by Naomi Ragen
She missed her. She missed jogging with her through open spaces, smelling mountain air so fresh you could almost taste it. She missed old trees, wide lawns, an uninterrupted blue expanse of sky. None of that existed in Boro Park.
Even more, she missed the simple courtesies: the politeness of strangers who were careful not to crowd you, who smiled and wished you a good day. Even if they didn’t mean it, couldn’t have cared less, it was helpful, even wonderful to have such encounters on a regular basis. This realization filled her with a newfound appreciation for good manners, which, unfortunately, the people of Boro Park did not share.
Indeed, the basic idea of “minding your own business” had never been heard of in this place, she often fumed, or if it had, been roundly rejected by popular demand. Every hour of every day, she lived among people where every stranger felt it not only their right but their duty to examine you head to toe and pass judgment on your adherence to community modesty standards. A place where people looked shamelessly into your shopping cart to check out your faithfulness to kashrut stringencies (according to their own very particular biases), as well as your extravagances or thriftiness. A place where neighbors thought nothing of looking into the windows of your home when they could or listening shamelessly through the walls to discover how often and how severely you disciplined—or failed to discipline—your children or argued with your husband, not to mention what kind of music you listened to and at what volume. There was absolutely no privacy.
She remembered that distant and none-too-friendly conversation with her mother at the beginning of her journey from secular to religious life. “It’s not a cult, Mom,” she had superciliously assured her. But now, she was not so sure.
She sat up, agitated, even frightened. All people who make radical changes to their lives must go through this, she told herself. It was normal to compare your new life to your old life and to feel certain things were missing. But it had never happened to her until now.
What was the trigger? That business with the music, the neighbors complaining? Or was it something deeper and more profound: Her failure to get pregnant, her inability to share some of her deepest thoughts with her husband? Was it her marriage itself?
She thought about her Yaakov, her kind, handsome husband. While he was as loving and considerate as ever, he, too, had changed. He was a different man since he’d started working full-time, leaving behind his beloved kollel and his study partner, Meir. Often, he seemed weighted down, joyless.
Like every other woman in the history of mankind married to an unhappy man, her first thought was: What have I done wrong? But aside from dancing around the living room, she really couldn’t think of anything. On the contrary, she’d bent over backward to be supportive of everything he wanted to do, even at considerable inconvenience and heartache. For example, she’d accepted without protest the considerable amount of time he was spending in evening and weekend Talmud study groups at the expense of their time together. But that wasn’t to say she didn’t resent it.
As much as she tried, she couldn’t help not only missing his company but also feeling unfairly burdened with household chores and childcare. After all, she also worked, and her salary was often even greater than his! Was this not his house as well? Were these not also his children? So far, she had chosen not to bring it up, aware that just a hint from her would get him to drop some or even most of these activities. But what would she gain? She couldn’t risk having a man on her hands that was even more depressed and unhappy than he already was.
While he hadn’t exactly opened up about his feelings, she knew him enough to understand that he, too, was in mourning for his old life. Together, these shadows from both their pasts had cast a pall over their life together. While she very much wanted to help him, more and more, the unfair distribution of their chores and responsibilities was making her feel like a martyr. And that, she realized, wasn’t sustainable. It was a stopgap, not a lifestyle. At least not for her.
How did other women do it? Fruma Esther? Basha? Her neighbors? Their entire lives were dedicated to helping their men study, taking every burden off their shoulders to do that. And yet they went about cheerfully, with kind and ready smiles, earning salaries, cooking enormous meals, cleaning, and taking care of a horde of children, not just the two little ones and a teenager that she had to deal with. These women had seven, ten, even twelve children! And more grandchildren than you could count were always turning up on their doorsteps for advice, meals, money, and love. She envied them their serenity, stamina, and dedication; their endless faith and wisdom.
Was it her secular American upbringing that made her view the equal distribution of household chores and childcare as a right? Not to mention her own particular belief that every person also had an inalienable right to leisure. What was there in her character that was so hopelessly flawed that even her blessings sometimes became unbearable burdens?
Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, refusing to be silenced, no less harsh and far more relevant than she had ever dreamed possible: Why would you want to be some man’s kitchen slave and babymaker?
If only, she thought, hugging her stomach. Rather than fulfilling her need for motherhood, her love for her stepchildren had only strengthened it. Her longing for a child of her own had grown exponentially with time, becoming more and more like a sailor’s passion to finally see dry land. She couldn’t help it. If she could love another woman’s children the way she did, what would it be like to have one that was totally her own, with no memory of other soft hands and warm eyes that had caressed them in the not-quite-forgotten twilight that was early childhood?
The ticking of her biological clock added another layer of resentment toward the forced separations from her husband. Quite apart from her sexual longing, for a woman desperate for a pregnancy, it was cruelly maddening! It was breaking her apart; even bringing her, she worried, to the edge of her sanity.
