Not Our Kind

by Kitty Zeldis

  The next day, the house felt too quiet, so Patricia went to the club, but she found the conversation—the extramarital affair of one member, the scorn-worthy new interior decorator hired by another—an unappealing mixture of spite, venom, and stupidity. Back home, she tried weeding but the heat was intolerable; she picked up a copy of the latest New Yorker but couldn’t concentrate. Around noon, she set out to organize the three large boxes of photographs that had been sitting in an upstairs closet for years; she had even bought new albums with handsome tooled-leather covers. But sifting through the old pictures—Wynn standing on a sailboat, wind blowing his hair to one side, Margaux as a toddler, two sturdy legs planted on the ground, or pedaling her tricycle—made her unutterably sad, and she carted both albums and boxes back to the closet, where they would no doubt remain undisturbed for another decade.

  She showered—again—and dressed in a flared skirt and blouse with a pattern of fruit all over it; the buttons were made of red plastic and shaped like cherries. She was strangely lethargic, even blue, but she still forced herself to dress and primp. Then she sat down to a small salad, which, despite Henryka’s protests, was all she could tolerate for lunch. “You waste away,” the housekeeper fumed. “No healthy.” Patricia just nodded, eyes straying to the clock on the kitchen wall. Margaux would be home soon, she consoled herself.

  There was a sound from the front of the house—a key turning in the lock—and Patricia looked at Henryka. “Maybe it’s—”

  Wynn came in through the kitchen door. Patricia put her fork down as Henryka hastily retreated.

  “I’m back,” he said pointlessly. “We finished early and I caught a ride down.”

  “How was your trip?”

  “Fine.” He put his bag down and looked around the room. “The house is so quiet. Where is everyone?”

  “Tom’s still in Saratoga. Eleanor went home for a few days. And Margaux’s staying over at the house of a family we met at Lavender Lake.”

  “You were at Lavender Lake? Why go to that muck-filled pond when you could go to the club?”

  “You know perfectly well Margaux won’t go to the club.” Patricia pushed her plate away.

  “So this family—they’re not anyone we know?”

  “No.”

  “And you let her stay with them overnight?”

  “Yes, I did. Is there a special reason you’re making such a fuss? Margaux and the boy liked each other. You know how impossible she can be. I was just glad that she found some diversion.”

  “I see.” He lifted his hands to loosen his tie. “I’m going to fix myself a drink. Can I make one for you?” He went to the cabinet to take out a bottle of vodka and then said, just a shade too casually, “That family Margaux’s staying with? What’s their name?”

  “The Christiansons,” she said without hesitation. “They live in Darien.”

  “They live in Darien and they go to the lake?”

  “It’s actually a lovely place,” she said. “You should go with us sometime.”

  He said nothing as he mixed their drinks and when he’d finished his—very quickly, she noted—he said he was going up to lie down.

  Patricia sipped her own drink slowly and let him go. When she’d finished, she felt a slight buzz, which was odd considering she’d had only one. But she hadn’t finished even the light lunch Henryka had served her and the afternoon was even hotter than the day before. A rest sounded like a good idea and she went upstairs to join Wynn.

  She found him stretched out and reading the newspaper on the bed, his shoes peeking out from under the dust ruffle and his shirt laid over a chair. “What happened to your arms?”

  “Oh those,” he said, looking at the scabbed-over marks. “Didn’t I tell you? That damned cat—she went crazy and attacked me. I had to swat her away. Good thing she didn’t get near my face.”

  “Good thing.” Patricia remembered that Glow had clawed her too, for no apparent cause. They had found Glow in the woods, years ago, as a kitten. Maybe now she was in her dotage, and returning to some feral state. She had an urge to stroke the cat and went downstairs in search of her. “Glow,” she called softly. “Here, kitty.” But Glow was nowhere to be found.

  Seventeen

  Eleanor spent the day helping her mother clean up the mess in the flooded basement. She’d lost some but not all of her inventory, and the two of them brought whatever was salvageable upstairs. Irina had closed the shop while they worked, and late in the afternoon, she turned her attention to finishing up a hat she had promised a customer. Eleanor watched as her mother regarded the red tricorne that was perched on a wooden form. “That color is very bold.” Irina began to circle the hat so she could view it from all angles. “Very strong. It needs something to tone it down.”

