The Saturday Wife (16 page)

She shrugged. “I can’t answer that. But Josh, my dear, I think we need to be generous. We are, after all, so blessed.” He clasped his hands in front of him and looked at them. “And I think”—she paused delicately—”they might be going through a bit of a transition. You know, being married isn’t so easy for everyone, like it is for us.” She smiled at her husband, who took her hand and kissed it.

He had endless admiration for his wife’s good heart and patience. He told himself that—like the patriarch Abraham—he should heed everything his wife tried to tell him. But this was too much. A whole weekend with those two!

“Can’t we put it off?” he begged.

“It won’t be so bad. You’ll be in the synagogue most of the time anyway. It’s just Friday night and Shabbes afternoon. I can invite some other guests. You won’t even notice them,” she promised, kissing him on the top of his head. “It’s a real mitzva. And we can use all the blessings we can earn right now.”

He put his hand on her growing stomach, and gave in.

Delilah was thrilled. Here was a chance to socialize with another rabbi’s wife. To check out what life was like out in the suburbs with a different kind of congregation, one where little kids ran around, babies cried, and pretty young mothers whispered secrets to one another, showing off their latest new hats and stylish suits. A chance to show off her own latest hat and stylish suit. And most of all, a chance to network.

Chaim, too, was pleased. He liked and admired Josh, despite the unfortunate little incident before his wedding. Josh was considered an
illuyi,
destined for greatness. He was also a good person, who kept to the strict
letter of the law in anything having to do with his ethical and social behavior. He was from a wealthy family but never made a big deal about it, even though it was well known that he had turned his back on taking over his father’s multimillion-dollar diet-drink company to become a struggling rabbi. Josh had never shown him anything but kindness. But the discrepancies in their prospects, backgrounds, and personalities were not conducive to friendship. Josh was royalty. Chaim was one of the peasants. Chaim had always acknowledged this fact without resentment or jealousy, as a given.

The invitation was unexpected.

“But why have they invited us? Why now?” he asked, puzzled.

“She’s been after me for months. I guess she’s lonely. You know she’s always considered me her best friend. And I’m just so busy during the week, I don’t even have time to pick up the phone and talk to her. We never get a chance to see each other. I invited them here, but you know, he can never get away. He’s assistant rabbi, or something,” Delilah said casually, deciding between two outfits. The skirt on one was longer but hugged her behind, as opposed to the one with a looser skirt that hit right above her knees.

“I’m also assistant rabbi. What makes you think
I
can get away?”

“But your grandfather… he wouldn’t stop you. You’ve—we’ve—been here every Saturday for months.” Her voice rose petulantly.

Seeing where this was going, and considering that it really wasn’t too much to ask—he should be flattered and might even enjoy it—Chaim gave in.

They put their suitcases into their little Ford Escort, and drove off.

Delilah looked out the window at the ugly red bricks, the billboards, the housing projects, and the few bedraggled trees on the Drive. She took in the graffiti on the sides of the buildings, the rusting fire escapes, the self-storage units, the eyesore of old bricks painted an appalling red, white, and blue. They passed the White Castle on Bruckner Boulevard; the pawn, cash, and loan stores; the horrid rusting cars raised on pedestals in front of used car dealerships and muffler shops. They passed Co-op City, a housing project that rose like some set in a futuristic horror movie, where a hapless mankind is imprisoned and forced to live like ants in gargantuan prison complexes. And then, suddenly, it was all behind them.

Highway signs flashed by indicating Mount Vernon, one quarter mile; Scarsdale; Mamaroneck. Lakes of mirrorlike water held reflections of
beautiful fall colors from overhanging trees. Bridges reached over the road like filigreed bowers. And all along there were glimpses of huge, wondrous homes, larger than any family could ever need, deserve, or use, nestled on huge private lots. Homes with pumpkins on front lawns, and yellow, red, and green forest trees in backyards. The cars that passed them on the highway were gleaming and rich, with suit jackets hung on backseat hooks, driven by men heading home from upscale Manhattan offices who would park in front of trendy updated farmhouses painted maroon, or renovated Colonials with white siding, trimmed in black shutters: places with manicured bushes and huge artistically placed poinsettia, their red leaves like torches leading up to the front gate.

It was all out there, Delilah thought. Prosperity and peace and success all tied up with a big red bow and a mortgage.

“Are you sure this is it?” Delilah asked Chaim, as they pulled into the driveway. She looked out, disappointed. She’d been hoping for more, while at the same time prepared to feel horribly jealous and put upon if it met her expectations. As it was, it turned out to be a relatively simple and modest brick house on a generous plot of tree-filled property on a quiet cul-de-sac.

It was much nicer inside, Delilah saw immediately. The living room had a fireplace surrounded by rough-hewn stones, with built-in holders for logs. There were oak bookcases, comfortable couches, and a whole separate room just for dining room furniture. “Wow,” Delilah said, when she walked in.

“We didn’t have much choice. We needed something within walking distance to the synagogue, and they didn’t have much on the market. It’s really more than we wanted to spend,” Rivkie said in a rush, almost apologetically.

“You mean you bought it? I thought the synagogue—?”

