Gravity

by Leanne Lieberman

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  I look up and realize we’re already at York Mills. I get off and head back south.

  At home I find Neshama upstairs in her room. I stand at the doorway, watching her as she takes her music boxes off the shelf, wraps them in tissue paper and places them in a carton.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  She whirls around. “I’m busy now.”

  I lean against the doorjamb. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “No.” She doesn’t look at me.

  “Then why are you packing?”

  “I’m not. I’m cleaning.”

  She fills a box with teddy bears from her bed.

  I sit down at her surprisingly neat desk. “Even Mr. Bear has to go?”

  “Yep.” She chucks him into the box.

  I lean over and pull out the little blue bear Bubba Rosa gave her and tuck it under my arm.

  “Can you close the door?” she asks.

  “Me in or out?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I quietly close the door, leaving her alone.

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, Ima comes into the kitchen wearing her navy suit and matching hat. Her hair is neatly waved, her eye makeup carefully applied. “Anyone want to come to shul with me?”

  Abba sips his coffee. “Where are you off to this time?”

  “Same as last week.”

  Ima eats a croissant, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “Wanna come?” she asks hopefully. “I think you’d like it.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll just head to school.” Abba puts his coffee mug in the dishwasher.

  She shrugs and pops the rest of the croissant in her mouth.

  For the past couple of months, Ima has been trying different shuls all over the city. The day after our movie marathon, she went back to work with circles under her eyes, her voice still weak, but I haven’t heard her sing in months. Not at Shabbos, not even in the shower. She’s been quiet, calm, back to staring out the kitchen window at the pillows of snow covering our backyard.

  “How about you girls?” Abba asks.

  “I’m going with Ruchi,” Neshama says.

  “Ellie?”

  I hesitate. I haven’t really spoken to Abba since Rabbi Abrams’ visit.

  “You can come with me and Ruchi.”

  “Well, um, yeah, maybe I’ll do that.”

  I went to shul with Bubbie until she left for Florida. Since then Neshama and I’ve been doing this routine with Ima and Abba. Once they leave, I spend the mornings at home reading, or wandering through the snow-covered ravine. Saturday morning has opened into a gray time of indecision. Bubbie’s been back from Florida for a few weeks, but she made it clear she wasn’t interested in attending every week.

  Ima and Abba put on their coats. “See you girls at lunch. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” Abba says. “We’ll be having guests again starting next week.” He smiles at us and closes the door behind him.

  “No!” Neshama wails.

  I drop into my chair. “Great. Gold Family Catering resurrected.” No one has said anything about Ima’s book, or the dinners, for months.

  “Forget that. I’m doing as little as possible.” Neshama pulls her blond curls into a plastic butterfly clip, fluffing out her bangs. “So, what are you going to do today?”

  “I dunno. You?”

  “I’m going to the library. Wanna come?”

  “Neh.”

  I wander, picking up books and putting them down. I think about Lindsay laughing next to some guy in a car, and shudder. In the office I sit down at the desk and look at the phone. The receiver is smooth in my hand. Lindsay picks up after the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “I thought you didn’t use the phone on Saturday.”

  “I don’t, but, well, what are you doing now?”

  “Watching cartoons.”

  “Can I come over?”

  “On your Sabbath? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah...I just want to talk to you.”

  “Sure, come over. It’s just me and my Wheaties.”

  Outside I find myself walking toward the shul instead of to the subway. The air is mild for March, but wet and gritty. Blackened snow banks the sidewalks and puddles of gray slush melt at the curb. An overcast sky hangs low, the air stagnant.

  On Bathurst I watch families struggle over icy pavement to go to their shuls, the girls in long coats, following their black-hatted Abbas. I could walk into any one of those shuls where no one would know me.

  I slip into the lobby of our shul just for a moment, just to inhale the scent of damp books and furniture polish. The bottom of my skirt clings in a wet ring to my tights. I pull off my toque, my hair lifting out in a halo of static.

