The Saturday Wife (40 page)

“That’s peanuts! Did you read about that music producer who built an entire synagogue in the south of France just for his son’s Bar Mitzva and
afterward just took it apart? He flew in Beyoncé Knowles and Justin Timberlake!” Delilah said delightedly. “I read all about it in
People
magazine at my last gynecologist’s appointment.”

Joie lifted her head. “Oh,” she said, “that does sound like fun!”

“But does it sound to you like a
religious
occasion?” Solange tilted her head.

“Doesn’t it?” Joie looked at Delilah, who was already deep in daydreams, envisioning herself in a pink bikini lolling about on the beaches of Cannes. She looked up, suddenly realizing that everyone was staring at her, waiting for an answer.

“I can’t see anything wrong with it,” Delilah said.

Solange looked puzzled. “But didn’t Rabbi Chaim say he was against this kind of thing?”

“Why do you say that?” Delilah felt her underarms break out in sweat.

“Well, he gave a whole sermon about it about a month ago. Were you there, Amber?”

“Oh, yes,
that
sermon.” She arched her brow.

“Oh, sure!” Delilah nodded. “I know what you are talking about now,” she said, her mind a complete blank. “But I don’t think he was talking about the same thing.”

“No? Then what did he mean when he said that these kids end up spending two years going to multiple parties every weekend, that they get used to drinking and eating too much and getting all these party favors, so that afterward when the parties stop, they are just so blasé about everything they wind up taking drugs and getting into all kinds of trouble just to keep themselves amused?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what he said,” Mariette agreed. “I remember, because a lot of people were complaining about it afterward. People who’d had Bar and Bat Mitzvas. They were very hurt!”

“Well, you see, I’m sure you misunderstood, because there is
no ivay
Rabbi Chaim would
ever
say anything controversial that would hurt people’s feelings,” Delilah pointed out, relieved. “He probably meant they shouldn’t attend too many every weekend. But one would be all right.”

“So you are saying that your husband is in favor of a Bar Mitzva party like the one in France, the one that cost millions?”

“I think I can safely say that my husband would never condemn anyone because of how much money they have, or if they wanted to spend it
on fulfilling one of God’s commandments. You know, there is this concept of… of”—she thought back to her yeshiva days, desperately searching for solid ground—”of
hedoor mitzva.”

The women tilted their heads quizzically.

“It’s the idea that you should go a little overboard when you’re doing God’s commandments. Like… let me see—you know, like choosing an
etrog
for Succoth.”

Joie looked at her blankly. “Succoth?
Etrog
?”

“Oh, it’s the Feast of Tabernacles, a seven-day holiday in which we are supposed to ‘dwell in booths.’ So we make this little hut, a sukkah, outside our homes, and we let the sun bake our heads, the rain and snow fall in our soup,” Delilah went on.

“Whatever for?” Joie shook her head.

“Oh, uhm. Well,” Delilah racked her brain. “It’s… it’s supposed to teach us to have faith in God. And that a home, no matter how solid and expensive, can’t really save you from the rain or the sun… .”

Joie blinked, looking back at her house. “That’s exactly what a home
can
do.”

“Yes, I know. But—”

“What she means, my dear, is that living in a flimsy hut for a week is supposed to make us understand that we need His help and protection, because, you know, a house can be gone in an instant. Hurricanes, floods, tornadoes,” Mariette told her, nodding sagely. “Isn’t that what you were going to say, Delilah?”

“For sure. Now, where was I? Oh, the
etrog
—that’s a citron. It looks just like a lemon, except it doesn’t have any juice, and not much taste, but it smells heavenly. For some reason, the Bible chooses the citron, and a few other things, to symbolize the holiday. You are supposed to hold them in your hands and shake them in all directions.”

Joie blinked.

“Well, anyhow, God says to take a citron, any old citron. But people decided it would honor God more if we made an effort to find the
perfect
citron, the one with no spots or blemishes. One perfectly shaped, not too big or too small. And sometimes, people go around with magnifying glasses when they shop for their citron. They can spend thousands of dollars on one. They think it’s a way of honoring God. You could say the same thing about going over the top in a Bar Mitzva.”

Solange and Felice looked at each other, their mouths falling open.

Mariette shook her head. “You can’t be serious! I was once at this Bat Mitzva in the Plaza Hotel. To enter the reception, you had to pass through a corridor lined with eight-by-ten-foot photos of this twelve-year-old girl doing various dance and acrobatic moves. I mean, I applaud the concept in theory. But a twelve-year-old girl really shouldn’t be blown up to eight by ten feet. She had braces and acne. And when we got into the reception, there were all these well-known chefs standing at different serving stations, preparing food. There were fountains of champagne. And when we were finally stuffed to the gills and sat down, the lights were lowered. And there comes this litter, supported by six-foot “slaves” in loincloths, and on top is the Bat Mitzva girl dressed like Cleopatra. And then it
really
got ostentatious,” Mariette said. “That can’t possibly be a good thing spiritually. You didn’t mean that seriously, did you, Delilah dear?”

“Well,” Delilah swallowed, feeling herself challenged, “at least it’s something that little girl will remember, isn’t it? Maybe she’ll remember what fun she had and want her own daughter to have a Bat Mitzva!”

“That’s good enough for me!” Joie nodded. “You know, I have to be honest with you all, this wasn’t something I was looking forward to, but now I can truthfully say it’s going to be great fun! The only question is where to do it.” She chewed softly on the nail of her forefinger, deep in thought.

