The Saturday Wife (44 page)

The bathing suit was nice but, given his experience with keeping high-maintenance girlfriends happy, he knew it had been found on a bargain rack in an expensive department store because of some fluke of size or color or style that didn’t mesh with popular taste. Yet it looked wonderful on her. She had the knack, which very few women have, of making clothes her own so that you couldn’t imagine them on anyone else. No one would look at her and say, What a beautiful bathing suit! They’d say, What a beautiful woman!

He was quite surprised to see her at the pool in this state of undress. He knew she was careful never to put herself outside the religious pale. Nothing too low-cut or sleeveless or far above the knees. And her hair was always covered. He blessed his good luck as he studied her slim ankles and shapely calves, her curvy wide hips and slim waist, with just the right absence of any excess fat to make her truly delicious. She was turning to talk
to the women on all sides who had gathered around her, her head high, her smile and laugh animated, her expression alternately amazed or scandalized, while all the while her eyes cast furtive, searching glances around her that acknowledged and ignored the male appreciation being beamed at her from all directions.

“Like some more sunscreen, honey?” Mariette offered her husband, as she covered her nose with white goo.

He jerked back to reality. “Huh! Oh, ah. Well. Sure. Thanks, Mariette,” he murmured, allowing her to massage it into his chest. He saw Delilah glance up and stare in his direction. He nodded and waved. Mariette turned around to see who it was he was greeting. She saw Delilah lying there in her bathing suit, and her eyes narrowed.

Delilah lowered her head. Mariette had her hands full, she thought, flattered and scandalized. He was sort of cute though, she thought, in a very subdued and older-man kind of way. He looked as if he had had lots and lots of experience. But even those men eventually find their perfect match and settle down. Look at Warren Beatty. Look at Michael Douglas. Of course, they were usually close to sixty and being blown off by chorus girls when it finally happened, but
c’est la vie.
He was old enough to be her…
sugar daddy,
a small voice inside piped up. She gave the idea a slap to see if it would howl and go away, but it didn’t. It just gave a squeak, to prove that it was real and flexible.

But even Delilah Levi had her limits, she told herself. Besides, if it was just money she was after, there were plenty of ways to get it. And plenty of younger men who had it.

She put on her robe, turning her attention to the small group that had gathered around her as the women of Ohel Aaron zeroed in on their favorite rebbitzin, the one who had made it possible for them to leave behind the freezing cold Connecticut winter for a few days on this ultimate, all-expenses-paid dream vacation in Hawaii.

Those lucky enough to find empty chairs near her sat down as if they were at the Western Wall and had finally maneuvered their way into touching distance of the holy stones. The others crowded in nearby, having no choice but to content themselves with turning their bodies in her direction so they could catch her every word and perhaps seize an opportunity to participate in the conversation. And when they looked at Delilah, they couldn’t believe they’d never noticed how beautiful she was: a golden girl, her skin turning a little bronze as it tanned under expensive sun cream,
supplied in the gift basket each guest had found in their room. Beautiful and young and wise. And smart! And funny! Why, they found themselves laughing and laughing at the least little roll of her eye or slightly raised inflection of her voice. They adored Delilah Levi, so kind and friendly and down-to-earth! Not one of those hypocritical fanatics whom everyone had to tiptoe around in case they bumped into her halo.

And Delilah liked them, for the most part. But not enough to put herself out. She was content to smile with noblesse oblige as she accepted offers of chocolate-covered macadamia nuts and
Cosmopolitan
magazines. She closed her eyes, letting the sunlight dance on her lids, listening to the sound of the waves crashing soothingly on the white beach sand below the pool.

As all religious people know, there are two ways to take any fortunate event that occurs in your life. The first is to accept it as a pure blessing from God, a reward for numerous good deeds. The second is to view it as God’s way of emptying your mitzva-reward bank account, as He readies the roof to fall in upon your head for your sins.

But Delilah wasn’t thinking about either possibility. She was simply living in the present, imagining it would go on this way forever.

TWENTY-EIGHT

T
he next morning they gathered on the beach as instructed, waiting to be borne off to the mysterious venue of the Bar Mitzva to end all Bar Mitzvas. At that point, everyone was so psyched up, only a few would have been surprised if the ground had opened up and a rocket had emerged from an underground silo ready to launch them to the moon.

“Have you figured out the theme?” Amber asked Mariette, who shook her head.

Every Bar and Bat Mitzva has to have a theme. Becoming responsible for your deeds is such a downer. So people have a gangster theme, with each table commemorating another Jewish crook or murderer. Or a shopping theme, with each table representing a different store: Bergdorf’s, Nordstrom’s, Lord & Taylor. Or a Greek theme—which is a bit problematic, considering that Jews annually celebrate the victory of the Maccabees over the vicious Heilenization program that almost destroyed Judaism—but, hey, togas are so cute.

People were still not sure what the Shammanovs’ theme was.

“First, I thought it would be maybe
Eighty Days Around the World.
But then you’d need a hot-air balloon, and I don’t see any,” Mariette said, scanning the area.

“It could be
Swiss Family Robinson
” Felice murmured.

Just then they spied the sails in the distance, as a flotilla of boats headed toward shore and landed, one by one. Burly, handsome sailors, their tanned and muscled thighs set off perfectly by white shorts, jumped out to haul the boats in. One by one, the sailors approached the women, their smiles dazzling in their sun-kissed faces, as they picked up the valises and led the wives on board, their husbands following as an afterthought. Soon the entire Bar Mitzva party had pushed off from shore into the wide ocean.