  When I peer into the main sanctuary a wave of nostalgia rushes over me so strong that I need to lean against the doorway. The congregation sings Adonai Melach, the male voices low and sonorous, filling the building. Just for a second. I’ll just listen a moment. I brush a wisp of hair out of my eye, catching a tear at the same time.

  The women’s voices draw me up the stairs to the balcony. In the stairwell outside the door to the women’s section I grip the banister, listening to the women’s voices surging toward the high ceiling. If Ima were here her voice would be the loudest, the most passionate. Tears well in my eyes and threaten to spill out. I hold my breath and count to ten. When I open my mouth to breathe, the song rushes out of my mouth, “Adonai Melach.” The Lord is King.

  A woman comes up the stairs behind me. I’m blocking the door, but I’m too embarrassed to say that I’m just going to pray in the hallway, so I go in and stand near the door. Only for a moment.

  “Adonai yimlokh l’olam va’ed.” The Lord Shall be King Forever.

  I tip my head up, let my eyes close, my voice scrolling into the desire to be heard. You are Our Father, Our King. I feel like a stack of drawers that have been off their tracks, the slots finally shuttling back into their dresser grooves. I’ve prayed this way every Saturday morning my entire life, except for the past two months. I don’t care that I don’t believe in Our Father, Our King anymore, I just want to grow up and be like other women with their husbands and babies and their toddlers leaning against their skirted legs. I want to be part of this kingdom.

  The cantor continues chanting the prayer. When I open my eyes Mrs. Bachner is staring at me, her eyes raking over my messy hair and damp skirt. I stare back, narrowing my eyes at her until she turns away. I swallow the bitter bile in my throat and bolt down the stairs, not minding the slapping of my boots against the metal edges of the steps.

  I run to the subway, my feet sliding on the slick sidewalks. Our Father, Our King, who creates mean rules. Our Father, Our King, an idea thought up by dumb men, and women stupid enough to follow them, but not me.

  When I get off at Rosedale, the snow has turned to fat drops of sleety rain. The lawns are brown and patchy, the trees bare, the bushes still settled with white hats of snow, like old men.

  Lindsay answers the door, wearing white flannel pajamas with small pink bunnies. “You’re soaking.”

  “It’s really gross out.” I run my hand over my wet hair. She takes my coat, and I roll off my damp tights. The backs of my legs are red and cold from my soaking skirt.

  “You must be freezing. I’ll get you something to wear. Or...”

  “What?”

  She smiles. “Follow me.”

  She leads me up the stairs to her mother’s room. The walls are painted peach with white trim. Crumpled clothing and bags of dry cleaning lie scattered over a four-poster bed and a stuffed chair. I follow her through the gloomy room into a huge, blue and gold bathroom. Unlike the rest of Lindsay’s paint-peeling, creaking house, the bathroom is new, with navy fixtures and gold trim. A deep blue bathtub dominates the far end of the bathroom. Lindsay turns on the hot water and pours a pink jet of bubble bath under the hot rush.

  “Wanna take a bath?�
��

  I stroke a gold towel rack. “I really need to talk to you.”

  “We can talk in the tub.” She traces my cheek with her finger. Goose bumps form down my arms.

  “Well, um...okay.”

  I sit on the toilet seat cover while the tub fills. Lindsay sweeps assorted tubes of creams, makeup brushes, bottles of nail polish off the counter and into a drawer. She shoves crumpled lingerie and damp towels into a clothing hamper.

  While Lindsay goes to get fresh towels, I quickly undress, easing my thin body into the intense heat. Bubbles pop and my cold toes burn. I lean back, my limbs melting.

  Lindsay returns with fluffy beige towels. “How is it?”

  “Heavenly.”

  She pulls her hair into a loose ponytail on top of her head and starts unbuttoning her pajama top. I gaze at her, my eyes riveted as she reveals one shoulder, then the other, swiveling her hips as she maneuvers the shirt down her back, revealing her breasts. I draw in my breath. She fluffs her hair and arches her back, one leg resting on the edge of the tub. I sink a little lower in the water as she slides her pajama bottoms over her hips. She kicks them aside and steps into the tub, settling her flushed skin across from me. She rubs her hand up the arch of my foot. “I told you I wanted to be a stripper.”

