Trophy Widow
Page 34
“No, you have no idea. I couldn’t stand it. We’ve got to talk. I know this isn’t the right time or the right place, but we’re going to have to sit down soon—tomorrow, maybe—and figure this out. Enough is enough already.”
He turned to me. “I agree.”
“Jonathan, you know I love you. And you know I’m crazy about your daughters.”
“They adore you. We all do.”
“Good.” I paused, trying to find the right words, to organize my thoughts, but everything was jumbled. “The only thing I don’t love,” I said, “is your religion. I’m a Reform Jew, Jonathan. That’s who I am. I can’t help that. I’ve gone to those sessions with your rabbi and his wife this summer. They’ve been great. And I’ve tried. Good Lord, I’ve tried. It’s just not clicking. Maybe it will someday.” I shrugged. “Maybe it never will. Look, everything that’s worth fighting for involves a trade-off. You want something, you have to give up something else. I know your religion is important to you, Jonathan. You’re going to have to understand that mine is important to me. I love my congregation. I love my rabbi. I love my services. But guess what? My religion isn’t as important to me as you are. Or as important to me as your daughters are. I’m willing to meet you halfway. I’ll keep a kosher home, and I’ll observe the Sabbath more strictly than I do now. In fact,” I said with a half-smile, “the rabbi’s wife told me that it’s a mitzvah to make love on the Sabbath.”
He smiled. “It is.”
“Then I’m counting on some special Shabbat mitzvahs from you.” I paused, my smile fading. “I can meet you halfway, Jonathan. I realize Orthodox Judaism isn’t big on halfway, but that’s all I can promise for now. And that may be all that I’ll ever be able to give you.”
“Halfway is enough.”
He said it so quickly and emphatically that it caught me off guard. But not for long. I gave him a fierce kiss.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you.”
After a moment, I started to smile. “What?” he asked.
“You know that awful, horrible prayer you Orthodox Jewish men say?”
“Which one?”
“The morning prayer. The one where you thank God—”
“Now wait,” he said. “There’s a common misunderstanding there. That prayer is actually an expression of humility. Jewish men are assigned more religious tasks than women are. Rather than gripe about the extra work, we express our gratitude to God for giving us the extra tasks. We do that by thanking God for not making us a woman, but that’s solely because women don’t have as many religious obligations. It’s not sexist. Jewish women have their own prayer where they acknowledge that God created them closer to God’s ideal of perfection. They get to express their gratitude—”
“Shush,” I said, pressing my fingers against his mouth. “I wasn’t asking for a lesson, Rabbi.” I put my arms around his waist and looked up into his eyes. “All I was trying to tell you is that I’ve come up with my own morning prayer.”
“Oh?” he said with a puzzled smile, his face close to mine.
“Yes.” I kissed him softly, lingering a moment to nibble on his lower lip. “In my prayer,” I said, “I’m going to thank God for not making you a woman.”
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