I still did not respond.
“You are my wife,” Jacob announced as if he had judged a pie contest and picked the winner. “I have come to take you home.”
Jacob’s voice was cold steel. And as he said those frightening words, I noticed my black suitcase next to the couch and with my eyes I pleaded with my friend for some explanation.
“He went into your room. What was I supposed to do? He opened the closet and started grabbing your clothes.”
I finally summoned the nerve to speak. “I am not going anywhere.” My voice was now ringing out loud and harsh. And as I spoke, I looked squarely into his eyes. “This is where I now live and I want you to leave,” I said, walking toward the apartment door.
“I am willing to forget everything,” he replied.
I smirked. “You are what? You are willing to forget? You don’t even have a clue. So I suggest that you leave right now or I will call the police.”
Marcia nodded in agreement as she joined me at the apartment door. But to our surprise, Jacob sat back down on the couch.
“Let’s talk. Can we go someplace to sit and talk?” Jacob’s tone softened. “I have already imposed enough upon your friend,” he said looking at Marcia. “Please. For just a few minutes.”
Marcia moved away from the door as I stepped toward Jacob with my arms crossed against my chest. As I began to speak, I took another step toward Jacob. “Jacob, I don’t love you. And I surely should not have married you. I married you only because my father wanted me to. But we don’t have a marriage.”
“Perhaps we should be talking in private.”
“No, Marcia knows everything. I don’t keep secrets. And I am not ashamed and I am not embarrassed.”
Once again, Jacob rose from his seat and approached me, reaching for my hand. But Marcia stepped in front to block him. Noticeably frustrated, Jacob clenched his hands into two fists and thrust them into his pants pockets.
“Don’t touch me,” I shouted. “You will never touch me again. And I am filing for divorce.”
“Divorce,” Jacob uttered as if he had never heard the word said before. “The Talmud teaches us to work things out. And I want to try.”
“You should leave now,” Marcia said and this time she opened the door. “Before there is any trouble.”
“There is nothing I can do? And you make it seem so simple. I travel thousands of miles to find my wife. And I am asking for the opportunity to open a dialogue with you but all I am getting is a door that is about to close.”
Frustrated, Jacob walked toward the door but stopped before exiting.
“Danielle.”
“Go,” I said, turning away from him.
As he left the apartment, he shouted, “You are my wife,” pulling the door shut behind him.
“Please make sure he leaves,” I said to Marcia. She walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Seconds later, I heard a car engine start.
“He’s gone. He drove away. And I am so sorry I put you through…”
“That’s all right. You did not know. But I have to end this.”
But I knew in my heart that it would not be the last time I would have to confront the devil.
Chapter Eighteen
After Jacob’s startling visit, my new life in California was slowly beginning to settle down. I began studying for the July California Bar examination and took a part time job at Barnes and Noble as a sales associate. Also on my radar screen was to lose weight and get in shape. But I could not escape the smell of the freshly baked apple turnovers every time I walked by Cantor’s Deli on the way home from the bus stop.
Seeing a dentist was something that I had been putting off as it was difficult to chew anything tough on my right side. Not surprisingly, soft foods like apple turnovers caused no problem. And with it being Good Friday, no work, and no bar study class, I made an appointment with Dr. Crial.
The waiting room was airy and spacious, and very different in appearance from my dentist’s office in Queens which was probably last decorated in the ‘50s. Suspended from the ceiling was a flat screen television. And on the screen was Oprah chatting with four other women. I had grabbed a fitness magazine and was reading an article about starting to get in shape when I heard one of the women refer to the “Mauthausen concentration camp.”
As I lifted my head, Oprah was holding a photo of a Jewish camp survivor who was near starvation. And I listened intensely as Oprah spoke with the daughter of a woman named Irene. She told how her mother worked in the home of the camp’s commandant as his housekeeper. And when the officer was away, she would take scraps of food and smuggle them into the camp’s infirmary and feed them to the sick prisoners. She also spoke about a beautiful young Jewish girl whom her mother saved from almost a certain death by selecting her to be her helper.
I held on to every word that Irene’s daughter said. And as she spoke, I thought about Nana’s response whenever I asked her about the Holocaust. All she would ever say is that “someday, after I am gone, my story can be told.” Until then, she feared that those who protected her would be harmed. I repeatedly told her that such thoughts were foolish. Regardless, she stood firm in her beliefs.
Two cavity fillings later, I was back on the bus. And though I was excited that I could chew without pain, I thought about Irene and wanted to call Nana as soon as I got home.
“Hey Marcia, I am back,” I said sorting through the mail that Marcia had left on the kitchen table. “You are right. Dr. Crial is really nice. I didn’t see a wedding ring. Is he married? I know this girl that I work with. I think she would really like him. Where are you?”
I kept sorting the mail and opened up a circular from Target. “We should go to Target. They’re having a great sale on towels. Hello,” I shouted, “Where are you? Anyway, do you want to get some Indian food tonight? Dr. Crial said that I can chew but just should wait a few hours. And I really feel like having one of those beers.”
