—What is going to happen to us? I asked my husband. I had taken to asking him questions like this. I wanted him to be an authority on something. I wanted someone to be.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead. We were both always sweating now.
—I don’t know.
—What are the children going to think?
The children were mostly sad. They wanted only to eat sour-cream-and-onion potato chips and stare at alternative worlds on screens. Any extra energy was reserved for demands that could not be met, that seemed, in a way, nostalgic.
—I want a Wii.
—I want a Barbie head to put makeup on.
Nope, nothing, don’t even ask. It felt almost like a relief to not be able to buy this stuff, any stuff, but the problem was that others still seemed to be able to buy it; we watched.
—Why doesn’t anyone invite us over?
The kids looked at us with new, critical eyes. They sensed we had failed them, but they did not know how deeply. Some nights I dreamed of Lionel Solang, not because I wanted him, but because that moment in the conference room was the last time I felt any sort of power. Who was I? I thought, looking at my husband, who slept fitfully, containing his own crimes and sadness. Sometimes he cried out in the night.
—What’s going to happen? I asked my husband in the middle of the night. He lay beside me, naked, pale, both of us large, bewildered animals huddled under our thin Walmart sheets.
—They’ll go to college, he said.
—Not for a while, I said. —And what are we using for payment?
—Uh, he said. —Maybe you’ll dream what we should do.
We closed our eyes.
SO WE WERE HERE, IN THIS SMALL SOUTHERN TOWN, AND ONE PLACE where everyone invited us was to church. Come over to First Baptist! Presbyterian! St. John’s! Come worship Jesus with us! We said thank you but no, because, actually, by the way, we were Jews.
Oh, they said. Oh.
We were Jews in the most superficial way. In our former city, we went to Temple maybe once or twice a year. But here, we were odd enough so that people mentioned this about me in a cursory description. There is Donna. She’s new in town. By the way, she’s Jewish.
We wouldn’t call ourselves Jews ordinarily, but now we were, supposedly, Jews.
It was, in this new state of affairs, something.
OUR SON HAD A TALENT FOR SPOTTING THE TOWN’S CHASIDIC RABBI striding down the streets. The rabbi walked down the creamy, hot streets, in his long black coat and top hat, his wife with her ankle-length dresses and her extremely convincing wigs. He walked, his glasses steaming up beneath the branches of the glossy-leaved magnolia trees, the lacy pink crepe myrtle, the deep green, erotic foliage of the South.
—There’s Rabbi Jacob again.
The rabbi and his wife had a purpose. They wanted to locate any Jews in town and convince them to do Jewish things. The recession was apparently not harming them. In fact, maybe it was good for their business. He loved us. We were it. We could be holy if we wanted. The rationale for this was not clear to me, but I did know that we were like catnip to him, and that after he had located us, one month after we moved to town, he came knocking at our door. He brought us homemade challah one Friday afternoon. Then he came by to blow the shofar for us at Rosh Hashanah. In his mind, these visits were not startling intrusions but kind and welcome gifts. He came in and blew the ram’s horn, that long, bleating sound flooding our pine-walled, orange-carpeted rental. The walls were so flimsy we knew our neighbor’s TV-viewing schedule by heart. The shofar interrupted Anything For Money.
—What the hell is that sound? our neighbors shouted. —My God! Can you turn it off?
The rabbi and his wife had been sent here on a mission. They could have ended up in Bismarck or Petaluma or Mobile; they landed here, in North Carolina. Part of their job was to spread their version of wisdom. And they wanted to spread it to us.
Rabbi Jacob kept inviting us to his apartment for a Shabbat meal. He was like a suitor who could not be discouraged. There was, I will admit, something flattering about the attention, even if we thought a lot of what they believed was, well, misinformed. Why did the men and women have to sit on separate sides of the temple? Why couldn’t they have sex with each other when the woman had her period? On and on. My husband was desperate for some kind of friend here, anyone. I was not.