  I swallow. “Very professional.”

  “I could teach you.” Her hand inches up my calf to my knee.

  “I don’t think it’s my thing. I have other, less dangerous, career plans.”

  “I like danger.” She kneads my quad, inching up my leg.

  I swallow again, my muscles tightening. “Yes, I know you do.”

  Her fingers stop. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I swallow.

  Lindsay raises one eyebrow.

  I hesitate. “I saw you that other day, getting into that guy’s car.”

  She pauses, her face relaxing. “So, what about it? You should come with me.”

  “No, thanks.” I pull my leg away from her up to my chest.

  “It’d be fun—”

  “With some guy?”

  “What’s wrong with guys?”

  “Nothing, nothing’s wrong.” I sit upright in the tub, my breasts popping out of the water. I cross my arms over my chest. “Why’d you want to go with, with strangers?”

  “It’s fun. I get to disappear for a while.” Lindsay leans back in the tub.

  “Disappear from what?”

  “From this house, my school, my name even.” She splashes water over her shoulders.

  And from me, from our girl-hips rocking tight like waves?

  I climb out of the tub, wrap myself in one of the towels. I sit on the edge of the tub and scratch my knee. Lindsay looks down at the bubbles.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...” I look at Lindsay’s scowling face. Because you’re mine. “Because...it’s dangerous,” I blurt.

  She laughs. “I know. It’s not like I do anything with those guys. I just get lifts.”

  I stare at her. “I...I...don’t want you to do that anymore.”

  Lindsay’s eyes narrow. The air between us hangs thick and humid like a cloud of rain, heavy and gray. She slaps her hand against the water. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her eyes flash storm clouds. She climbs out of the tub, heavy-breasted and flushed, rubs her body down with a fluffy towel. She leans over and presses her lips hard against mine, too hard, nips my lip. “Just don’t,” she says. “Just don’t.”

  We get dressed silently and head back downstairs. My tights are wet on my thighs, my skirt clinging to my legs.

  I slip on my boots at the front door. “I think I’ll go now.”

  “I’ll walk you to the subway.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t mind.” Lindsay’s eyes are still and calm.

  “It’s still raining.”

  “I was planning on going out anyway.”

  I wait for her to lace up her boots.

  When we turn down Yonge Street, she says, “Let’s walk a little longer.” I hesitate before following her toward Bloor. A few meters past the bus stop Lindsay undoes her coat, climbs onto a snowbank and sticks out her arm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Wait.”

  I watch from the other side of the snowbank. An older man with a mustache waves. Lindsay backs away, leans against a lamppost.

  “Forget it. I’m going.”

  “Just wait a minute.”

  Another car stops, a red sedan driven by a young guy. He rolls down the window. “Where are you going?”

  Lindsay leans into the car. “Depends.”

  He has longish, greasy, blond hair and a sly smile. He blinks his blue eyes. “I’m heading uptown.”

  She looks back at me. “Perfect, right?”

  I fold my arms across my chest. The guy unlocks the car door. “Aren’t you coming?”

  I back away. “Neh, I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Oh, c’mon. I dare you.”

  I shiver in my wet tights, the rain still falling.

  “I double-dog dare you.” Lindsay smiles her teasing grin. She slides one hand down her hip, glancing over at the guy in the car, her shoulder coming up to rub against her cheek.

  “No, I’m not playing.”

  Lindsay shrugs and starts climbing down the snowbank into the car.

  “What are you trying to escape from anyway?” I ask.

  Lindsay whirls around. Her face falls. She looks flustered. “Nothing.” She gets in the car and gazes up at the guy. She is no longer teasing and confident, but looks younger, more vulnerable. I take a step back, recoiling.

  The car swerves into traffic, spraying me with slush. I stare after it until it disappears in the maze of lights and traffic. Vehicles roar up the street; people brush by me on the sidewalk; a dog stops to sniff my damp legs.