At that moment, Marcia walked into the kitchen holding the phone and wearing a worried look.
“Hold on,” she said into the phone, “Danielle just got home.”
“It’s your brother,” she said as she held out the phone to me.
“Hi David, you probably tried my cell but my phone is dead. I forgot to charge it again. What?”
My brother paused.
“Just tell me. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
The cabin doors were closed for more than thirty minutes and I had already flipped through every magazine stuffed in the seat pocket in front of me when the loud speaker overhead squeaked.
“Folks. This is Captain Williams speaking to you from the cockpit. Kennedy is reporting severe thunder storms in the New York area so operations here at LAX are keeping us on the ground a little longer than expected.”
I strained to hear what he was saying as the obese passenger sitting on my left was shouting across two rows to his friend.
“I hope to have an update for you shortly. Meanwhile, sit back, relax, and we promise to get you to New York as quickly as possible,” the captain concluded.
Sit back and relax, I mused. I had never flown before and had always imagined that my first flight would take me to someplace exotic. Instead, I was now sitting in a long metal cylinder, alone with my thoughts and petrified. And except for an energy bar that I had grabbed from my kitchen and my morning coffee fix, I had not eaten anything and was facing six grueling hours on a plane that I just discovered no longer served meals.
As I readjusted the Kleenex box-sized pillow behind my head, my row mate selfishly took possession of the arm rest that separated us. Feeling claustrophobic and searching for something to do, I reached again for one of the magazines. Another twenty minutes had passed when the loud speaker vibrated again.
“Folks. Captain Williams here. The weather in the New York area has improved and we should be getting off the ground shortly.”
The captain went on to inform us of the route we would be flying. As he spo
ke, I wondered why he thought we needed to know this information. Was someone planning to stop along the way and needed to know when to get off? My only concern was getting to New York and I really didn’t care what route we took as long as we arrived safely.
Finally, we were next in line for take-off. And as the plane roared down the runway, I thought about what I might have forgotten to pack. Did I bring the right shoes? Did I remember to pack my hairdryer? Had I unplugged the iron? And then I thought about my life. Less than a year ago I was walking down the aisle for what should have been the happiest day of my life. Instead, the next several months proved to be a nightmare. And now, I was going back to New York to face my father, who still believes that Jacob is a good man.
Soaring through the clouds that hugged the coastline, the captain navigated a slow left turn and my row mate mumbled something about being able to see Catalina Island through my window. But I was too busy hugging my seat and feeling every turn the pilot made.
As the plane turned left again and leveled off, the sun cast an oblique shadow across my face and I felt kissed by the sun. I closed my eyes but I was too wired up to sleep. Instead, I imagined being a little girl again. And my Nana slowly rocking me in her chair.
“Ma’am.”
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Ma’am, we’re getting ready to land.”
Startled, I opened my eyes.
“Ma’am. You need to bring your seat back up to its upright position for landing.”
“Ok.”
“You were sleeping pretty good,” my row mate said.
I am usually never able to take a nap, so I was very surprised that I was able to fall asleep on the plane. Perhaps, I reasoned, I was so nervous about flying that my mind shut down my thought process and allowed me to fall into a deep sleep. Regardless of why, I was anxious to land.
Darkness had now filled the view from my window as I felt the plane begin its descent. Moments later, the wheels touched down and I thanked God that we had landed safely.
After making a quick bathroom stop, I found my way to the baggage claim area which was already crowded with passengers from other flights. And despite all the pushing and shoving that was so typical of New Yorkers, I firmly stood my ground in the space that I had staked out behind the moving conveyor. But by the time my suitcase rolled down the belt, almost all the passengers had already claimed their luggage.
As I walked toward the exit, I passed a receiving line of private drivers holding up signs with names of arriving passengers. Even though my brother had told me he would be waiting outside of the terminal, one sign caught my eye. It read: “My precious angel.”
Holding the sign was my dad, dressed like a limo driver in a black suit complete with a white shirt and black tie. Other than some very brief conversations, we had not seriously talked since I left for California and I feared how he would accept me. But just seeing him, I knew we would be able to work things out.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you came,” I said as we hugged.
“Where else would I be? I missed you so. Are you hungry?”
“I am always hungry.”
“Great. I know a nice place to go.”
We drove silently with only the sound of the night air blowing through a small crack in the window my dad opened on the driver’s side. And though I wanted to tell my father, every time I began to open my mouth, a tear would start. So instead, I made small talk about how nervous I was when the plane took off, that there are palm trees in Los Angeles, and that southern California gets all of its annual rain fall in one month.
Finally, as my dad pulled into the parking lot of Benjie’s Deli, he reached across the seat to grab my hand. It was a familiar gesture and one that I missed. As he did, I thought about how all through the years, my father was always there for me. He was so easy to talk to and depend on. And though we many times agreed that we disagreed, I knew he was always looking out for me.
I put my hand over his, gently. And then I lifted his hand to my lips. “I love you, Dad. And I never meant to hurt you or worry you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“How can I not?”
