The Saturday Wife

by Ragen, Naomi

  “A young Talmud scholar was invited to become rabbi in a small old community in Chicago. On his very first Sabbath, a violent debate erupted as to whether one should or should not stand during the reading of the Ten Commandments. They asked the new rabbi to decide. ‘What’s your custom here?’ he asked them. But no one could tell him. So the next day, the rabbi visited the synagogue’s oldest member in the nursing home. ‘Mr. Fine, I’m asking you, as one of the oldest members of the community, what is our synagogue’s custom during the reading of the Ten Commandments?’

  “ ‘Why do you ask?’ asked Mr. Fine.

  “ ‘Yesterday, we read the Ten Commandments. Some people stood, some people sat. The ones standing started screaming at the ones sitting, telling them to stand up. The ones sitting started screaming at the ones standing, telling them to sit down. They insulted each other, threw chairs, slammed doors, threatened to leave the synagogue, and called me an idiot—’

  “ ‘That,’ said the old man, ‘is our custom.’ ”

  Chaim followed his jokes with a short speech that discussed the Torah portion of the week, combining it with a good-natured attempt to inspire more ethical behavior among neighbors when it came to borrowing and returning things, which everyone found equally amusing and useful and not overly flat-handed or judgmental.

  Not everyone was happy. Some thought the speech was too lightweight, while others thought it was too preachy. But that is normal in all congregations.

  Watching a new rabbi approach a congregation is like watching an acrobat on the high wire. Not content to just watch him rush across the abyss to safety, we demand that he stop in the middle, open an umbrella, and sit down on a chair that totters this way and that, while down below we judge his skill and daring and entertainment value. Most of us hold our breath wishing for the rabbi’s success, although—admit it—disaster is much more fun to watch, and there is always another rabbi waiting in the wings just in case, ready to take over as soon as the body of the old one is removed.

  But there was something so sincere and naive—and pathetic?—about Chaim Levi that even those with the most cynical hearts rooted for him to succeed.

  The women were very nice to Delilah. They were gratified and flattered at her absolute unfeigned enthusiasm and delight with everything she had seen in the community. She was a yeshiva graduate. And although she was blond and young and pretty she was also obviously pregnant, wearing one of those “good girl” pregnancy dresses with the high collars and little bows. And a wig. The more they probed, the more they realized she was nothing like their last rebbitzin, and they—and their husbands—need not fear aggressive classes in family purity or campaigns to import the ethos of the stringency kings and their revisionary attitudes toward keeping women in their place. She seemed like a friendly open girl who liked a good manicure and colorist and yet would be willing to play the role of community organizer when asked. She seemed, in short, like a good team player.

  The men who interviewed Chaim were satisfied that he knew how to learn Talmud and had a fundamental grasp of religious law. He smiled a lot. But when they asked him about his vision for the congregation, his mind went completely blank. After a long awkward silence, he answered, rather sheepishly, “I think a rabbi should try to serve the congregation’s needs. I think he should listen more than he talks.”

  To his surprise, they hired him on the spot.

  FIFTEEN

  Delirious with joy, Delilah moved into her new home, leaving urban decay, suspicious glances, and a checkered past behind her. The home she moved into had a lovely living room with a bay window, a formal dining room, and an imposing wood-paneled study for Chaim. It had a huge master bedroom with a working fireplace and three smaller bedrooms. In the backyard, there was a well-kept lawn with some nice shrubs and a picnic table. For days, she wandered around, feeling as if she was an intruder who would soon be caught and evicted. She touched the walls, wiggled her toes in the carpets, drank lemonade in the garden. She was sweet and good-natured to Chaim, preparing good dinners and giving him little hugs and kisses as she rapturously unpacked her belongings and set them up around the house. There was so much room! She slid across the parquet in stocking feet like a ten-year-old blissfully home alone.

  She was so happy, she felt grateful to God, her stars, and every other power over the universe and her personal destiny. This was a new beginning, she told herself, assuaging the waves of regret that sometimes enveloped her. For the first time in her life she began to appreciate her religious instruction. For if there was one thing you learned in yeshiva, it was how to deal with sin and guilt. No matter how awful you were, there was no thread so scarlet that it could not be bleached as white as snow.

