The Saturday Wife

by Ragen, Naomi

  Mesmerized with horror and fascination, he clicked.

  There he found the child wandering through a mall with a group of her prepubescent friends holding shopping bags as she wiggled her hips and threw back her hair, singing. The lyrics, which he tried hard to decipher, went something like:

  If I was rich, I could be a bitch,

  I’d never go slow, yo, because of my cash flow, wo!

  So don’t be a smarty, come to my party.

  There was a picture of Leah sitting with provocatively crossed legs on a motorcycle as she sang an off-key rendition of a song that went: Give me a chance to make you happy, your lovin me is the key.

  And then he saw something else. There was a link entitled MY RABBI. His heart beating, he clicked on it. There he was confronted by a picture of himself and of the synagogue. I want to thank Rabbi Levi. He’s a super cool dude! Like, he’s taught me everything I know.

  He felt like laughing. He felt like weeping. He was furious, mortified, and overwhelmed. He felt like retraining, becoming an electrician or a plumber or any other profession in which you can enter a situation with a competent tool box and fix the bloody problem; a profession where the people who hired you actually respected your expertise.

  Instead, he allowed people to enter his synagogue week after week and to leave feeling good about themselves, whether or not they deserved to. He was unable to provide them with true values, true direction. Not that he hadn’t tried.

  There was that time he had talked to the congregation about the importance of shiva calls to the bereaved. A young widow had complained to him that few people had made condolence calls, and one who did had cornered her young son and told him, “Your father was so good that God needed him more,” bringing the child to hysterics, lest he too behave himself into an early grave. Another shul member, who hadn’t bothered to show up at all, had come over to her in the supermarket and said, “You were just so together that we didn’t think you needed a shiva visit.”

  He had exhorted his congregation, chastised them, explained to them, entreated them to please please visit the bereaved during their week of mourning, not to speak unless spoken to, and to be respectful.

  And what had been the result of this heartfelt sermon? A group of synagogue members, together with a sprinkling from the board, had accosted him during afternoon prayers, demanding that he apologize because certain people were now embarrassed and were thinking about leaving the synagogue altogether! And a synagogue, they explained to him ominously, can’t afford to lose dues-paying members.

  The days when a rabbi got a post for life, and when a congregation would not have dared to oppose him, were over, he thought. Most rabbis felt the yapping at their heels every minute of every day. They felt constantly under review, their every speech fodder for both their enemies and their friends, and that they need only say the wrong thing one too many times to turn friends into enemies and themselves out onto the unemployment lines.

  But it wasn’t just the fear of losing their jobs. They didn’t want to leave because they were invested in the community, caring deeply about the lives of its individuals and families. They wanted to make a difference, and they felt that if only they could hang on just a little while longer, they and their congregation would turn the corner and a great expanse would open before them, a safe harbor in which to dock the ship that swayed and trembled, buffeted by heavy winds and changing tides. If they could only be good captains and navigate correctly, there was no telling what good could be accomplished, how many could be rescued from drowning in heartache or getting eaten by the reconnoitering sharks of modern vices.

  He knew he was never going to be an intellectual giant, author of memorably profound works of scholarship. He was fine with that. He had a very simple plan, a very modest life’s goal: to do some good. To bring to the people around him some of the largesse of their heritage, to sustain them with the fruits of goodness that came to people who knew who they were, and how they were connected to their history and culture and God. So many ills of the modern world—destroyed families, miserable single men and women looking for connection, angry directionless teenagers seeking solace and meaning in mind-altering drugs—could be healed by spirituality. The Torah had answers. He wanted so much to give them, but no one would let him.

  Places of worship and communities had turned into hotbeds of strife and competition and a way to show off material wealth. And many times congregants, who were unable to keep up with the Schwartzes or the Malins or the Rollands, were pushed beyond their means into bankruptcy or worse—economic activities that bordered on the unethical or downright criminal. Perhaps it was inevitable, given the cost of day school tuition, monster mortgages, and unrelenting excesses in lifestyle adopted by many communities as the norm and relentlessly foisted upon all those wishing to remain members in good standing. The striving for excess had created a culture that dripped with excess, a culture that was the opposite of everything Judaism valued and cherished and taught.

