Sima recalled Faye’s faith in her, her insistence that she was not barren. Her shop had given her purpose and pride, as Connie had predicted and as Faye had assured her. But Sima knew purpose and pride were not joy, did not send one spinning on the beach, arms flung open in full view. Remembering Faye, Sima remembered a time when she still mourned the death of that prospect of happiness—a time before resignation, before acceptance, a time when she was raw with the loss of love, aching.
Sima wished she could tell Faye how she’d admired her, wished the words didn’t always come only after those they were meant for could no longer hear. I lost her, she thought, holding her own gaze in the mirror, I lost her, and I will never have her back. Tears gathered, but as she opened the cabinet door, her face sliding away before her, she recalled too the other woman she’d lost—her own young self, the one filled with longing—and pressed them away. Thank God, she thought as she removed Lev’s cholesterol pills, closed the cabinet shut, thank God that’s all over.
25
ILISTENED TO YOU,” TIMNA SAID, TURNING TO SIMA AFTER closing the door behind the last customer of the day. “About the pantyhose? I told you for older women the control top are the best—”
Timna laughed. “Not about the pantyhose,” she said, taking a red silk handkerchief from her pocket and knotting it around her neck. “About Alon, about the breakup.”
“Oh?” Sima sat down behind the counter. “You called him?
Timna nodded. “I told him I was sorry,” she said, dipping her finger in a new jar of lip balm before sliding it across the counter to Sima.
“So what did he say? Is he coming here?” Sima reached for the lip balm, a sense of triumph settling: Timna would have the baby, and she and Lev and Alon would go with her to the hospital, sip bitter coffee from Styrofoam cups as they waited, heart in throat, for the wonderful news—
“He said—” Timna paused, grinned at Sima. “He said he’d been waiting for me to call every day since we broke up.”
“Oh Timna—” Sima couldn’t wait to tell Lev, plan for Alon’s visit.
“We’re going to meet out west like we originally planned, travel a bit. It won’t be just the two of us: Nurit will come, and some friends from Israel, so we’ll have time to see—”
Timna kept speaking, but Sima did not listen. She brought her finger to her lips, slowly drew the balm across. She closed her eyes a moment, blackened out the image she’d had of the waiting room, the stacks of magazines they’d be too nervous to read. She felt surprised, and then foolish—wasn’t it always this way with young couples, and why had she led them back together only to push Timna farther away from her? With Connie, too—she’d cared for her until Connie was strong enough to leave her behind. “It’s wonderful, Timna,” Sima said, a thin smile pushing at her cheeks, “it’s just wonderful news.”
“Well, thanks. But it’s no big deal. We’ll see, that’s all.”
Sima nodded. Whatever was wrong with Timna, she now had someone close to help her through. What a relief, and what a painful disappointment—she’d lost what little importance she envisioned for herself: Timna’s champion, Timna’s protector.
And then there was Shai.
“Have you and Alon talked about everything that’s happened recently?” Sima asked.
“What do you mean?”
“About everything that’s been going on. The way you’ve seemed so ill lately.”
“Sima,” Timna said, pulling on her coat, a jean jacket lined with curls of white wool, “how many times are you going to tell me I look sick?” She bent her head, buttoning the jacket. “I swear, you’re going to give me a complex.”
“Well, but it’s the truth. In fact, you had me so worried”—she looked at Timna, suddenly furious to be cast out, after all she’d been willing to sacrifice—“that I spoke to Shai about it. I told him about how you haven’t seemed well.” Timna’s hands stilled. “You spoke to Shai?” “I found his number in your address book—”
“Sima—”
“I went looking when you were upstairs with Lev the other day—”
“What?”
Sima looked at Timna, awakened to what she’d done. She’d finally made a difference for Timna, helped her back to Alon, only to immediately ruin everything forever.
“Sima, what do you mean you told Shai? What did you tell him?”
Timna stared at her, waiting for a response. Sima waited too, wishing she could disappear, turn back the clock, undo all she’d done. If only, if only.