“Oh, look at the whales!” Delilah shouted, squeezing Chaim’s hand.

“Where?” Mariette demanded.

“Right there! See that spray of water?” Dr. Rolland exclaimed, pointing to the horizon as he moved toward the boat railing next to Delilah. She felt his shoulder brush against hers, his hip connect for a moment, but when she turned to him with a raised eyebrow, he seemed completely oblivious, looking out to sea, his hand clasped around his wife’s waist. Delilah shrugged, moving away.

Soon the sea was full of whales, dashing around the boats thrilling them.

“I don’t know, they’re awfully big. Isn’t this a little dangerous?” Amber pointed out. “I mean, couldn’t they turn our boat over?”

Just as she said it, a huge one brushed past the boat ahead of them, dousing the passengers with water.

“Oh, my clothes are soaked!” one woman wept, very not in the spirit of the party. But Joie wasn’t having any of that. Soon the woman found herself in a lifeboat, speeding back to shore. Her husband waved to her. Joie took a megaphone: “And if anyone else gets wet, don’t worry. We’ve got plenty of clothes on board! Relax!”

“Maybe the theme is
Jaws
?” Felice said, shuddering as the poor woman faded in the distance.

“Or
Mutiny on the Bounty,
” Chaim whispered.

Just then it came into view: a fabulous cruise ship flying Russian flags and flags with… with—no, it couldn’t be—flags with the face of Anatoly Shammanov, the Bar Mitzva boy! Soon the guests were being helped from the sailboats up to the ship.

They were greeted by a group of Hawaiian musicians who began to beat their drums and play their slack-key guitars. Lovely girls in grass skirts and leis undulated all over the deck, giving out grass skirts to all the women.

“Everybody hula!” a deejay commanded them.

“Isn’t this fun?” Joie shouted over to Delilah, who was busy fastening the grass skirt around her hips.

“The best!” Delilah shouted back, outswiveling the dancers as best she could.

Then the girls were replaced by men naked to the waist, juggling burning torches as hypnotic drums began to play. And then, suddenly, a loudspeaker invited them all to the right side of the boat.

They peered at the empty sea, where a tiny speck appeared in the distance. It got larger and larger.

“Look!” someone finally screamed, pointing into the sea. “Dolphins!”

There were dozens of them.

“Dolphins? Who cares about bloody fish? It’s my Anatoly!” Viktor Shammanov boomed. And sure enough, seated on a little rubber throne, holding reins around the heads of the mammals and flanked by water-skiers who looked like former KGB agents, was the Bar Mitzva boy.

“Ve try to train vhale.” Viktor shrugged. “But vhales not interested!”

The child looked terrified.

“Khere khe comes. King Neptune!” Victor roared, as the child shakily climbed up to the deck. He lifted the boy onto his shoulders and began to hula.

So, was that the theme? Pagan gods? Or was that just a little side remark, a joke, Rabbi Chaim wondered, looking at Viktor dancing wildly and Delilah undulating in her grass skirt. His eyes widened in alarm.

He was trapped, he thought. There wasn’t a single thing he could do, cornered as he was with the entire synagogue board on a boat in shark-infested waters and a current that ended in Japan. He couldn’t exactly walk out in protest, now could he? Whatever was going to be, was going to be. He looked longingly at the sailboats now casting off back to shore as the band struck up again and the hula lesson continued.

Finally, they were all given keys to their staterooms to prepare for the evening ahead. He took two aspirin and lay down, trying to compose himself for the Friday-night services still to come. His head felt like a drum on which a healthy native was pounding out an emphatic tribal message.

Services were held in the main ballroom, which had been transformed into a synagogue. It seated a thousand comfortably. Delilah looked around, realizing that they had been joined by numerous Russian-speaking families who were certainly not from Swallow Lake.

“It’s all Viktor’s friends and relatives.” Joie rolled her eyes. “Russian families are very close.”

The service went along well enough, Chaim thought. And afterward, they went to the second ballroom for dinner. Food and booze flowed incessantly like the sea down the gullets of the celebrants. And just when they were about ready to doze off, the cheerleaders came out. There were about twenty of them, healthy, voluptuous, young, in tiny skirts and sleeveless tops. They bounded onto the dance floor with their pom-poms, singing a cheer that incorporated the name Anatoly.

“Isn’t great?” Viktor laughed. “Lakers’ Girls.”

“As in Los Angeles Lakers cheerleaders?” Arthur choked, stunned.

“Ve vant only best.” Viktor smiled. “For Anatoly. Go, Anatoly, go! Girls teach you cheer.”

The chubby teenager ran out into the center of the floor.

All the men got up and jockeyed for the best eyeful. Joseph, Arthur, Ari, and Stuart nudged one another. Delilah was there too, right in front, not wanting to miss anything, her arm around Joie’s waist.

And then the girls disappeared and a live band began to play balalaikas and other traditional Russian instruments.

“But Viktor, I told you, Jews don’t play music on the Sabbath. It’s not allowed!” Chaim pleaded.

“Rabbi don’t vorry! Musicians are not Jews—don’t even like Jews! Are Russians. For Russians, it’s not Sabbath!” Viktor laughed, linking arms with the dancers as they stamped out “Kalinka-Malinka,” carrying him off.

Chaim looked over at this scene. Friday night, the beginning of the Sabbath, the holy day of rest.

“Rabbi! This is a desecration of Shabbes! You have to get that band to stop playing!” Arthur Malin demanded. “This is a disgrace! You have to talk to the Shammanovs!”