An Unorthodox Match

by Naomi Ragen

  “I suppose you are leaving out a lot of that story.”

  Dvorah nodded, smiling. “Got a few days?”

  “How did your parents take it?” she asked, trying to imagine her own mother’s reaction if she came home and announced herself a Catholic, a Buddhist—or worse, an Orthodox Jew.

  “Me oul fella was a bit of a holy Joe, and me oul dear had a puss on her. But they’re okay with it now that they’ve met me fella. He’s also a convert. He’s a fine thing.” She beamed, then her face turned serious. “Look, I’ll be honest. I’m happy to take a chance, and you look nice. But I think you should know what you’re gettin’ into. This apartment comes with lots of rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “Like the kitchen. We have two sets of dishes, one for the meat and one for the milk. But since we only have one sink, you have to put down a plastic mat, one for the meat and one for the milk, before you put in the dishes and don’t mix them up or we’ll have to throw everything out and start over!”

  “What if I bring my own dishes?”

  She shook her head. “No good. It doesn’t matter whose dishes they are; if you put them in the sink, you’ll ruin the mats. So you’ve got to be careful. Also, you can’t bring anything into the house that isn’t kosher with a rabbi’s stamp of approval. And not just any rabbi. There are symbols on food. I can show them to you. It’s got to have the right symbol. And the meat has to come from only one butcher shop my rabbi says is kosher enough. Otherwise, you’ll ruin the stove and oven and the dishes and the cutlery, and it will—”

  “All have to be thrown out … I get it.” Her head began to throb. “Anything else?”

  “Well, on Saturdays and holidays, which start at sundown the night before, all the electric lights are on a timer. You can’t turn them on or off.”

  “But in my room, I can do what I want, right?”

  “Not exactly. The whole electrical system is on this same timer. Also, as a convert, I have to prove to my rabbis I am keeping the laws strictly. So if someone hears music coming out of this apartment on Friday night or Saturday, I’d be mortified and it would be murder to explain. But it’s not only that, it would ruin the Shabbos for me. I hope you understand. It’s nothing personal.”

  She looked up, feeling this lovely dream of an apartment evaporating like mist, slipping through her fingers, sending her back out into the graffiti-filled, garbage-strewn streets with their tiny, ugly apartments inhabited by aggressive armies of cockroaches, bunkbeds, and boilers. She panicked.

  “It’s fine, really, Dvorah. I … I always wanted to learn more about being Orthodox. I think God has sent me here,” she improvised desperately. Many years later, thinking back to this crucial moment, she felt the hairs on her neck rise up, and a chill down her back.

  19

  After Chasya returned home, Leah returned to her old routine, coming in three days a week to help out at the Lehmans. But then she promised Icy something and had to come in on a day she usually didn’t. And then Cheeky wasn’t feeling well, so she also came the following day to check up on him. And then … and then … until finally, except for Friday and Saturday, she was there every single weekday afternoon.

  It was surprising what a difference that made.

  “If you want to change who you are, change what you want,” Dvorah once told her.

  Her fierce longing for children had been assuaged by an almost daily encounter with them. Day after day, week after week, that part of her that had been torn asunder by death, loss, and disappointments, leaving her decimated and festering, began to truly heal. Like her burned wrist, the healing had not left her less than she was or more, but different. She was amazed to find that the past, like a snake’s skin, could be outworn, shed, and replaced, surprised that her capacity for joy had never been destroyed or even diminished. It had simply been in hibernation, ready to sprout wings and fly again given the right conditions.

  Reunited with Yaakov Lehman’s young children, Leah realized just how much the world she had lived in close to thirty-five years, the world she thought she knew, had been transformed, and she along with it. It did not happen suddenly one morning but was cumulative.

  Oh, the transforming joy of those hours, minutes, seconds! The joy of buying food and cooking a meal for small hungry children, who ate with relish and asked for more. The joy of a child’s innocent questions and the opportunity to share with them an answer that left them smiling and breathless. The joy of teaching a child a skill you had to share. And perhaps most of all, the joy of holding a small hand, supporting a small body close to your own, leading a vital, warm, responsive, innocent, sweet-smelling little person to a place that would make them happy—the green grass of a park, the enclosed spaces of a zoo. Oh, the pleasure of hearing their laughter, and laughing with them! It made her feel as if she had never before lived. All the things that she had previously desired—stylish clothes, a big apartment, tickets to the theater and the ballet—seemed faded and meaningless, an adult’s puzzled memory of yearning for long-forgotten plastic Christmas toys.

  Her days were divided between her computer, her phone calls to and from clients, and then the eager rush to the home of Yaakov Lehman and his children. Now, she went there every day at noon. And if someone got sick, she would sometimes come in the morning as well, bringing her computer with her so that Shaindele wouldn’t have to take off time from school.

  At first, the encounters with Shaindele had been strained. There was no doubt in her mind that whatever had transpired to separate her from Icy and Cheeky, the girl had played a major role. But now she was extremely polite, whether sincerely chastened or simply giving a good performance, Leah didn’t know and frankly couldn’t have cared less. It was enough that she seemed grateful—even seeking out Leah’s advice about the housework, cooking, and childcare.

