by Naomi Ragen
She ran into her bedroom, slamming the door.
Rose sat down on the sofa, rubbing her tired eyes, remembering the famous punch line from Laurel and Hardy: “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.” Oh, why didn’t I follow my own very good advice in the first place and refuse to get involved? Well, it’s too late now. I am involved, over my head.
She knocked softly on Rivka’s door. “May I come in?”
She heard a small, muffled response that sounded like a yes, so she risked opening the door. Rivka was sitting on the bed, her legs folded beneath her, clutching one of Hannah’s old teddy bears. She looked like eleven-year-old Pearl that day when she’d begged someone to walk her to school. Rose’s heart melted.
“Rivka…” She sat down on the bed next to her, taking her hand.
“I’m just so … scared, Aunt Rose. I don’t know what’s going to happen! I have this … thing … inside me…”
“A baby…” Rose corrected her softly.
“It doesn’t feel like a baby. It feels like some dybbuk that’s invaded me and taken me over, making me do all the things I don’t want to do! I never wanted this!”
“Well, you seem to have made up your mind about how to put things right, then. The doctor told you, it’s still early.”
Rivka looked up. “Will it hurt?”
Now, that was a mature question if she’d ever heard one! Rose thought, shaking her head in frustration. Rivka took it as an answer.
“Then, that’s what I’ll do, then! That will solve everything! Then, I’ll be free again. And next time I’ll be a lot more careful, Aunt. Believe me!”
Unfortunately, I do, Rose thought. You’ll behave the same way, except take better precautions so as not to pay any of the consequences. And you’ll do it in my house, with my help. But this was not the time to bring these things up. She didn’t want to upset her any more than she obviously already was. She wanted this parent-child conference to take place as planned without any hysteria that could be avoided.
Who am I kidding? It was going to be hysterical from the get-go on all sides! She dreaded it.
“Rivka, have you had some breakfast? Otherwise, you’ll be feeling nauseous very soon.”
“I’ll make myself something,” she answered, relieved that they weren’t fighting anymore. She couldn’t take much more. She was glad she’d made the decision to abort. It felt right. No one wanted this child, not its father, or mother, or grandparents. There would be no one to care for it or support it. Who would want to be born into such circumstances? It was the right thing to do. She felt a sudden surge of relief and happiness. Now her parents would not be able to blackmail her! She would be able to keep going down the road she’d started on. She’d become a famous photographer like her aunt Rose! And she would marry some mysterious stranger she’d fall madly in love with, and if it didn’t work out, she’d divorce him.
Life could be beautiful!
She went into the kitchen, suddenly hungry.
*
“Hannah.”
“What’s up, Mom?”
Rose sighed into the phone. “Do you think you could possibly find it in your heart to come to the meeting this morning with Rivka’s parents?”
“As I vaguely recall, we already discussed that, Mom. I said no, and you said okay.”
“Hannah, she’s very upset! I don’t know what to do with her!”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s got this idea in her head that she can just abort this baby and keep living with me, and all her childish dreams will still magically come true…”
“Won’t they?”
“There are consequences!”
“Only if people insist on imposing them.”
“No, there are natural consequences that can’t be avoided. You can’t have an abortion and go on as if nothing happened,” Rose insisted.
“Some people do just that. Isn’t what you’re really saying is that you won’t be able to go on like nothing happened?”
She forgot how sharp Hannah was. “Yes, I guess I am.”
“You can’t stand the idea of her getting away with this scot-free.”
“It’s not right! She says she’ll be more careful next time.”
“So this is going to be a lifestyle?” Hannah muttered.
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“She’s just a stupid kid. She has no idea what she’s saying.”
“I don’t want her to think I approve of this.”
“So, Mom, you feel you haven’t been judgmental enough with her? Hasn’t she had enough of that in her life?”
“She’s under my roof.”
“So what? You can’t control her, any more than you can control your own kids…”
Rose was quiet, thinking. “I don’t want to control her…”
“But you want her to live by a moral code, preferably your own. So how are you any different than her parents?”
That hurt. “Listen, Hannah, all I want is for her to make a mature decision, that’s all. She’s holding life and death in her hands, and it doesn’t matter how young she is. That’s an enormous responsibility, and she can’t just shirk it.”
“Can, and will, if possible.”
“Her regrets will come ten years down the line, when she’s old enough to understand what she did!”
“That’s her business, not yours.”
Rose was surprised. Considering everything that had happened with Simon, she hadn’t expected Hannah to undertake the role of her cousin’s lawyer. But Hannah was right, she had to admit to herself. Besides, there was no way to make her own argument stick, except by the crudest possible means: letting Rivka know that she’d be kicked out if she decided to go through with an abortion. She’d grow up in a hurry, then! The question that remained was whether she, Rose, was capable of that kind of ruthlessness? And if so, how was she any different from her own parents, or from Rivka’s?
“Will you come, Hannah?”
“Sure, why not? I’ll come and hold your hand.”
She felt foolish that it meant so much to her. “Thank you, sweetie.”
