The Saturday Wife (10 page)

Some of the younger married women also wore wigs, but they were long and smooth and sexy, in daring shades of blond and red, bouncing around their shoulders as they walked or danced. But mostly, unlike their mothers, they wore fashionable head scarves tied with exotic panache the way girls out on the settlements do in Israel. They wore flashing engagement rings and matching diamond wedding bands, and intricate gold necklaces with matching bracelets from H. Stern or Fortunoff.

The singles in their late teens and early twenties, cousins and friends of the bride and groom, milled around, shooting each other shy, searching looks. The young men’s hair had been cut, their beards trimmed or their cheeks newly shaved. They wore dark suits and ties like the groom—except for the Israelis, who came in inappropriate sweaters, or short-sleeved white shirts with no ties, and pants that didn’t really fit. On their heads they sported dark wide-brimmed hats, or crocheted skullcaps with geometric designs, or the silly white yarmulkes left in a basket by the door for those who had come in with nothing at all.

The girls they eyed so optimistically had just been to the beauty salons or had blow-dried their hair themselves until their arms ached. They’d had their nails done and their eyebrows tweezed and wore makeup that ranged from an artistic touch here and there to heavy coats of every conceivable goo and paste.

They wore long dresses from the post-Christmas reduced racks at Lord & Taylor, Macy’s, and Filene’s. Or well-cut suits from Ann Taylor or Talbot’s petite section, which are hardly ever on sale, and then only in size two or fourteen. They wore gold bangle bracelets and little shiny gold necklaces with five-cornered stars, or Chai or names like Sarah, Rivka, Chana, and Rachel spelled out in golden Hebrew letters made by Israeli jewelers.

And then there were the outcasts, the great unwashed, the children of cousins whom one simply cannot uninvite; who always show up at family celebrations in lesser or greater numbers, dressed in jeans and sneakers and uncombed hair or low-cut dresses with sequins missing; who look like they have just gotten up from the couch after watching a Sunday movie and who never seem to feel underdressed or out of place or even aware of the chagrin and pain their insulting carelessness is causing their hosts. They are the people everyone does their best to pretend aren’t there at all, particularly those who invited them.

Toward the back, away from the band, in the best seating area, sat the small cluster of Gentiles: the black woman in a sleeveless Donna Karan dress, looking fabulous; the long-haired programmers; the short red-haired accountant. They smiled with discomfort at one another and the people around them, wide-eyed in the fashion of tourists to Indian reservations, who are anxious to observe the folkways of the natives with stalwart respect.

Teeming hordes of children, looking well-combed and uncomfortable in their shiny, stiff shoes and elaborate outfits, chased one another around the hall, stealing cakes and nuts off plates like locusts, tugging at their parents’ legs. The little boys ran wild in white shirts and manly ties, while the little girls wore either miniature versions of whorish fad fashions or old-fashioned picture-book dresses that made them look like dolls.

Up and back they ran, holding sloshing glasses of Coca-Cola, which they refilled at an alarming rate, pushing aside the older men, who waited patiently and diffidently to ask for their glass of scotch and a glass of semidry white wine or rum Coke for their wives. The women would drink half a glass and put it down, already feeling themselves growing dizzy and drowsy from the unaccustomed experiment with alcohol that didn’t consist of one sip from a communal wineglass Friday night.

There was mixed seating—that is, men and women, husbands and wives and children, all seated at the same tables. But there was also a small
section in the rear with a
mechitzah,
so that the more distinguished rabbis wouldn’t be forced to sit with their wives. The rebbitzins sat together with their marriageable daughters, all wishing to make a public display of adherence to the most pious stringencies in Jewish law, stringencies invented by the fortunate men who sat all day in study halls and thus had all the time in the world to rescue God from His horrible mistakes in neglecting to include such laws in His Torah and Talmud.

The men’s tables included the elderly rabbis and their sons and grandsons, and even some of the more
farchnyokt
friends of the groom, who looked over the elderly scholars the way some men ogle single girls, savoring the possibilities. The thrill of talking to the great Rabbi So-and-so! How they would astonish their friends (and perhaps some unlucky prospective bride on some far-off
shidduch
date) with this tale. How they had brought up some intricate point of law and how the great Rabbi So-and-so had cocked his head and nodded approval as he listened, spellbound, to an explication. Imagine!

Religious men are the worst name-droppers. They will spend half a date regaling you with their exploits in cornering some octogenarian who is—or one day might be—a member of the Council of Sages, whose photos or garish oil portraits appear on posters in Crown Heights, Williamsburg, Geulah, and Bnei Brak like rock stars.

But if a man isn’t interested in women before he has a wife, in all likelihood he is bound to be even less interested once he gets one. So any single guy at a wedding who prefers to sit next to bearded sages is not, generally speaking, a good marital prospect.

You see them sometimes, walking four paces in front of their wives and children in parks and zoos during the Intermediate Days of Festivals like Succoth and Passover, barely turning their heads to catch what their wives are saying. They are the ones who take the seat next to the cabdriver, leaving their wives to manage the task of stuffing themselves, a baby, a two-year-old, a carriage, and luggage into the back.