  Chasya was blooming, her stomach pains a thing of the past. And little Cheeky was growing taller and more adorable every day. His silky blond hair—which, according to custom, would only be cut on his third birthday—hung down his back in a ponytail, long, pretty curls sneaking out of his embroidered velvet skullcap to cascade down his chubby cheeks. She was addicted to kissing him.

  Gradually, the topsy-turvy mess that had greeted her that first day when, despite Shaindele’s best efforts, she managed to slip through the front door inside Yaakov Lehman’s home, was gone. Her daily housekeeping, combined with the more efficient efforts of Shaindele, had worked wonders, transforming the little apartment into a friendly, orderly space that was a pleasure to be in.

  The more time she spent in Yaakov Lehman’s house, the more she thought about him. Once, helping Shaindele to iron his white shirts (with the new steam iron she’d purchased, pretending it was only on loan), she found herself imagining his broad chest and long arms, the back of his white neck that would feel the smooth caress of the newly pressed collar. The first time she opened his closet door to put away his clothes, she had been dumbstruck by the Styrofoam head form with his wife’s wig, feeling as if she’d glimpsed a ghost. She wondered why he kept it there and how he could stand looking at it day after day.

  She tried to imagine how they had been together. Were they romantic? Did they bicker? Or did they have that warm, familiar relationship she’d glimpsed in other religious families, where husbands and wives kept a respectful distance from each other in public but in private joked and laughed and bared their hearts like any other couple. How close had they been? And would it ever be possible for Yaakov Lehman to allow another woman to take her place in his heart and in his home?

  She knew he had been dating. Shaindele, who on all other matters was as tight-lipped as an MI5 agent, was uncharacteristically expansive on this particular topic. “One is a rich widow with a designer apartment, and the other one a divorcée who lives in Monsey. She comes from a very important family.” The girl smiled (in delight or spite, Leah couldn’t decide). “Every day, they are calling the shadchan, begging her to arrange the wedding.”
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  “So, your father talks to you about such things?” Leah asked her sweetly, without batting an eyelash. Shaindele’s face flushed deep red, and she turned away to sulk.

  The little witch, Leah thought, shaking her head. But why should this concern you? she scolded herself. Of course he will marry again. One of those women or their near equivalent. And why not? He would never consider someone like you, someone born impure from a mother who never went to the ritual baths, who had lived like a pagan most of her life, getting drunk in seedy bars and sleeping with strangers. No matter that it was from despair and not promiscuity and that it had only happened two or three times. A man like Yaakov, who was a virgin until he married his virgin bride, would never lower himself. Besides, he is not available, she comforted herself, a man with a chained heart, straitjacketed by his yearning for another woman, a woman no other will ever be able to match. A woman whose hair he keeps in his closet, like a shrine.

  And then one day, the wig and its ghostly white head were gone. She was flabbergasted, yearning to read all kinds of significance into its disappearance. But perhaps, after all, it meant nothing. Perhaps Shaindele had simply put it in her own closet for the future, or her mother-in-law had found a needy bride who could make use of it. But she could not help imagining that Yaakov himself had reached up and taken it down, finally banishing it from his life. And if so, what could that mean? The more she tried to force herself not to think about it, the more she was powerless to stop.

  Cleaning up the bathroom, she sometimes touched his toothbrush, trying to imagine him standing there looking at himself in the mirror as he used it. What did he see? Had the improved condition of his children and the house eased the misery she had glimpsed in his eyes? Did he ever smile, the way he had smiled in his wedding photo, the way he had smiled at her when she talked to him about the children’s nicknames? Did he ever think about her, she wondered, when he saw the newly washed dishes, the neatly stacked piles of folded laundry, the children in their clean pajamas, fresh from their bath? What did he say to Icy and Cheeky when they talked about her?

  Gently, she tried to probe. “Icy, what did Tateh say when you showed him the picture you drew?” or “Did Tateh like the vegetable soup I made yesterday?”

  Icy would stare at her and smile, then forget all about the question, asking for more chocolate cake or another ice cream cone.

  He wasn’t the kind of man she was used to. She didn’t like beards as a rule. How would it feel against her skin, brushing against the smooth surface of her cheek and around her lips? she thought, shocking herself. More and more, she longed to see him again, to look into his sad, blue eyes and ask him all the questions that went through her head all day long. But they were like ships that passed in the night. He was gone long before she arrived, and she was out the door before he returned.

  But lately, he had been leaving her little notes of thanks around the house. She found them addressed to her inside plain white business envelopes.

  Dear Leah,

  Chasya showed me the picture you drew together of the Bais Hamigdash. It is very wonderful! She seems so happy these days, and so well. The doctors are very pleased with her progress. I tell them she takes a secret medicine. We both know it’s the Leah pill.

  May God bless you for your chesed to me and my children.

