by Naomi Ragen
They arranged for him to pick her up. But that afternoon, Cheeky started howling that his ear hurt. She didn’t want to leave him. But when she called her date to cancel, he persisted.
“I’ll wait for you to get finished, no problem.”
“It might take a while. I don’t want to leave him with his older sister, so I’ll need to wait until his father gets home from night school, and that might be a little after nine.”
“I can come get you directly after work, no problem.”
She didn’t know whether to be flattered or put off by his persistence. She gave him the address.
“I’ll wait outside for you. I drive a black BMW.”
* * *
She sat in the living room, Cheeky curled up in her arms. The child’s face was flushed, but he had finally fallen asleep. His little body was hot against her chest. She heard the key turn in the lock.
Yaakov Lehman lifted his head when he saw her, his face flushing with heat.
“You’re here!”
She put her finger to her lips, pointing to the sleeping baby. “He’s got an earache and he’s running a fever,” she whispered. “I gave him a teaspoon of Tylenol. But tomorrow, he should see a doctor.”
He nodded, concerned. He looked at his sleeping boy whose cheek rested on Leah’s soft bosom, his golden curls touching her neck, which was smooth and pink beneath her modest blouse. Her hair was held back by a colorful headband and braided into a loose chignon. But the curls, rebelling at every turn, created a halo around her face. She wore no makeup except for a tiny green line on her upper lid that made her eyes shine. Her young arms were full and gentle around his son.
They looked at each other silently, the room around them swelling almost to bursting in its attempt to contain all that lay unspoken between them.
Finally, she got up. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. Should I lay him down? Or do you want to take him?”
She was leaving! He was wounded. She had to go! Just when he had come home, and she was already running away.
She studied him, shocked at what she saw in his face. He was crestfallen.
“Oh, of course. Yes. It’s … I’m … so sorry … to keep … you need to … of course,” he mumbled.
They stood looking at each other wordlessly, their eyes shyly shifting to the sleeping child that lay between them.
“Of course. I’ll take him.” Yaakov held out his arms, moving closer, his cheek almost touching hers, his arms inches from her body. Gently, awkwardly, Leah lifted the small child off her shoulder, moving closer to Yaakov, breathing in the genuine odor of a clean man’s body in clean clothes cooled by the night air. As she moved closer, delicately shifting the child from her arms into his father’s, Yaakov’s shoulder accidentally brushed hers. It felt electric. She could tell he felt it, too. Both of them stepped back. She lowered her gaze to his gentle, large hands, studying them as they curled protectively around the little boy, clasping him to his heart. The child barely stirred.
“Is it … a class?” he asked her, appalled at his forwardness.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Where you have to go now,” he added, blushing. Was it his business? But he could not help it. He had to know why she was leaving him, leaving the child.
Her eyes met his steadily. “No. It’s a shidduch date.”
He immediately looked down. “I see.” He nodded, devastated. Of course. What did you expect? He wanted to cry like a small child, to bray and howl with pain.
Leah watched all this pass over him, including his failed effort to hide it. She was spellbound, almost transfixed by a feeling that was equal parts confusion, wonder, and hope. She felt afraid for him, for his vulnerability, his transparent honesty that left him as defenseless as the baby in his arms. He was totally open. There wasn’t a duplicitous bone in his body. Whatever dwelled in his heart, he broadcast to the world in his eyes. It was a dangerous way to live. Something inside her wanted to protect him, the same way she wanted to protect his son.
“It’s the first time. We’ve never met,” she said, feeling irrationally apologetic.
“Those are hard.” He smiled painfully. “I hope you enjoy yourself!”
“Do you?” she asked him softly, searching his eyes. Was it possible? Or was she imagining what she saw there? Yearning, hope, barely concealed despair? And yes, fathomless passion? Was it real? Were they really telling her everything she longed to know?
She took her things and left, closing the door gently behind her.
He listened as her footsteps grew fainter and more distant, leaning back on the couch as he softly rocked the child. His body was aching, bereft. The room seemed to have emptied out, leaving him alone. But then, suddenly, he felt flooded with the warmth of the child’s body, the softness of his hair. Slowly, he caressed the little boy’s sweet shoulders and firm little back, his mind awash with a million rebellious ideas, wanting to shout with pain and incredulity and happiness, wanting to break the bonds that held him, like Samson stretching the ropes of the Philistines until he pulled down the pillars that held up the roof, raining down rubble and destruction on everything, himself included. Yes, he was ready for it. Let the pillars smash! Let the stones crush him, too! What did any of it matter if he could not have her? They had taken one woman from him. He would not let them take another.
* * *
His name was Aaron Gluck. And he was nice, really nice, she thought. White teeth, a ready smile, comfortable in his own skin. Considerate.
“I understand you love to Rollerblade. I thought maybe we could go ice-skating?”
How thoughtful, she thought, looking at his nicely shaved, kind, smiling face.
“Well, normally it would be fun, but I’ve had a long day. Would you mind if we just—”
“Sure, no problem.”