  Despite his better judgment, he had let circumstances and his wife bully him into taking on a congregation that had been blackballed by everyone he respected. Since taking the job at Swallow Lake, he’d been frozen out of alumni events at Bernstein, which had taken him off their mailing list. The heartfelt letters he had received from his grandfather’s friends and colleagues, urging him to reconsider, had gone unanswered. He had placed all his eggs in the nest of Swallow Lake. If this didn’t work out, he didn’t know what he would do.

  He wondered, for the first time, if perhaps Delilah was right. Maybe he should try his hand at something else, some little business he could work hard at and build up, a job that would supply him with what he needed to keep his wife happy in nice clothes and jewelry and household help. A job that would let him buy a roof that couldn’t be whisked away the moment he failed to supply the flattery necessary to keep afloat the overblown ego of some self-important mâcher. A home he could call his own, in a neighborhood full of normal people who didn’t need three thousand square feet of living space filled with in-your-face excess. A place where people took care of their own children, made their own gefilte fish for Passover, and served it by themselves to beloved family members around their own dining room tables. A place where people didn’t think it was what they owned that was important, but what they gave.

  Maybe, he thought, I can’t create such a place in Swallow Lake. But maybe, just maybe, it already existed somewhere else in America—or in Israel—untouched, forgotten by time, and hidden off somewhere, like Brigadoon. If he could find it, perhaps there still was a chance he could manage to do some good and be happy.

  But for now—he sighed—he had to get Viktor Shammanov’s son ready for a Bar Mitzva that would no doubt have much bar and very little mitzva.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Like Jews on the night of the final plague, ready to pack up and leave for the Promised Land, the members of Ohel Aaron tensed, waiting for the arrival of the coveted invitation to the Shammanovs’ Bar Mitzva. Soon, there arose from each household a whoop of joy, or a bitter sigh of regret, as it became clear who had gotten the golden tickets and whose home the angel had passed over.

  As those fortunate enough to have experienced it related, a limousine pulled up to the house and a tuxedoed servant holding a silver tray got out and rang the bell. On the tray was a single white orchid and a handmade music box. When you opened it, it played the “Cell Block Tango” from Chicago. There inside was a ten-page invitation, each page describing yet another event as well as the dress code they expected (sport casual, black tie for dinner, golf and tennis wear, swimwear). The idea of swim wear in the doldrums of a freezing East Coast winter was enough to warm the hearts of every lucky invitation holder. Invitees were given the date and time they needed to arrive at the airport, but no other information. The mystery of it all thrilled them.

  There began, then, a certain shift in the communal dynamics. Those preparing for the trip began to meet in groups to discuss the
ir wardrobes and their household arrangements. They chattered over the phone and in coffee shops and over their shopping carts in supermarket aisles. How many dresses? How many shoes? What kind of hats?

  Gradually, those who had not received invitations felt themselves weeded out socially. And even though it was clear that the Shammanovs could not have invited everyone nor, in the very short time that they had become active in the synagogue, could they possibly have formed a reasonable or accurate opinion of anyone, the uninvited began to think people were looking at them differently, wondering: Why not them? What had the Shammanovs perceived about them that others had not yet been alert enough to discover?

  Alas, there was more than a shred of truth to these perceptions. Despite the fact that it was unclear on what basis invitations had or had not been sent out, it was nevertheless assumed by those invited that those left out were in some way to be held responsible for their fate.

  The uninvited heard the communal buzz, like a chain saw, cutting down their reputations along with the community’s cohesiveness. Among themselves, they began to search out answers. It was a fact that certain synagogue members had been invited to meet the Shammanovs at the rabbi’s home and at the Shammanovs’ home. And who had been the driving force behind both events? They all came to the same conclusion: Rebbitzin Delilah Levi, dearest friend of Joie Shammanov.

