“Shira’s married, with three of her own. My grandson Ya’akov is the same age as Nosson!” Esther said proudly.
“And your oldest son, what about him? Is he married?” I asked.
Libby ground the heel of her shoe into my foot. I plastered a smile on my face to cover my wince of agony.
“Ari’s engaged,” Esther said. Her tone changed just a bit. She was still smiling, but there seemed to me to be something forced about it.
“Congratulations!” I said. “When is he getting married?”
“This year,” Esther said. “The girl lives in Los Angeles, like you, and she needs to prepare herself for the move. I hope that the wedding will be in four or five months. Certainly before six months.”
“And is he excited about the wedding?” I asked.
“Of course,” Esther said, a little too quickly. “He’s thrilled. What boy wouldn’t be thrilled? She’s a beautiful girl from a good family. He’s thrilled. Just thrilled.” As if by saying so she could make it true. Had the Hirsches heard something about Fraydle that was giving Ari second thoughts about the match?
I was preparing myself to probe a little deeper when Isaac gave a contented belch and popped off my breast.
“Well, we’d better be off,” Libby said hurriedly. “We don’t want to keep you.”
Esther smiled, but she didn’t protest. There wasn’t any way I could keep us there short of out-and-out rudeness, so Libby and I gathered our things, made our thank-yous, and left. As we walked down the block toward her house, Libby seemed disturbed.
“Well, there’s clearly something going on there,” I said.
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do you mean, it’s not what I think? What is it?”
“It has nothing to do with Fraydle.”
“You don’t know that, Libby.”
“Yes I do. Trust me, I do.”
“Okay, enough of the cryptic comments. Just what the hell, er, heck, do you know?”
Libby didn’t answer.
“Libby!” I stopped in my tracks. “I’m not walking another step until you tell me what’s going on.”
She turned back to me and sighed. “I hate doing this. It’s pure lashon hora, evil tongue, malicious gossip. I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t bear for you to think badly of that lovely woman. As if she could ever do what you think she did.”
“I didn’t ever say I thought she did anything knowingly.”
“She didn’t do anything, knowingly or not.”
“Come on, Libby. What do you know?”
She paused for a minute and then, roughly scratching at her wig, said, “I’ll tell you, but not here on the street. Come back to my house.”
I walked as quickly as I could back to Libby’s apartment with her lagging behind me. I was obviously more interested in having the conversation than she was. When we got there, she tortured me further by first settling her sons down for their nap. By the time she returned to the living room, I was going out of my mind with impatience.
She plopped down on the couch next to me and reached out for Isaac. I passed the baby to her and she held him on her knees, facing her. She kissed him a couple of times on the nose. Finally, I burst out, “Libby! Talk!”
“Okay.” She handed Isaac back to me and settled herself on the couch. “Before I say anything, I want you to understand that nothing I’m telling you can go beyond this room.”
“I can’t promise you that, Libby. If anything happened to Fraydle, then I’m going to have to talk to the police.”
“This has nothing to do with the girl!” Libby insisted. “What I’m going to tell you is about Ari.”
That intrigued me. “All right, I’ll tell you what. I won’t tell anybody anything, unless I absolutely have to. Okay?”
That satisfied her. She nodded and began: “Josh heard a rumor about Ari from some of the other men at the shul, the synagogue. Last year, Rav Hirsch had a mild heart attack. It wasn’t any big deal, he only stayed overnight at the hospital and then they sent him home. But the scare got people talking about who would take over the yeshiva once Rav Hirsch couldn’t lead it anymore. The obvious choice is Ari. He’s something of a Talmudic scholar in his own right, and he hasn’t shown any interest in going into his mother’s brothers’ business. As soon as his name was mentioned, however, the men began talking about how he would be an “inappropriate” choice. Josh pressed them, but all they would say was that since Ari was unmarried he wouldn’t be suitable. Well, at the time, the boy was only twenty-three years old. Hardly an old bachelor. Later, when they were alone, one of Josh’s good friends, also a chozer b’tshuvah, told him what the men were talking about.”