  Unlike Catholics—who made a group project out of it—Judaism was strictly do-it-yourself in the repentance department. You started by admitting your terrible deeds, regretting them, and making yourself a promise never to do them again. Only when that was done could you hope to approach God and ask Him to wipe the slate clean. Unlike Catholics, however, Jews never got that comforting Say ten Hail Marys that ended the matter. Barring a burning bush, you were more or less in a state of perpetual doubt as to whether you’d been forgiven. Which is why the words Jewish and guilt are so often found in close proximity.

  Delilah had been shocked and horrified at the turn of events in the Bronx, particularly her part in what had befallen Reb Abraham. But working on herself, she had learned to live with it. After all, he had had to go sometime. No one lasted forever. And she hadn’t really done anything wrong, it was simply appearances that had been incriminating. Furthermore, if the old man had been as sincere in practicing moral restraint as he had been in preaching it, he would have given her and Benjamin the benefit of the doubt, despite the admittedly unfortunate and weighty circumstantial evidence. And while she certainly wasn’t happy he had taken it all so hard and had wound up giving himself a stroke, she had to admit the timing, in any event, had been perfect. It had proved the magic bullet needed to make the Bronx congregation disappear, and her husband soften up.

  Chaim, it was true, had suffered. But look where he was today! The rabbi of a rich and important and thriving congregation in such a beautiful spot, a place that loved him and treated him so well. Why, just the other day Mariette Rolland had told her that her husband was a “blessing” to Swallow Lake! And Felice Borenberg had mentioned how much she loved to listen to him speak.

  One day, she knew, he would thank her.

  Full of gratitude, having put the past behind her, she was determined not only to become a good rabbi’s wife but the best rabbi’s wife. Chaim, having landed this position, was suddenly the focal point of her admiration. She wanted to help him, to become queen to his king over the moral lives of the people around them.

  She smiled and said hello to everyone, even those who treated her coolly. She made weekly sit-down dinners for twelve. She agreed to open her house to monthly sisterhood meetings. She stayed on the phone for hours listening to problems and offering solutions. She even prepared and gave a shiur for women on the Torah portion of the week.

  And then, one morning, she found she simply couldn’t get out of bed. Her limbs felt like lead and her head swam. She felt hot, thirsty, depressed, confused.

  “You are doing too much! I tried to tell you to slow down. Darling, don’t forget you’re pregnant.”

  “I’m fine. Pregnancy isn’t a disease,” she told him curtly, quoting Mariette Rolland, who’d recently told her all about how she’d canceled only one day of work appointments to give birth to her last daughter.

  She suffered strange cravings, waking Chaim at 2 A.M. to search for passionfruit sorbet and peanut-butter brownies. She fell prey to bouts of depression: “I look like a cow! My mother has nicer ankles! And just look at my stomach, my boobs. . . .”

  Chaim stared at her, shocked and dumbfounded. The truth was that pregnancy had brought a blush of radiant health to Delilah that made her body softer and rounder, her skin
gleam with a luscious dewy softness. She looked sexier than ever. And if everyone was looking at her, he had no doubt as to why.

  “Delilah, darling, you’re more beautiful than ever, really” he did his best to assure her.

  “Don’t lie to me, Chaim! I know everyone’s staring at me, thinking how ugly I look! And I’m sick of these goody-goody dresses with the Peter Pan collars and bows! I’m sick of these sensible low-heeled old-lady shoes. I want my body back! I want this thing out of me!”

  He couldn’t reason with her. And then, one morning, he overslept, missing the morning minyan. That same week, he found his eyes closing and his head nodding when he tried to prepare his sermon. He awoke with a start several hours later with nothing accomplished.

  He didn’t know what to do. He had zero experience with pregnant women, viewing Delilah as a delicate piece of china carrying a soft-boiled egg, imagining that the slightest jarring motion would do irreparable damage to both. With a touch of desperation, he sought out someone who could advise him. The only person who came to mind was Josh, who had been through this only recently himself.