—It’s free food, my husband said. —Because we’re Jews, we get free food. We don’t even have to bring anything because it won’t be kosher enough. We’re totally off the hook. When else do we get a deal like that?
At least he was practical, and it wasn’t as though we had money for dinners out. He was right. It was something I loved about him.
So, finally, one day in April, we trudged over to the rabbi’s apartment one warm Saturday for a free Pesach lunch. That was the main reason we went; our own desperate loneliness and a free lunch. Perhaps that was why anyone dipped a toe into religion. I didn’t eat breakfast so that I would be particularly hungry for this event. I felt guilty that these were not really appropriate reasons, so I insisted that we pretend we were observant and walk there instead of drive. It was a mile-long walk.
—Why are we walking again?
—They don’t drive on Saturdays. So we won’t today.
—Why not?
—They just don’t. It’s their rule.
Of course, as we pretended to be observant, Lionel Solang was in my head. Of course. He came into my mind at inopportune moments; he stamped on me when I was trying to make some new start. Lionel was the only one who knew me, in a way. He knew how far I had fallen.
We wound down a street named, sadly, Confederate Drive, to Plantation Estates, a slapped-together development of townhouses where the residents looked unemployed or as though they were about to be. We knocked. The door opened. There they were, Rabbi Jacob, in his black top hat, and his wife Aviva, with her convincing wig.
—Hello! Hello! Come in!
They were absurdly delighted, the sort of joy reserved for relatives greeting infants; perhaps that was what they thought we were.
—Come meet Joshua and Adam!
Their children were four and three. There was a newborn sleeping upstairs. Aviva beamed at us. The table had been set beautifully, the silver gleaming. The rental condo was not in such good shape; it looked like there had been a flood in one corner, as the ceiling had a large, cloudy stain. There were suspicious dents in the wall, as though someone had been kicking it.
—Welcome! said Aviva.
We walked inside to the heavy, wonderful odor of stewed meat. The kitchen walls and counters were completely covered in tinfoil. The room resembled the silver wrinkled interior of a Jiffy Pop container.
—Was there a fire? I asked.
—Oh, we cover everything in foil for Pesach. So nothing leavened will touch the counters.
—That must take forever, I said.
—It was easy, she said.
Joshua and Adam stood, staring at us, clad in their tefillin and kipas. They looked cute, miniature versions of their father. Our son reluctantly donned a kipa; it kept falling off.
—Go play. They’ve been waiting for you, said Aviva.
Joshua and Adam ran into an area with a rust-colored carpet that appeared to be buckling. Aviva had made several salads. She picked up a lettuce head, lifted each leaf, and peered at it fiercely.
—What are you looking for? I asked.
—Bugs. Not kosher. If I find one, I have to throw the whole thing out.
—The whole salad? I asked. I wondered if we could intervene and take it home.
—Yes.
Our son emerged from the den.
—He hit me, he hissed. —That little guy.
—Uh, I said.
—He also threw a truck against the wall.
—Maybe it was a mistake, I said.
—I don’t think so, he said. —I want to go home.
—Let’s eat first, I said. I was too hungr
y to intervene in disputes. My son gave me a look. Adam and Joshua blurred by us, heading upstairs. Our son and daughter followed them.
—Where’s the baby? I asked Aviva.
—She’s asleep upstairs.
—She can sleep through all this?
—She’s a good sleeper.
I looked at the immaculate table, the three different salads in crystal bowls. Aviva did not seem at all stressed, with her two small children and a newborn and her main activity, which was inviting Jews over and making them an elaborate kosher dinner! Every week! This was her work, coming to a town and absorbing us into her tribe. It wasn’t that different from the churchgoers who kept inviting us to First Baptist or St. Mark’s.
—Why aren’t you tired? I asked.
—I don’t know. I sleep when I can.
I heard a commotion upstairs, the ominous rumblings and thwaps of children’s play.
—Is the baby okay? I asked.
She was squeezing lemon juice into a bowl.
—She’s fine.