“What’s a chozer b’whatever?” I interrupted.
“A chozer b’tshuvah. A Jew who, like Josh, comes to Orthodoxy after being raised in a secular family. It means, literally, one who returns to the answer. Since they are both chozrei b’tshuvah, Sam and Josh have a lot in common. Sam joined the community ten years before Josh and I did and he’s been sort of a mentor to Josh. Anyway, Sam told him that there are rumors that Ari might be . . . well, that he might not like women.”
“Ari’s gay?” I asked.
“I don’t know that,” Libby said quickly. “All I’m telling you is that some of the men say that about him. It could be nothing. Maybe it’s just because he’s a delicate boy. You know how men are.”
“Oh yeah, those rough-and-ready yeshiva buchers. The most macho crowd outside a tubercular ward. I can see how they’d turn on a sissy.”
“That’s not fair, Juliet. Just because a man is learned doesn’t mean he’s necessarily effeminate. Look at Josh, for example.”
Now, maybe Libby was right, and maybe all male intellectuals aren’t weenies, but the example of her husband, who weighed in at about ninety-eight pounds, did not lend particularly strong evidence to her claim.
“I’m not saying that they’re effeminate,” I explained. “I’m saying that, as a group, they aren’t particularly, well, butch. And most of them are straight. So, it really doesn’t make sense for them to have spread rumors about Ari just for being, what did you call it? Oh yeah, ‘delicate.’ There’s got to be something more. Did Josh’s friend say where the rumors started?”
“No, he didn’t know. I only told you that story so you would understand why Esther might be reticent on the topic of her son’s marriage. Maybe she knows people are talking about him. Maybe she has her own concerns. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with Fraydle.”
“Maybe, maybe not. What would happen if Fraydle or her family got wind of the rumors about Ari?”
“I don’t know. That would depend on them. If they believed the rumors, they might call off the match. But maybe not. It depends.”
“What?” I asked. “You mean they might go ahead and let her marry him?”
“Well, they would probably ask Ari to reassure them that he wasn’t gay, or that if he was that it wouldn’t be a problem in the marriage.”
“Uh, Libby? Exactly how could that not be a problem?”
“I don’t presume to know everything about homosexuality, Juliet. But I do know that if it’s true that ten percent of people are homosexual, like the Queer Alliance at Wesleyan told us, then it stands to reason that there are a decent number of homosexual Hasidic Jews. But the vast majority of us marry and have children. Obviously, there are homosexual people who manage to suppress their sexual urges in favor of the rewards of family, community, and religion.”
“Or else they’re just deeply in the closet.”
“Maybe, but what’s so wrong with that? If they feel content with their family lives and happy in their community, then who’s to say they’re not happy? Sex isn’t really that important, anyway.”
“It’s not just sex, Libby. Being gay isn’t just a matter of who you like to sleep with. It’s about who you are. How can you say that someone can be happy denying his identity solely because his community won’t accept
him? How do you know that those people you’re talking about aren’t absolutely miserable, pretending to be something they’re not?” I asked.
“You’re right, Juliet,” Libby said. “I have no idea what they might feel. For all I know, the vast majority of gay people leave the community rather than figure out a way of being both gay and Hasidic. I don’t know. I guess it’s just that I’m so happy, I can’t imagine that everyone wouldn’t want exactly what I have: a wonderful family with beautiful children and a community in which I feel loved and protected.”
“You know, Libby, that’s probably all that the vast majority of gay people want, too. They want a wonderful family and a supportive community that accepts them for who they are.”
“Juliet, I know that. I’m not some homophobic person. I agree with you. I’m just saying that for us it’s more complicated.”
My mind was spinning with the possibilities raised by what Libby told me. I had no idea what it all meant, or if it played any role in Fraydle’s disappearance. But I definitely needed to know more.