“No, they only provide a house for the rabbi. Assistant rabbis are on their own. And mostly the bank owns it.” She smiled uncomfortably, already feeling the weekend stretch out ahead of her in endless tedious blocks of time, through which she would have to be on constant guard. She didn’t want Delilah’s envy, or her friendship, or her confidences. She wanted to do the right thing, to offer loving kindness to another human being who seemed troubled and wanted (insisted?) on her intervention and help.

Delilah dressed carefully for dinner, deciding to wear a wig because Rivkie
was wearing a wig.
She put on her most pious suit, the one with the
ankle-grazing skirt, then went downstairs to light Sabbath candles. Rivkie had already set up two candles for her on the tray next to her own elaborate silver candelabra, the traditional gift of a mother-in-law to her daughter-in-law before the wedding. It was gorgeous, and held at least eight candles. Rivkie only lit three. “I’ll add another with each child,” she explained, blushing.

Delilah dutifully lit her candles, waving her hands over the flames, covering her eyes as tradition required. When she finished, she saw that Rivkie was still deep in prayer, her eyes shut, as she silently mouthed heartfelt requests for good health, happiness, and good fortune for everyone she knew, an addendum to the candle-lighting blessing that pious women created for themselves over the centuries, convinced that the heavenly gates of mercy were open wide at that moment in time to the prayers of Jewish women.

Delilah studied her tranquillity, her sincerity, her really, really nice engagement ring, wondering why the words always felt like overchewed gum in her own mouth, a tasteless, meaningless exercise you were only too happy to spit out and be done with. She envied Rivkie her peace of mind, her convictions, the easy way in which things always seemed to work out for the Rivkies of the world. She felt bitter that her own life had been one panting uphill struggle.

It was so unfair. Which is why, she thought, the Rivkies and Joshes of the world were not being generous when they helped people like her, but simply being just. This was the very least they could do. And so when you asked a favor of them, you were simply giving them an opportunity to behave in a way that was required of them, after all. Excessive gratitude was not only unnecessary, it was counterproductive, the heavenly reward for good deeds being inversely proportional to how much praise and fawning gratitude they netted you from the recipients of your largesse. By not falling all over herself to thank them, she’d be doing them a favor, Delilah told herself, getting ready to pursue her latest goal.

But just when the coast seemed clear, someone knocked on the door. It turned out to be the wives of the Talmud Torah teacher and the beadle, both of whom had been invited to dinner, Delilah realized to her chagrin.

She smiled her way through helping to set the table, as the women chattered on about their most recent experiences in their charity work (visiting the sick, helping new mothers, collecting clothes for the poor). When
they turned to her and asked in a friendly way what she was involved in, she said, with great conviction, “Old-age homes.”

Dinner was lively, with lots of singing around the table and many learned discussions among the men, while the women automatically jumped up to clear and serve, without resentment. The women seemed to know each other well and were constantly referring to study groups, exercise classes, and book clubs they were part of. They all lived within a few blocks, no doubt in similar homes, she thought enviously, with big yards and leaves to rake and the smell of burning wood.

Saturday morning they rose early to the singing of birds. Josh and Chaim left for synagogue together, while Rivkie and Delilah had a leisurely breakfast. Delilah tried to be chummy and familiar. Rivkie did her best not to offend her but had no intention of paying for unwanted intimacies by supplying similar information of her own. This annoyed Delilah, but she chalked it up to Rivkie’s boring piety.

The synagogue was packed with young families, baby carriages, toddlers. The other young women greeted Rivkie with warmth, hugging her. They were gracious to Delilah as Rivkie’s guest. It was like being back in school again, Delilah thought, except, being the rabbi’s wife, you would never get left behind on the punchball fields without being chosen. They’d have to pick you. In fact, you’d be the captain, and you’d pick them, your attention and affection a prize to bestow on the fortunate. You were important, because the rabbi was important. And holy. Don’t forget holy. If he was holy, so was she, she thought, smoothing her hair beneath her hat and pulling down her skirt. Yes, this is what it would be like to be the rabbi’s wife in a real congregation, one that was filled with potential celebrations instead of tragic losses.

Kiddush after the service was catered in a large and airy social hall. In honor of the day’s Bar Mitzva boy, there were trays of piping hot potato, noodle, and spinach kugels; individual quiches; platters of vegetables with dips; and fresh salmon on beds of parsley. The dessert table held giant fruit displays, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and beautiful little petits fours.

They were so full by the time they reached home, they couldn’t even imagine lunch. But there it was, a beautiful buffet laid out in all Rivkie’s
best Mikasa wedding china. Thankfully, there were no other guests. She felt happy and sleepy and content, unwilling to pressure her hosts or disrupt the pleasant atmosphere. There’d be time for that later, she told herself.

And as they lay down for the traditional Saturday-afternoon nap in the comfortable guest room, which smelled of lavender and newly ironed sheets, she realized just how lonely she’d been the last few months. And just how much she really hated the Bronx, her apartment, and the synagogue full of old people.

She reached across the bed, taking Chaim’s hand. “Are you having a good time, Chaim?”

Half asleep, he murmured, “I suppose so. But I prefer the city.”

She drew back, scowling. In the dappled shadows of the afternoon, his figure in the bed suddenly didn’t seem human anymore. He seemed like a bottle wrapped in cloth. And his head was the bottleneck, she realized, something she would have to pull herself through, kicking and screaming, to get where she wanted to go.