  Yaakov

  Dear Leah,

  The casserole was so tasty. It puts my mind at rest to know that my children are enjoying such nourishing, delicious food. Thank you! As for me, it is wonderful to have a warm meal when I return at night. May HaShem bless you for your kindness.

  Respectfully,

  Yaakov

  She read them again and again, holding them close to her heart before refolding them and placing them carefully back into her pocket.

  And then, one day, she found a pretty bouquet of red and white roses and pink chrysanthemums on the dining room table. There was another note:

  Dear Leah,

  Chasya told me about the flowers you took her to see in the park. She said, “Leah knows all the names of all the flowers.” I thought you might like these. I have no idea what they are called.

  Every blessing,

  Yaakov

  She cut off the ends of the stems and put them into a vase, then searched for an aspirin to add to the water to prolong their blooms. Oddly, she couldn’t find any. Filling the vase with water, she placed it carefully on the dining room table, hoping they’d last through to the weekend anyway, brightening the family’s Shabbos table.

  But the following week, there was a box of chocolates with another note:

  Dear Leah,

  I meant for you to take the flowers home. Just a small thank-you for all the wonderful things you do for my family. So this week, I am trying again, but with candy. I hope you will take this with you and not let my children finish it off.

  Every blessing, and may HaShem bless you for your chesed.

  Yaakov

  She smiled to herself. Of course the children had eaten most of it, but as instructed, she took the rest home. They were delicious praline fillings covered with glatt kosher Swiss chocolate, which tasted exactly like nonkosher Swiss chocolate. She tried to eat only one a day so she would have a reason to keep the box. It was suddenly important to her, that box, his notes. She wanted to write him back but couldn’t think of what to say.

  Despite all the time she had spent among Orthodox Jews, she was still not completely conversant with the norms. It was as if there existed a thick book filled with rules that were invisible except to them. She was constantly terrified of saying or doing something that was inadvertently out of bounds that might jeopardize her relationship with the children. It was unthinkable. But doing nothing was rude.

  She took out a piece of pretty lilac notepaper and began to write.

  Dear Rav Lehman (Yaakov),

  Thank you very much for your thoughtful, kind gifts. I am happy to be of help to you. Your wonderful children give me more than I could ever give them. There is no need to buy me anything. Your thanks are also not necessary, but I appreciate them deeply.

  May God bless you and yours,

  Your friend,

  Leah Howard

  * * *

  Yaakov came home from school late, his head filled with principles of accounting, tax laws, and microeconomics. He had almost finished his second semester at Touro College. With the credits the college offered for his yeshiva studies, he had only another two semesters and summer school before being able to take the certification exam for his CPA. Then he would be able to get a well-paying job, enough to support his family and pay off his debts. He dreamed of the day when he would be able to pay his children’s tuition without begging for a payment plan or a discount; when he would be able to respond generously when asked for charity.

  Most of all, he dreamed of being able to meet the matchmakers’ exorbitant demands concerning Shaindele’s future husband, demands that included a monthly stipend for seven years so that the young man could continue learning. Such a groom would bring honor to his daughter and the Lehman family. Without such a dowry, he knew, his precious daughter would have to settle for a groom whose rosh yeshiva could give only a grudging recommendation and whose prospects would not include those achievements most admired in their world that took place solely between the four walls of the yeshiva.

  The irony of finishing his degree and finding a full-time job, effectively locking him out of his beloved study hall forever, exiling him from the place where he felt most at home and where his true talents lay, in order to support another scholar was not lost on him. His heart ached to think of it. But there was nothing to be done. Like other balabatim, he would sneak in learning during precious moments stolen from the drudgery of his working life, on Shabbos and holidays and Sundays, or late in the evening or early in the morning. Meir would have to find a new chavrusa. That idea alone filled him with despair.

  He tried not to think of it, to be grateful for all the mercies
God had shown him over the past few months. Shaindele was in her room, studying. The kitchen was clean, all the dishes and pots put away. A place mat with a clean plate had been set for him at the table. A note on the refrigerator door told him there was fresh soup and a casserole he could heat up for his dinner. He popped his head in to say hello to his daughter, then checked his sleeping children. Their warm, still bodies and peaceful breathing felt like a blessing. He closed the door gently so as not to disturb them. In his bedroom, he hung up his jacket. It was only when he sat down on the bed to take off his shoes and put on his slippers that he noticed the pale, lilac envelope on his pillow. His heart skipped a beat before he even opened it. It was from her. It had to be.

  He pried it open gently, trying not to damage the delicate stationery. His heart beating faster, he slipped the note carefully out of its envelope and began to read. A wave of disappointment came over him, wishing it had said more. But then again, perhaps not. She called herself his “friend.” It was a generous term, a kind one. But what kind of friend was he to her? He took and took and took. There was no symmetry in their relationship. Her loving his children was just more of her giving and him taking. Perhaps the flowers and the candy had not been a good idea. They were silly, really, when you thought about it. Something goyishly romantic. How had he not realized that? But what else could he do?