“Sima, tell me—”
“Timna,” she said, forcing herself to speak, “Timna, I was worried.” She took a breath, her body hot—beads of sweat above her lips, a wet warmth beneath her arms.
“You were worried, so you—”
“I was worried, am worried. You haven’t looked well, Timna, and you were so tired all the time, and you wouldn’t answer my questions—”
“I can’t believe you’re serious, Sima. Why would you do that?”
“I just said, because—”
“I’m not a child.”
“And you’re all alone here—”
“I’m not your child.”
Sima looked down, her eyes on the empty buttonhole, the navy stitch along its almond-shaped rim. “I know, I know.” It was a whimper. Come back, she wanted to say. Come back to me, don’t go, don’t go.
“You called Shai. I can’t—what else have you done? Called my parents? Followed me home?”
Sima opened her eyes wide. Terrified, she thought only to protest. “No,” she said, “No, I never—”
“So, what did you tell him?”
Sima tried to hide her relief: Timna hadn’t been serious, hadn’t known. “All I said was just that I was worried because you didn’t seem well, and had you mentioned it to him, and was there anything I could do to help. I just wanted to help, Timna, I just—”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing. He didn’t know what I was talking about.” She paused. “And then, he said he hadn’t seen you in a while. Timna, please, I was only—” Her lower lip trembled like a child’s. Like that, just like that, and Timna’s baby, Timna’s love, had been stolen from her.
Timna turned to go. Sima said nothing as she watched her leave, but Timna paused at the doorway. Turn around, Sima thought, her eyes on the tremble of Timna’s back, look at me.
Timna turned back.
“Sima, I know you wanted to help me.”
Sima nodded—yes, yes. She felt a warmth rising—Timna understood, would forgive her, would not abandon her to that awful empty ache.
“You were right about Alon—I was afraid. But you know what?”
Sima waited, desperate even for Timna’s criticism—whatever she would give her, whatever she could take.
“So are you.” Timna opened the door, turned once more to Sima. “Stay out of my life, Sima. Stay out of my life, and look at your own instead.”
Timna disappeared into the evening: the sidewalks covered with stained snow, dotted with salt and sand. When the door closed behind her—a sharp pull but not a slam—Sima walked to the staircase, sat down stunned. Timna had left, angry. Sima placed her hands in her lap, studied the raised path of the blue veins that pressed against her pale skin. She closed her eyes, cupped her hands over her face, curled the tips of her index fingers toward the corner of her eyes, and breathed deep, in and out, like Timna had told her they did in yoga. She felt it work: all her fears leaving with the exhaled breath. Timna had left furious, but what mattered was that she’d won: Alon was back, and Timna was safe.
Still there was an emptiness inside that the rushing breath did not fill. Think something happy she told herself, and she tried to remember the ice-skating scene, the photographs of Timna and Alon in the park. She concentrated to conjure the images and the feel of their flesh—soft, but with the round of muscle beneath, warm and ready to grip. But their bodies were just colors swirling, and though she tried to steady the vision—th
e beauty mark on Timna’s stomach, Alon bending to kiss—it escaped her.
She felt again the impact of Timna’s words: Stay out of my life, look at your own instead.
Sima brought her fingers across each eyelid, stroked lightly back and forth. It felt nice, the flesh so delicate there. She smoothed her eyebrows, the soft hairs shivering against her fingertips, and then traced a circle from the narrow of her nose to the curve of her brows and then under to the loose skin beneath her eyes, a slight pull as her fingers skirted across. She repeated the circle, feeling the touch move through her.
Sima brought her fingers up the middle of her forehead, separating her hands to follow the hairline along each side of her scalp before leading them down the sides of her face, stroking behind her ears. She remembered dabbing on perfume when she was a young wife, going out for an evening still flushed with her new role. She traced a path from the edges of her face to the soft pocket under her chin, rubbed with the back of her hand back and forth, back and forth, and then up the hill of her chin and lips to the bone of her nose. Her fingers followed the thin line of cartilage before leaping out to circle each cheek, paint mustache swirls above her mouth.
