“I understand you better than you think. You want a yeshiva guy to look at you, you have to dress like this.” Leah found a Ralph Lauren two-piece suit.
Hindy nodded. “That’s real nice.”
“I think even the great Shimshon Kaplinsky, heir-apparent to the Kaplinsky yeshiva dynasty — the future leader of the Jewish community — would be smitten if he saw you in that suit,” Leah said. “Fall head over heels in love.”
“Leah, I’m sure Shimshon Kaplinsky wouldn’t notice what a girl is wearing.”
Leah shook her head as she traced the outline of the design. “There you are wrong, my friend. All men look. Even ones who learn Talmud all day. Even the most famous rabbi’s son.”
“Is that what they teach you in college?”
Leah laughed. “Yep. In my pre-med classes. We learn all about
biology
. And that even Shimshon Kaplinsky has hormones.”
Hindy covered her ears. “Oy! Don’t say that. There’s a reason my parents didn’t send me to college.”
Leah smiled gently and pointed to the
Vogue
pattern. “Hindy, you could do this,” she said, digging into a pile of fabrics like a penguin diving for fish. After a few moments she came up for air. “I think I got it!” She brought out regal-looking dark blue wool. “Now this is elegant.”
Hindy stroked the fabric, the wool as smooth as butter. “This is quality.”
“In this color, you’ll be a regular heartbreaker, Hindy.”
“I’d be happy if I could just get another date. With anyone.”
“Anyone?”
“I mean, any boy who learns Talmud full-time.” Hindy fetched the salesgirl. “I’ll also need bolts of white satin.”
Leah put down the
Vogue
, her guilty pleasure, and looked at Hindy. “You’re really going to go through with that project?” Hindy’s younger sister Shayna was known as the pretty one in the Goldfarb family, but at this moment, Leah thought Hindy was far more beautiful.
Hindy nodded. “For poor brides who can’t afford gowns for their weddings. It’s just a couple of hours to sew up a gown.”
“Hindy, there’s a reason you are my friend.”
She looked at Leah. “Because I like to sew?”
Leah shook her head. “Because you’re one of the good ones.”
Rachel met Daniel at Starbucks in the city after her class. She knew who he was because he had a single, long-stemmed rose on the table before him, just like he said he’d be carrying when they had talked earlier on the phone.
She stared at him scrolling through his iPad before she approached him. He was tall, that she could tell, and thin. He was dressed for work, in a pinstriped Oxford shirt and dark slacks. She also noticed his classic good looks — his dark hair and perfectly even features.
He must have felt her looking at him, because suddenly he lifted his head and their eyes locked. “Rachel?” he asked as he stood up to greet her.
She smiled at him and felt him appraising her as she sat down.
“This is for you,” he said and handed her the rose. It smelled sweet and pungent, though she pricked her finger on a thorn she hadn’t noticed.
Daniel bought her a coffee, and they sat and talked for a while before he asked her to join him at an opening for a new exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. She couldn’t imagine how she’d even hesitated for a minute to go out with him. He was handsome, smart, and even appreciated art. He came across as respectable, and Rachel suddenly yearned to connect to a spouse — to finally fit in and have a place in the community. Could anyone fit in better than Daniel Gold? They seemed to have so much in common, and she couldn’t wait to get to know him even better.
• • •
“Lighter,” Suri said to the hairdresser. She pointed to her niece’s hair. “Can’t you make it blonder? Her mother is counting on me to change her looks, and she won’t listen.”
The hairdresser stepped back to review Leah’s tresses. They sat in her basement studio, which was filled with shelves of Styrofoam heads sporting wigs, as well as key rings of swatches for many different shades of hair color.
Leah shook her head. “As I was trying to tell Ma, I
like
it red, Aunt Suri.”
Suri looked at her niece. “When your grandparents hid from the Nazis — believe me — they wanted to be blond. Then they could pass for gentiles — and live.”
Leah sighed. “That was years ago. Nobody cares about shades of hair now.”
Suri stared at Leah with a look of disgust. “Of course they care. Why do you think Daniel Gold rejected you?”
“There was no chemistry. That’s all.”