There was a thump from upstairs. The rabbi came into the kitchen. He was beaming at the sight of me and my husband, here in their tinfoil kitchen, actual captive Jews! I wondered how we ranked on the mitzvah tally. Four of us, and they probably thought I was good for a couple more kids. Ha. Perhaps this was the sort of day they waited for.
—We are getting a shipment of handmade matzah next week, he announced. —Did you know that my cousin is a matzah supervisor in Brooklyn? He times the matzah-making from the moment the water hits the flour—eighteen minutes. That’s what they have. Then they have to throw the whole thing out.
—Eighteen minutes? My husband asked, trying to understand some deeper meaning. —Why?
—Because it is, the Rabbi said.
The Rabbi seemed pleased, excited by this information. I found myself becoming irritable. Why? Why was there more throwing food out? Why cover the kitchen in tinfoil, why time the matzah production? I was having unsupportive thoughts. There was so much energy, so much flurry, and I wondered, for what?
I was very hungry.
Did you know, Rabbi, I wanted to tell him, that it felt good when Lionel put his hand on my breast, it felt good when he pressed his lips against mine, because he, too, had been cast off. I was crumbling. I had done all the right things, Rabbi, I had, truly, and it still did not matter; they did not want me anymore. They still let me go.
Aviva smiled at me; she was shiny with the exuberance of someone who believed she was on the right path in life. I probably had the same shininess ten months before. How quickly I had lost it; I feared I would never get it back.
There was another crash from upstairs. This time, the ceiling shook.
—Wow, I said, concerned. —What are they doing up there?
—Just playing.
—Do you want to check? I asked.
—They are fine.
—I’m going to check, I said. —Be right back.
I climbed the stairs to the second level. I was curious to see how they lived. There were two bedrooms. There were no real beds; mattresses were set on the floor with some blankets crumpled beside them. The lack of housekeeping skills was a little bit disconcerting. Did they not care how they slept, or were they simply too busy? In one room were Joshua and Adam. My children were standing by the wall, watching. Joshua and Adam were wrestling on the bed, rolling across it like dogs. Joshua picked up a metal flashlight and began to hit it against the bed. Adam laughed, watching him.
—Where’s the baby? I asked.
My children looked at me, blank; there was a baby here?
—Where’s the baby? I asked.
Adam lifted the sheet. Right on the mattress, beside her wrestling brothers, the newborn infant was sleeping. Her arms were over her head as though she were celebrating. At the sight of her, my children gasped. Bless them; they had, in some ways, had a decent upbringing.
—Here she is! Adam said, and he jumped on his brother again.
Quickly, I scooped up the baby. She was so small; she barely filled her pink terrycloth onesie. Her shining blue eyes fluttered, and she rested a cheek on my shoulder.
She was a baby, and I held her to me, her breath, frail as a butterfly’s, against my heart.
—Boys, I said, wondering if I would get in trouble for disciplining them, —careful on the bed!
They looked at me, stunned. They were totally getting a pass because of their outfits. They were little Chasidic ruffians, I thought. This could not go on.
I cradled the baby in my arms. She was so small, nearly weightless; it was almost difficult to believe she was alive.
The children followed me downstairs. Aviva was bringing the bowls of salad to the table. She looked up, saw me carrying the baby, and smiled.
—Oh, she’s up? Aviva held out her arms, and the baby melted into her. —This is Shana, she said.
I looked at her holding the small, light baby, and I felt heat ripple through me, a feeling I had not allowed myself.
—The boys were wrestling on the bed, I said. —They were hitting it with a flashlight. They almost rolled on her, I said. —Do you know what could happen then?
I tried to make my voice even, but I was mad. She looked at me, hearing this.
—You went and got her, Aviva said.
—Someone else should have, I said. —Maybe you.
—God sent you, said Aviva.
—No one sent me, I said. —I just went.
—Thank you for getting her, she said.
She kissed the top of the baby’s head, very gently. Adam and Joshua were bobbing around her now, and Adam reached forward and kissed the baby’s pink foot. The moment had shifted from potential childcare disaster to a scene of familial love; it was sweet but unnerving.