She parted her lips, ran a finger across each lip and then between where it was wet. She touched her tongue to her fingertip, bit lightly. Her finger moist, she returned it to her lips and spread the wetness across, felt her lips expand and darken with a rush of blood.
Not allowing herself to hesitate, she unbuttoned her blouse.
Sima rubbed the smooth expanse of her breastbone and then, breathing deeply, cupped the full warmth of each breast. She pressed lightly, her hands circling slowly before, following her body’s pull, she lowered them to stroke her belly, hips, thighs. She thought of Timna, the softness of her body, the promise of it, and of Connie on the couch, kissing. And then she thought of the intimacies of her own life, years before—the time she’d pounced. With a deep intake of breath she leaned back along the steps, drew her skirt up above her waist. Closed her eyes.
Head bent back against the basement steps, neck exposed, Sima gripped the banister with one hand and let herself remember with the other, holding on until she felt the shudder pull her from the place she’d locked herself in so long ago.
MARCH
26
THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER ENTERED ARGUING. SIMA could hear the daughter’s question, “This?” saw the mother nod in response, her lips a tight line.
“What did I tell you?” Sima asked, turning to Sylvie. “It’s been like Grand Central Station here today.”
“No cause for complaint there,” Sylvie said, placing her hand on Timna’s arm. “You go help them, I’ll take Timna.” She smiled at Sima, winked. “Maybe I’ll finally let her sell me that green bra, huh?”
Sima nodded, her eyes lingering just a moment on Sylvie’s hand—the skin of Timna’s arm soft between each finger—before approaching the mother and daughter. She and Timna had hardly spoken that morning, the first they’d been together since the fight.
Timna hadn’t come to work the day before. Sima was miserable, convinced Timna would return only to collect her final paycheck, reclaim abandoned scarves and sweaters. In her absence Sima rehearsed unsatisfying lines—I want to apologize, I hope you understand—but when Timna entered the shop that morning, Sima had just stood there, hands clasped before her, mouth empty.
“Timna,” she’d finally said, as Timna started up the stairway for coffee, “I’m so sorry.”
She surprised herself with her own sincerity. As she spoke each word, she felt the sharpness of her sorrow. “I’m so sorry,” she told Timna, and meant it: each word rounded with the weight of her regret, lassos she wished might circle round Timna, pull her close.
But Timna had simply shrugged off the apology. “I know,” she’d answered, continuing up the stairs. “Let’s just forget about it for now, okay?”
Sima nodded, unsure what else she might say, while the longing in her words circled back to her, limp and wasted. As Timna disappeared into the kitchen, a warm hello, as always, for Lev, Sima swallowed the permanence of their separation. “She’s gone,” Sima had thought. “She’s gone, and she will never come back.”
Sima turned toward the mother and daughter. “How can I help you?” she asked, her voice bright, seemingly innocent of the tension she knew was between them.
The mother answered. “My daughter needs something for under her wedding dress. You sell that, right?”
“I should hope so,” Sima said. “Mazel tov.”
Once again the mother responded. “Thank you.”
Sima turned to the daughter. “What’s your name? When’s the date?”
“Rachel. It’s not until June, but my mother—”
“She needs the lingerie now,” the mother told Sima, “for when she goes for the fitting.”
“This is an idea my mom has,” Rachel said.
“This isn’t just some idea—it’s common sense.” Her mother looked up at the ceiling, sighed.
Sima kept her expression blank. “First things first. Rachel, could you describe the dress for me?”
“Um,” Rachel paused. “You want me to describe it?”
Sima nodded. There were two types of brides: those who couldn’t stop talking about the dress—“and then it has just a few, not too many, but just like really nice crystal beads around the edge of the skirt”—and those who were slightly embarrassed by the whole idea of it. Her sympathy was with the latter, but her envy for the former.
