“You like my lipstick?” she asked now. “Estée Lauder. Your mother got it free and was going to throw it out, it’s not her color. But I said, give it to me. Why waste?”
“It looks great on you, Bubbie.” She’d applied the cotton-candy pink unevenly on her thin lips, refusing to ask for help because that would allow her failing eyesight a victory.
Pushing herself off her rocking chair, Bubbie found her cane and, ignoring my offered arm, marched, with me at her heels, down the hall to the dining room sideboard where my mother, a lace mantilla on her head, was about to light the candles in the nine-arm silver candelabra my siblings and I bought for my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She had lit two candles as a bride, another when each of us was born.
My father hurried into the room, one hand adjusting the brim of his black hat over his mostly gray hair, the other checking his watch.
He smiled when he saw me. “Hi, sweetheart.” Then he turned his head toward the hall and bellowed, “Noah, Joey, I’m leaving!” and without catching his breath, “Liora, Mommy’s lighting, turn off the hair dryer!”
He gave me a bear hug and planted a kiss on my forehead, another on Bubbie’s cheek. His lips lingered on my mother’s. “Good Shabbos.”
“Wait for the boys, Steven,” my mother said, fixing his tie, the top of her head resting just below his square chin.
“Shul won’t wait. Tell them to catch up.” And he was gone.
My mother lit her nine candles, and I lit my two, neither bride nor maiden, reciting the blessing and the accompanying prayers of gratitude and requests. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Bubbie G, anger pinching her pink-stained lips, held a thin, lit candle in a silver tube that served as a match and, admitting temporary defeat, allowed my mother to guide her hand to the Shabbos candles she couldn’t see.
That night, for the first time in months, I dreamed about Aggie. She was wearing the long-sleeved navy cotton sweater and ankle-length khaki skirt I’d last seen her in when she stopped at my apartment that Wednesday evening five years ago in July, at the beginning of the Three Weeks, on the way to a community-wide recitation of psalms for a young mother just diagnosed with cancer. Come with me, she urged, but I was too lazy to change out of my shorts, and I didn’t think my prayers would help. So I stayed in my apartment, and Aggie drove to the gathering, and somewhere between the side street where she parked her Corolla and the hall where hundreds of women were beseeching God, Aggie disappeared. They found her body a day later in a Dumpster behind a restaurant several miles away. For a long time after that, I couldn’t pray at all. Because if Aggie wasn’t protected, what chance did I have?
“Come with me,” she called now.
I reached for her slender hand, but she vanished up a steep, darkened street. I raced after her, my chest soon pounding with exertion, my breath labored, as I turned one corner after another on winding streets that seemed so familiar to me. For a second I caught a glimpse of her, angel-like in a long, silky white lace nightgown, and then she disappeared, and though I ran and ran, calling her name over and over, I never saw her again.
seventeen
Saturday, July 19. 9:25 A.M. 1700 block of North Western Avenue. An assailant came from behind and struck the victim on the back of her neck. “Stay the . . . away from my boyfriend!” the assailant screamed and cut the victim on the left forearm with a razor. (Hollywood)
B’nai Yeshurun was filled to high holiday capacity when I arrived half an hour after services began—a sold-out performance for the handsome young rabbi. Taking a seat at the back of the women’s section, I opened a siddur to the Shabbat morning prayers and debated the wisdom of having come here, a decision instigated by curiosity and the serendipity of my seeing Zack at the Birkenstein home, and abetted by my mother and grandmother.
“If Rachel didn’t go to the well, she would never have met Jacob,” Bubbie G had advised when I went to her room to kiss her good night.
So here I was, a stranger ill at ease in the synagogue I’d attended for the year and a half of my marriage, usually at the side of my former mother-in-law, Valerie, and surrounded by her friends. I scanned the rows of straw hats, hoping not to see the chin-length frosted blond hair under the trademark UFO-size brim. She was in her customary spot—second seat, second row. Ron was probably here, too.
A familiar-looking woman several rows in front of me was smiling broadly at me. I smiled back, anxiously searching my memory, and was relieved when the answer came to me: Edie’s friend Harriet, the scout who had reported to my sister about Zack.
Harriet winked at me. Facing forward, she leaned toward the woman next to her, the brims of their hats butting. The woman twisted her neck in a great imitation of Linda Blair in The Exorcist and gave me a quick appraisal before turning back and whispering into the ear of the woman to her right. A conga line of more turned heads and appraising looks, more knowing smiles. By the time the information reached the end of the pew, they’d have me married to Zack and the mother of his three children.
“Mazel tov,” I muttered under my breath, not sotto voce enough, judging from the curious stare of the fifty-something woman sitting next to me.
I blushed.
She returned her attention to her siddur.
I did the same, silently reciting the familiar Hebrew words but not concentrating. Harriet and her friends’ telephone game, silly as it was, had heightened my anticipation of seeing Zack, an anticipation dampened by the prospect of an encounter with my ex–mother-in-law, who is always a lady, and with Ron, who is unpredictable.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about Lenore and Aggie, and the fact that the two had become entwined in my dream. The nightmare had unnerved me, but of course, it made sense. I’d begun Friday saddened by Lenore’s life and the futility of her death, and had gone to sleep troubled by the certainty that she’d been murdered, that I’d let her down just as I’d let Aggie down. The question was, who had killed Lenore, and why?
