My future mother-in-law lies in wait in the paper goods aisle. She is a short, scrawny woman, with a shriveled face and lips so thin they look like a pencil mark smudged into her skin. My heart sinks a bit when I see she’s wearing a shpitzel, wrapped flat and tight around her skull. A shiny gray satin kerchief with pink flowers embroidered all over it, folded generously at the base of her neck into a neat bow, ends trailing down her back. The headpiece is twice the size of her real head and seems to totter precariously on top of her minute frame. Her daughter—brown-skinned, mousy-haired—is even shorter than she is, with a square face and small, squinty eyes. Her canine teeth hook over her lip so that the tips are visible even when her mouth is closed. She stares at me without blinking. What is she thinking? I wonder. If I’m pretty enough for her brother? What about you? I think. Who’s going to marry you, looking like that? I feel a faint sense of triumph in that thought and gaze back at her calmly.
Chaya exchanges words with the shpitzel woman, but I don’t hear them. I think, with such an ugly sister, and such a homely mother, what can I possibly expect from a boy related to these people? It’s not like I’m gorgeous, but these people, to me, are like peasants. I’m not meant for this. Doesn’t Chaya understand me at all?
The battered Town Car is waiting for us outside the supermarket and I slip in and scootch all the way to the end, turning my face toward the row of warehouses lining the East River and the lights of the Williamsburg Bridge twinkling above them. My breath creates a patch of fog on the window and I wipe it with my leather glove. Chaya gives the driver the address and I can hear her straightening her skirt, adjusting the front of her wig. She always has to look perfect, even when no one is watching. Even without looking at her, I know her back is perfectly straight, her chin jutting forward and the tendons in her neck trembling with tension.
She won’t tell me what I’m so curious to hear and I’m too proud to ask. Over the years, Chaya has made me ashamed of showing any weakness. Emotion, to her, is weakness. I must not feel anything at all; I must not care what happens to me. Only when the taxi turns the corner to Penn Street does she murmur quietly, “I will let you know if there is any news.”
I don’t bother to answer. Upstairs, Bubby is already in bed and Zeidy is still at the synagogue, studying. I undress carefully, laying my things out on top of the trunk at the foot of my bed. For a while I kneel there, knees scraping against the rough rose-colored carpet, fingering the checkered scarf at the top of the pile, the scarf that Chaya purchased for me to go with my new coat. A kallah maidel must have elegant clothes, she told me. It is a sign that you are eligible for marriage. I have never been spoiled with so many new and beautiful things in my entire life. I have a sleek black handbag and Italian leather shoes. Pearl studs for my ears and a silver necklace with my Hebrew name as a pendant. Throughout my entire childhood and adolescence I longed for the trinkets that my friends continually displayed, but I never even dared to ask, and certainly no one would have bothered to answer. Yet in the last six months, I have suddenly been gifted with all the items any young girl could dream of, and for what? To suddenly render me presentable, I suppose. Or perhaps to sweeten me up. If it is the latter reason, I can hardly bring myself to contemplate it, for I know deep down that I am being swayed, like a child, to leap for the candy being dangled in front of me. I acknowledge the thrill that comes with finally being lavished with care and attention. I think I may become too distracted to think of anything else.
The next day no one is home when I get back from work. The lights are off and the fridge is desolately empty. I eat sour pickles with bread for dinner, and I’m too stirred up to read. I lie in bed and marvel at how quickly this moment has arrived, how it always felt so far away and now it is here, and every breath brings me closer to a cusp, a cliff from which I will surely plummet. I fall asleep early, dreaming of horses galloping over ravines, the flashing shadows of passing street traffic and the clatter of the elevated train waking me sporadically likes hooves rattling in and out of my head.
The sound of the creaky front door opening downstairs jerks me awake. It clangs shut after I hear Zeidy and Bubby’s footsteps, and I hear all the locks being shut, first the dead bolt, then the doorknob, then the chain. It’s past midnight. I hear Bubby speaking but I can’t make out what she is saying. I fall back asleep before they come upstairs.