She thought of her mother sneaking out of her bedroom window in Flatbush to a waiting van filled with grungy rock musicians headed for San Francisco. For the first time in her life—to her horror and shame—she felt a bit of envy. To be free of rules! To be true, only to yourself, and your own desires and needs with no one judging you, proscribing your life in ways that could neither be endured nor challenged!
Impulsively, she took out her phone and dialed her mom. Since the wedding, they’d spoken sporadically a few times a month. She, too, was going through hard times. Her live-in boyfriend of seven years had recently absconded back to Punjab, where his Sikh parents, unbeknownst to her, had arranged a marriage with a young Sikh bride. As she’d explained it to Leah, his half-assed, long-distance apology had been: “It’s not too late for me to have children,” no doubt quoting his doting parents.
Never mind that he already had a child, Balvindra, whom he never bothered to visit. When she pointed that out to him, his inadequate response had been: “I screwed up that relationship. She calls her stepfather ‘Dad.’ I want other children, kids who will know me.”
Cheryl, Leah’s mom, couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand. Still, it was another huge disappointment in a life filled with them. And if she was honest about it, the most galling part was financial. His salary combined with the profits from her hairdressing salon had allowed her, for the first and only time in her life, not to worry about money. But talking to her daughter, Cheryl Howard was careful to shrug that part off.
“It’s not the money. I’ve always supported myself. And there are plenty more where he came from,” she’d asserted bravely. “Besides, he was getting religious again, growing his hair. He even wore his turban to your wedding, remember? Honestly, this was bound to happen sooner or later. Me and a religious fanatic? Can you just see it?”
But Leah wasn’t buying the cheerful insouciance. While her own feelings about Ravi had always been mixed, she knew her mother had loved him deeply. As for money, while she knew her mother had always been careful financially from long habit, she also kn
ew that as proprietor and main employee of her own small business, she didn’t have much of a cushion if something went wrong. Leah couldn’t help worrying.
Despite being polar opposites, it had always been just the two of them, and a mother is a mother. Always. As Judge Judy never tired of pointing out, “See that guy standing next to you? Take a good look. You won’t remember his face in ten years. Now look at your mother. She’s going to be your mother forever.”
“Mom, how are you?”
“Lola! I mean Leah. Great, and you?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Guess?”
“I’m just tired, Mom. Monday blues.”
“Everything okay with you and Jacob?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Newlyweds … men … religion … little kids … take your pick.”
Leah had to laugh. “All of the above, but leave out the kids. I love the kids. I just wish…”
“You had one of your own, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Patience.”
“I go nuts with jealousy when I see these pregnant Boro Park teenagers pushing double baby carriages with a stomach out to there. I even get teary when I see a pregnant cat! I think I’m going insane.”
“When you decided to move to Boro Park and become one of them, you went insane. Now you’re just like the rest of them.”
“But I’m not like the rest of them, Mom. That’s the problem. And don’t you dare say ‘I told you so.’”
“Even though I did.”
“But you weren’t right … about … everything.”
“Just some things.”
“I guess I am a feminist, after all.”
There was a short silence, during which Leah imagined her mom air-punching and saying a silent yes!
“I’m really sorry to hear that, honey.” She sounded absolutely sincere. “Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t changed my mind about that whole crowd. I don’t have to remind you I grew up in Flatbush, so I knew what you were getting into long before you did, but I like Jacob. He’s a good guy. And I know how much you love the kids and they love you. I really want you to be happy. And life is a compromise. Nothing’s perfect. Remember that. It’s hard to have a life that fits all your needs, no matter where you are or what you believe in. And when you finally get there, there is nothing to stop it all disappearing in a second.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“Ravi? You’re kidding me? He’s on his honeymoon with his twentysomething and back in his turban, until it starts giving him headaches—which it certainly will, trust me—and he takes it off again. Then she and the in-laws and his parents are going to come down on him like a ton of bricks! But hey, it’s a free world, and it was his stupid choice. So not my problem anymore.” Her voice trailed off unconvincingly. “But don’t worry about me. I’ve got someone new. His name is Jerry. He’s also originally from Brooklyn, like most of Florida. He runs the coffee shop down the block. Lost his wife last year. Cancer. I’ve known him for years. And yes, he’s Jewish. You see, I’m not prejudiced.”
Leah smiled. “Well, I’ve got a pile of work to do, Mom. I just wanted—”
“Listen, honey, why don’t you come down to Florida one of these days? Take a little vacation. Bring the kids, why don’t you? I’ve got a pool. I’ll buy a new barbecue and kosher food for you, and paper plates and stuff. You could use a few days off. Go jogging on the beach.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Think about it. Talk it over with your husband. How is he, your hunky Hasid?”
“He’s not a Hasid. And he’s trying to get used to working downtown instead of studying all day. It’s hard for him.”
