Unorthodox

by Deborah Feldman

  “Mamaleh, shefaleh, bubeleh, what’s the matter, sweetheart, darling, little lamb? What’s wrong? What can I do?” Now she’s fawning over me, making it worse. I can hear a loud sob escape my throat, and I can’t help myself from bawling like a child whose innocence has been snatched away.

  “Oy, shefaleh, it’s all right to be a little emotional, on the first time, it’s okay, but mamaleh, you don’t have to cry. You should be happy; this should be the happiest night of your life!”

  I can’t believe she thinks I’m crying out of some sort of spiritual wonderment. How crazy is this? And yet why not go along with it, let her think it was piety all along, let her think I’m some frimmeh freak who is overwhelmed with the holiness of this stupid swimming pool.

  She waits for me as I hurriedly get dressed, then escorts me back to the waiting room where Chaya is sitting, talking to the lady next to her. She sees my reddened eyes and morose face, but Mrs. Mendelson smiles brightly again and says, “Oy, your daughter, she’s such a feineh maidel, such a pure soul, such a saintly child. It overwhelmed her a bit, the experience, but you know how it is, your first time . . .” She nods her head like a puppet, and I watch it bobbing up and down, and for a moment that’s all I can see, the quick up-and-down movement of her head. Is that a little bit of guilt I detect, or is it fear, that jitteriness that wasn’t there before?

  Chaya slips a tip into her hand and puts my arm through hers and leads me away. “Was it so bad?” I don’t say anything. She knows what it’s like, she did it too, she still does it, and I don’t have to answer her.

  I was right, though, about the rules. After I got married, none of the other mikvah attendants made me sit in the tub, only her. She was being cruel, I thought later, trying to toughen me up, perhaps, or doing what she thought was more religious, more extreme. It never occurred to me that Mrs. Mendelson might have had darker, more personal reasons for doing what she did that night. Years later the police would arrest a mikvah attendant who molested all the brides that were brought to her, but the story would be so shocking, no one would really believe it. After all, when a woman is telling you that you need to submit because that’s how God commanded it, would you question her? It would be like questioning God.

  The taxi is still waiting outside. I slide into the cool leather seat, and Chaya slams the door shut behind her. As we stop at the red light on Marcy Avenue, I am struck suddenly by the incongruity of her presence next to me. Chaya is essentially taking the place of my mother at this moment, joining me in what is considered the most important rite shared between a mother and daughter in the community. What right does she have to assume this place, when our relationship is nothing like that, when her only concern is to ensure that I behave myself and don’t embarrass the family?

  “What went wrong?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” Chaya says sweetly, turning to me with a bemused smile, her face streaked with light from the orange bulb of the streetlamp.

  “With my mother. What went wrong?”

  The car jolts forward and Chaya’s face slips quickly out of the light and into the shadows.

  “A nervous breakdown. She went crazy after she had you. We couldn’t let her take care of you. She had to be hospitalized.”

  “I thought you said she just abandoned me.”

  “Well, it was the same thing. You know she could have pulled herself together, to be a strong mother for you. But she chose not to.”

  I wonder, do you tell a “crazy” person to just pull herself together? But before I can respond, the taxi drives up in front of my house, and Chaya opens my door to let me off before she continues on her way home.

  Chaya goes with me to the bridal gemach, where I can pick a wedding dress on loan. There are only eight summer gowns in my size, all of them bedazzled with sequins and rhinestones, draped with lace and tulle, encrusted with glittering gems. It’s as if someone took apart pieces of different wedding gowns and sewed them all into one dress. I pick the simplest one, which is still ornate, with a full lace skirt that ends in sharp points around my ankles and a heavy, banded midriff staggered with jewels. But the bodice is clean and white, and the high neckline dips in a V just above my collarbone. The woman at the gown rental desk marks down the date of my wedding. I can have the dress for two weeks, and I must return it, freshly cleaned, by the due date. We carry it home in a giant black plastic trash bag, making sure it doesn’t scrape the sidewalk. At home, it rests upright on the weight of its own skirt, glaring at me first thing in the morning like an intruder that snuck in during the night. Its presence is so big, I fear it will overtake me, or that I will somehow disappear into it and become lost in its voluminous folds.

