Craving Flight (2 page)

I shouldn’t roll my eyes because she’s always so kind to me. I know it’s her job as the rabbi’s wife to be nice to new people but she’s taken a special interest in me, and we’ve become close over the past few years as I’ve tried to integrate myself into Forest Park and the shul her husband leads. I really shouldn’t roll my eyes. And yet. “Probably.”

“Well, you
have
been living here for over a year, you know. And coming to the shul for five.”

“Oh, I know.”

After I divorced Brooks five years ago, I decided to seriously pursue the Orthodox life that had been calling to me since I was a teenager. I started out slowly, researching neighborhoods and taking classes at the outreach center, gradually spending more weekends here so that I could observe Shabbos. After I finished my year at seminary, I took the plunge and moved.

Barely a single day has gone by since then that I haven’t had at least one person ask when I was going to find a husband. At thirty-seven, I’m completely over the hill in this community and they desperately want me to adhere to the social norms. Get married, have babies. I’m late, but better late than never.

I’ve tried to shrug them off, saying I wasn’t ready, but at my age, the bubbes won’t take that for an answer. They have zero shame about reminding me exactly how loudly my biological clock is ticking. Some of them have tried to foist grandsons, nephews, distant relatives on me. Some of them hadn’t offered up any male sacrifices though. Whenever that happens, it’s half-insult, half-relief, knowing it’s because I’m a ba’alat teshuva, an outsider. Someone who was technically born Jewish but is only now becoming observant. Sure, to people who don’t know any better I look and talk like an Orthodox Jew, but even children here can tell I’m a relative new-comer. It’s an odd space to occupy.

Bina taps her tea cup with long, manicured fingernails, the hair of her wig brushing her shoulders. If you didn’t know she was wearing a sheitel, you’d never be able to tell. She always looks impeccable. And now so very eager. “Well?”

I take a deep breath and blow it out my nose. “I think I’m ready to start looking for a husband.”

She claps her hands and squeals. At least this is making someone happy. “I think that’s an excellent idea. I’ve been thinking of matches for you since you rented your apartment. To be honest, even before that.”

Yes, I know. The teachers had cautioned us against dating while I was at seminary and I was one of the few people who’d faithfully adhered to the edict. I had too much to accomplish in that year that I didn’t want derailed by a relationship. Leave it to me to go back to school while on sabbatical from my professorship.

I’d also shied away from men because I’d been raw from the end of my marriage. I suppose that’s what happens when your husband is confused and disgusted by everything that’s become important to you.

I still feel as though I’m settling in to the community but it’s time. And maybe having yet another tie will help my roots go even deeper. It’ll probably convince a few of the people who continue to be skeptical that I’m in this for good.

Bina digs a notebook out of her bag and cracks it open to a tabbed page. There look to be a dozen names on it already, not to mention several that have already been crossed out.

“Bina!”

“What?” She shrugs, a poor imitation of guilt turning down the corners of her mouth. “No harm in
thinking
about it.”

This time I do refrain from rolling my eyes because I really am thankful and her attention makes me feel loved and flattered. She’s had faith in my commitment, in me, since the beginning. She’s been one of the forces keeping me going even though it’s been hard. “Fine. What have you got?”

“Avraham Rifkin.”

“No! He’s a baby.”

“He’s twenty-two,” she protests. “And from a good family.”

I shake my head. “They have to be older than my students.”

“So picky.” And there go half the names on the list, stricken with her vicious pen. “Shmuel Greenbaum?”

“I know I said older than my students, but he doesn’t have to be old enough to be my father.”

She tsks at me as she removes Mr. Greenbaum from her catalogue of potential suitors. He’s a very sweet man, the kind who always keeps hard candies in his pocket, but no. Just, no. “You’re never going to find a husband this way. Not here anyway.”

Now she’s playing hardball. She knows I want to stay in Forest Park. After things ended with Brooks and I’d been on my own, I started my search for the perfect community. I had several criteria: one, it needed to be a reasonable commute from the university where I work. I didn’t want to leave my job at Hudson because professorships are few and far between and I’d been dazzlingly lucky to get a tenure-track position as young as I had. I have no intention of starting over at some other university. Two, I wanted it to be Orthodox, but not insanely conservative. It’s a tricky space on the continuum, that tipping point between modern Orthodox and Orthodox. Three, I had to be able to afford it. And four, I wanted someplace that was pretty welcoming to BTs. Not everywhere is so encouraging of ba’alei teshuva.

Forest Park was one of the few neighborhoods that had fit the bill. I’m not interested in shipping off to LA or Israel or even New Jersey to find a match and Bina knows it.

She taps at another name on the list. “What about Levi Hollander?”

If I hadn’t just declined a bunch of her suggestions, I’d likely outright refuse. I know who Levi is. I’ve seen him at various Shabbos dinners, events at the shul, and around the neighborhood. He’s also a BT like me. While I’m sure he’s very nice, he’s perhaps too nice. He’s lacking that commanding edge I crave in a man, the very thing Brooks couldn’t provide for me. Plus Levi’s built a little too much like an insect: thin and angular with slightly bulging eyes. I don’t find him attractive. But I refrain from wrinkling my nose and instead hand her a small victory. “Maybe.”

“We’ll think about him, okay? Going on a date wouldn’t hurt anything.”

Except that I know how seriously dating is taken here. If I go out with someone, the whole shul will have us halfway to married by the time we’re finishing our appetizers.

She names a few more men and I cast votes of yay or nay and finally there’s one last name.

“Don’t say no to this one right away, all right? He’s maybe a strange choice for you, but you should give him a chance at least. For me.”

“I will give him due consideration, cross my heart.” I mean it, but inside I’m pleading,
please don’t say Ephraim Goldmintz. He’s exceedingly loud, laughs like a donkey, and smells vaguely of fish.