Suri pursed her lips. “Foolish child. What do you think chemistry is? If you’d let me dye your hair when I told you to months ago, you might still be going out with him.”
“I’ll get highlights, but I’m not changing the color,” Leah stated firmly.
“Curly red hair,” Suri shook her tendrils. “You’re so stubborn it’s insane. You think any boy is going to want you?”
Leah listed all the famous red heads she could think of.
Suri crossed her arms. “And then you wear those ugly glasses. Why do you have to wear those?”
“So I can see.”
“But they are ugly. And they make you look smart.”
“Smart is bad?”
Suri wrinkled her nose. “Of course. Who wants a smart girl?”
Leah rolled her eyes and reviewed the swatches the hairdresser had handed her.
“I don’t understand why you can’t be more like Rachel. She always listens.”
Leah snorted. “No, she doesn’t.”
Suri glared at the hairdresser, who was sipping her coffee during this interchange. “You see how she has to fight with me all the time? A doting aunt and this is how she treats me!”
The hairdresser nodded. “So which color will it be?”
Leah chose a color one shade lighter than her own.
“One day you’ll thank me,” Suri said.
Leah closed her eyes and leaned her head back so the hairdresser could work her magic.
• • •
Hindy came home tired from work and pushed herself to keep going. She took her little brothers off of their school bus and then fixed supper for her family, as she knew her mother wouldn’t be home from her own job for another few hours. When the kids were done eating, Hindy organized clean up and patiently encouraged and waited for each child to do his share of housework. Finally, her parents came home, and though Hindy was exhausted, she ran to the kitchen and prepared dinner for them.
After she started a load of laundry, she got to work on her ongoing project of sewing gowns for brides who couldn’t afford them. She cut and trimmed, sewing careful, even lines. She hoped the bride who’d asked her to make this gown would appreciate it, at least with as much enjoyment as Hindy had creating in it. And she hoped that in the merit of her kindness, God would send her own perfect match.
Rachel sat painting in her studio, where she was working on a portrait of a Czar’s soldier and the soldier’s bride. Two years earlier, her dad had helped her create the studio from the unused porch off her bedroom. She hadn’t expected to still be using it at nineteen — she thought she’d be married — but it wasn’t unusual to unmarried and still be living at home in her part of Brooklyn.
Rachel tried to keep her studio neat, though to an outsider the room would probably look a complete mess. But outsiders were rarely invited in, and Rachel had her own system for knowing where everything was. Her drawing table was cluttered with half-used tubes of paint, thumbnail sketches of ideas, and her metal T-square ruler. On a shelving unit adjacent to her table she kept her tools: brushes, markers, pencils, a plastic millimeter ruler, and a trusty plastic triangle. Her bookshelves were filled with art books — volumes of classic paintings, modern art, and how-to’s that she’d gotten at a secondhand bookshop. She loved the romanticism and masterful brushstrokes of the Impressionist paintings the best.
As she painted, Rachel looked up through the windows and observed the beginning of the sun’s descent. She appreciated having so many windows opening onto the world outside her room, for she found nothing more beautiful than that world. She had only to look up to see the sky in pinks, somber purples, and every hue of blue. Looking down from the second floor, she could see the solidly rooted trees, whose orange and yellow leaves swayed in the wind, and the red-shingled rooftops of the other narrow Brooklyn homes surrounding hers. Comforting scenes, she always thought. Familiar in every season. A landscape that was part of where she’d always belonged.
The walls beneath the windows were covered with Rachel’s drawings and paintings, as well as photos of other artists’ works that inspired her. She loved this studio, this sanctuary, for here she felt completely at peace.
She picked up her old, splattered brush and gazed at the canvas in front of her. She had already painted the background of rickety shacks, all muted grays and browns in the gentle morning light, and she was now working on the subjects, a tall blond soldier lifting his young wife onto his horse. Rachel had been working on this painting for days, and the emotional energy required for the project was beginning to drain her. With her deadline approaching, she had no time to afford mistakes.