Saunders’s name kept popping into my mind, but that was hardly surprising. He had reason to hate Lenore, and I was convinced he hadn’t been completely honest with me. That didn’t mean he’d killed her. I knew next to nothing about Lenore, about the people who loved her and those who wished her ill.
And why would Saunders tell me all? If Lenore had run across Laurel Canyon to avoid him, he certainly wouldn’t admit responsibility. Even if he’d only witnessed her being struck, or had seen her later, lying on the road, the fact that he’d scurried home instead of going to her rescue wouldn’t sit well with the public.
I had tried last night to place myself in his shoes. In the darkened theater of my bedroom, I’d summoned up the Greek chorus of the farce that was my marriage: Fury, Humiliation, Anguish, Sorrow. I had hated Ron then, had told him so. I had come close to wishing him ill. But if he were struck by a hit-and-run driver . . . ?
I no longer have enough vested in Ron to hate him, but even if I did, I’d like to think that I would rush to his side, as I would to help any human being. And I could never imagine killing him.
Then again, Ron had killed our marriage, not our child.
I’ve read about postpartum depression—not the short-term “baby blues” Edie and Mindy had, but the kind that lasts for weeks or months or longer. I know it’s not uncommon. I looked around the synagogue, at the young and not so young mothers and their toddlers, some sitting obediently, some giggling or racing up and down the aisles before a “Shush!” tethered them, at least temporarily. Our community encourages large families, and six or seven children isn’t considered unusual. I wondered how many of these women who seemed so relaxed with motherhood had struggled with the kind of severe depression that had brought catastrophe to Lenore and her infant son and other families that we read about in the news, like Andrea Yates, who drowned her five children in the bathtub. And what about the fathers of these dead children, and the grandparents?
The congregation stood, and I realized with a start that ten m
inutes and several prayers had passed me by. I hurried to catch up, struggling to give meaning to my words. Soon the morning service was completed, and we followed in our Bibles as a young man toward the front of the shul stood at the bimah, the elevated table on which the Torah scroll is placed, and read this week’s portion, Pinchas.
Another reading from Prophets, and Rabbi Newman approached the lectern. He had aged since I’d last seen him, almost two years ago—his back was more rounded, his hair almost as white as his fringed tallis. He was smiling, and his eyes shone with affection as he looked around the room, a shepherd counting his flock.
“It’s time to say goodbye. . . .” He spoke about his history with the shul, about the wonderful memories he would always have, about his plans to devote his time to Torah study and the enjoyment of his grandchildren.
“This week’s parsha, Pinchas, ends, fittingly, with transition,” he continued. “Moses handing over his leadership of the children of Israel to Joshua. Just as Moses had complete faith in Joshua, I have complete faith in Rabbi Zachary Abrams. We are fortunate that Rabbi Abrams has returned to Los Angeles, even more fortunate that he has chosen to lead our congregation, and I know that you’ll show him the kindness, warmth, and respect that you’ve always shown me and my family.”
Rabbi Newman stepped down. I know it’s silly, but on some level I don’t think I really believed that Zack was a rabbi until he was standing in front of that lectern, handsome in a well-cut navy suit, looking composed and self-assured and, well, rabbinic. A colony of butterflies fluttered in my stomach, just as they had at Noah’s and Joey’s bar mitzvahs. I wanted so badly for him to do well, don’t ask me why.
He had us at “Good Shabbos.” He held us captive with his easy smile, with the warmth and earnestness and authority in his gravelly voice as he talked about Pinchas, the zealot who brought peace to the nation and an end to the plague that had ravaged it, about the daughters of Tzelafchad who argued successfully that they were entitled to inherit their father’s portion of the promised land, about the census-taking that ends the Torah portion.
“Everyone was counted during that census,” Zack said. “Every one of you here counts—every man, every woman, every child—as individuals, and as members of this congregation and this community.” He paused and smiled again. “And I’m counting on each of you. Shabbat shalom.”
Harriet turned around and threw me a triumphant smile. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she mouthed.
After the service, in the large rectangular hall off the synagogue where the weekly Shabbat refreshments are served, Zack recited the kiddush over the wine and collected congratulations from the women, who beamed at him adoringly, and “Yasher ko’achs” (loosely, “Well done”) from the men, who slapped him on the back and pumped his hand so vigorously that he’d probably need orthopedic surgery.
When the crowd showed no sign of thinning, I made my way toward him, squeezing around clusters of people talking and holding plates of pastries and potato and noodle kugels. Halfway there I almost bumped into Ron.
“Hey, babe, I thought I saw you,” he said. “What brings you here, me or the chulent?” he asked, referring to a traditional Sabbath lunch stew—meat, potatoes, several kinds of beans, and barley, cooked Friday afternoon and left overnight in the oven or Crock-Pot.
“Oh, it’s you, Ron. Definitely.”