“It’s pretty simple, I guess,” Rachel said. “Sort of fitted on top and then fanning out on the bottom. Not like a ball gown or anything, just—”
“A-line,” her mother said. “It’s a classic A-line. And it’s ivory, with cap sleeves—Rachel doesn’t do it justice. It’s not so simple really, it has embroidered flowers that cut diagonally across the chest with tiny crystals for petals, and—”
“It sounds gorgeous,” Sima said. “It really does.” She stepped back, glanced at the daughter’s body. “You’re small,” she said, taking in Rachel’s black sweater, blue jeans worn on the hips. “I say, what, thirty-two twenty-eight thirty-six?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I am. And with a body like that, you don’t need anything but a good bra and nice panties.” She turned to Rachel’s mother. “We sell what you’re looking for, but not in her size—she’s too skinny, she doesn’t need anything sucked in.”
“Really? Even for a wedding dress?”
Sima nodded. “If it was a sheath dress and she really wanted a onesie then we could order something for her, no problem. But since it’s A-line there’s no need.” She smiled at Rachel. “A-line’s a terrific cut. I always say, for most Jewish women it’s the best: it works fantastic with curves, and you don’t look lost if you happen to be just a little short.”
“See, Mom?” Rachel said. “I told you it wasn’t a big—”
“Oh, but your mother’s right,” Sima said, steering Rachel toward the dressing room with a light hand on her shoulder. “The cut of the bra will affect the shape of the bodice, so you want to go to your fitting in the bra you’ll be wearing on the wedding day.” As Sima pulled aside the dressing-room curtain, she looked over to Sylvie. “That bra was made for you,” she said.
“I know,” Sylvie told her, smoothing the fabric. “I have it in white and beige already and it always feels great. We have a bar mitzvah in a few weeks that I bought a black dress for, so I figured, why mess with perfection, I’ll get the same bra in black. Timna chose it for me—she’s my personal shopper.”
Sima looked over at Timna, who shook her head at the compliment. Sima grinned, thrilled to share such an easy, knowing exchange, but Timna turned away a moment later, bent her head as she adjusted the shoulder straps on Sylvie’s bra.
“Wait here,” Sima told Rachel, “and I’ll bring you a few bras, so you can see what you like.” She walked toward the stepladder, angled it under the wedding line—everything in w
hite, and with extra embroidery—and slowly moved up the rungs. As she listened to Timna’s laughter from behind the dressing-room curtain—“Okay, I promise I’ll call their grandson if I’m ever in Chicago”—she was reminded of the excerpt from the book of proverbs that husbands recited to their wives each Friday evening, that Lev used to read to her, smiling self-consciously, in the early years of their marriage. “A good woman,” it began, an ayshet chayal, and then the chronicle of thrift, modesty, cleanliness, a perfect code of behavior for the early-sixties housewife she had been, until one surprising line she’d never understood. Now, listening to Timna’s laughter, that line rose suddenly to meet her on the stepladder: “Many women of Israel have been brave, but you have surpassed them all.”
Sima stood on the stepladder, held on to the shelves, and tried to learn to let go.
After the customers left—and Timna, too, nothing resolved, nothing more intimate than that one knowing glance between them all day—Sima stayed in the shop. She pulled a wood rolling-chair up close to the counter, bent her body over the green-lined pages of her accounting book. A half-hour passed, forty-five minutes; she could hear Lev shuffling upstairs, his uneven pacing reminding her of the vultures on those nature programs they watched some nights, circling the sky as they waited for death so they could descend on the remains. She thought: let him wait.
Before Timna left, she’d tried again to talk about what had happened, hoping both to explain her actions and to force Timna, finally, to confess. “Well,” she’d begun, after Timna once again dismissed an apology, “If you want to know the truth of why I was so worried—” But Timna had interrupted, said only, “It’s all over now,” and quickly changed the subject: she and Nurit were planning a trip to Boston, and what did Sima recommend they see?
Sima had reluctantly answered, wondering, even as she described Newbury Street and the public gardens, what Timna meant by “all over.” “I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Sima asked as Timna pulled a multicolored wool cap over her head. “Of course,” Timna answered, as if nothing had passed between them. Sima watched as Timna approached the door, buttoning a fake-fur coat as she walked; could it be she’d gotten thinner, Sima wondered, and, if so, when had that happened? “You’re still feeling okay?” Sima asked, as Timna paused in the doorway to pull on purple gloves, “You seem healthier, somehow—”
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