The Saturday Wife (31 page)

A rabbi’s daughter who had wound up at Harvard Business School, she had come up with the brilliant idea of putting pushcarts along the center aisles of malls, in which she sold everything from back massagers to pearl jewelry, amassing countless millions. She had actually been written up in
Fortune
as one of America’s foremost entrepreneurs. There had been three husbands, the first two long gone and forgotten. She had a number of children away at college, leaving behind only her baby, now a pimply sixteen-year-old sophomore in the local yeshiva high school. She had sold half her shares in her thirties and had been pursuing a life of leisure ever since. Her current spouse, Ari, was the son of Israelis who had left the country when Ari wras ten in search of the American dream. And although Ari had been back only twice in the last twenty years to visit his grand-mother and relatives, he considered himself the resident expert on anything to do with Israeli politics, culture, or economics, insisting on having the last word on Middle East history and politics. He was at least fifteen years younger than Felice, the only man on the board who still had all his hair in its original color.

“I hope I’m not too late to help,” Mariette Rolland said briskly, as she walked in alone. Her husband, Joseph, the heart specialist, was a man whom no one ever actually saw, although his existence was a well-established rumor. Mariette was cover-girl beautiful, with strawberry-blond hair cut into a shoulder-length bob.

A clinical psychologist with a thriving practice, she was also the mother of four children—a fifteen-year-old son and three very beautiful daughters aged sixteen through twenty-three, the oldest of whom was already married and the mother of two babies.

She was also very kind. She never gossiped. She contributed generously to every imaginable charity, as well as baking cakes for them, and opening her home for countless fund-raisers. She gave dinner parties for her husband’s medical colleagues. She ran support groups for women with
osteoporosis. She volunteered at battered women’s shelters, taught quilting, and took gourmet cooking classes. All this, she managed single-handedly as her husband jet-setted all over the globe, attending medical conferences and tending to an international roster of patients, including a member of the Saudi royal family, making him one of the few Jews to have gone in and out of that country alive.

Mariette did it all with aplomb, patience, good nature, and good cheer. She was also one of the few women who insisted on a token head covering for her hair, out of respect for the rabbinical injunction. She always found the perfect hat to match every single one of her perfect outfits, which was in itself enough to make you want her dead.

“Delilah, how are you? Tell me how I can help. Oh, look at the baby! Such a little darling. How was the birth?”

“Oh, it was an amazing spiritual experience. You know, I didn’t have any drugs. I had this doula. And I never felt closer to God, believe me. I felt He was directly responsible for everything that was happening to me.”

“How inspiring! Usually a first birth is pretty difficult,” Mariette said, impressed.

“It all depends on your spiritual strength.” Delilah nodded.
“Baruch Hashem.
It’s an experience I’ll never forget. In fact, I’m thinking about giving a
shiur
about it.”

“Mariette, that’s such a lovely suit! Wherever did you find it?” Amber asked enviously.

“I got it in this little shop in passy the last time I was in Paris.” She sighed mournfully.

Mariette’s married daughter lived in Paris, so she had a perfect, morally iron-clad reason to travel there often. In between her shopping trips to the Galeries Lafayette, there were often side jaunts to Provence and the French Riviera. But she made it a point to disavow any enjoyment from her travels. “I am counting the days until my family finds their way back to America, or even to Israel, believe me!” she’d say fervently, shaking her head as she fingered the exquisite rose-shaped sequined buttons on her suit jacket—such as can only be found in Paris. “Such anti-Semites,” she’d murmur, shrugging helplessly, steadying her upper lip. “But what can I do? She’s my daughter.” In answer to any question that broached the subject of when her daughter was actually planning on leaving France, she’d exhale slowly, explaining for the umpteenth time that there was a business that needed to be sold, some big factory her son-in-law had inherited,
was now in charge of, and was unfortunately unable to sell. “Everyone has their burdens.” She’d smile bravely, planning her next trip.

There was the obligatory oohing and aahing over the sleeping infant, who slept under the watchful eye of the au pair, who stood by ready to whisk him out of sight and hearing range the moment he showed any actual signs of life.

EIGHTEEN

D
elilah, look who I’ve brought,” Chaim said cheerfully as he walked in from shul, accompanied by the Malins and two women. Delilah walked over to him, a big smile on her face. She gave the strangers—whom she assumed were shul strays—the barest of smiles and an offhand nod, before turning her attention fully to the Malins.

“Solange, Arthur, thanks so much for the beautiful carriage! And for hosting my dearest friend! I can’t wait to see her!”

A strange look came over Solange. “You’re very welcome, Delilah. Your
friends
also couldn’t wait to see you!” she said, gesturing pointedly toward the strangers.

“Don’t you recognize me, Delilah? It’s me, Tzippy.”

Delilah took in the woman’s gelled black hair that stood up in spikes, the ends tinted blond, the low-cut vintage dress, the chains with numerous symbols. For a split second, the rather overweight, studious girl with glasses she remembered from high school peeked out at her.

“Tzippy? Is that really you?” she said in a tiny, hoarse voice. She felt breathless, as if she’d swallowed a fish bone and was afraid of inhaling it into her lungs.

“Yes, it’s really me. And this is Fréderique.” She reached out, threading her fingers lovingly through the hand of a petite blonde in a red pantsuit and bringing it to her lips.

Delilah froze in horror.

