Craving Flight (6 page)

If I weren’t tied down, I’d take his head in my hands, thread my fingers through his hair. As it is, I press my face to the side of his neck and listen to his slowing breath. At last he pushes up on his elbows and reaches over my head. The rope around my hands loosens and then unfurls. Still inside me, he rubs one wrist and then the other. When he rolls off, he offers me a cloth and I press it between my restrained legs. He uses a second to clean off and then stretches alongside me.

I rest my hands on my stomach and notice the rope has pressed into my skin, imprinting a pattern in red.

“It will fade by tomorrow.” He sounds apologetic and he should do anything but apologize.

“I wasn’t concerned. I was…admiring them.”

“You should.” He reaches over and traces line upon line, evidence of his possession. “You mark nicely.”

Oh. On the extremely rare occasions I’d gotten Brooks to play hard enough to leave bruises and welts, I’d look at them whenever I’d get the chance. I didn’t tell him because I didn’t think he’d understand. He walked in on me once while I was getting ready for a shower. I’d been holding out a large hand mirror at arm’s length, reflecting my reflection so I could marvel at the evidence of our play he’d left on my back. I’d never seen him look so confused or disgusted. That might have been when he realized we were irrevocably different.

The caress of Elan’s fingers against the impressed design on my wrists is gentle. Tender even. We lie there in silence until he speaks.

“Was all of that okay? You didn’t tell me to stop. You know you can always tell me to stop and I will.”

He hadn’t said it before, but I hadn’t been worried. It was stupid of me but I’d been so thrilled I hadn’t stopped to insist and I did trust him to stop if I asked him to. Completely reckless. I’m glad he’s correcting the mistake by talking about it, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.

“I…I liked everything.”

“Good. Is there anything you absolutely don’t want me to do?”

I give an awkward shrug. “I’ll try anything once. As long as you promise to be careful. And I don’t want any permanent marks.”

“That’s reasonable. But if there’s ever something you didn’t like… Well, I won’t promise not to do it again, but it’s good information to have.”

I murmur my thanks and assure him again, “So far, so good. But, my legs…”

It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s been a while that I’ve been immobilized and I’d like to move. He glances down and then turns back to me. “Are they numb?”

“No, master.”

He makes a noncommittal noise and goes back to tracing the marks on my wrists. I should be indignant, but somehow his oblique refusal lets me relax. I don’t have to choose even in this. After a while, he pets my hair and I soften further. So much so that I drift off, tied to my marital bed.

‡

I
f I had
thought better of it, I wouldn’t have had an October wedding. Although a month-long engagement was already raising a few eyebrows and shorter would’ve raised more and higher because that’s short even by frum standards, the confusion at the university may be worse. When I tell my Wednesday morning students they should call me Professor Klein, they look at me blankly. Particularly since I saw them on Monday, when I was Professor Berger.

One backwards-ball-capped boy who sits in the back of the lecture hall who I think spends far more time checking Mets standings on his cell than paying attention to my class raises his hand.

“Yes, Scott?”

I make a point of memorizing my students’ names early in the semester. I’ve found it makes them care more to know that I realize when Scott or Lauren hasn’t handed in their homework than ID number 6009921. I hope it also makes it easier for them to come talk to me if they’re struggling since they already know I think of them as people.

He looks surprised, though, as they so often do, because most of my colleagues don’t bother. “Why?”

My face gets warm but I hope it doesn’t translate to a blush because I’m not embarrassed. I just don’t want to spend half the class answering questions about Orthodox wedding conventions. That class isn’t until November.

I hold up my left hand, thankful for the thick band on my finger. Something everyone understands. “I got married on Tuesday. And as a wedding present from you all, I’d like to move on with class. We’ve got a lot of material to cover this semester and I can guarantee my personal life isn’t going to be on your final exam.”

A few congratulations and a smattering of applause sound in the small auditorium and I wave and say thank you but flip open to my notes and start in on my introduction to religious texts. “How many of you have ever read the Bible?”

*

Wednesdays I come
home from work on the earlier side, around four. After the divorce but before I married Elan, I would stay in my office or at the library until late. It was better to be where there was at least the opportunity for human interaction than to go home to my empty apartment.

Over time, a couple of those late nights turned into Torah study at the shul and a weekly game of mahjong at Bina’s house. It’s one of the things I like best about this life I’ve chosen: when they say community, they mean it. For better or for ill, of course—what with the politics and petty grievances—but I’ve found it mostly for the better. You never have to be alone.

I let myself into the apartment I think of as Elan’s and put my things away. Maybe someday I’ll feel as if this place is ours, but it’s only been a single day. I spend some time unpacking boxes in the unused bedroom I’ve taken for my office before it’s time to make dinner.

On the meat shelf in the refrigerator, there’s a neatly wrapped package he must have brought home during his lunch break or perhaps on his way to afternoon prayer services. It has a note on it, “For Dinner” spelled out in his methodical, blocky print. When I was trying to keep kosher as a single person, I’d mostly kept a vegetarian diet. It feels positively indulgent to have meat for dinner more than one night a week, never mind two nights in a row. I suppose that’s one of the benefits of being the butcher’s wife.

There’s enough chicken in the package to feed half a dozen people. I’m about to wrap half of it back up to put in the freezer but I realize I’m doing my meal calculus based off how much
I
eat. One serving for me and five for Elan is probably about right.