Thursday morning no one will tell me anything, and I’m too proud to ask straight out. But at work Chaya calls and tells me I’m going to have a b’show tonight. “Wear your best dress,” she says, “and don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I met the boy last night,” she says, “with Bubby and Zeidy. We went to Monroe to meet him. He’s very sweet. You think we would let you meet just anyone?”
I want to ask what he looks like, but of course I don’t say anything. I leave work early, and on my walk home I step elegantly like a kallah maidel and wonder if anyone can tell. If they knew I was going to my first b’show tonight, they’d think differently of me; the passersby would look me over twice, maybe give me some advice, spit away the evil eye.
I remember the shpitzel woman from the grocery store, and my heart sinks again. I try to imagine what a son of that woman could look like, and in my mind I picture someone heavyset, with a rounded beard, chestnut brown with reddish accents, perhaps. I see wide nostrils, small, close-set eyes, and a bowlegged walk. Someone paternal, but how can a young boy be paternal? Still, I can’t get it out of my head, the image, and it comes with me in the shower and I soap myself self-consciously, as if the bearded man were watching me.
I try coaxing my straight, shoulder-length brown hair into a curl. I am struck by how ordinary my face looks in the mirror. Truly a harsh punishment for me, far from ordinary on the inside, to have this face, this flat white face with a small mouth and heavy eyelids, a face consumed by a length of cheek on either side. Will he be able to tell, when he sees me, how truly wonderful I am? Will he want me? I am resolved to charm him.
Bubby comes home from Aishel and sees me ready and nods in approval. “You look so elegante,” she says, in her Hungarian pronunciation of the word. “Such chinush laba.” Bubby always speaks Hungarian when she gets emotional. Chinush laba, or slim calves, are a treasure in a woman, she always says. She takes out a gold choker from her bureau and hands it to me. “I wore that to my wedding. Your tante gave that to me, the woman you were named after. You should wear it tonight.”
I’ve never had real gold jewelry before. I clasp the choker gently around my neck and shift it so that the place where it meets in a point at the center lies where the hollow of my collarbone would be, hidden chastely beneath my pale blue wool turtleneck.
Zeidy comes upstairs to get dressed, and Bubby has already laid out his best gabardine suit jacket on the sofa. He puts on his freshly shined Shabbos shoes and his new shtreimel. I’m glad he is wearing the new one tonight. I’ve only ever seen him wear it for weddings. He must think this is an important occasion, to be so uncharacteristically focused on his image.
Chaya and Tovyeh come by at 6:30, Chaya wrapped in her best fur-trimmed Shabbos cape, cheeks pinched into red circles and wearing her blondest wig. The hair on it is sprayed and teased into a high stiff peak over her forehead. I smooth my hair down worriedly. Maybe I should’ve used hair spray.
“You ready to go?” she asks cheerfully.
“Where are we going? I thought the b’show was going to be here, in the dining room.”
“No, mamaleh, we’re going to Chavie’s house. She has more room.” Bubby shrugs into her shearling coat. “We’re all ready.”
Aunt Chavie’s house is only a five-block walk away, so we don’t take Tovyeh’s car. What a sight we must be, the five of us walking abreast; we consume the entire width of the sidewalk. I push the sleeves of my coat together so that they create a muff to warm my hands, my shoulders braced stiffly against the January cold. Everyone walks so purposefully and I have to keep up, trying to make my footsteps sound as certain, tap, ta
p, tap, but somewhere down Marcy Avenue I lose my courage and begin to shiver against the chill, and I can hear the faint clicking as my heels fall out of rhythm.
Only one block to go. What if they are already there? What if my knees buckle as I walk into the living room? I can see Chavie’s house already, light pouring out from the front windows. I’m sure my legs are shaking, but when I glance down they seem perfectly sturdy. I admire my slim ankles for a moment before the bitter taste rises back into my throat.
I resolve not to look directly at him, my future chassan, but since I don’t know where he will be when I get there, I must never look up or meet anyone’s eyes, but look down at the floor in pretend modesty.
Chavie’s house is warm and lit bright yellow from the sconces on the walls. “They aren’t here yet,” she says from the window, standing folded in the lace curtain to hide her face from passersby. Still she creates an inevitable shadow, her outline visible through the sheer panel, and I want to tell her to get away because I wouldn’t want to give them this impression, that we are so excited we can hardly sit still.