A gay person in the Orthodox community is like a beer-guzzling Muslim in a mosque: totally impossible for the faithful to publicly embrace. While the rest of the world might have moved on, and even certain Reform and Conservative Jewish congregations in New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Boston might have graciously finessed their way around it, most people in the religious Jewish world continued to view homosexuality in biblical terms, i.e., as an abomination worthy of, if not currently punishable by, stoning. The more widespread its acceptance, the more Orthodox religious leaders pointed to it as proof of the current decadence of modern life, and to themselves as guardians of the last bastion left standing against it. The depth of one’s horrified rejection was often the yardstick to one’s piety.

“It’s so good to see you! Mazel tov on the baby!” Tzippy went on cheerfully, oblivious, hugging her. “I don’t know if this is the right time to announce it—I know you’re not supposed to mix one
simcha
with another—but I just can’t resist: I also have a mazel tov coming to me!” she looked lovingly at Fréderique. “We’re engaged!” she announced. “We hope to have a commitment ceremony as soon as our rabbi gives birth. We’d be honored if you’d be one of our chuppah holders.”

People standing within hearing range turned astonished faces in their direction. Delilah shrank.

“I was really surprised you called. Frankly, I’m not in touch with most of the girls we grew up with anymore. Nothing personal, just, you know, nothing in common. And even my family—well, you can imagine. Inter-marriage is bad enough. But intermarriage with a same-sex partner who’s Catholic and French—which is almost as bad as being German these days—was too much for them. So we thought it was a pretty important statement, didn’t we, Fréderique? I mean, you being the rabbi’s wife and all of an Orthodox congregation and still being willing to invite us and introduce us to your community as your friends.”

“
Best
friends,” Solange said slowly. “Isn’t that what you said, Delilah?”

“She told you that?” Tzippy beamed at Fréderique, who beamed back. “I had a pretty big crush on her too.”

Delilah stepped back, dizzy, rapidly reevaluating all those times she’d worn her bikini and shared a beach blanket with Tzippy during the summer of her sophomore year.

“
Bon soir,
I’ve heard a lot about you,” Fréderique said, looking her up and down. “And it was all true.”

Delilah touched her sweating forehead.

“Is that French I’m hearing?” Mariette called from the other side of the room. “
Ça va?
” she ventured, moving toward them, smiling. Having used up her entire French vocabulary except for
How much? My size is the American size eight,
and
Give me a low-calorie soft drink,
Mariette returned to English. “I’m afraid my French is pretty bad,” she said. It was not. It was nonexistent. “So, are you two roommates? I remember how much fun it was when I was in college to bunk with a roommate—”

“Yes, we live together, but not as roommates,” Tzippy began instructively, as if she were about to deliver the main address at the Gay Pride parade.

Delilah suddenly plucked her peacefully sleeping infant unceremoniously out of his carriage. He howled.

“Oh, what do you know? He’s hungry again. And I just fed him! What an appetite!” Delilah said in a booming voice over the baby’s screams, putting an end to all conversation. “Chaim, why don’t you seat everyone? I’ll just feed him and be back in a jiffy.” She ran up the stairs to the bedroom.

Felice arched a brow, while Solange and Amber went silent, staring at their feet. The lesbians and the disappearing act were bad enough, but nothing compared to not having provided place cards and having left the responsibility for seating in the hands of a husband at the last minute. That could only be characterized by one hyphenated word: low-class.

Chaim looked anxiously around at the knots of people, wondering how to untie them and where they were supposed to go.

“What a wonderful idea!” Mariette declared brightly. “So much better than boring place cards. This way, we can all decide. You don’t mind, Rabbi Chaim, if we take it out of your hands? Now, let’s see, I am dying to sit right next to Arthur—you don’t mind, Solange, do you? And why
don’t you and Stuart sit over here. And Felice, you and Amber can be here, next to Chaim’s mother and father. And Mrs. Goldgrab, what about here?” Mariette kindly and charmingly filled in for her AWOL hostess, making it all seem like great fun, instead of a major screw-up. “Tzippy, Fréderique, why don’t you sit together over
here
,” she said, placing them firmly in one corner with smiling efficiency so no one would be forced to speak to them.

Delilah leaned up against the bedroom door. The baby flailed, moist and angry, getting justifiably redder and more furious by the minute. She undid her bra and compressed her generous nipple into its tiny mouth, effectively shutting him up.

A dyke, she thought with horror. Tzippy Rosenfeld, who’d sat next to her in
chumash
class learning all about the Temple offerings! Quiet, unattractive, frizzy-haired Tzippy, full of sardonic humor no one got! And she’d been introduced to the Swallow Lake board
as the rebbitzin’s dearest friend!

Delilah sat down, her nipple aching from all the unaccustomed tugging. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as she thought. Perhaps not everyone had overheard them. As for the hand-holding, after all, good women friends often held hands as a sign of innocent affection, didn’t they? And lots of people dressed strangely these days. It was Britney Spears pollution. Chaim certainly didn’t seem as if he’d noticed anything strange. But she got scant comfort from that. First, because he never noticed anything, and second, because even if he had he’d still be incapable of snubbing someone, anyone, even if his life—or, more importantly, his job—depended on it.

And then, finally, another realization dawned on her: They’d be staying overnight at the Malins! Although she was fuzzy on the details—what, in heaven’s name, was there for two women to do with each other, after all?—a cold shudder of terror crawled up her spine. What if they woke Solange or Arthur’s mother, who would discover them in flagrante delicto?