  Thus there began the communal wooing of Delilah Levi. Those who hadn’t thought much about her until this time suddenly remembered to invite her over for tea parties and book clubs and trips to the city. Those who had actively disliked her now donated heavily to her chesed project, parting with fairly new and expensive bags with a groan. They offered her their au pairs to help babysit her little boy, lent her their maids, sent flowers on her birthday, and cakes for the Sabbath. They stopped calling her at all hours of the day and night and made sure to come up to her in the synagogue and compliment her on her outfit, her hat, her husband’s “brilliant” sermon, her little boy’s amazing cuteness. They helped her get appointments with the best hairdressers and manicurists and cosmeticians. They showed up at sisterhood meetings. In short, they groveled.

  But as time grew closer and invitations still failed to arrive, it became clear that mere hints were not enough. Like Hasidim who go to their rebbe, asking him to intercede writh God on their behalf, those of a gentler nature humbly approached the rabbi’s wife, pleading with her to find it in her heart to get them an invitation. This, of course, she could not do. After all, who was she to make up the Shammanovs’ guest list? Besides, most of the people who were calling her had never even said two words to her before, so why should she put herself out now when they were falling all over themselves to be nice?

  The others, mostly low self-esteem types, were unbearably hurt, depressed, angry, and consumed with a desire for revenge. As they could not see their way clear to being able to avenge themselves on the Shammanovs, they looked for the next best thing: either invitation holders or Rabbi Chaim and his wife, who had introduced the Shammanovs to the community in the first place. They suddenly began to find all kinds of faults with Rabbi Chaim’s speeches, which in the past they had either ignored or enjoyed. They began to talk about the way the rebbkizin’s hair stuck out of her hats, and the expensive new clothes she had suddenly started wearing, no doubt at the expense of dues-paying synagogue members. Rumors began to circulate about how the Levis had been run out of town in their last congregation. And someone who had known a roommate of Delilah’s at Bernstein Women’s College even whispered a thing or two that put all listeners into a state of delicious, openmouthed shock.

  Busy choosing head coverings to match her synagogue dresses, her evening wear, her beach cover-ups, and her Sabbath afternoon clothes, Delilah was oblivious to the boiling cauldron of communal strife. But when someone left an anonymous note in the rabbi’s mailbox, describing with malicious joy how they felt a religious obligation to inform him of all the things that were being said about him and his wife, Chaim finally had no choice but to interrupt her dreamy happiness.

  “Who,” he said, dangling a white slip of paper between his thumb and forefinger, “is Yitzie Polinsky?”

  Fler face lost color. “Oh, isn’t that the baby crying?” She hurried up the stairs.

  Slowly and deliberately, he climbed up after her. “Delilah?”

  “Who’s been buzzing in your ear, Chaim?”

  “Would you like to see this anonymous letter someone slipped into my mail?”

  She shook her head vociferously. “I went out with him once or twice in college. Rivkie fixed me up with him. But he turned out to be a yeshiva bum.”

  Chaim looked down at the letter in his hand, undecided. Finally, he shrugged and left the room. He didn’t say another word to her until dinner, at which time he finished his veal cutlet, wiped his lips, and placed his knife and fork on his plate with careful precision. “This,” he told Delilah, “has got to stop. Delilah, you’ve got to talk to the Shammanovs!”

  “What, exactly, do you want me to say to them? That they have to invite the entire shul? What, are we in fourth grade? They’d have to charter three more planes and pay for three times the food!”

  “This Bar Mitzva is destroying the community. People are bitter and jealous, and they hold us responsible!”

  “Us? What do mean?”

  “Well, after all, it was you who brought the Shammanovs into the community in the first place. You are the one who decided which of our neighbors would be invited to their home and to ours.”

  “I invited the people who have been nice to us. And the board.”

  “Exactly! You invited all the big shots and left out the ones who are just ordinary, good-hearted, hardworking members of my congregation!”

