by Sally Quinn
“It’s right here. In these bags,” she turned and pointed to the bags in the hall. “I’ve brought everything. You don’t have to do a thing. I know how to do it. I’ve got the challah, and…”
“Sadie.” He interrupted her.
“It’s all cooked, it just needs to be warmed up. But we better hurry because we only have about a half hour until sundown and we won’t be able to light the candles if we don’t—”
“Sadie.”
“I know… this is intrusive…”
“Sadie!”
She stopped talking. He got up and walked toward her. When he got right up to her she couldn’t tell at first whether he was going to hit her or embrace her. But then she had the overwhelming feeling that he wanted to put his arms around her. She had never wanted so badly to be held by anyone as she did at that moment.
Instead he just stood there looking at her.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said finally.
“Oh, Michael, I…”
“Here, let me help you with these bags. We don’t have much time until sundown.”
He took the food into the kitchen and helped her unpack it. She put the food in the oven to warm up, then set the table. She had brought a white cloth and silver. She arranged the flowers, then carefully placed the two symbolic loaves of challah on the special plate.
She brought out her best silver candlesticks that she had inherited from her grandmother McDougald in Statesboro, Georgia, and put two candles in them for the two forms of the commandment “remember” and “observe.” Then she brought out the beautiful, ornate handcrafted sterling silver Kiddush cup that she had bought at the Judaica shop at the synagogue.
When the food was ready she brought it to the table and put it in serving bowls and plates so that she wouldn’t have to be jumping up and down.
“Oh God. Matches. I’ve forgotten the matches.”
“I’ve got matches.”
He handed them to her and she set them next to her place at the table, then excused herself. In the bathroom she took a small white lace scarf out of her bag and placed it on top of her head. She had tried it out at home in front of the mirror to make sure she would look pretty, not ridiculous.
When she returned, she beckoned him to take his place at the table, as she stood before him. She looked at her watch. It was twenty minutes before sunset. She had gotten the times from the rabbi. Shabbat begins eighteen minutes before sunset and after that the candles cannot be lit.
She took the matches from the table and lit one, then lit the candles, laying the match down on her plate. After sunset one cannot extinguish the match. Then with her hands, she encircled the candlelight three times, as though to welcome the Sabbath in. Next she covered her eyes and recited the blessing.
“Baruch ata Adonai Elohainu melech ha’olam asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Shabbat.” (Blessed are You, O Lord our God, ruler of the universe, Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the lights of the Sabbath.)
Michael smiled, though he was clearly touched and quite solemn for her sake. Now it was time for him to pour the wine and recite the Kiddush. This was the moment, if he chose to, for the husband to recite from Proverbs 31 in praise of his wife. It never occurred to her that Michael might do this for her. She was completely surprised when he began:
“A woman of valor—seek her out,
for she is to be valued above rubies.
Her husband trusts her,
and they cannot fail to prosper.
All the days of her life
she is good to him.
She opens her hands to those in need
and offers her help to the poor.
Adorned with strength and dignity,
she looks to the future with cheerful trust.
Her speech is wise,
and the law of kindness is on her lips.
Her children rise up to call her blessed,
her husband likewise praises her:
‘Many women have done well,
but you surpass them all.’
Charm is deceptive and beauty short-lived,
but a woman loyal to God has truly earned praise.
Give her honor for her work;
her life proclaims her praise.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
He had been looking directly into her eyes and now it was she who looked away. She had put the Kiddush cup in the center of the table for the two of them to share, an extremely romantic notion, she thought.
“Now you’re supposed to—”
“Pour the wine? I know.”
She had been worried that he might not observe the ritual the same way Daniel had taught her and she would be stuck, not knowing what to do. He opened the wine and poured it to the very top of the cup, then recited in Hebrew. She knew what it meant—“Then God blessed the seventh day”—but it was exotic and mysterious the way he said it, almost singing or chanting. By now the sun had set and it was growing dim. The candles were the only light in the house and the glow reflected on both their faces as they sat at the Sabbath table.
Michael reached over and took the gold-embroidered velvet challah cover from the bread, recited the blessing, then with both hands he tore off a large chunk, then tore that in half, and gave her half of his.
He took the Kiddush cup and brought it to his lips, taking a sip from it, then handed it to her. He never took his eyes off hers the entire time. She was mesmerized by his gaze as she took her own sip of the wine.
“Thank you for this,” he said, as she put the cup down.
“I’m just glad you’re not still angry at me for embarrassing you at the commission.”
“I was. I’m not now.”
“So was I.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
The intensity of the moment was too much for him.
“I’m starving,” he said. He reached over and began to carve the chicken, serving her plate first, then his. He helped himself to the vegetables and potatoes, passing them to her. After his first bite he moaned.
“If you tell me you cooked every morsel of this I’ll really be impressed.”
“Well, let’s just say I oversaw the cooking. Asuncion…”
“Where is she? Hiding in the kitchen?”
“Oh go to hell.”