*
Hannah hung up the phone. What was the point of fighting it? It was like quicksand: the more she struggled against it, the deeper it would suck her in. She might as well just take it easy and go with the flow. For in the end, none of it was any of her business.
Her cousin would have a baby, or not. She would stay with her aunt Rose, or go back to her parents, or not. She would live a wonderful life, or not. She had flown into her life uninvited and unexpected, fouling everything she touched. And now, thankfully, she had flown out, taking Simon with her. And good riddance to them both.
He was a cad, but no different from any other undergraduate male she knew. None of them would have behaved any differently. And you couldn’t really blame them. Settling down with a wife and family would mean dropping out of school, and then where would they be? No one expected college men to be celibate, just to be careful. And Rivka had pretty much thrown herself at him and, in some ways, even deceived him. She had to take some responsibility for the pickle she was in, innocent or not, virgin or not. She’d gone to the mikveh, which meant it wasn’t a sudden burst of passion, but something carefully thought out, calculated even.
Maybe she would be better off back with her parents! She seemed to need a lot of looking after. For all the strictness of her upbringing, she seemed to lack any self-discipline.
It would be interesting to be at this meeting. She’d never met any of her mother’s family. It would almost be like some kind of anthropological field trip! Besides, it was only fair, seeing as she’d been the catalyst who had brought Rivka into their lives in the first place. Had she not run after her down the stairs that first night, neither she nor her mother would be involved now. So it really was the least she could do. Anyway, it was—what? Two hours of her time? Maybe less. And then, it would be over—as far as she was concerned—for good.
36
Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Pearl woke up the morning of the meeting with her sister and runaway daughter feeling as if she had just discovered a lump in her breast and was on her way to a doctor to hear a horrifying diagnosis. Her adored youngest had stabbed her in the heart, running away from home and thus announcing to the community (those who knew about it, who at present were thankfully few) that her parents had failed in instilling in her the Torah values of respect for parents, modesty, and faithfulness. That she had chosen to flee to her own sister, Rose, who had broken her heart and who for years had been a thorn in their sides and a source of shame, compounded her daughter’s sins exponentially, twisting the knife. Were any of this to become widely publicized, it would tarnish the family name for generations, making it more difficult for grandchildren to find suitable marriage partners, get into the best schools, or find jobs in the yeshiva world, a heartbreaking situation that would no doubt shorten her husband’s life and her own.
Poor Zevulun Meir! He could hardly hold up his head since the child left. In the yeshiva where he ran the bus service, picking up and dropping off the younger children every day, a scandal like this would make it impossible for him to continue demanding the respect he needed to continue functioning. How long would it be before they fired him? And then what would he do? What would they do? As ungenerous as his salary had always been, they had managed to scrape by on it. Anything extra he earned from tutoring or performing circumcisions went to support their many sons and sons-in-law, all of whom were in various institutions learning Talmud, struggling to make ends meet on miniscule stipends.
It had been a difficult situation before the latest troubles, but one they had shared in common with most of their friends and neighbors. Wealthy and successful businessmen were rare in their community, looked up to like princes, despite having put Talmud learning aside for more secular pursuits. That was the strange irony, but the reality.
She washed her hands ritually, carefully covering her nearly bald head with a scarf, then took out her prayer book. Every year since becoming a bride, she had cropped her long blond hair shorter and shorter. Long hair was heavy and suffocating inside the traditional wig, and almost impossible to hide beneath hats. The less hair a truly pious married woman had, the easier it was to fulfill God’s commandment to keep it hidden even from the walls of one’s own home.
Turning her face east, in the direction of Jerusalem, she prayed silently. Among the many entreaties and words of praise and thanks—including thanking God for straightening the backs of those bent in sorrow and for giving strength to those weakened by care—she prayed for the well-being of her family: “May You have mercy on my sons and daughters and grandchildren, my sons-and daughters-in-law. May You forgive Rivka, and give us the wisdom to bring her back to us. May You fill our daughter’s heart with sincere regret for her sins and accept her desire to do penance for her shortcomings.”
As always, when she kissed her prayer book and put it away, she felt lighter.
As she prepared her simple breakfast of toasted bread—which had been prepared and baked under strict rabbinical supervision—spread with butter supervised by rabbis from the time it left the cow, and jam that rabbis in her community had thoroughly ascertained contained no hidden substances contrary to the laws of God, she tried to imagine a best-case scenario.
Little Rivkaleh, she thought. Her beautiful baby girl, the last of her children. She had felt more like a grandmother to her than a mother, her firm hand softening in her upbringing. Unlike the expectations she held for her other six children, she had not set Rivka heavy chores, like washing floors or carrying heavy shopping bags from the grocery. She had given her the unheard-of luxury of her own bedroom and had dressed her in clothes purchased new from clothing stores, rather than hand-me-downs.
When she tried to pinpoint where she had gone wrong, she found herself focusing on these indulgences, and many more, which had given the child the idea that she was special, exempt from the harsh realities that so clearly marked the lives of her siblings and parents. Worst of all, these luxuries had afforded her much privacy and free time in which to explore all kinds of forbidden passions, including secular novel reading and watching videos on her computer.