The single girls made their way around the hall, searching for someone who would give them a ride home. That is always the most urgent need when attending a Jewish wedding in Manhattan. You simply do not want to ride out to Brooklyn or Queens on the New York City subway system after 10
P.M.
In fact, you do not want to ride anywhere on the New York City subway system at any time, period. The second reason, though, was always more important. You wanted to walk out with your pick from the
most eligible single men, ensuring a good hour alone with him. It was considered a party favor, much more urgent and useful than catching the bride’s bouquet.

Everyone agreed that the singles crowd at Delilah’s wedding was promising, filled with Bernstein and Yeshiva University students, candidates for rabbinical ordination, and third-year dental, law, and medical school students, not to mention the few who already had their degrees in science, engineering, and accounting.

The music began, and Chaim, held at either elbow by his smiling father and chuckling father-in-law, was escorted toward his bride for the bedecking ceremony. He walked clumsily, his legs trembling, his face serious and intent, giving the appearance of one being dragged to his fate, as his friends clapped and sang all around him.

Delilah sat on a throne, flowers strewn around her, her face radiant with triumph. The blond down on her face caught the light, bathing her in a kind of golden shine like those photos of Marilyn Monroe, making her irresistibly beautiful and desirable. You could see the men in that room skip a step and miss a clap as they neared her, breathless.

Chaim too. He seemed mesmerized. The moment when the Jewish groom traditionally avoids Jacob’s error by looking carefully into the bride’s face to be sure it is really her and not her plain elder sister, before covering her face with the veil, went on almost embarrassingly long. Chaim just kept staring until finally, with an almost imperceptible look of exasperation, the bride finally reached up and pulled the veil down herself.

Delilah’s wholesale gown was lovely, a luxurious silk satin, covered with beaded lace, with a long lace-edged train and little puffed lace sleeves tied at her upper arms with a bow. Many religious girls tend to line such sleeves. Obviously, Delilah had opted to skip it, and her flesh shone through the lace like honey. On her head she wore a little hat, like a medieval queen’s headdress—very original—covered with the same lace and a double veil of stiff netting.

There were some frowns of disapproval among the older wig-and hat-wearers about the lacy sleeves, but if Delilah noticed she certainly didn’t seem to care. She floated down the aisle with the joyous self-congratulation of a Camilla Parker-Bowles while on either side her mother and mother-in-law, carrying candles, made attempts to keep up with her.

Mrs. Goldgrab’s face was like an enormous twinkling ornament atop a Christmas tree. Swathed in her sequined rose-colored gown, she threw
smiles and waves in all directions. Chaim’s mother, on the other hand, walked with her head down, staring at her shoes, an aggravated smile pasted on her lips.

Some of the guests stood or sat attentively through the long ceremony with its many blessings, while others retreated to their places at the tables to examine the first course—a cold dish left waiting on the table so as to hurry the festivities along, ensuring the surly waiters an early exit.

It was a nice ceremony, very traditional, conducted by the groom’s venerable grandfather, whose hand shook as he handed the wine-filled silver goblet to the groom, who handed it to his father, who handed it to his mother, who finally lifted the bride’s veil and helped her take a sip. Two drops fell slowly, barely noticeable except to the most discerning and those looking for bad omens, staining the white lace.

Escorted by musicians and the dancing, singing friends of the ecstatic bridegroom, the young couple were led off to a private
yichud
room, as was the custom, for their half hour of alone time before rejoining the festivities.

In the meantime, the first course, following the cold plate, was served, a choice of salmon filet or chicken livers in a phyllo dough. And although everyone was already stuffed from the buffet, they opened their mouths wide and devoured this too as everyone waited for the young couple to rejoin the festivities so the dancing could begin.

Rivkie, who had come with a much put-upon and reluctant Josh, was on her way to the bathroom when she noticed Delilah sitting alone on a couch in the lobby, just staring at the tiny wine stain on her dress, rubbing it with her finger. She seemed slightly pale. Chaim was nowhere to be seen.

“Beautiful wedding!” Rivkie called out to her tentatively.

Delilah smiled in vague acknowledgment.

“Where’s your new husband?”

Delilah looked up. “Oh, Chaim? He went to talk to a rabbi, some urgent problem—God knows what now. You know, they delayed the ceremony half an hour because one of the letters in the marriage contract wasn’t clear enough? Or maybe it was the date. Try to get a roomful of rabbis to agree on anything… and nothing moves until they make up their minds.” She shrugged. She seemed listless. “Are you having a good time?”

“Wonderful. Everything is beautiful. The food is great. I love the band… and your dress is heavenly.”

She brightened. “They stained it with the wine, but I’m sure dry cleaning can
get it out.
Not that I’ll be needing it again anytime soon.” She
laughed, but you could tell she didn’t think it was particularly funny.

And then Chaim showed up, a little sweaty and nervous, with a big smile. Behind him were photographers and friends and a man carrying a flute.

Seeing the crowd, a transformation came over Delilah. Like a toy with a new battery, she bounced up, daringly taking Chaim’s hand—bride and groom traditionally avoiding physical contact in public—as the cameras clicked away. Color flooded her cheeks. She threw back her head and laughed as the music started up, dancing her way into the banquet hall. Then everyone got up to form circles, the women bearing away the bride, and the men the groom. As they parted Chaim turned, looking back longingly in her direction.

Delilah stared eagerly straight ahead, never looking back at all.

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