  On the last Friday night before my wedding, I slip into the sheets just before midnight. The streets outside are silent, blessedly free of weekday traffic, and the glow from the streetlamps creates firm, steady stripes on the walls of my room. The sheets are still cool when I fall asleep, and my dream is lit by the pale fiery glow of two Shabbos candles flickering bright orange, the flames growing bigger and bigger until all I can see are flames everywhere. I am watching Bubby and my aunts Rachel and Chaya hunched over a large stockpot, stirring above my head. I realize I am in the pot, being fussed over like a fancy dish for the holidays. The stainless steel walls loom impossibly tall around me, the faces above me glowing in the distance. Their foreheads are creased in concentration and fury, the flames still crackling in angry silence around their heads. How are they not noticing they’re on fire? I wonder. They stir faster and faster, and as they stir, I hear them talk about me, about all the bad things I do, about how I never make them proud. I have never heard them speak this frankly about me. Sure, I have always felt their disdain, an impalpable air that I could never quite put my finger on, but no one ever bothered to articulate the reason for it. I always assumed it was because I reminded them that the family wasn’t perfect. Did my behavior really matter to them, when my background was inescapable?

  This time, they say, this time she’ll come out right. Sweat beads and drips from Rachel’s forehead as she whisks the wooden spoon efficiently over my head. I watch the droplets splatter loudly into the liquid broth I have been distilled into. It’s as if they have been given a second chance with me, a sudden miraculous solution to the long-standing problem of my ignoble status. They can make a success out of me, despite the odds, and close the book on the sad saga I represent.

  They’re going to bake me. I can hear them arguing about how much time I need to turn out just right. They preheat the oven to 350 degrees and pour me into an aluminum pan. The perfect sponge cake, Rachel says, only needs thirty-five minutes to attain the ideal combination of vanilla moistness and airy perfection. When I’m ready, then I can come out of the oven. I can still see them through the smudged glass pane of the oven door, tapping the watches on their wrists. I lie there, wondering why I’m not really feeling the heat. Instead I’m aware of a sense of security, ensconced in the warm, safe oven, away from their cruel, calculating stares. When the timer beeps, the oven door opens and I feel myself sliding out with the rack. I look up expecting to see smiling faces, but their mouths have fallen open in shock. There I am, a roasted suckling pig, my skin a golden, shiny crust, a small red apple in my mouth. Even I am horrified by this shameful turn of events.

  I awake with a start, and my room is still swathed in darkness. I can see Rachel’s angry face before me, vividly engulfed in orange flames, stirring furiously with her wooden spoon. I can feel that longing to be the perfect sponge cake and the burning humiliation of having my true face exposed.

  As I turn on my side and lift my hair off my sweaty neck, I try to distance myself from the horrible, shocking image of looking down at my own self and seeing the nature of my betrayal. Surely that’s not who I am. I am most certainly a good girl, and I will make everyone proud of me. If I can make this work, all my shame can be erased. No one will be able to criticize my family when I am a successful, obedient housewife.r />
  7

  Costly Ambitions

  For we pay a price for everything we get or take in this world; and although ambitions are well worth having, they are not to be cheaply won, but exact their dues of work and self-denial, anxiety and discouragement.

  —From Anne of Green Gables, by Lucy Maud Montgomery

  The morning of my wedding is so bright and clear, I can see every dewdrop glistening on the maple leaves swinging lushly outside my window, and every rhinestone sewn on the thick sash of my wedding gown shimmers in the daylight. I fast all day, as is the custom, but don’t feel hungry at all. I hold a book of psalms and mouth the prayers; my duty as a bride is to use this opportunity to hold God’s ear and pray for all those who need guidance and salvation.