I perch on the edge of the leather sofa next to Chaya to wait. I haven’t spoken a word since we left the house and I know my words are not needed, but still I turn to my aunt and ask her in almost a whisper if she will stay with me for a few minutes after they get here and not leave me alone with him right away, because I just need to get my bearings and can’t bear to be banished immediately. My voice cracks a bit and gives away my nervousness.
There is a brief, sharp knock at the door, and Chavie runs to open it, smoothing the back of her wig as she goes, quivering with excitement. Her brown eyes glisten, her smile is real; mine is nervous and shaky and retreats into the corners of my mouth when I don’t remember to put it out.
I can’t see into the exterior hallway but I can hear the heavy footsteps of a group, murmured whispers, and the quick swiping of shoes against a doormat before voices fill the house.
I recognize shpitzel woman first, the woman I will call shviger, mother-in-law, and the man who must be her husband, equally short with a dangling gray beard and hard marble eyes shadowed by a tightly creased forehead. No sign of the daughter now, I register briefly with some calm. I catch a glimpse of a flat black velvet hat peek out between the man and his wife, the wide rim of the plotchik hat concealing the face I want to see without appearing to do so.
A plotchik, I think suddenly, in shock. Not a tall beaver hat like my uncle’s, not a krach-hit like Zeidy even, but a plotchik! How is no one noticing this? The panicked question races through the forefront of my mind, filling it completely. A plotchik hat, a wide, flat velvet one with a barely noticeable rim, is a sign of an Aroiny, a follower of the rabbi’s eldest son, Aaron. Zeidy would never marry me to an Aroiny! Our family are Zollies through and through. We believe the rabbi’s third son, Zalman Leib, is the true successor to the Satmar dynasty. I should have suspected something, considering this family is from the village of Kiryas Joel, and ninety percent of the people who live there support Aaron. But I never even considered the possibility. Even though Zeidy never let politics enter his house, and talk of the dispute between the two sons was never allowed at his table, it was always an unspoken fact that Zeidy did not approve of Aaron and his extreme ways. Now he is marrying me off to an Aroiny?
I am completely flustered, but I can’t say anything, not when everyone is here, watching me. The boy has his hands folded into the opposite arms of his black satin rekel, shoulders bent and face pointed downward, as any modest yeshiva boy should. I notice his blond earlocks, cut neatly at chin length and curled into fat, shiny loops. They swing ever so gently to and fro with his movements.
I see the tip of a tongue sweep out hesitantly and run discreetly across a pair of pale pink lips, then retreat back in a flash, as if it were never there. I can see golden fuzz lining a bony jaw, the fuzz of a teenager on the face of a man I know to be twenty-two. It’s unlikely that he trims, so he must be naturally bare. Eli is his name, I know, same name as all the other boys his age, the name of the first and most glorious Satmar Rebbe, now deceased, his throne quarreled over by a family divided in lust and greed.
They are battling it out in the secular courts now, and Zeidy says it’s a shanda, a chillul Hashem, an embarrassment to God. (His voice rises when he gets upset and he rattles his fists on the table, and the china dishes shake and the goblets whinny from the vibration.) He hates it when they take our dirty laundry and hang it out in public for everyone to see. When the case is over and a winner chosen, he says, there will be nothing left to rule. Satmar will be an embarrassment to all. Perhaps he is right but I don’t care. I don’t feel like Satmar. Satmar is not in my blood, it’s not a marker in my DNA. Surely I can remove that label from my identity if I choose to do so.
I wonder if Eli feels like he is Satmar, like it’s in his blood and can never be washed away. I make a note to ask him that, when we are alone. A bold question, but I can disguise it in innocent words. I need to feel him out, see if he has his own opinions about this world we live in, or if he just parrots the views of those around him. I may not have a real say in the matter of my own marriage, but at the very least I would like to enter into the arrangement armed with as much knowledge and power as possible.