None of her other children had even dreamed of either a computer or their own room, not to mention the spare time in which to get up to mischief! Only after her daughter had fled had she and Zevulun Meir watched with horror some of the DVDs she had left behind: movies in which immodestly clad women went to forbidden colleges and had unchaperoned liaisons with men they chanced to meet, all by themselves, in all manner of places: bars, college campuses, office buildings—God protect us! In one, the heroine was a small blond girl who looked a little like Rivka, played by an actress with a strange goyish name: Reese Witherspoon. Legally Blonde, it was called. They had no idea why. They were shocked. They had had no idea that a computer, which they thought would help her prepare for employment in the offices of a decent religious businessman from their community, could be used to see such shmutz!
It was their own fault, Zevulun Meir had mourned. With their last born, they had wanted to be “modern,” and for this sin God had punished them severely by taking their daughter away from them.
Only one thing gave Pearl comfort: her sincere faith that even a scarlet thread could become pure white. There was always teshuva, repentance, for their daughter and for themselves. But they would need to prove to God, and to their friends and neighbors, that they and their daughter had learned their lessons and were not the same sinners they had once been. They would have to redouble their efforts “to build a fence around the law,” forbidding more and more things that were permitted so as not to even approach redlines.
The world was filled with temptations, and they had shown themselves and their family vulnerable. They would need to win back their community’s trust if they were to remain respected members in good standing.
For this, they needed first and foremost to deal with their prodigal daughter. In the best case, she would come home after a cover story had been spread about her semester enrollment in a strictly supervised religious girls’ school in Bnei Brak. After a suitable interval in which she would be seen with her hair tightly braided, dressed in ankle-length skirts, long-sleeved, high-necked blouses, and sturdy closed-toe shoes, she would once again be allowed into the bride pool by the most respectable matchmakers.
Of course, they realized that now they would not be able to demand from the shadchan what they had in the past. The foremost scholars of impeccable lineage with provable saintly character traits were forever beyond their grasp, for such boys’ parents would thoroughly investigate the cover story and find it wanting. They mourned this lost son-in-law they had so looked forward to welcoming, a beautiful new branch on their flourishing family tree, as if a true treasure had slipped through their fingers, falling into the depths of the sea. They blamed themselves most of all. A child had no sense, no will, no natural form of its own. It had to be prodded, molded, and directed until it took the proper shape to fit into the space allotted for it in the community. As parents, they had failed to achieve this, and they and their daughter would now pay the price.
The kitchen door opened and closed.
“Zevulun Meir?”
“Yes. It’s me.” His light and pleasant voice was deep and gruff, betraying his inner turmoil.
“Do you want something to eat?”
“Just a cup of tea.”
She hurried to prepare it for him, putting an unasked-for but appreciated plate of cinnamon-dusted rugelach down as well. He said the blessing over the tea and then over the pastry, and then he chewed and swallowed without pleasure, as if it were a chore.
“Zevulun Meir, can we talk?”
He looked up at her, puzzled. What, after all, was there left to say? He shrugged.
She exhaled, as if making room in her throat for the words. “About my sister…”
; His face clamped shut, his lips bunching.
“We should try to avoid conflict.”
“Where there is a Delilah and a Samson, a Moses and a Pharaoh, there will be conflict! Don’t fool yourself into thinking this will end peaceably!”
“You don’t know my sister. She wouldn’t have invited Rivka to come to her house. She hasn’t been in touch with the family for forty years.”
“Then how did our Rivkaleh wind up there? Magic?”
This was difficult, and truthfully, in all the time she had been married to this principled but compassionate man, this was the first time she felt a little afraid of him.
“I had a box underneath my bed in which I kept some old photos of the family. There were also some secular newspaper clippings and a letter, from my sister.”
He looked at her sharply.
She hurried to finish before she lost her nerve. “The clippings showed my sister, Rose, winning an award for some pictures she had taken. And the letter, it was a mazel tov to me on my engagement … Maybe Rivka saw these things and that’s what gave her the idea to go to my sister. You shouldn’t blame Rose.”
He turned to her in slow motion, heaving with emotion. “And you kept these things in our kosher home? Near our pure child?”
“You don’t know anything at all about my sister…”
“What is there to know?”
“She was very dear to me when we were young. Such a kind, good, loving sister…”
“You are defending her? You! After all she did to you? If not for her, you could have married a brilliant young scholar. You could be a powerful, respected rebbitzin. Instead, you had to marry me, a broken-down widower with a child, who will never amount to anything…”
She moved closer to him, reaching out tentatively and touching the wrinkles on his forehead. “This was not a punishment, Zevulun Meir. This has always been my good fortune.”
He took her fingers in his hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing them gently. “My eshes chayil,” he said gently. “Please, you must not blame yourself. Our Rivkaleh didn’t learn to be so prust and so defiant from a newspaper article or a letter. She also didn’t learn it in our home or from her school or her sisters and brothers.” He shook his head angrily. “Your sister has ruined our daughter, defiled her with her secular ways.”