I was still hungry. Starving.
—Everyone, said Aviva, —it’s time for lunch.
We all sat down at that beautiful table, the silver candlesticks gleaming, the tablecloth a spotless, pure white, the table spread with crystal. The rabbi called each one of us to wash our hands three times and say a prayer before we ate, and our son asked why, and the rabbi said because we were told to do it. It was not a good answer, but sitting there, knowing what I knew, sitting in this strange town because we had been kicked from the jobs we had held for seventeen years, not knowing what would happen next, knowing I had betrayed them, knowing I would hold this inside me my whole life, I understood that there were no good answers. None.
And we ate an enormous lunch—which, may I add, was free—for no reason except we were Jews, sort of, and that they wanted us to do what they did, for no reason but that it was written down in a book thousands of years before. They liked us, and we wanted to be liked. Aviva was a good cook. It was a good lunch, and we talked about the matzah supervisors and ways to avoid leaven, and we weren’t planning to follow any of this; I knew that we would go home after and rebelliously eat bread. I could already picture the muffin I would attack when I got into our kitchen. But we sat there, nodding, pretending. The children went into the other room until mine came back and stated that they’d been hit again by Joshua, who claimed that he was just playing with a truck.
I did not believe that God had sent me, and I hoped Aviva would not leave her infant daughter loose in the bed again, and that her daughter would not be accidentally smothered or worse by her wild sons. I hoped that we would find jobs that would not make us so eager for this free lunch, and I hoped we would find friends that would make us less eager for any sort of company. I hoped that we could find something in common with Aviva and Rabbi Jacob, because they were, in fact, nice. I kept thinking of her baby, the sight of her sleeping, tiny, loose, on the bed. It was all I could think about. We kept eating and eating, and at the end of lunch, we helped her bus the dishes and stood with her in the humid, tin-foiled kitchen. I thought of that tiny baby lying on the bed, sitting there like a toy or a shoe, revealed by her brothers under the sheet, and then I loved that baby, that tiny perf
ect being, loved her as though she were my own.
As Aviva said goodbye, the baby was cradled on her shoulder. Shana opened her eyes and stared at me. My heart jumped.
—Bye, we said to Aviva and Rabbi Jacob.
—Bye, we said to Joshua and Adam.
—Bye, we said to Shana. We turned and walked out of their townhouse onto the sidewalk, and when I turned around, I saw Shana still looking at me, with her clear bright eyes, and I felt those eyes on me as we went on into the day, under that blazing, empty sky, my family and I, to our own particular uncertainty.
For What Purpose?
This is what they did: they handed over their IDs and boarding passes, they answered questions about their destinations, they took off their shoes, they put their belongings in the plastic bins, they surrendered liquids over three ounces (or they didn’t and then were sent for questioning), they collected their belongings, they walked through the scanner, they lifted their arms, they stood, frozen, like dancers or criminals, arms raised, while the scanner took its picture, they walked through the scanner. The light, in the general area, was a dim blue. It made everyone look holy or sick.
I was usually the first one they encountered. I stood at a podium and asked them questions. I had been trained in behavior detection. I looked at the brief quirk of an eyebrow, the tension in a lip. I looked at how long their hands scratched their faces. For a short time and with purpose, or longer, for no reason. They told me where they were going.
For what purpose? I asked.
Always, there was the brimming hope, the expectation that we would find someone, the liar, the criminal. There was the hope that we would find someone who was dangerous.
That was our job.
I had worked here for three years.
We had four people in my family. Then we had two. My parents, gone, suddenly, eight years ago, car crash on the way to the opera. My sister did not believe it when I had to tell her. I did. That gave me a power that I did not want.
THE NIGHT MY PARENTS LEFT, MY SISTER AND I SAT IN THE LIVING room while my parents got ready. It was the first time they had ever been to the opera, and our father was, as always, in a hurry, afraid he’d miss a parking place; our mother was slower, buoyed by a sense that she deserved this: not just the opera, but some grand thing to nourish her.
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