I turn on some music and set to work, pounding and breading the chicken, setting some mushrooms to sauté on the stove, boiling water for the noodles. Food has been one of the hardest things for me to acclimate to. Not just keeping strict kosher, although I’m still kind of a disaster at that—the number of times I’ve had to ask Rabbi Horowitz’s opinion on how to kasher a specific kitchen implement is downright embarrassing. I bet he and Bina keep one of those little wipeboards usually found on industrial sites:
It Has Been X Days Since Tzipporah’s Screwed Up Keeping Kosher.
There are also the cravings for foods I used to have. Bacon cheeseburgers. Lobster rolls. Veal Parmesan.

Chicken piccata is one of the things I’ve been able to modify. Though I miss the buttery sauce I used to prepare, the recipe I make now with wine and broth is a decent substitute and it’s worth eating the kosher version. The same cannot be said for kosher pizza. That might be the saddest food in the universe.

My timing is perfect. Elan arrives just as I’m taking the asparagus from the oven.

“Smells good.” How is it that he makes a compliment sound like an allegation?

I tame my grimace into a mere purse of my lips. “No butter. I promise.”

He grunts and I roll my eyes. Not that it’s completely unreasonable of him to be suspicious, but I wish he’d trust me more than that. Although I suppose when one of his first experiences with me was me having a complete and utter meltdown because I messed up my brisket and I had to admit during our courtship that it’s something I continue to bungle regularly, it’s not surprising that’s his default. Hopefully over time, dutifully prepared meals, or at least realizing I’ll always tell him if I’ve made a mistake, will sand the sharp edges of his low expectations away, because I can’t live under this kind of scrutiny forever.

“What is this…music?”

Right. Given how conservative his family is, Elan probably listened to mostly, if not exclusively, Jewish music growing up. Does he still? If so, I don’t think Regina Spektor counts.

“It’s the clean version,” I mutter after telling him the artist and the album, self-consciousness drawing my shoulder blades tight together. I’ve never been much for movies and TV so giving those up hasn’t been a problem, but there’s no way I’m letting go of my enormous iTunes library. Although if he adheres to the prohibition against men listening to women sing, I should be respectful of that. “But I could change it if you want. To a man.”

“It’s fine,” he says, his brows drawing together as if he’s trying to acclimate himself to the idea that he’s going to be listening to pop music for the rest of his life. If he is, it doesn’t take long. The muscles in his forehead release and there’s a small shrug. Good, because I think Pink is up next in my library.

After we’ve sat down to eat and said the blessing, he pokes at the chicken as if I might have poisoned it.

“It’s kosher, I swear. No butter, no cream, no cheese. I didn’t even touch the dairy shelf. I used the meat utensils and dishes for everything. I checked all the labels. There was no blood in the eggs.” Tears start to sting behind my eyes as I recite my list. To think I used to enjoy cooking. I’m sure when, or at this point
if
, I’m more proficient, I’ll enjoy it again. But for now, it reduces me to a bundle of nerves and he’s not helping matters any. I’m going to develop a phobia.

I knew this would be an adjustment and I thought I had prepared for it, but I wasn’t ready for this. Feeling like I’m under a microscope, having all my secular holdovers examined and poked at. What is he going to say when he sees all of my books left over from my university degrees and the modern art prints I have on the walls of my office? Maybe nothing because I’m certainly not the only frum person to have non-Jewish books or art in their home, but I don’t know.

My hands have closed into fists on either side of my plate and I can’t meet his eyes. I probably shouldn’t have snapped at him, but it would be nice if there were at least one place on earth where I felt comfortable, where I didn’t feel judged for being too Jewish or not Jewish enough. It would be even better if that place were my home.

His hand comes to rest over mine on the table and he shushes me. “I apologize, Tzipporah. I’ll try to be more…optimistic.”

An image of Elan frolicking in a field with a crown of daisies on his head nearly makes me laugh. I don’t need him to be some Pollyanna, but a little bit of faith from the man I married wouldn’t hurt.

“I appreciate that. Thank you.”

Despite our détente, we eat with a bare minimum of conversation, my head occupied with all the things I’ll have to do tomorrow: unpacking the rest of my things, office hours, a late seminar. When dinner’s over, Elan helps me clear and clean up the kitchen. Though some of the frum men I know act as though cooking is the women’s domain, nearly all of them help with the aftermath of a meal. And if he hadn’t cooked before, I suppose Elan lost that luxury while Rivka was ill. He told me himself he’s capable of putting together a meal.

After scrubbing the pans, I dry off my hands on the dishtowel and turn to go to bed. I’m exhausted. Elan blocks my path though, his broad shoulders taking up nearly the entire passageway. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have to turn sideways to move about these older apartments with their narrow hallways, or duck through the low doorframes.

“I thought…” He clears his throat, awkwardness personified. “If you weren’t too tired… We might…”

Is he propositioning me? Part of me wants to decline. I’m tired from my long day of classes, from the pressure cooker the kitchen’s become for me, from his wariness. But another part of me stirs. Perhaps sex wouldn’t be a bad idea. An orgasm is a pretty good cure for emotional turmoil and despite discomfiture in other areas, I think we please each other in this one. And it’s good to establish these habits early on, right? Begin as you mean to go on? I have no intention of returning to a sexless marriage.