“Elan Klein.”

“The butcher?”

“Yes, he’s a butcher, but you know he was in yeshiva until his father had a stroke. Elan left to run the family business. And he’s maybe a little…” Her eyes skate over me and I know what she sees: small-boned, delicate and petite. “…big.”

It’s true that Elan dwarfs me. He must be a good six feet tall and he’s not a beanpole. More like a brick wall. Does she think that’s a turn-off? On the contrary. In fact, I’ve been aware of him since I got here because he does have that particular brand of authority Levi lacks. One that makes me think he might have it in him to—I can’t think about that. No sense in raising those hopes at all.

As for being a butcher…that doesn’t bother me either. I’ve been married to someone who was another college professor—met him in fact because he was my dissertation advisor—and I don’t need to do it again. Would maybe prefer not to. Having two people in a marriage who live so much in their minds can make for a disengaged partnership. Or it had for Brooks and me.

Intelligence does matter to me though, but like she’s said, he’s educated, and it takes not a small amount of brains to run a business. “His job doesn’t bother me.”

Her eyebrows go up and I can see the meddling wheels start to turn in her head now that she knows he’s a real candidate. “He’s a widower, you know.”

I shrug. I’m divorced. That’s far more likely to cause issues. “I know. His wife’s name was Rivka, right? I met her a few times at the shul, saw her in their shop. She was kind to me.”

I have memories of a sturdy, round-faced woman who wore a wig instead of tichels like I do. Always with a greeting and a smile, telling me I should eat more. She treated me as if I belonged here, not like some of the other women who’ve lived here and been Orthodox their whole lives. Frum from birth, or FFBs, they call people who’ve grown up Orthodox; observant since their first breath in this world.

Rivka passed away almost two years ago. I paid a visit while the family was sitting shiva. It was the only time Klein Brothers Kosher Butcher had been closed when it wasn’t the Sabbath or a holiday. I remember it particularly because it was the only time I’ve ever seen Elan look small. Sitting on a low stool, his whole body seemed to wither in mourning. My heart had gone out to him. He’d obviously loved her very much.

“Rivka was a good woman,” Bina agrees before sipping at her tea. “So perhaps we’ll start there?”

Elan Klein. Yes, he’s promising.

“Do you think he’d be interested in me? You don’t think being a divorced BT will be an issue?” The Kleins are one of the more conservative families in the neighborhood, although Elan is definitely the most liberal of the bunch. His brothers Moyshe and Dovid wear black hats over their kippahs while he wears only the yarmulke, and their full beards contrast with Elan’s neatly trimmed one. His mother in particular is one of the people here who isn’t particularly warm to BTs and tends to avoid me. But those may not be my biggest problems. “I’m also pretty sure he thinks I’m an idiot.”

Bina’s head tips in confusion but then recollection lights her face. “Oh, yes. The brisket incident.”

My face heats with the hideously embarrassing memory. It was the day I first moved here and I’d been so thrilled to be in my own apartment with my very own kosher kitchen that I’d bought a brisket at the butcher and spent the hours it took to roast salivating over the smell. Only to realize when I sat down to eat that I’d used non-kosher chili powder and had to start all over again. I’d rushed—in tears—back to the shop where Elan was closing up, and had to confess why I was back so soon. He’d sent me home with chicken breasts and told me to try the brisket again the next day. Not unkindly, but still.

Ugh.

I’m half-tempted to ask if all of Forest Park knows about said incident, and if it’s gone down in the annals of community lore, but I don’t want to know. It was over a year ago. I should try to let it go. But the brand of humiliation in my brain glows again at the memory.

“I doubt it. Everyone makes mistakes.”

Not like that. But I let her confident assurance soothe me, covering my embarrassment with more conversation.

“I didn’t even know he was looking.”

Surely I would’ve heard. And surely I would’ve paid attention. Elan is a bit surly, perhaps, but not in a rude way. Just gruff, coarse, with his hard-working hands—my grip tightens on my mug when I think of what he might look like somewhere other than behind his counter, free of his apron and the strictures of the interactions between men and women who aren’t related. My mind starts to wander further afield and I follow. I haven’t thought of a flesh-and-blood man like this in a long time.

“Looking is maybe a strong word—”

“Bina!”

“Well, he should be. And I can be quite…persuasive.”

Just what I need. Bina trying to foist me on some poor unsuspecting man who may still be mourning his wife’s death. I’m tempted to thunk my head on the café table but I refrain. What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll say no. At least it won’t be years before we figure out we’re wrong for each other, not like with Brooks.

“Fine.”

Though she tries to smother it, the smile breaks over her face, and she circles his name with her pen. I’m half-expecting her to start sketching hearts and wedding cakes. She’s probably trying to decide which caterer we should use for our reception, imagining what our babies would look like. “I’ll see what I can do.”

*

And that is
how I find myself accepting the least romantic proposal in the history of the world a month later. I’ve been on four dates with Elan in the time intervening, along with seeing him at community events where Bina shoves us together. September is heavy on the Jewish holidays so there have been lots. We’ve discussed all the important things:

Children? Yes.

Keeping strictly kosher? Yes. Though I’d wrung my hands in my napkin under the table when confessing that despite my best efforts and intentions, it’s something I regularly fail at. Not because I don’t care—I do, very much—but because it happens to be an area where my brain fails me. By the tightening of his mouth, he’d remembered Brisketgate. I’d thought that might be the end of it, but he’d asked me for another date when dinner was over.

Shomer Shabbos? Yes, though like keeping kosher, I haven’t perfected the practice of being entirely observant of the Sabbath and perhaps never will. But it’s not for lack of effort.

Moving to Israel? No. Though a couple of his sisters have and he’s visited, we’re both rather attached to New York.