We shared the best onion rings in all of Manhattan. And My dad ordered his favorite corned beef on rye sandwich, extra lean, with coleslaw on the side while I warmed up from the cold New York air with a big bowl of chicken and matzoh ball soup. For dessert, what else, we each had apple turnovers which, as my dad announced, “were not as good as Schwartz’s.” And after hearing my dad’s new repertoire of jokes, it was if we had turned back the clock; I was once again that little girl having dinner out with the only parent I had ever known. Life was simple. And I decided that the conversation that I needed to have would wait for another day.
March in New York is the cruelest month. It teases spring time long enough to have you fooled. And then it casts its shadow for several more weeks before finally yielding to the changing season.
Our car joined the hearse that was waiting at the cemetery gate and we followed it a few hundred feet where the narrow road ended. My brother and sister-in-law exited the car first and waited by the door for my father and me.
I took my first steps carefully, avoiding the scattered puddles of mud. But as I did, the heels of my shoes sank into the soft wet grass.
“Careful. It has been raining for several days,” my brother said as I slowly started to navigate down the hill while searching the horizon for the distant skyline of Manhattan.
Normally, it is visible on a clear day but today was blurred by thick gray clouds that were threatening to rain again. And the branches on the trees were bare and black and dripping. I felt a drop of rain on my head, and then another and another. My brother opened an umbrella for me but I wanted to feel the rain.
“You’re gonna get wet,” he said nudging me under the umbrella but I smiled.
“I’ve gotten soaked at least one before,” I mused.
Nana was opposed to a “fancy, shmancy” service in a sanctuary and often told my brother and me that “it was foolish to spend so much money just to put you in the ground. And that someday, but hopefully not too soon, I want a simple service like we did for my Abraham.” (My grandfather)
In response, I would say how I hated that kind of talk and that “you will live forever.”
At the grave site, there were twenty-four white plastic chairs set out in four rows with the open grave covered by artificial turf. Greeting our arrival were my father’s and brother’s friends and Mrs. Nadel as well as a few of Nana’s friends that I recognized from her building. At one time, my Nana had had a rather large circle of friends, but now that circle could barely surround a small chair.
As the Rabbi stood beside the casket and began to read the 23rd Psalm, I turned to my father and reached for his hand. He in turn put his arm around my shoulder and it felt so comforting. I had missed the feeling of security being in my father’s presence.
“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Once Nana’s casket was lowered, the Rabbi took a shovel of dirt and tossed it into the grave. A flume of dust rose from the ground as the dirt hit the casket. He next passed the shovel to my brother and to me so that we could repeat the ritual. I then handed the shovel to my father who became very emotional as he lifted a shovel of dirt. His eyes were noticeably teary and bloodshot and he whispered to me, “I loved your Nana.”
As the Rabbi recited the Mourner’s Kaddish, the sky became a gray, glistening curtain and a steady rain began. Within moments, the sky was spitting rain with big drops falling. The sensation invoked all my senses from childhood as I was always intrigued by the thunderous roar that preceded a storm. I had always loved how the purest of water cleanses everything in its path, always lea
ving behind a sweet scent when it stopped. But the rain was falling thickly now and drummed on my head as I took my brother’s offer of shelter under his opened umbrella.
“Nana always said it was good luck when it rained on the day of a funeral,” I whispered to David, remembering that when I was a little girl she said the rain was “God’s message that the doors of heaven were opening to accept the recently departed.”
He smiled. “I do remember.”
As the last shovel of dirt was tossed onto the grave, I looked up at the sky. In the Jewish tradition, death is not a tragedy; death is simply a part of the process as there is a firm belief in an afterlife where the soul continues on. And, as if God had turned a page, a small patch of blue sky appeared. It was rectangular in design. As I gazed, the patch grew longer. It was as if a pathway through the sky was opening within the dark clouds. And just as quickly, the patch faded away, leaving behind the dark sky, and I knew Nana was now in heaven.
“Come; let’s go before it starts to rain again,” my brother said. But I wanted one more moment alone with Nana as I stepped to the fringe of the mound of dirt that now covered her grave while my brother waited behind me.
“I love you Nana. You will always be with me,” I said as I kneeled and touched the dirt with my hand.
As I slowly rose, I looked at what seemed like miles of headstones and thought I saw Jacob a few rows over. But I looked again and the figure was gone.
Chapter Nineteen
Except for my niece who kept asking “are we home yet?” it was a silent drive from the cemetery. And whenever my brother tried to engage my dad in conversation, Dad motioned with his hands that he did not want to talk, appearing in an almost hypnotic state. He seemed mesmerized by the sight of the splashy streaks that merged into vertical pools of water and the sound of the metal wiper blades on the Cadillac that flicked away the countless tears falling from heaven.
For the next three days, I stayed in my dad’s apartment where we sat Shivah, the Jewish morning period where friends and relatives visit to pay their respects. And by the end of each evening, I would politely say to my dad “good night” as I disappeared into my room. But by the end of the third night, and after all of our guests had left, it was apparent that one more night would not pass without my father talking to me about why I left my marriage.
Against My Will Page 13