The Saturday Wife (8 page)

He began his studies with the serious, dogged determination that had seen him through high school. He took classes in Talmud, contemporary Jewish law (
halacha
), and Introductory Rabbinic Survey. In addition, the school required him to concomitantly earn a master’s degree in either Jewish education and administration, social work, or psychology, which he could opt out of only if he was willing to take six intensive semesters of advanced Talmud study, which was for him not an option, thanks. He opted for social work, which is what he thought being a rabbi was all about anyway.

In his rabbinic studies, he worked diligently, memorizing what he could and avoiding class participation whenever possible. He could repeat what you told him, almost word for word, but when asked to elucidate the law, to leap ahead to original conclusions, he was lost.

His teachers, compassionate men who had seen their share of losers, knew with whom they dealt. Keeping in mind the joys and struggles of their own early scholarship, as well as the apocryphal story of Akiva, the ignorant shepherd who was over forty when by sheer diligence he began a study program that turned him into Rabbi Akiva, one of Judaism’s greatest scholars and leaders, they were not without hope. Rabbi Akiva had said that the image that had inspired him to greatness was that of water dripping on a rock until it finally made a hole. When they looked at Chaim, they saw the rock, imagined their words as water, and hoped for the best.

They gave him passing, if not wonderful, grades that would permit him to continue, so that other rabbis would have to deal with the situation and have it on their conscience each Yom Kippur. In this way, he passed from class to class and rabbi to rabbi until his four years were almost over
and, except for one semester on a particularly difficult segment of the Talmudical tractate
Yoreh Deah
with a young teacher who graded him objectively and without compassion, he managed, miraculously, not to flunk anything.

In his social work courses he did especially well, finding a real affinity for the course material, which had no apparent discipline, scientific basis, or true information that one couldn’t figure out simply by using average common sense. He felt triumphant, and looked ahead to a promising future out in the world, where grades would cease to matter, and no one would be checking his scholarship with a magnifying glass. All they would see was the
klaf smicha,
the traditional ordination certificate handwritten by a scribe on parchment, with his name carefully spelled out in calligraphic letters to prove his worthiness and competency to head an Orthodox congregation.

As his course work wound down and he began to envision his future, his thoughts turned more and more to the subject of marriage. Few and far between (in fact, he had never in his life heard of such a thing) was the congregation whose rabbi had no rebbitzin. Indeed, the interviews took the wife into consideration with almost equal weight. After all, she would be an integral part of his work. She would create the proper atmosphere in the synagogue, a hominess, openness, and warmth. She’d be up there in the front pew, setting an example with her diligent prayers, her friendly smile, her many well-disciplined children, her compassion, her modest clothing, her great hat, wig, and so on. She would set the style for the women, showing the ideal of wife and mother that each needed to aspire to, just as the rabbi set a shining example to the men with his good nature, good deeds, and scholarship.

Yet he never thought about the woman he would marry in terms of a work partner. He wanted, first and foremost, someone he could love and who would love him. He wanted someone he felt attracted to sexually. There had to be some chemistry, hormonal flows, a little tickle in his stomach. He liked nice legs and a shapely body, the same as any other man. He had been going out nonstop for years, date after date. He’d dated the sisters of fellow rabbinical students, the out-of-town rabbis’ daughters (he hadn’t gotten the lookers), even, desperately, some granddaughters from his grandfather’s congregation. But nothing ever came of it. At most, it fizzled after date three.

Almost always, it was he who put an end to it, with blessings and relief.
He tried to analyze why this was so and came to the following conclusion: It was like the plate of roast chicken and mashed potatoes they put in front of you at a decent restaurant—perfectly adequate, probably good for you, but completely disappointing.

Why was it, he bemoaned, that he saw hundreds of beautiful, exciting, luscious girls every, single day—on the subway, in department stores, and on the crowded streets of Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens—and one was never tossed his way? How could it be that the laws of chance should have been so slanted against him?

So when his roommate, Josh, told him about his fiancee’s roommate, a girl sincerely interested in finding a marriage partner, he didn’t exactly leap at the chance.

“I don’t know, Josh. I’m so tired of blind dates.”

All those days comfortably behind him, Josh laughed sympathetically. “Here,” he said generously, whipping out a photograph of his darling Rivkie sitting on the bed of her dorm room with several girls. “It’s one of those.”

Chaim studied the photograph. He recognized the pale sweet face of Rivkie. His heart sank as his eyes ran over two similar girls—both dark-haired and excellent rebbitzin material, he had no doubt—but then he stopped, zeroing in on a blonde who looked into the camera with no smile at all. She seemed to be staring right at him. And there was no doubt about it: She was definitely a looker.

FOUR

H
e went to Bernstein Women’s College that Saturday night. He shaved closely and, on his roommate’s advice, borrowed a nice blue sweater to wear over slacks, instead of his good Sabbath suit, which had a spill of schnaps on his lapel from that morning’s kiddush. His hair was combed back and neat, but not greasy. His eyes were eager.

“Chaim Levi for Delilah Goldgrab,” he told the housemother, who looked him over with a tentative smile of approval. Obviously, she had seen worse.