  This, of course, was absolutely true. She’d left out the wig-wearers, the day-school PTA moms, the makeup-free mikva stalwarts, and the yentas with complaints. Delilah wasn’t interested in the boring accountants and lawyers and Hebrew teachers. But then, neither were the Shammanovs.

  When Joie had asked for her help in deciding the guest list, she’d seen it as a perfect opportunity to weed out the shleppers and put together a wonderful weekend with fun people who would know how to enjoy themselves without putting everyone (read: the rabbi’s wife) on a big guilt trip for wearing a bikini or dancing or taking a swim. She’d suggested inviting women whom she thought would be amusing for Joie and, yes, for herself, young women who were rich and thin and sexy and who wore their designer clothes well and would know what to do at a concert by the legendary rock stars who would no doubt be entertaining them, no expense spared. Imagine: Mick Jagger, with his sneer and swagger! Or Ricky Martin with those hips, just inches away from her! She just couldn’t wait.

  “Chaim, what is it you want from me? You were the one who told me to go out into the community. To be friendly. To help you get new members, didn’t you? So I did! Now what is it you want?”

  He stared at her blankly. It was like shouting over the Berlin Wall. He shook his head and left, spending as much time as possible hibernating in his study until the wretched event would finally be over and peace and sanity would, hopefully, be restored to his congregation.

  The day finally arrived. A limousine picked Delilah and Chaim up and drove them to the airport, where a huge refrigerated truck was loading into a cargo plane enough food to feed the U.S. Army in Iraq. A rabbi in a white coat and long beard was supervising.

  “They are using Golden Caterers,” Solange whispered.

  “The ones that cater at the Waldorf and the Plaza?” Felice asked, surprised. “They absolutely never cater outside!”

  “I’ve been watching the plane loading. Whole cows, dozens of them, glatt kosher; a farmload of chickens and turkeys! Pounds of caviar and kosher French foie gras—which is only produced once a year, so you have to get it just in time,” Amber whispered back in awe. “And truffles, Swiss chocolate, raspberries, baking supplies. The chefs are flying out with all their pans and pots and
utensils, and whole sets of dishes. They even brought along their own stoves and dishwashers, because they don’t want to have to kosher the hotel’s.”

  “Wow, what a production,” Mariette marveled.

  “Wait. I’m sure this is nothing compared to what they have planned,” Felice predicted, something to which they all silently agreed. “Look, there’s Delilah. My, doesn’t she look fetching.” Felice arched her brow. “If that skirt was any tighter—”

  “Or shorter. Really, ever since she and Joie became such dear friends, the woman has—”

  “Careful,” Amber whispered.

  Solange stopped abruptly, looking around her edgily.

  It was like being in the Gulag. You didn’t want anyone to overhear you saying anything that could even vaguely be interpreted as negative about either the rabbi or his wife. The rumor was going around that Lorraine Harris had said something in the gym to a friend on the treadmill about an outfit Delilah had dressed her baby in and almost immediately had gotten a call that the invitation had been rescinded. “The messenger actually came to Lorraine’s house and asked for it back! They wouldn’t even let her keep the music box!” Felice shuddered.

  “All I was going to say was isn’t it a wonderful thing that Delilah has become so close to the Shammanovs? For the synagogue, I mean . . .” Solange’s voice trailed off.

  They waited in smiling silence as Delilah strode up, air-kissing each of them. “Well, here we all are! What fun this is going to be!” Delilah whooped.

  The women glanced at each other with strained smiles, being careful to stay politely behind Delilah and Rabbi Chaim as they joined the line of the privileged few invited to board the Shammanovs’ own private jet. The rest of the guests had to content themselves with a normal charter flight.

  The Shammanovs’ private jet was like something out of the Victoria and Albert Museum, done up in red with lots of gold braid and oil paintings of faded pastoral scenes and nudes. There were only 50 seats on the plane, instead of the usual 120. There were private servants who prepared the meals and served them, and first-run movies.