  Josh was surprised to hear from him. Once Chaim had gone against the ban and accepted the job at Swallow Lake, they’d lost contact completely, much to Josh’s delight. “Well, this is really not such a good time for me.”

  “Please, Josh, I’m in trouble,” Chaim confessed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My wife—that is, I—we are expecting our first child. Delilah is very worried—depressed—and frankly I’m not getting any sleep. This is a new job. I’m afraid the congregation will begin to grumble.”

  Josh put his hand over the phone and hissed to his wife, “It’s Chaim Levi. Delilah’s pregnant and driving him crazy.” She shook her head, backing away. “Please . . .” He made a begging face.

  Rivkie took the phone. “Hi, mazal tov, Chaim! How wonderful. . . . Hmm, hmmm. . . . Yes, some women have harder times than others. Why don’t I call her? . . . No, no bother at all, I’m happy to help. I apologize we haven’t been in touch. You know what it’s like, or you will, a new baby—”

  Delilah was not particularly happy to hear Rivkie’s voice, the voice of judgment. She hadn’t forgiven their silence when Chaim got the job at Swallow Lake. But Rivkie was very sympathetic and supportive, and Delilah found herself actually enjoying discussing her feelings with someone who wasn’t a member of the congregation with an ax to grind, someone with whom she could be completely honest.

  “I’m frightened, Rivkie, and I feel like hell. I’m throwing up. Even the smell of Sabbath food makes me want to puke my guts out, let alone preparing these meals for guests. And I can’t stand all these needy phone calls, all this meaningless shul chitchat, when all I want to do is just go to sleep! If I only had the weekends off, but that’s when we’re most on.”

  “I know. It’s hard. But people will understand if you’re honest and give them a chance. Tell them how you feel. Drop out for a while. It’s OK. You are in for such an exciting, wonderful experience! Start focusing on the fun aspects of having a baby. Have you planned your nursery and layette yet? Why don’t you go shopping? And most of all, you’ve got to get yourself a doula.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s a Greek word that means—well, helper, servant—slave, anyhow, not really sure. They are women who help you through the birth. I had one. She was wonderful, baruch Hashem.

  “You mean, a midwife? I already have a doctor.”

  “No, no. She doesn’t have any actual medical training at all. She doesn’t deliver the baby.”

  “Then what does she do?”

  “Well, before the birth she gives lessons to the couple so the husband can share and participate in the birthing experience. She gives massages with aromatic oils. She sings and dances and says special prayers to ease your spirit and comfort you. And once you’re in the delivery room, she—”

  “She comes to the delivery room? What does she do there? I mean, if she has no medical training. All you need is an epidural, right?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. “We don’t believe in epidurals. Giving birth is a sacred experience, a gift from God. When you get all drugged up, you cut yourself off from the connection to God, and your body—”

  Delilah’s heart missed a beat. “You mean to tell me you went through labor and delivery cold turkey?”

  “It was a fabulous experience, believe me! Extremely spiritual. Never have I felt closer to God, more like His holy vessel. I’m not saying it wasn’t hard. I mean, they call it labor, right?” She chuckled. “And of course there was some pain,” she admitted dismissively, “but that just made it more real. Believe me, I wouldn’t have missed it. And my doula was wonderful.”

  Where did she get this stuff? Delilah thought enviously. She could just see herself repeating those words in a lofty and pious tone when the young women of Ohel Aaron came to her for advice. In general, anything she could lift from Rivkie would be wise, she told herself. She didn’t actually want the doula—it sounded pretty grim—but what she did want was to impress people on how she had breezed through her pregnancy and child-birth on spirituality alone. Besides, you could always get rid of the woman and have an epidural if things didn’t work out.

  She took down the woman’s name and phone number and then refocused the discussion in a more useful direction. “Where did you go to shop?”she asked.