We all squeeze into Chavie’s small dining room, positioning ourselves so that I am directly across from Eli, Chaya at my right and Bubby at my left, with Zeidy commanding the head of the table, my future father-in-law, Shlomeh, at his right side, along with his wife, and Chavie hovering at the foot, trying to serve everyone seltzer and linzer cake. The stiff velvet-covered seat cushion feels hard underneath me.
Zeidy and my future father-in-law exchange dvar Torah as is the custom, bantering mildly back and forth about the weekly Torah portion. Watching as they engage, I feel a distinct, prickling pride at how clearly Zeidy has the spiritual upper hand in this situation. After all, has there ever been a man more learned than my grandfather? Even the Satmar Rebbe said he was a Talmudic genius. My future father-in-law is a small man, both in stature and intelligence, I notice carefully, watching his bland face, his beady eyes moving back and forth. He should feel privileged to be talking to my grandfather. Zeidy would have liked to arrange a match with a more prestigious person, I’m sure, but unfortunately, despite my recent run of success I still don’t quite merit a superior arrangement, not with my background.
After the perfunctory discussion is over, the adults get up and shuffle congenially out into the kitchen, leaving me at the table with Eli. I keep my head down and finger the fringed edges of the lace tablecloth, running my fingers along the pattern obsessively. The boy is supposed to start talking, that much I know. If he doesn’t start, I’m just supposed to wait in silence. I look past him for a moment to the door, left slightly ajar so as not to break the rules, and wonder if they are all listening. I know they are sitting in the next room.
He breaks the silence finally, shifting first in his seat and readjusting his coat.
“So my sister tells me you’re a teacher?”
I nod my head yes.
“Very nice, very nice.”
“What about you?” I ask, having been given the smallest of go-aheads. “You’re still in yeshiva? What’s it like at twenty-two? Are there people there who are your age?” I know that will hit a sore point, talking about his age. Most boys are married off at age twenty, the latest. Because Eli is older and still single, his younger siblings have been made to wait for him to get engaged before they can be matched up as well, and anyone in his position would feel guilty about that.
“I guess I had to wait for you to grow up.” He smiles pleasantly.
Touché. I’m going to ask about his hat.
“So your family, are they Aroinies? Because I see you wear a plotchik.”
“My family is neutral,” he says, after a careful moment, and he licks his lips again after, as if cleaning his mouth each time he speaks is a spiritual achievement. A purification ritu
al of sorts.
I get the distinct impression he has carefully rehearsed a script, that he’ll say whatever it takes to make me believe what I want to believe. Each time I ask him a question, I get careful, bland answers. He swirls his fingers through his shiny, golden payos when he speaks, as if he is still in yeshiva, studying.
“You want some seltzer?” I ask, not knowing in which direction to take the conversation.
“No, it’s okay, I’m not thirsty.”
We talk some more; mostly I ask questions and he answers. He tells me of his travels: his father took him on extensive tours of Europe to visit the grave sites of famed rabbis. Eli and his nine brothers made their way through Europe crouching on the floor of a commercial van, stopping only to pray at tombstones.
“You went to Europe and all you saw were graves?” I ask, trying not to convey any contempt in my tone. “You didn’t see anything else?”
“I tried,” he says. “Mostly my father wouldn’t allow it. But one day I want to go back on my own and really see it.”
I feel instant sympathy for him. Of course his father is at fault, a narrow-minded man obsessed with the spiritual but ignorant of the true importance of anything. Zeidy would never take his sons to Europe and deny them any sightseeing. He always says the world was created for us to admire in all its glory. Perhaps Eli and I might return to Europe together; I’ve always wanted to see the world. To think that marriage might be my plane ticket to freedom is suddenly enticing.
Any moment now we will be interrupted, but before we are I want to make one attempt at genuine conversation with Eli. I lean forward intimately, hands tucked under the table and resting on my knees.
“You know I’m not a regular girl. I mean I’m normal, but I’m different.”
“I can see that by now,” he says, smiling slightly.
“Well, I just thought I should tell you, you know. Warn you, maybe. I’m not easy to handle.”
Eli relaxes suddenly in his seat, spreading his hands out on the table in front of him. I notice the knotted veins protruding beneath thick calloused knuckles, the lines in his open palms thick and red. They are the hands of a workman, masculine yet graceful.
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