  I stand on the street, stunned. That look on Lindsay’s face, I’ve never seen it before. She’s trying to escape from herself. I know it: She doesn’t like herself. I’ve never seen her like that, unconfident, or weak. My mouth fills with a bitter taste. All along I’ve admired Lindsay, wanted to be like her, but not now. She doesn’t have any idea what it really means to escape, what sacrifice it entails.

  I wipe the slush off my coat with my mitten and start running up Yonge Street, my feet slipping on the melting snow. My arms pump as I weave through side streets.

  When I get home I run up to my room. Neshama follows me. “Abba was wondering where you were. I told them you stopped to talk to a friend.”

  “Fine.” I slam the door in her face.

  “Hey!”

  “Go away.”

  “They’re waiting for you for lunch.” “Tell them I’m not hungry.” I jam an old book under the door.

  “Ellie?”

  “GO AWAY!”

  I rip down the poster of Joey McIntyre and start shredding it into tiny pieces.

  “Ellie, someone saw you.”

  I yank open the door. “What do you mean?”

  “I ran into Sari Blum on my way home. She saw you walking this morning. She asked me where you were going to shul. She said it looked like you were heading to the subway...”

  I slump against the doorway. My stomach twists. “I don’t feel well. Tell Abba I feel sick.”

  Neshama closes the door, and I crumple onto my bed. I’m taking crazy risks for a girl who would rather ride in cars with strange men. She’s not worth it. No matter how much Lindsay makes me swoon, she isn’t worth getting caught.

  ON MONDAY I can’t find my Chumash, and I forget my lunch at home. In the afternoon, I fail my Shakespeare test. On Tuesday I go straight home instead of to Lindsay’s. When I get home there are two messages from her. I don’t return them. I stare at my fish circling in their tank for a while, and then I reorganize my collection of fossils. Lindsay calls again on Wednesday, but I quietly hang up. On Thursday we get out of school e
arly for Purim. I race home and erase two messages from Lindsay off the answering machine before anyone else hears them.

  “What’s with the phone calls?”

  I lie on Neshama’s bed watching her get dressed for Purim. “Nothing.”

  Her room is empty without the bears and music boxes. She even gave away the Harlequins from under the bed. Just her dresser is still messy—littered with makeup.

  She pulls on a pair of black tuxedo pants, sings, “Don’t cry for me Argentina.”

  “Why are you in such a good mood?”

  “Just am. Do you want to be my lovely assistant?”

  “Why, what are you?”

  Neshama pulls on a tuxedo jacket and top hat. “Houdini.” She holds out her arms. “I will now perform a magical disappearing act.” She waves a tinfoil-covered chopstick and slips behind her closet door. “Ladies and Gentleman, Houdini has disappeared.” She pops back out. “What are you going to be?”

  “I’m not going.”

  She sits next to me on the bed. “They’re starting to ask a lot of questions—about the phone calls, about where you go after school.” She tries to read my face. I look out the window. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  She squeezes my shoulder. “C’mon, Purim will be fun.”

  I groan. “Fine. Can you make me a costume?”

  Neshama turns to her mirror and starts patting on face powder. “How about a cat?”

  “Too boring.”

  “Bride?”

  “For sure not.”

  “The Grim Reaper?”

  “Too morbid.”

  “How about Queen Vashti?”

  “No one wants to be her. She wouldn’t even dance for the King.”

  “Yes, but she kept her self-respect,” Neshama shoots back. She adjusts a black eye mask.

  In the end I drape a white sheet over me and go as a ghost.

  IN THE CHAPEL at Abba’s school Neshama and I sit in the back row on the women’s side, specially erected for Purim, listening to the chanting of the book of Esther.

  Whenever the dreaded name of Haman is mentioned, the dressed-up, painted and inebriated crowd stomps and boos, rattling noisemakers, twirling small plastic gregors. A parade of tiny queen Esthers with shiny dresses and heavily made-up faces marches up and down at the front of the women’s section. Miniature Mordecais with painted-on beards run in the aisle. I slouch in my folding chair, listlessly fiddling with my gregor.