  Rivkie was full of useful information. “But you know, Deliliah, the Jewish custom is not to make any preparations at all and only buy baby things once the baby is born.”

  “Not even diapers?”

  “Nothing. But you can take down ordering information.”

  So, one afternoon, she got Chaim to drop her off at a mall with a Pottery Barn for Kids. There, Delilah made a remarkable discovery: A baby was made to be accessorized! She imagined herself standing over a white French-provincial baby crib, smiling with maternal joy at her designer-dressed infant angelically asleep in its color-coordinated sheets, bumper, and blanket, a matching rug at her feet and matching wallpaper all around. She took a catalog and furiously wrote down numbers.

  She looked around at the other pregnant women who wandered with shining eyes among the treasures. They too were lumpy and thickened. But among the women carrying small babies or wheeling toddlers in carriages, a fair number were already back to being thin and young, she noticed, cheering up, imaging herself back to normal too, the only remnant of her pregnancy a double-D bra cup and glowing hormone-enriched skin.

  She went on a cancellation spree, telling everyone she needed her rest so the dinners and sisterhood meetings and long phone calls and the shiur were all off until further notice. When a panicked Chaim mildly suggested she might try to stay a little more involved, she said, “Rivkie did the same thing when she was pregnant. She says it’s perfectly all right. People will understand.”

  To Chaim’s surprise, everyone did. They were extremely understanding, even sympathetic. Besides, no one had the stomach to start interviewing new candidates all over again, and word had gotten around that the new rebbitzin wasn’t the world’s best cook and her attempt at a shiur had been basically to steal a whole chapter straight out of one of those books by Nechama Leibowitz, the Bible scholar, which most people had read already long ago. So they were only too happy to forgo her dinners and lectures.

  Remarkably, the less Chaim and Delilah did, the more their popularity rose. The women loved how the rabbi was taking care of his pregnant wife, and the men deeply sympathized with his plight. The fact that his sermons seemed to go from lightweight to featherweight was not only accepted but appreciated. Who wanted moral discomfort and inspiration disrupting their otherwise relaxed and pleasant weekend anyhow?

  Within a few weeks, Delilah underwent a remarkable transition: She seemed to blossom. Her nausea lifted, and she began eating like someone just coming off a five-month stint on Weight Watchers, wolfing down food in alarming amounts. She sank back into h
er new role as baby maker like a pasha into his pillows

  Chaim, stretched to the limit from doing laundry, shopping, cooking, and cleaning, in addition to his work as rabbi, often wondered what she did all day. Every time he saw her, she was sitting around with her hand on her stomach, rifling though yet another baby catalog, adding more numbers to her list. She insisted on hiring a local doula, recommended by Rivkie’s doula.

  “I don’t know. She’s very expensive. Do you really need her?”

  “Don’t you want this to be a spiritual experience for me, Chaim? After all, it’s God that is forming this child in my womb. I want to feel God during my labor. And if I’m all doped up, how can I do that? Besides, Rivkie said it was fabulous.”

  He dragged along with her to private coaching lessons, where the doula—a petite dreamy yoga instructor with prematurely gray hair covered by a pious snood—lectured him on understanding his wife’s emotional needs and helping to ease her physical pains. He learned to coach her through contractions, to remind her of breathing techniques. He was taught to dab her lips with ice, to support her back, to adjust her pillows. Chaim, surrounded by demanding women, did everything that was asked of him, reluctant to say a word. He was simply grateful that now both he and Delilah were sleeping through the night.

  They had begun to think their lives would go on this way forever, when one night, while they were in a movie theater and she was halfway through a box of popcorn, Delilah leaned over and gave the box to Chaim, complaining, “My stomach is killing me.”

  He was immediately alarmed “Maybe we should go home.”

  “No, I want to see how this movie ends.”

  By the time the closing credits were flashing on the screen and they got into the car, she had the worst stomachache she had ever had in her life.

  “I’m swearing off popcorn forever,” she said.

  By the time they got home, she was in agony, barely making it to the bathroom. It was there she saw the tiny blood-tinged mucus and understood that her labor had begun.