  “Black?” suggested Eleanor, who had always loved to watch her mother “build” a hat.

  “Possible,” said Irina. “But navy might work too.” She began her dance around the hat form, hands drawing possible designs in the air. “In any case, I like the shape. Mitch sent me a good batch.”

  Eleanor went to the cupboard, took out big spools of ribbon—black, navy, and a muted teal that she thought might go well together—and presented them to her mother. Irina unfurled the navy first and began to experiment with different options: wrapping a length of ribbon around the crown, creating streamers down the back, running ribbon first along and then under the brim. She’d gotten her first taste of trimming back at the Danbury factory and it had quickly become her métier. When she returned to New York, she had first worked in a hat shop on the Lower East Side that catered to observant Jewish ladies, and then at Gimbels in Herald Square. She developed such a devoted following that she’d eventually decided to open her own shop, relying on Mitch Neely, the old foreman from Danbury, to supply her with hat forms three or four times a year. Irina set down the lengths of ribbon. “Maybe not,” she said. “Or not just ribbon. I think it needs some netting too.” And she went to another cupboard in search of it.

  The afternoon dwindled and it was soon dusk. Irina hadn’t wanted to cook, so they ate cold cuts from Schaller & Weber on Second Avenue. Then Eleanor did the dishes and got her coat.

  “Where are you going?” Irina asked.

  “The movies. I’m meeting Ruth.”

  “Oh, she’s not seeing her young man tonight?”

  “No.” She didn’t want Irina to start in on why she didn’t have a young man of her own. “Anyway, we won’t be late.”

  In fact, Eleanor had no idea of what Ruth was doing tonight because she wasn’t seeing her.

  Instead, she headed downtown on the subway. When she emerged into the unfamiliar tangle of streets, she got lost not once, but twice, in search of the right one. Orchard, Allen, Rivington, Essex. She hadn’t been down here in years, not since her father was alive and took them all to see the neighborhood where he’d first lived when he’d come from Russia as a child. Her mother hadn’t wanted to go. “Why look back?” was what she had said. “We’re here now—thank God.” But in the end she agreed to the trip, gamely eating her blintzes with sour cream and applesauce at Ratner’s. Afterward, they had visited both the tenement where her father had lived and the synagogue on Eldridge Street where he’d worshipped. “It’s not what it once was,” he said. “But you should have seen it when I was a boy. The streets were always packed, there was such life here, such energy. The shops, the restaurants, the vendors on the street. And the synagogue was at the center of it all. It shone like a queen.” Eleanor had taken in the imposing Moorish-inspired facade and the enormous round window that stared out at her like a cyclops and could see that yes, it had once been very grand indeed. Irina, more practical than sentimental, was less interested in the synagogue than in the nearby button and bedding shops.

  But today Eleanor hurried past the synagogue, which seemed even more derelict than it had on her last visit. These last few days, she had not been able to tolerate the sight of her own naked body. It filled her with a sen
se of shame she had never known before. Neither Ira’s nor Tom’s caresses had evoked this feeling; their touch had filled her with desire, made her feel more alive. But Wynn’s touch elicited only disgust and she felt polluted by what he had done. She tried undressing and even bathing in the dark. She covered herself with a towel as soon as she stepped out of the tub, and did not look in the mirror until she was clothed. It didn’t work. Even if she couldn’t see herself, she imagined she could smell herself, something rank under her arms, between her legs, no matter how much soap she used. Maybe there was something wrong with her, something that had drawn Wynn Bellamy to her. She had to get rid of it.

  That’s when she got the idea of visiting the mikvah, the Jewish ritual bath. The thought began to preoccupy her, so much so that yesterday she had walked up to Congregation Orach Chaim in search of the rabbi’s wife. Mrs. Schechter taught a Bible class; Eleanor found her in a room where posters of large Hebrew letters—red aleph, blue gimmel, green hey—decorated the peeling walls.