“Libby, what you told me could be important. I’m going to need to find out more about it.”
“Why? Why can’t you just leave it alone?”
“Because Fraydle is missing and I have to find her.”
“You? Why you? You barely even know this girl. She baby-sat for you all of one time, for goodness’ sake. Why do you need to disturb this poor boy’s life for someone you barely know?”
That brought me up short. Libby was right, of course. I didn’t know Fraydle. The truth was that none of this was any of my business. Just like the murder of Abigail Hathaway hadn’t been any of my business. But you know what? I’d never been very good at minding my own business, and I wasn’t particularly interested in learning how at this late date. And it wasn’t like there was someone else in New York looking for Fraydle.
“I just have to, that’s all. Libby, I can do this with or without you. I can try snooping around on my own, but I can’t promise to be very discreet. I don’t know anyone around here, and the only way for me to get information is to ask for it. And if I’m asking strangers, that’s not discreet.”
“It sure isn’t.” Libby was scowling.
“But if you and Josh were willing to help me, then maybe I might be able to get my questions answered without causing too much of a fuss.” I know, I know. Blackmail. Unpleasant, but certainly effective.
Libby sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want to meet Josh’s friend. The one who told him about Ari.”
Libby didn’t say anything.
“Libby?”
She slapped her hands on her knees. “Fine. Come to dinner tomorrow night. I’ll make sure he’s here.”
“Libby, you’re a champ.” I leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. She pushed me away, at first, but finally shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes.
“Juliet Applebaum, you haven’t changed an iota, have you?”
I shook my head and then looked down at my watch. It was getting on in the afternoon. If I wanted to miss the bridge traffic going home, I had to get started right away.
“I’d better get going,” I said, picking up Isaac and standing up. Libby walked me to the door and we hugged.
I held her tight for a moment, trying to understand what was making me so sad. Suddenly, I realized that I wasn’t sad for Libby. She was happy. I was sad for myself. Whatever she had, whatever it was that made her so satisfied with her life, was missing in my mine. “You know what, Libby?” I said, “I’m jealous of you. You’ve found a place in life where you can really be content. I don’t think I know anyone who is as happy as you are.”
“I know just how lucky I am, Juliet. I am happy. Really happy. I have a loving husband, beautiful children, and a supportive community. I have found my place. But what a funny place for a card-carrying member of the Daughters of the American Revolution!”
I laughed and said, “See you tomorrow.”
“You’d better be on your best behavior, Juliet.”
“I will. I promise.”
She rolled her eyes again and shut the door after me.
Fifteen
THE next morning I sat at breakfast mulling over the events of the previous day and braiding Ruby’s hair. Libby was right. Esther Hirsch didn’t seem like the kind of person who could participate in anything nefarious. But appearances can be deceiving. It was at least possible that Fraydle’s disappearance had something to do with Ari Hirsch.
“Sit still!” I said to my daughter, just barely resisting the temptation to yank on her braids. “I can’t braid your hair if you keep bending over like that.”
“My foot itches!” Ruby said indignantly.
My mother scooped a squirming Ruby out of my lap and held out her hand for the comb and elastics. I handed them over, relieved. I’ve never been much of a hairstylist. My mother sat down with Ruby, who suddenly decided to become a contender for best-behaved preschooler.
I got up to get myself another cup of coffee.
“Every drop of caffeine you drink goes directly to your breast milk,” my mother said.
“Thank you, Madame La Leche, but I need coffee this morning. I’m exhausted. Your grandson was up all night, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Of course he was up. Why should he sleep? You’re chock full of caffeine.”
“Ma, I am so not going to fight with you this morning. Where’s Isaac?”
“His grandfather took him for a walk. Okay, Rubileh, go look in the mirror. You look like a princess.” My mother had made two braids on either side of Ruby’s face. For a total of four. She looked like a lunatic.