He sat on the sofa edge and fidgeted with the gray tweed upholstery beside other fidgeting young men, most of whom looked severe and distinguished in their black suits and homburg hats. Future sages of America, he thought miserably, cursing the little brat who had pushed passed him toward the pretzels and damaged his suit and probably his future.

Graduation and rabbinical ordination were just around the corner. He was eager to try out his skills with a congregation, feeling more and more
certain that this was his calling in life. His job applications needed to be filled out; otherwise he’d have no choice but to work in the Bronx for his grandfather. This was not his first choice by any means, but it was something he could fall back on; he felt fortunate to have it. Among his classmates, he knew, there were many eager applicants for the few assistant rabbi and teaching positions available in normal geographical locations around the country, classmates who were smarter, better qualified, and more articulate than he. Leaving the space for Spousal Information blank was a sure way to ruin his chances. Nevertheless, job or no job, he told himself, there were limits to what a man could force himself to do, what he should be expected or required to sacrifice. This certainly included giving up any hope of happiness by marrying a woman for whom he had no passion.

He’d searched diligently through the sacred texts for backup and enlightenment on this score. What he’d come up with was advice that ranged from:
Rise up, my love, my fair one and come away. For, lo, the winter is past and the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; and the time of singing is come… My beloved is mine and I am his.
To:
And I found more bitter than death the woman.

It was confusing, Chaim thought, shaking his head, particularly since both sentiments were expressed by the same man, considered moreover to have been the wisest one of all, Solomon himself. Chaim’s teachers had sometimes taken pains to explain away the discrepancies by pointing out that Solomon had written these things at different stages in his life. Still, Chaim wondered about taking marriage advice from a man who’d had a thousand wives and hadn’t been happy with any of them.

He stared through the partition at the girls emerging from the elevator, all of them bright-eyed, attractive, and modestly dressed. Perky, he thought, depressed. He had been dating their clones for years. The sincere, “deep” conversations about the duties of Jewish parenthood and the sacredness of the home. And all the while, there was this subtle undercurrent of probing remarks designed to dig out how much money his parents had, where he expected to live, and if he would be learning full-time and expect her to be a Woman of Valor—breadwinner, bread baker, and baby-maker rolled into one obviously saintly package—or if he would be bringing in some money too and, if so, how much and doing what?

Of course, none of these questions was asked openly and none of the
answers was given frankly. All these conversations were always held on the highest moral ground, cloaked in the most impressive and saintly verbal packaging. Words like
tafkid be chaim
(life’s calling),
messirat nefesh
(dedication of one’s soul),
gemilut chasadim
(charitable good works) were bandied about like the little hard candies thrown down at a Bar Mitzva boy to celebrate his successful reading of the Torah portion before the congregation, candies that often hit you in the head and accomplished minor concussions.

Then the elevator door opened and there she was. Or at least, he certainly hoped this one was his. He stood up. She was a vision in a slim skirt and green silk blouse, her blond shoulder-length hair tumbling to her shoulders in a mass of golden curls. He swallowed hard, mesmerized, thrilled, and incredulous at his good luck. He couldn’t wait for her to give his name to the housemother. When she did, he took a step toward her. “Delilah?”

She looked up. He was taller than she, but only by a few inches, nothing like Yitzie. Nor did he have that sexy, rock-star slenderness around the hips or that certain way of moving—fluid and a bit dangerous—that never failed to give her those little pinpricks of electric shock. She took a deep breath, accepting that there would be no thumping heart, no flowing juices. Instead of that, there would be a perfectly respectable, good-looking young man, with a conventionally handsome face, fine dark eyes, and a square manly chin. Someone who would look good to her family and friends under the marriage canopy. A genuine Orthodox Jewish catch.

She began to imagine herself as a pious rabbi’s wife. It’s what she had been praying for, the opportunity to reform herself, to wash the slate clean. Besides, she was acutely aware that her shares on the
shidduch
market were in a highly volatile state right now. All that was needed was for some busybody to start a little rumor about her unhappy romance. It was like when people began to question whether butchers were really selling glatt kosher meat. Once there was doubt, prime ribs became chopped meat and it was all you could do to give them away.

She smiled at him. He smiled back, his kind open face guileless, his eyes almost childish in their innocent, unfeigned delight. He hid nothing, she thought, surprised and a bit contemptuous. He was hers. He would be easy to manage, not the touchy type who took offense or held a grudge or got angry—unless you banged him over the head with a hammer. And even then. The hair was too short, and that outfit… Still, she had seen much worse.

He watched as her sparkling blue eyes slowly took him in with approval. His sweater, he realized, had been the right choice. She wouldn’t have liked a suit.

“Chaim?” she asked, and her white teeth, perfect and small and straight under cushiony lips, peeked out at him in a tiny secret smile. Oh, how he wished he could widen that smile, see those teeth in all their porcelain glory!

Is it necessary to expound upon the process of falling in love? The butterflies that wander through the digestive tract? The sweaty palms, the tickle below the belly button? The eyes that light up the object of desire like car headlights falling into a fog, all smoke and mirrors and nothing quite real? Let’s just say it: From that moment on Chaim Levi was smitten. As such, he didn’t understand anything that was happening.