  I am so excited to get my first professional makeover. A woman comes to the house to do my makeup; she has a case full of glittery eye shadows and sparkling lip glosses. The most I’ve ever really worn is foundation and a little blush. She uses a metal contraption to curl my eyelashes, and I’m afraid that my lashes will be chopped clean off. In the end, when I look in the mirror, I can hardly recognize myself. I look so grown up and sophisticated, my lids heavy with forest-green shadow, the mascara piled on my lashes feeling like a weight I can’t fully lift, so that my eyes appear to be not quite fully opened, in a kind of sleepy, delicate way. There must be girls out there who are excited to get married just for the experience of wearing all this makeup. Only brides are permitted to be this decorated.

  My wedding dress folded neatly around me, we drive to the wedding hall, which is housed in the boys’ school on Bedford Avenue. At five o’clock in the afternoon the light is still bright, and we hurry inside to avoid the stares of passersby. I’m set up on my special bridal chair of white wicker, with silk flowers entwined around its brim, and Bubby spreads the tulle skirt of my gown evenly around me, so that the lace-trimmed edge forms a perfect arc on the floor. Flash goes a camera. I pose quickly; there is not much time for trivialities on a day like today. A close-lipped smile, an earnest glance from behind lowered eyelids, and the camera is whisked away.

  Here come the guests, my fellow classmates, home early from summer vacation especially for my wedding, dressed in their best so that they can be viewed by all the matchmakers looking for smiling young girls with rosy cheeks and dainty ankles. They line up to air-kiss me and wish me congratulations and good luck. Bubby sits next to me on the bridal platform and sniffles into a tissue with a sad smile on her face. So many people come up to me, people I’ve never met who say they are a friend of my mother-in-law, or the wife of my future husband’s friend, and I smile benevolently to all, my eyes permanently crinkled in delight.

  Every one of Eli’s sisters-in-law insists on posing for photos with all their children, and I smile and tickle the smaller ones under their chins so that they giggle for the camera. I notice my mother out of the corner of my eye, standing far off looking disoriented, with Chaya holding on to her arm, a tight expression on her face. I can see my mother is wearing some sort of purple gown, her honey-colored wig slightly askew. With her standing that far away from the bride, it’s likely most people won’t even realize that she is my mother. Chaya promised that she wouldn’t be allowed to make any sort of scene. I guess that includes making sure she avoids me.

  After what seems like hours, the music strikes up, and the march begins. The women veer off to either side of me to clear a path for the parade of men entering for the badeken ceremony. Zeidy carries the white cloth that will soon be covering my face. After the badeken, I won’t be able to see until the chuppah ceremony concludes, which is when Eli and I will officially be married.

  As Zeidy pronounces the blessing for me to be fruitful and multiply, I bite my lip to keep from showing any expression other than the somber one I’m attempting to maintain. Gaiety would be inappropriate at this most holy of all moments. I catch a glimpse of Eli, looking strangely small beneath his brand-new mink shtreimel, which perches at the very tip of his head like an uneasy animal. His shoulders jut out stiffly on either side in his new black satin coat. I don’t want to meet his eyes for fear I will crack a smile.

  At last I’m covered, and underneath the white tarp I smile secretly to myself at this sudden pleasure of being anonymous in a crowd of people focused only on me. I fake the sound of sniffles all the way to the canopy, and someone slips me a handkerchief underneath my covering. I take it delicately, drawing it away from sight with an elegant swishing movement.

  I watch the feet of the men under the canopy as I am led in circles around Eli, seven precise turns until I am left to stand beside him, still blind. Their shoes all look the same, black lace-up oxfords tapping quietly on the ground. I shift briefly under my gown, but no movement is obvious above the stiff petticoats.

  After the mesader kiddushin pronounces the marriage blessing, Eli slips the wedding band onto my finger, which I stick out from under the heavy veil. I hear the sound of the glass breaking, and Eli lifts the veil and takes my hand, and we walk together through the crowd to our yichud room. The yichud room is a special suite set aside for the bride and groom as part of the wedding tradition, a room where we will eat our wedding dinner in private, the first place we will be alone and unsupervised. It’s only symbolic, of course; we won’t lock the doors. The sheitelmacher has to come set my wig on top of my hair and reattach my veil. We barely have time for soup.