He took her to a nice, kosher coffee shop about ten minutes away. It was empty and quiet, and he was pleasant and funny and didn’t ask any intrusive questions. Shoshana was right. Leah did like him. And they had a lot in common. He was also newly observant from a secular family.
“I think I enjoy being Orthodox because it makes me feel special. Otherwise, my life would be so dull, so ordinary. I like the idea of being connected to something larger than myself. The idea of following a path that is always winding its way upward to purity, goodness, holiness.”
“Yes, so do I.” His words touched her. It was so hard for Jews born into Orthodoxy to understand the incredible joy of discovering a place within yourself that truly connected to God. They either took such a feeling for granted or had never had it and didn’t want it, content to pretend, their outward obedience to stringencies covering for their lack of any real faith, she thought with a new bitterness.
“It’s hard for people like us to find a shidduch among the Orthodox.” He shrugged. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it? After all the things that are written in the Torah about not mistreating the stranger?”
“Awful. But what can you do? Not everybody lives up to their ideals.”
“It hasn’t made you bitter?”
He smiled. “I’m not a bitter person. I’m a florist. I love color and beautiful scents and nature. There’s no room in me for anything ugly and dark. In the end, you have no choice over how others behave, only about your own reaction.”
She nodded, impressed.
“So, what do think?” He looked at her hopefully.
“I like you,” she told him honestly. “But the truth is, I think I’m in love.”
He blinked, leaning back in his seat. One forefinger nervously tapped the table.
“Then why did you agree to go out with me?”
“It happened about ten minutes before I met you.”
His smile returned. He leaned in. “Does the person know?”
She shook her head.
“And what would happen if he found out?”
“He’d be surprised, then appalled, and
then, ever so politely and gently, I’d get kicked out of his life.”
“I’m confused.”
“Join the club.”
They smiled at each other across the table, but a bit sadly.
“Any hope you might change your mind?”
“Probably. I’ll probably change my mind the minute you drop me off and I walk into my empty, lonely house tonight.”
“So, why don’t we just try seeing each other again?”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be right. To you, I mean. You are a great guy—”
He put his hand over his heart and grimaced. “Ouch!”
“No, please, I mean it. You are probably the nicest guy I’ve met in the entire time I’ve been going out on these shidduch dates.”
“I like you, too,” he said warmly, without pretense.
“Why?”
“Really?”
“Yes, I’d like to know.”
“For one thing, you are beautiful.”
She blushed in confusion. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had told her that! For such a long time, she had felt old and fat and hated her reddish, frizzy hair. But as he said it, she remembered how surprised she’d been the last time she bought clothes, realizing that she was back to the size she’d worn in college.
“And you’re honest. You say how you feel. I feel I can trust you.”
“Thank you, Aaron.”
“Don’t mention it, Leah.”
For a few minutes, no one said anything. He motioned for the check. “This is what I propose. Hold on to my number. No pressure. If you change your mind, get kicked out, fall out of love, call me. Let’s take this thing where it needs to go.” He wrote down his phone number on a napkin and slid it over to her. “A back-up. Put it somewhere safe,” he pleaded.
She nodded, smiling, as she folded it carefully, putting it into her purse.
He dropped her off outside her apartment building.
“Can I walk you up?”
“Please, no,” she said wearily.
He sighed, walking around and opening the door for her.
“You won’t lose my number, right?”
“I have it, Aaron.”
“Well, good night, I guess.”
“Good night, Aaron. And thank you for being so nice.”
She walked up the stairs, not wanting to wait an extra second for the elevator, yearning for sleep and oblivion. She stopped, gripping the bannister. Before her door, on the very last step, sat Yaakov Lehman.
He got up silently, searching her eyes.
“You know where I live?”
“It wasn’t hard to find out.”
“Cheeky?”
“Sleeping. The Tylenol. Shaindele’s watching him.”
She nodded. “Yaakov, what are you doing here?”
“I … needed to tell you. To talk to you, about Shabbos. I was very disappointed.”
She looked anxiously around at the deserted staircase, concerned. That’s all she needed, for some nosy neighbor to witness this encounter. It would spread out like feathers in the wind through the entire community. “Please, Yaakov, come inside.”
He followed her over the threshold.
“I won’t close the door all the way so there’s no yichud,” she said.
He hadn’t even thought of that! “Thank you.”
“About Shabbos,” she continued. “I was also looking forward to it, but you know, it would be misunderstood. The community would say it was improper. It might taint your family’s reputation, hurt Shaindele’s chances when the time came for shidduchim. After all, I’m unmarried, a baalas teshuva,” she said, repeating dutifully every argument that had been used to convince her.
He made a small, impatient gesture. “I’ve heard all this before.”
She was shocked. “About me?”
“Nothing to do with you. But the very same things exactly, told to me by all the great tzaddikim in our community. People who are on such a high level. Did you know that everyone in our community is a tzaddik? On such a high level? At least that’s what they tell themselves, and it’s up to the rest of us to keep pretending it’s true. And to do that, it’s all right to lie, to cheat, to reject newcomers as not ‘worthy’ enough to live among us. Even to ruin lives. I listened to them when they told me not to do what was right because it would taint the family’s reputation, ruin my children’s shidduchim. I killed my wife, Leah. She died because of me. And now my poor children are motherless orphans. All because I listened to them.”