“Just like a princess,” I agreed. I leaned back and put my feet up on the kitchen table.
“Listen, Ma. I’m going to have to go back to Libby’s for dinner tonight, okay? You don’t mind watching Ruby again, do you?”
“Of course not, but why don’t you leave Isaac, too?”
“I can’t. I haven’t pumped any milk for him and I really don’t want him to have any baby formula.”
“So pump. You brought that horrible machine. Why don’t you use it?”
True, why not? I went to the pile of suitcases and pulled out my breast pump. I stripped down to my nursing bra, set the machine on the kitchen table, and attached the hoses and bottles. The first time I’d used this pump I’d had the pressure turned on full blast. It had taken a good minute and a half to extricate my nipple from the grip of the machine. A minute and a half spent screaming both in pain and in horror. Who knew my nipple could extend to a cool seven inches in length? I carefully adjusted the vacuum to the “medium” setting and settled in for a wait. Pumping has never been easy for me. I can sit for hours like some pathetic heifer and end up with a measly two ounces of milk sloshing around in the bottom of the bottle.
Today wasn’t any different. I closed my eyes and imagined that the sucking and hissing of the machine was really my darling baby boy. I visualized. I meditated. And half an hour later I had three ounces of milk.
“Is that enough?” my mother asked.
“I hope so. It’s all I’ve got.”
“Here. Give it me and I’ll put it in the fridge.” My mother reached out to take the bottle. I waved her away.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”
“No, give it to me. You’re still hooked up to the milking machine.”
We wrestled for the bottle and, inevitably, watched it crash to the floor between us.
“Oy,” she said, as the milk spilled in a tiny little pool on the floor.
“I guess the baby is coming with me tonight.”
“I guess so.”
“HERE’S my question for you,” I said to Libby’s husband’s friend. “If Ari Hirsch is hiding the fact that he is gay, what would happen if that information were made public?”
We were sitting around Libby’s kitchen table. Libby’s children were sleeping and she was leaning against the counter, holding a
dozing Isaac in her arms. She’d made roast chicken and Brussels sprouts, and we’d eaten the meal awkwardly, waiting to have this conversation. Josh’s friend, Sam Kramer, had come to dinner somewhat reluctantly. I could tell he suspected my motives for asking questions about Ari Hirsch. Josh wasn’t any happier to see me.
After a moment, Sam answered my question.
“I don’t really know. Maybe his family would disown him. Maybe they wouldn’t talk about it and hope it would just go away.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Mr. Kramer, maybe you can just give me some background here. Do you know if there are any gay Hasidic men? Are being gay and being religious mutually exclusive?”
Sam carefully wiped a crumb of strudel from the corner of his fleshy mouth. He leaned back and crossed his hands over his corpulent belly. “The way I see it, there are basically three routes open to the gay man who is also a religious Jew,” he said. “First of all, he can get married and do his best to suppress his sexuality. He can fake being a heterosexual man.”
“But do you think that’s really possible?” I asked.
“What do I know? I imagine it’s possible. If the man concentrates on the holiness of his life and not on his own needs, he might be okay.”
This was more or less the scenario Libby had described. “Do you know men who live like this?” I asked.
“Not really. It’s sort of a necessary corollary to that lifestyle that a man keep it all a secret, don’t you think? But once I met the rabbi for the gay Jewish center in the Village. They run workshops and have meetings there. He told me they even have a group of gay yeshiva students that meets regularly.”
“Really?” I was surprised.
“Really.”
I thought for a moment. “It seems like Ari’s parents are hoping he’ll do just what you’re talking about: get married and ignore it, hope it’ll go away. If the rumors are true, that is.”
“If he is gay, then that’s probably what they want, but we don’t know that he is, do we? Whatever he is or isn’t, he could make the most wonderful, loving, and sensitive parent. He could be a perfect husband.” Sam belched softly.
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