  In the yichud room, as is the tradition, Eli gives me a pair of diamond earrings that his mother picked. I remove the simple pearl studs I was wearing and replace them with the heavily studded squares instead. My earlobes droop slightly. He leans forward, and I think he might suddenly try to kiss me, but I stop him. “Wait,” I say. “Anyone can walk in. Wait till later.” The light is too bright for me to be that close to his face.

  Sure enough, the sheitelmacher breezes in carrying my freshly set wig in a large leather case. She busies herself shoving all my beautiful, shiny hair into a white lace cap, making sure not even a strand is sticking out. Now that I’m officially married, no man aside from my husband is allowed to glimpse even a quarter inch of my natural hair. She sets the wig firmly on top of my head, pulling it down around my ears so that it is snug against my lace-encased scalp. I can’t even think about what my squashed hair will look like when I finally take it off. Eli is whisked away by his brothers for some photographs, and I finish my soup alone, pecking without interest at the hunk of challah next to my plate. I know I should eat or I might faint, but I can’t seem to swallow anything. I chew the same piece of bread continually, but my throat feels too dry and tight to let anything go down.

  Even though I picked comfortable white shoes for dancing, I’m not prepared for the work it entails. The fabric of my dress is so stiff that my body chafes everywhere it must bend, at the shoulders, elbows, and even wrists. I make an enormous effort to keep up my smile as everyone insists on taking their turn whirling me around the dance floor. They lift me on tables and steer me through human tunnels, twirl ribbon sticks and floral bouquets above me, and I work hard to keep my eyes wide and gay.

  The brass section plays lustily until one in the morning, after which most of the crowd drifts off with sentimental good-byes, leaving only extended family to stay for the mitzvah tanz. This is an opportunity for me to finally rest, and I drink glass after glass of water and stand in front of the air-conditioning unit in the bridal room, begging my body to cool off. I hear the pianist start up an arpeggio and I join the family outside in the main ballroom, where rows of chairs have been set up on either side to accommodate both the male and female audience. The groom, however, will sit beside me at the very front of the ballroom, to get the best view. My new nieces bring me grapes on a platter to share with him.

  All the little girls whose parents have allowed them to stay this late sidle up to me and watch me out of the corners of their eyes, like I sidled up to the brides of my childhood, envious of their princesslike status. Zeidy brings me the black gartel,
the long sash that connects me to the dancers. I hold one end and various family members take turns holding the other end. Meanwhile the wedding poet takes turns praising each family member in witty rhymes, as is the custom.

  “Eli, famous for always offering to help a fellow Jew, of such generous boys there are few. He is praised for being a studious learner, let’s hope he will be an equally successful earner. May he have many offspring and may they bring him much joy, soon he will be dancing at the wedding of his own boy.” The rhymes are simple and ill-timed, but everyone is drunk and tired enough to find them funny.

  The last dance is reserved for Eli and me, but it’s not really a dance, more like a shuffle. Eli stands two arm-lengths away from me, as is the custom, only the tips of his fingers brushing mine to signify that we are married while still remaining modest. We keep our heads down because if we look at each other, I’m sure we will burst out laughing. I don’t even have to move my feet, I just make the skirt of my gown shake slightly to intimate some movement. Finally the music winds down and I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t know how long I could have restrained myself from letting loose a giggle.

  The wedding hall begins to empty out as my family members head back to their respective homes. Most people have to be at work in a few hours. Some come over to wish me a last “Mazel tov!” but I only smile at them distractedly. All I can think about is getting out of the dress. The creases inside my elbows are raw. When Eli’s parents drop us off at our front door, I fidget uncomfortably as they exchange their good-byes, and the minute the door is shut behind me, I kick off my scuffed white pumps and start unhooking the back of my dress on my way to the bathroom. Inside I slip off the sleeves slowly because they are sticking painfully to my arms. Tenderly I finger the deep red welts along my forearms and shoulders. Who would’ve thought wedding gowns could hurt so much?