She was shocked. “Yaakov, please—”
“No, Leah, this is the truth. We reject people like you because we don’t want outsiders to see what’s really going on here. Otherwise, people might begin to realize that we are not all great tzaddikim, and that no one is ever allowed to know. Rejection of people like you is the best way to pretend that only the most holy are allowed inside.”
“Yaakov, you are the most holy.”
He shook his head violently. “I ruined my family,” he said starkly.
“Don’t.”
But he couldn’t stop. “Because I let them convince me that saving face was more important than saving a life. Don’t listen to them, Leah. Please, don’t listen to them!”
The bitterness poured out of him like pus from a wound. His eyes seemed dead, his shoulders defeated.
“Yaakov, you are best man I’ve ever known.”
He shook his head adamantly. “No, the kindest thing you could say about me is that I’m a fool.” He suddenly stopped, looking deeply into her eyes. “Leah, if I asked you to go out with me, would you go out with me?”
“Go out? I don’t understand.” She tried to turn her face away.
But he was relentless. He moved closer, as close as he could without actually touching her.
“Leah, if you got a call from a respectable shadchan who asked you if you would go out with Yaakov Lehman, a widower with five children, a man who is only a part-time learner, who has as yet no income but has good prospects, would you agree to go out with him?”
She wiped her eyes. “Yes, Yaakov. I would go out with you.”
His eyes came back to life. He exhaled, a smile lighting up his face as his broad shoulders, held back tensely, eased into their natural posture. He looked once again like the man she knew.
“But, Yaakov, we have to be very, very careful. It all has to be done in the proper way, not to bring any shame on your family, any gossip, so that your children—so that Shaindele—won’t suffer. Please, Yaakov!”
“We will be the most respectable couple, with a saintly matchmaker breathing down our necks so that even the throats and tongues of the most sinful gossipers will have nothing to say. I promise you!”
His joy was infectious. For the first time, the little apartment seemed bathed in a warm glow that banished the chill of loneliness. It seemed homey and full, she realized as she smiled into his happy face, her heart full to bursting.
25
Fruma Esther Sonnenbaum sat uneasily in the waiting room of the eye clinic of Mount Sinai Hospital. It was crowded like a buffet table after Yom Kippur, she thought irritably, staring at the women in their immodest tight pants and the men with tattoos, wishing now she had asked someone to accompany her. She sighed. No, it was better this way. There were enough tsuris for her family right now. They needed another? As for all the yentas who would have lined up to take her and then told the entire neighborhood what good people they were to help the poor, unfortunate widow of the great Rav Sonnenbaum whose own family was no longer in a position to help her given the unfortunate and heartbreaking events with which God had visited upon them of late … no, thank you.
She had been seeing Dr. Margolis going on seven years now. She remembered the shocking moment she realized that there was something terribly wrong with her eyesight—not that it had ever been good, mind you. From the age of six, she had been prescribed prescription lenses. “She will probably need glasses her entire life,” the young
doctor in the white coat had told her mother, who pursed her lips as if swallowing a bitter but necessary pill. The words had echoed in her own shocked, childish heart. “All her life!” She was only six.
She had grown used to the yearly visits to the optometrist, the endless “does it look better this way or that way” of the vision tests to determine if a still thicker lens was necessary to make sense of a blurry world. Almost always, the answer was yes. But then seven years ago, she had been helping one of the grandchildren with homework and the graph paper had suddenly seemed all misshapen and wobbly instead of a neat little grid.
She thought she was going blind or losing her mind.
But it turned out to be neither.
“An epiretinal membrane,” Dr. Margolis told her.
“Vus is dus?”
“It means you have a thin piece of tissue over your retina. If it doesn’t bother you, you don’t have to do anything.”
“It bothers me.”
“Well, we can operate.”
“On my eye? You want to use a knife on my eye?” she’d gasped.
“It’s a very successful operation. Takes half an hour, but then you’ll probably need surgery a few months down the line for a cataract.”
“I have a cataract?”
“No, not now, but if you do the surgery to remove the membrane…”
So, they would solve one problem and cause another. Suddenly, it didn’t bother her. Not enough for that.
But every year, she could feel the tissue encroaching on her vision, pulling on her eyeball like an impatient and undisciplined child. It was just a matter of time before she would see almost nothing clearly from that eye.
She pondered long and hard how such a thing had happened to her. “We don’t know,” Dr. Margolis told her. But then he added, “Sometimes it starts out as an infection and there is scar tissue.”
An infection! She remembered when it had started. She had visited the cemetery where she had recited psalms, weeping copiously over her late husband Yitzchak Chaim’s grave. The very next day, her eye had grown red and filled with pus.
Perhaps she had wiped away her tears before ritually washing her hands as was the law, allowing the evil spirits that lurked among the dead to damage her eye? The doctor had given her a little tube of antibiotic gel to put on her inner eyelid, but it had taken weeks to go away.