “Neh.”

  “Here.” Bubbie reaches into one of her white kitchen drawers and takes out a box of the kosher biscuits she keeps for Neshama and me.

  She carefully covers the sandwich loaf, her fuchsia fingernails snared in plastic wrap.

  I take a bite of biscuit. “Bubbie, these are so stale.”

  She shoves the box in the trash. “Well, you obviously don’t come by often enough.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Doing what?” Bubbie rummages in her enormous refrigerator. She pulls out a plate of raw vegetables.

  “I’m reading about the ice age and how the glaciers carved the rock. You know, the Canadian Shield.”

  “Sounds great. By the way, did you ever hear from that Lindsay?”

  “No...I left a message, but she hasn’t returned my call.”

  “That’s odd.” Bubbie scrubs her hands at the sink. “Did you have a fight or something?”

  “No, not really.” I pinch my arm, squeezing until it hurts. I take a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you something—”

  Bubbie interrupts, “Let me just get one thing. I’ll be right back.”

  I hear her climbing the stairs as I wander through the kitchen. A stack of dirty china plates with pink roses waits by the sink to be washed. Silver monogrammed dessert forks dry on a dishcloth. I sit down at the kitchen table and pull out Mrs. Lowenstein’s letter. Evil impulses are often just like a bad habit.

  I used to suck my thumb and chew my fingernails. Neshama picked her scabs until they bled. I pinch my arm again, my fingernails leaving white impressions.

  When I hear Bubbie coming back I ram Mrs. Lowenstein’s letter in my pocket. Bubbie pulls out a chair next to me and puts a pink floral cosmetic bag on the table. She uncaps a bottle of nail polish remover and starts rubbing off the fuchsia polish. The acrid smell burns my nostrils.