  “You want to go to a mikvah?” Mrs. Schechter had clearly been surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said. “I am.”

  “I’ve rarely gone myself,” said Mrs. Schechter. “The women of our congregation don’t usually do that. Does your mother?”

  “No,” said Eleanor, not willing to offer anything more. Her mother had said—defiantly, even proudly—that she would never go to a mikvah again. Irina associated such places with her doomed past and wanted nothing to do with them. She and Eleanor’s father did not often argue, but when they did, it was usually over some aspect of ritual observance. Her father leaned toward the customs of his childhood and spoke fondly of the old country. Irina had scoffed at what she considered a foolish and sentimental attachment. “The country that burned down your family’s business? Murdered your uncle? And my father? That’s the country you love?”

  “Well, I can tell you where to go.” Mrs. Schechter studied her carefully and then added, “If there’s ever anything you’d like to talk about, my door is always open.” The pause lengthened uncomfortably until Mrs. Schechter had finally taken a scrap of paper and written down the address, 5 Allen Street, which Eleanor was now trying her best to find. But the streets were off the numbered grid and she wandered fruitlessly, getting more and more frustrated. She passed shops, mostly closed, displaying prayer shawls, Hebrew books, menorahs, and candlesticks in their windows. But the mikvah remained hidden.

  Finally, she went up to a pair of women, both in the very obvious wigs that Orthodox women wore. “Excuse me,” she said politely to the older of the two. “Can you tell me where this is?” The woman looked at the scrap of paper and up at Eleanor’s face. It was obvious she did not understand why someone who looked as Eleanor did—clearly not observant—would be searching for a mikvah. But she led Eleanor down a short street, turned a corner, and indicated a brick building wedged between two taller structures.

  Eleanor saw a sign in Hebrew, which she could not read, but when she went around the corner, she saw another that read RUSSIAN AND TURKISH BATHS. Mrs. Schechter had mentioned that, so Eleanor knew she was in the right place. Raising her fist, she knocked. There was no answer, but when she pushed the door gently, it opened. An old woman sat at a small table, her head bent over an embroidery hoop. Her hand moved gracefully, up and down, the silver needle piercing the cloth held tightly within the circle. Eleanor was so mesmerized by the birdlike motions of the embroiderer’s rising and falling hand that she stood silently for a moment. Finally, the woman looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here for the mikvah,” she said.

  The woman looked at her left hand. “You’re married?” Eleanor shook her head. “Getting married?” Again, Eleanor shook her head.

  The woman seemed to consider this. Finally she said, “Wait here.” She then laid the embroidery hoop down on the table, shuffled through a doorway just to the left, and returned with another old woman who was carrying something folded and white. “Gittel will take care of you,” she said. “Follow her.” Eleanor thanked her and put a quarter in the empty jelly jar, as Mrs. Schechter had told her to do.

  As they descended down a long flight of stairs, Eleanor saw beads of moisture on the wall, and detected a faint disinfectant smell. They passed several small, curtained chambers; in a couple of them, Eleanor saw wigs hanging suspended from hooks above the piles of folded clothing. Then Gittel showed her to an empty chamber; behind its limp curtain was a wooden seat, two hooks, and an ancient-looking showerhead poking out from the ceiling. “Are you clean?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your last time of the month. When was it?”

  “About two weeks ago,” Eleanor said.

  “And you’ve had no relations since then?”

  Eleanor felt herself coloring. “No,” she said. “I haven’t.”

  “Good. Then you can take off your clothes and leave them here,” said Gittel. Eleanor looked at the hooks; hanging from one of them was a wooden body brush with coarse, splayed bristles. “Then, you wash. Everything, and everywhere. Face. Body. Hair. Don’t forget the hidden places. Under your nails. Your pupik.” Eleanor nodded. “You brought soap?” Eleanor nodded; Mrs. Schechter had told her to bring these things. “Toothbrush too?” Again, a nod. “Good. Go to work. When you’re done, call me.” She handed Eleanor the white bundle she’d been carrying; it turned out to be a simple cotton robe and a rough terry cloth towel.