“On Shabbas? You don’t mean that. Besides, Jews don’t have hell. You’ll have to think of some other curse.”
“What happens to bad Jews then if they don’t have hell?”
“They have confusing, upsetting, conflicted, anxiety-ridden relationships with gorgeous shiksas.”
She was surprised that he had brought up the subject so easily. It made her more nervous than she would have expected. She didn’t want to pursue it. Not yet, anyway.
“Rabbi Benjamin says the word shiksa is a terrible insult.”
“It is, but only if you’re Jewish. To shiksas it’s not. Who’s Rabbi Benjamin?”
“My coach.”
“Ah,” he said and smiled, then took a long sip of wine.
“I went to talk to him about converting.”
She said it with a perfectly straight face.
He practically spit out his wine.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t even need a new name. I already have a Hebrew name. Sara.”
“Let’s run that one by again, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t you think it would be a good idea? You can see what a quick study I am. Baruch ata Adonai…”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture. But Sadie…”
“Sara, please.”
“Sara. You’re not Jewish. You will never be Jewish. It’s impossible.”
“Elohainu melech ha’olam…”
“You’re like a Japanese who’s learned a few words of English. It’s charming but it won’t work.”
“… asher kidsha
nu…”
“I don’t care what the rabbi says. You can’t become Jewish just because you want to be.”
She picked up the noodle pudding, and offered it to him.
“Keegel?”
“It’s pronounced kugel. You see what I mean?”
They looked at each other and laughed.
“The rabbi pronounced it ‘keegel.’ But taste it and you won’t care how it’s pronounced.”
He put some in his mouth, savored it, and groaned with pleasure.
“Umm.”
“Do you like it? I actually made that all by myself.”
“It reminds me of you. Soft and sweet and a complete noodle.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment. Gosh, if I’m lucky maybe you’ll even call me keegel.”
“Kugel.”
“Yes, bubeleh?”
“You’re hopeless, Sadie.”
“Sara.”
He burst out laughing, partly out of frustration, partly out of delight.
“There’s an old saying that if a woman can’t make a decent kugel—divorce her.”
“Is there a saying that if a woman can make a decent keegel, uh, kugel—marry her?”
He reddened. “I, uh, never heard that one.”
“Why don’t you believe in conversion?” she asked, suddenly serious.
“I think the whole idea is stupid. Besides, part of what makes you attractive is that you are different.”
“That’s what the rabbi said.”
“What else did the rabbi say?” He was laughing.
She raised her eyebrows and smiled seductively.
“He just explained the meaning of various mitzvahs… are you allowed to wash dishes on Shabbat?” she asked, getting up to clear the table and change the subject. He jumped up to help her clear.
“Not in my house.”
“I’ll clear,” she protested. “Why don’t you play the piano for me?”
“You’re not allowed to play the piano.”
“What are you allowed to do?”
She looked directly at him and he nearly dropped the plates. Without answering he went into the kitchen and brought back another bottle of wine, since the first one had been drained. They sat down and he opened it, poured it into the cup and handed it to her.
“L’chayim.”
She took a sip and handed him the cup. He took a sip himself. They were both silent.
“There’s a wonderful story my grandfather used to tell at Shabbat dinners,” he said. “His family came from Russia. When he was growing up in a Russian village there were pogroms. The cossacks would ride into town, rape the women, kill the men, loot and destroy everything. The Jews would move to avoid it, but the same thing kept happening. My grandfather was in love with a beautiful young girl named Tuva whose family was a close friend of his family. They were betrothed. But once when the cossacks came, they had to get out of town in a hurry and somehow their group got separated. My grandfather’s family went southwest and never saw Tuva’s family again. He was heartbroken, knowing that he had lost the love of his life. His family eventually ended up in Prague. Now, there is an ancient and very famous Jewish cemetery in Prague. The graves are so close together in this cemetery that the gravestones are actually touching each other. The cemetery was a small piece of land given to the Jews, and when they ran out of space they just kept having to bury their dead stacked one on top of the other. It’s very beautiful, very eerie. It’s in a parklike space with huge trees that look as if they’re sitting shiva for the dead, all bent and gnarled and hunched over. In one corner of the cemetery is the grave of a very famous rabbi, Rabbi Low. They have a custom where if you want to say a blessing over someone’s grave or a prayer or make a wish, you write it on a small piece of paper and put it on top of their grave with a stone. Many of the graves in the Jewish cemetery have these pieces of paper with stones but none has as many as Rabbi Löw’s grave, which is the Jewish equivalent of the wishing well. My grandfather went to the grave and wished that he would find Tuva. He wrote it on a piece of paper and placed it on top of the rabbi’s grave with a stone. When he was old enough, he emigrated to the United States and ended up in Connecticut in a small Jewish community. And who should be there? Tuva and her family. They had found their way to America via Poland and the Baltic Sea. That beautiful young Russian girl who was lost in Central Russia was my grandmother.”
“Oh Michael, what a fabulous story! Why haven’t you ever told me that story before?”