“Well, I give him credit. I was wrong about him. I guess they are not all the same, living off their wives while they bitty-bitty-bum.”
“Let’s not get into this, Mom. Really, we’ve had such a nice talk.”
“Okay, okay, I never know when to shut my big mouth. And next time, let’s FaceTime. I want to show you my new hair color.”
“What, the spiky short blond with the black roots is gone?”
“With the wind! I was cloning too many of my clients. I let it grow, and now it’s your color, strawberry blond, but more strawberry. Jerry loves it.”
Good for Jerry! And for Tom, Dick, and Harry who would surely come along if Jerry didn’t pan out. Which was fine, Leah supposed, with grudging admiration for her mother’s resiliency. Strangely, Leah sort of missed Ravi, although theirs had not been the most wonderful of relationships; he had practically thrown her out when she’d wound up at her mother’s doorstep after losing her job and being betrayed by her cheating boyfriend. In fact, it was his “What are your plans?” that had propelled her to get involved with a Chabad summer program, her first step in abandoning a secular lifestyle for a religious one. Ironically, it was in Ravi the lapsed Sikh that she’d found an unlikely ally. He understood about religious obligations and guilt and family, something her mother had always refused to do. She wished him well in Punjab with his dark-eyed bride.
“I’ve got to go, Mom. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I’m so glad you called! I’m sending you a big kiss and a hug, honey. And think about that vacation. I’d love to see the little rug rats. They’ll have a blast in the pool.”
“I’ll think about it.” Probably way too much since it was impossible, Leah thought, sighing. “Take care of yourself. And send me a selfie. Dying to see the hair!”
Long after she’d hung up the phone, she lingered prone on the couch, unnerved by the strange, incomprehensible irony that her mother, Ms. I-Don’t-Believe-in-Anything, was now comforting her in her religious doubts and encouraging patience!
“Please, God, don’t punish me. I know I’m a wretched ingrate. But just between the two of us, why would You let me meet the love of my life, experience the love of children, and then not allow this marriage to give me children of my own? Please, please give us a child, our own child!” She found tears rolling down her cheeks. “And please help me to understand my husband better, to make him happier. I know he also works so hard.”
She got up looking for a tissue. She blew her nose and wiped the moisture from her face before straightening her aching back and heading determinedly into the kitchen, where the grimy pots awaited.
But before she could even turn on the hot water, she heard the front door bang open and saw Shaindele walk in and head directly for her room. Even for Shaindele, who was not the president of her fan club, Leah thought, this was a bit extreme. She wavered between resentment, curiosity, and real concern. “Okay, okay, HaShem. I hear you,” she whispered, going to the teenager’s door and knocking. If you ask for chesed for yourself, you must first bestow it on others.
“Are you okay, honey?”
The reply was muffled. Were those sobs? She quickly opened the door. The girl was as white as a sheet, tears contorting her sweet, young face.
Leah sat down next to her, putting a tentative arm around her. To her surprise, Shaindele clutched her, shaking.
Leah had never seen her like this. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What’s happened, sweetie? Was it a difficult session with the psychologist? Sometimes that happens. It’s not a bad thing.”
Shaindele shook her head, gulping down the phlegm that was now choking her, wiping away her blinding tears. How to explain the complicated situation with this man to her stepmother? She wasn’t even wholly convinced she understood it herself. And yet one thing was clear: Yoel Grub was dangerous, and she was no match for him.
“I can’t go back, Leah. I just can’t!”
“Hey, no one is going to force you, I promise you. But can you just explain to me why?” She tried to be gentle, sympathetic, but her heart dropped, imagining the repercussions at Shaindele’s school, not to mention with her father! Another thing on his plate for him to deal with! No, for them to deal with; something that would take up more of their preci
ous time together, putting new pressures on their relationship, new obstacles in the way of their intimacy.
Shaindele shook her head. “I don’t know if I can.”
What was that supposed to mean? Despite her sincerest efforts to be understanding and sympathetic, Leah found herself filled with irritation. “Try.”
Something in her stepmother’s tone sobered her up. She drew back sharply, stilling her sobs. “It’s not safe for me there.”
“Not safe? In what way? What are you afraid of, Shaindele?”
How to explain how his face looked when he said things, the unspeakable implications? She tried to remember something he’d said that was outrageous, which she could now repeat to win her stepmother over to her side, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t the words, it was the way he said it, and even more, the way he didn’t say things, things she’d expected … wanted … him to say, the correct, religious things a rav should say to a young woman he was supposed to be counseling. Most of all, it was a feeling deep in her stomach, an ache, a fear, a desire for flight that was instinctive and uncontrollable.
“He’s not helping you?”
She couldn’t even say that! For most of this past session at least, he had been perfectly professional and very helpful.
“I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me, sweetie. Please!”