Dipping her brush into a deep red, she boldly painted the bride’s auburn hair. It was the same color as her own, though more vibrant in the painting. She heard Fitz’s voice in her head: “Art isn’t truth. It’s all about image.” She glanced at the green acrylic paint and debated adding it to the red. Any wrong move would put her hours behind schedule. More red or green? Should she make the logical choice — or the passionate one?
Impulsively, she brushed the green over the red hair, and then stood back and held her breath. She breathed a sigh of relief. The accent was beautiful, the quiet green pushing the red to stand out and reach its potential. She continued the delicate strokes and started thinking of the next colors to use.
That’s how it is with art,
she mused. There was always a balance, an ongoing dance, of using both feelings and logic to achieve one’s goal.
Her hands ached and her eyes needed rest, but Rachel kept working. The painting was due in class Monday morning, and she only had a little more than an hour left to make sure all her work was done before she would have to get ready for Shabbos. She could almost hear the bells chiming, “Bong bong bong bong! Four
P.M.
Friday. Time’s up. It’s the holy weekend, and if you’re not ready, you turn into a pumpkin.” At least Cinderella had had until midnight. These short fall Fridays when the sun set so early never left her enough time to get her work done. Really, she was already cutting it close at this hour, and she knew she could always rely on Ma to remind her that time was passing.
In a fury, she worked on the portrait of the girl, or how she imagined the girl would look. The couple in the painting was supposed to be her great-grandparents, though it was hard working without any pictures for reference. All the old photos had been destroyed, so the only references she could use were stories. She had heard her ancestors’ histories repeated dozens of times when the family was together, often during the three meals of Shabbos. That was family time, which was time to talk.
Thinking about how much she cherished the togetherness of Shabbos meals, Rachel recognized the smell of simmering chicken soup wafting up from the kitchen, and she realized she had better go downstairs and turn off the stove. Otherwise, the broth would simmer away and evaporate, leaving only mushy chicken, carrots, and
petrishke
in the pot. It had never happened on her watch, but she was sure it would be quite an ugly scene if it did.
“What’s going on with the soup, Rachel?” Ma called from downstairs.
“Ma, I’m on a deadline. Could you take care of it?” she replied.
Rachel hadn’t realized her mother had come home from work, but now that she was here, Rachel knew she could count on Ma to take over. Rachel and her mother usually divvied up the Shabbos preparations, even though both knew that nobody could cook like her mother. Debby Shine put her whole soul into her cooking, elevating it to the level of art. Rachel could not think of cooking as an art, hard as she tried. So she usually didn’t bother trying.
“I’ll turn off the soup. But Rachel, where is the cholent?” Ma called.
Rachel stopped painting and guiltily stared at the portrait.
“Ma, I forgot to put it up,” she answered hesitantly. “Could you?”
Rachel heard a familiar sigh, followed by the sounds of her mother busy in the kitchen. “Some
balabusteh
you’ll make,” her mother grumbled just loud enough for Rachel to hear. But Ma was right, as always. It had been Rachel’s responsibility to cook the aromatic Shabbos stew. She hadn’t meant to be irresponsible, but she had so much on her mind these days between school and Daniel Gold. Sometimes, in quiet moments, her mind still wandered to that sweet waiter, Jacob Zohar, but she pushed these thoughts out of her head. Leah was in love with him, so there was no point in thinking about him. Ma always said the first quality to look for in a guy was availability. Daniel Gold was a catch — and he was certainly available. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Would she marry Daniel Gold?
She stopped herself, knowing she had to get back to work or she would be late for Shabbos. Gazing at the painting, Rachel remembered the vivid descriptions of the women in her family, all of them strong, great
balabustehs
— capable women — who took care of their homes and their families with efficiency, grace, and a smile. She wondered if any of them ever forgot to make the cholent when they were supposed to.
She glanced at her watch, knowing that she had to speed up the pace of her work if she was going to finish it before sundown at 4:17. If she worked even one minute past sundown, she’d break the law and desecrate the Sabbath. Rachel would never want to sin like that. True, she could resume working on Saturday night or Sunday, but realistically, it wouldn’t happen. Saturday was date night with Daniel, and Sunday she had to work as an art counselor at the Home for Disabled Adults.