“What about Israel?” Solange suggested.

“Oh, I… don’t… .” Joie shook her head.

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, you can’t get prime ribs in Israel,” Felice pointed out. “Ask my husband. He goes on and on about how skinny the cows are there.”

“And if you forget something, there’s no Lord and Taylor or Nordstrom’s,” Amber said. “You’re stuck.”

“I had a different kind of place in mind. Something spiritual, with lots of sea and sand and sky,” Joie explained.

Solange cleared her throat. “You know, Joie, Israel is on the Mediterranean coast. There are miles and miles of beaches there.”

“Is that true? I had no idea!”

“It’s also a very spiritual place. It’s a holy place to three major world religions,” Solange went on, heating up.

“But Joie doesn’t mean
that
kind of spiritual!” Delilah stood up.

Solange looked at her, shocked. “Don’t you think Israel is the most appropriate place for a Bar Mitzva, Delilah?”

“Well, sure, if you want to go that way.”

“What other ‘way’ is there?”

“I just mean, that different people get spiritually worked up about different things. Now, you might feel spiritual about Jerusalem. But Joie might feel spiritual about a beach in Barbados, or the Dominican Republic, or the Cayman Islands.”

“Ooh, that’s a great idea, Delilah! We could fly everyone down and rent a whole wing at a resort. Put up a tent on the beach!”

“That does sound nice,” Amber agreed.

“It sounds fabulous, Joie. Just fabulous.” Felice nodded.

In the end, everyone agreed, even Solange, who was as sick as everyone else of the icy Connecticut winter and needed a tan. You couldn’t, after all, wear a bathing suit at the Wailing Wall.

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun! Thanks everybody so much for your help!” Joie kissed them on both cheeks and gave Delilah’s hand a special secret squeeze.

Delilah gratefully squeezed her back.

TWENTY-FIVE

I
n the beginning, Delilah had been panic-stricken that Joie’s newfound acceptance into the community would water down, or destroy, their own special relationship. But that hadn’t happened. In fact, Joie seemed to want to be even closer to Delilah, taking her shopping and buying her extravagant gifts—like a Louis Vuitton handbag, the famous monogram in striking colors on a white background, with tan leather handles and little gold zippers and locks that didn’t actually lock anything. It was fabulous,

“Chaim, look at this!” she said, overcome with joy, caressing it.

He took his head out of his book. “A handbag.”

She rolled her eyes, “Not just any handbag. It’s a Louis Vuitton Damier Speedy Alma from the canvas multicolor collection. It costs a fortune.”

He put down his book. “It’s very nice. So I guess your
chesed
project is going well then?”

“
Chesed
project?” she looked at him blankly.

“Designer Handbags for Terror Victims. That’s what it’s for, right?”

As if. She clutched it to her breast. “No, it’s a gift. To me. From Joie.”

“A gift? And it costs a fortune, you say? Exactly how much of a fortune are we talking about?” he asked, looking at her steadily.

“I don’t know,” she lied. She knew exactly how much, since she had looked it up in the on-line catalog.

“Well, if it’s over a hundred dollars, you really shouldn’t accept it.”

“Over a hundred dollars?” she looked at him contemptuously. “You can’t get a Louis Vuitton key ring for a hundred dollars.”

“How much, Delilah?”

“One thousand five hundred thirty-nine dollars and fifty-three cents.”

“What?” he exploded. “You can’t accept a gift like that! It’s going back.”

“She’d be deeply hurt and offended. And embarrassed. Don’t our sages tell us that embarrassing someone is almost as bad as killing them?” She tucked the handbag protectively under her arm.

“Then you’ll have to add it to your
chesed
project. How many bags do you have already?”

She had a cheapo Prada pink begonia pouchette that Solange had unloaded, a
very
old classic quilted Chanel in a horrible dark blue from Mariette, and a beat-up Fendi from Amber in some weird lilac shade. Felice had been the only one who’d come across with something she’d coveted: a silver snakeskin and leather Argent bag, which was actually cute, if you liked silver snakeskin. “I’ve got a few,” she answered defensively.

“How many, Delilah?”

“Four. So far.”

“That’s it?” Chaim said. “After all these months? Only four? Think about it, Delilah! How is it going to look if you suddenly show up with an expensive designer handbag in front of all these people you’ve been asking to donate? You are going to make us a laughingstock, or worse.”

She fingered the handbag thoughtfully. She hadn’t thought of that. He was right, she realized. She didn’t answer him. But the next day, she told the babysitter to stay a few extra hours. She rode Amtrak to Penn Station and then took the subway to Canal Street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. She walked down the street, humming, looking into the crowded shops filled with Oriental merchandise.

It didn’t take long.

“Psst. Youbyvuton?” Little Chinese women clutching cell phones accosted her on every street corner, looking like extras in one of those Japanese
kung fu mafia flicks. “I ge goo pri!” they insisted, in reassuring tones. She nodded, allowing herself to be whisked off to a side street. The woman whipped out a laminated page with every Louis Vuitton handbag imaginable. She spotted the Alma.

“How much?” she said, pointing.

“Forty dolla!”

“That’s high!”

“OK. Thirty dolla. Goo pri for you?”

She nodded. “I’ll take one of those and one of these,” she said, pointing to another model, in black with colored letters.

The woman returned with a plain plastic bag. Inside were the two handbags.

“Sixty bucks?”