  The water was surprisingly hot, and Eleanor scrubbed herself vigorously under the spray. She had forgotten shampoo but managed to lather her hair with the bar of soap she’d brought, taking care not to press on the back of her head, which was still tender.

  As Gittel had instructed, she washed everywhere—her breasts and belly, shoulders and thighs. She washed between her toes and behind her ears and hesitated only when she got to the place between her legs, the place that had engendered first so much pleasure and then recently so much disgust. But she didn’t let herself think about the pleasure or the disgust now, she just lathered herself until the soap achieved a luxurious sheen, rising in plump, frothy clusters before succumbing to the rushing water and disappearing down the drain. When she was done, she dried herself, donned the robe, and combed out her hair. Only then did she call for Gittel.

  “Let me see your hands,” Gittel said and inspected Eleanor’s nails closely. She gave a grunt of approval. “Now bend your head.” She raked her fingers over Eleanor’s scalp, parting her wet hair, and checked both behind and in her ears. Eleanor flinched a little when Gittel touched the sore place on her head. Gittel noticed. “I hurt you?”

  “It’s nothing,” Eleanor said. “Just a little bump.”

  Gittel continued her probing. She even had her stick her tongue out. “You did a good job, especially for the first time,” she said. “But first time, tenth time—it doesn’t matter. The mikvah cures all ailments, and washes away all sins.”

  “All?” Eleanor asked.

  Gittel looked at her appraisingly. “Yes. The mikvah will wash you clean—no matter what you’ve done.”

  “Or what was done to me?”

  “Ah.” Gittel took Eleanor’s hand in hers. “It will be better, tochter—you’ll see.”

  Wearing just the robe, Eleanor followed the older woman along a short hall until they came to an open doorway. Six white marble steps led down to a rectangular bathing pool around six or seven feet long and lined with tiles as white as snowdrops. The gleaming body of water looked as if it belonged somewhere else more exalted—a beautiful garden, a palace, not this dim subterranean space.

  “I’ll take that,” Gittel said, indicating the robe. Eleanor loosened the belt and shrugged the thing off. It was momentarily terrifying, standing so exposed, but she quickly stepped down into the mikvah. Her feet touched the bottom of the pool; the water came up to her shoulders. Why had she come? What was she seeking—healing? Transformation? Or was it grace? She wasn’t devout, yet here she w
as.

  “Dunk,” said Gittel. “Like this.” She held her arms aloft, elbows bent. “The immersion must be complete.”

  Eleanor held her breath and complied, then lifted her head out of the water.

  “Now the prayer,” said Gittel. When Eleanor looked confused, she pointed to a sign on the wall. But the letters were in Hebrew. “Just repeat after me. Baruch ata adonai eloheinu melech ha-olam asher kid-shanu b’mitzvo-tav v’tzi-vanu al ha-tevilah.”

  Some, though not all, of the words were familiar from the Passover seders she’d attended. But she intoned them fervently, and in them heard echoes of her father’s voice. “Good girl,” said Gittel. “Do it again.”

  By the third immersion, Eleanor had succumbed to the simple rhythm; dunk and bless, dunk and bless. She stayed under much longer the last time, eyes open under the water so she could see her hair floating around her, and the patterns made by the rippling surface above. She closed her eyes, pulled her knees close to her body, and wrapped her arms around them, floating. Her lungs began to tighten and burn. Then she untucked her limbs and spread her arms and fingers wide, as if to embrace the water. Maybe then she would be washed clean. Finally, she burst up, gasping for air in great, voracious gulps.

  “Why did you stay under so long?” Gittel asked. But her voice was gentle, not admonishing. Eleanor had no answer. After the last blessing, she climbed out; the robe and towel were waiting.

  The rhythmic swaying of the uptown subway car lulled Eleanor into a quiet and contemplative state. She actually dozed for a few minutes, riding right past her stop, and had to get off at Ninety-Sixth Street. Instead of catching the downtown train, she decided to walk the twelve blocks home; it would give her time to reflect on what had happened today, an interval between the sacred realm of the mikvah and the bustling, profane life of Yorkville. She did not feel cleansed so much as quieted, the clamor in her head subdued. But even that small change was a relief.