“I don’t know. I don’t actually think I’ve ever told anyone that story. I don’t like talking about my background or my family. For some reason I don’t mind talking to you about it. But you’re different from any other woman I’ve ever known. I feel I can talk to you. I can tell you things and you’ll listen. You won’t make judgments.”
She was terribly flattered and touched. It was his way of thanking her for the evening. She didn’t know what to say so she didn’t acknowledge it.
“But that’s like a fairy tale. And it has such a happy ending.”
“I don’t believe in happy endings.”
“I do.”
They each took a sip of wine. Neither looked at the other. Neither one had mentioned Giselle or the baby. She felt she ought to say something, anything, just to acknowledge that she knew. After all, that was why she was there.
“I’m sorry about the miscarriage.”
He winced and when he looked up she could see the sorrow.
“I’m sorry about Giselle, too.”
He didn’t respond to her.
“I don’t mean to be intrusive,” she said, “but are you… are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“It’s really hard for you, isn’t it? Is there anything I can do?”
She thought she saw his eyes glistening in the candlelight.
“Does Giselle know… I mean, did she find out about…”
“No.”
She noticed for the first time that he was still wearing his wedding ring.
“Michael.” She reached over the table and touched his hand.
He got up and walked over to where the glass doors faced out to the yard.
This wasn’t going at all the way she had anticipated. She had expected him to feel somewhat sad. That would have been only normal. But she also knew that he loved her, so she had assumed that part of him would be happy to be free.
Something compelled her to get up and follow him. She walked over to where he was standing and stood slightly behind him, not touching but so close that she could feel his electricity.
“You asked me what else the rabbi told me. The rabbi told me about Oneg Shabbat, about the Friday night being mitzvah night.…”
Michael turned and took her in his arms.
“Oh Sadie” was all he said under his breath.
They stood holding on to each other for the longest time, her head buried in his shoulder.
She pulled back and looked up at him.
He looked at her with such longing that it surprised her. He began to stroke her hair.
“My God, the pain I’ve caused you. The pain I’ve caused so many people I love.”
He kissed her on the forehead.
“We can’t do a mitzvah, Sadie. That can only be done with ‘a joyous heart.’ I’m just not there yet. Please understand.”
She couldn’t hide her disappointment.
She went into the kitchen and gathered her things. He didn’t try to stop her, he only stood and watched.
When she had finally put everything away she went to the hall and got her coat.
It was only then that Michael came over to her and helped her on with it. Then he reached down and pulled her into his arms one last time, still saying nothing.
When he released her she turned and opened the door. Then, as she was about to leave, she looked back at him and smiled.
“Her ways are unstable,” she said, “and she knoweth it not.”
* * *<
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It was the jawline that had really begun to bother her. The eyelids had always drooped a little. She had thought it made her look kind of sexy. Although lately, if she hadn’t had enough sleep, they drooped so low over her eyes that it made it difficult to see. They felt heavy. Still, she could live with that. What she couldn’t live with was the sagging chin and neck. It had taken on grotesque proportions and was becoming an obsession with her.
The photographs she had seen of herself lately had been shocking. She looked like an old hag. Suddenly her hair looked too long, her makeup wrong, all the lines in her face pulling downward. It was a disaster. And she wasn’t even forty-six yet. How had this happened?
Lorraine had told her to expect this. Lorraine was an expert on facial skin. She had said that all widows go through a period after their husbands die when they decide they are dying too and suddenly begin to look and feel old. This was why, Lorraine said, nobody should have a facelift for at least a year after one’s husband had died. It wasn’t a good idea because one wasn’t in one’s right mind. The best plastic surgeons, Lorraine said, wouldn’t even consider a widow until after the first year.
It was true that right after Rosey died she had felt that she was looking old and that no man would ever look at her again. Then Des rejected her for Allison and she knew it had to be because she was aging so badly and was no longer attractive.
When Michael came along and loved her she felt beautiful, but then he rejected her, too. Even now, when she sensed that he still cared about her, he wasn’t exactly banging down the door to see her. He hadn’t called since their Sabbath meal. She hadn’t called him either. She was too embarrassed. She had really blown it, misjudged the moment and him. The fact that he hadn’t called her was proof that she had made a mistake. No matter how sad he might be feeling, if he really loved her he would have called. If only to say that he appreciated the dinner but couldn’t see her now. It was obvious that the reason he wasn’t calling was because she looked like an old crone. If she looked younger, fresher, more relaxed, rested, he wouldn’t be able to resist. Besides. It was almost two years since Rosey died. She wasn’t the grieving widow anymore, at least not in the traditional sense. Emotionally, she had passed several milestones. Her birthday was July 3. She could not face another birthday, another anniversary of Rosey’s death, looking the way she looked. Even Lorraine had been asking lately if she was feeling all right, implying that she looked exhausted. The bitch. That was socialese for “run, don’t walk, to your nearest plastic surgeon.” She had made up her mind. She would definitely have a facelift.