He leaned close. “You miss me, don’t you?” he whispered, treating me to a pungent whiff of herring and liquor.
“Every minute of every day.” I moved back. “Ron, what can you tell me about Robert Saunders?” My ex-husband is the Joan Rivers of the business world.
“The guy running for city council? He’s a macher.” A big wheel. “Family money, plus his own. He lost heavily in the market last year—didn’t we all?” Ron grimaced. “He’ll recoup. He has some major investors backing him in that new housing development in the Santa Monica Mountains and some other projects. There’s a zoning problem, but he’ll probably resolve it. He always does. Why? Are you writing about him?”
“No. His name came up in conversation.”
Ron winked. “Whatever. Just spell my name right in the acknowledgments. Did you see my folks? They’ll want to say hello. Wait right here.”
Like an idiot, I waited. Why he thought his parents were interested in greeting their ex–daughter-in-law, I don’t know, but it’s typical of Ron to pretend that everything’s all right and pull everyone into his fantasy. That’s what makes him such a great day trader, and what attracted me to him in the first place, along with his energy and ambition and zest for life.
I watched him work the room, slapping backs, laughing, high-five-ing all the way. I wish I could say a life of duplicity had left its mark, but he’s a Jewish Dorian Gray—wholesome, boyish good looks with a shock of angelic blond hair masking the blackness rotting inside. Okay, maybe blackness is an exaggeration, but it really burns me that he continues to fool everyone, including probably himself. He’s on the synagogue board, he’s involved in community organizations that have honored him for the large sums he donated before the dot-coms in which he traded lost their dots. People love him and regard him as a poster boy for Modern Orthodoxy. I had loved him, too.
Of course, they don’t know about the adultery. Only my family and Ron’s know, and his parents still think I jumped to conclusions about their only child, their golden boy, though I can’t fathom how anyone can call the flowers and jewelry I never received and the hotel rooms I never stayed in (all charged to his business credit card) conclusions. I started snooping after Edie reluctantly reported seeing Ron with his cousin’s friend Tilly at a Dodgers game, where he scored more than the Dodgers. (His parents: Edie was mistaken.) I followed him into a Westwood movie house and caught Ron and Tilly snuggling, with his hand up her skirt. (His parents: Ron was comforting her over bad news. And how could I be sure what he was doing when the theater was dark?)
As for Ron, he admitted to me (and later denied to his parents and mine) that he’d fooled around. He hadn’t technically committed adultery (thank you, Bill Clinton), though he had no explanation for the condoms I found in his laptop case next to a DVD that would have curled Rabbi Newman’s hair. I told him he was a hypocrite to stay on the board of a synagogue. He insisted he had an illness, like kleptomania. He’d done teshuvah (repentance). He wanted me to stay. He would get help. He was full of regret. I told him he was full of crap.
Sometimes I regret not revealing why we’d divorced. I’d done it for a number of reasons: Because it was the right thing to do. Because in exposing Ron I’d be spreading “lashon harah,” gossip, which is a sin. Because nobility spared me the pitying looks and comments for the woman scorned. Because it gave me leverage in obtaining my get, my Jewish divorce.
Knowing Ron, even if I had told, he would have found a way to twist his way out of the truth and lay the fault at my feet.
“Ron is a healthy young man with normal needs,” Valerie had told my mother.
To which Bubbie G had responded, in Polish: “Niech cie szlak trafi.” May a thunderclap strike him. I say that phrase whenever he pisses me off.
A moment later my ex–mother-in-law was in front of me, flanked by Ron and her husband, Louis. She’s a well-dressed, attractive woman—about my height, five-five, and a few pounds lighter—with green contact lenses, ash blond highlighted hair, and interesting facial planes shadowed now by that oversized brim. Louis is neither handsome nor plain, a man you’d never pick out of a crowd. He’s around five-eight, and he and Valerie often wonder aloud how they sired a tall Adonis like Ron.
“Good Shabbos, Molly,” Valerie said. I think she would have preferred coming face-to-face with her gynecologist.
“Good Shabbos.”
“ ‘Shabbos,” from Louis, who was gazing at something over my head, avoiding eye contact.
Only Ron was having a good time, which was just like him, he’s so oblivious. I felt sorry for my ex–in-laws. I got along well with them when Ron and I wer
e married, and have no quarrel with them now. They have a right to take their son’s side, and heaven knows he can be convincing. I’ve come to accept that bad sons happen to good people.
“So what brings you here?” Valerie asked.
“I’m spending Shabbos with my parents and thought I’d try out this shul.”
“Please give them my best. Did you hear the new rabbi’s speech? Wonderful, wasn’t it?”
“A little too long,” Louis said. “Ron knows him. Same high school class. Ron convinced the board to hire him.”
I almost groaned aloud.
“What are friends for?” Ron smiled. “Molly dated him in high school. He was a jock, and now he’s a rabbi. Go figure.”
“People change, dear,” Valerie said.
“That’s what I keep telling Molly, but she doesn’t believe me.” Exaggerating a sigh, he placed his hand on my back and lowered it so that he was cupping my butt.
Niech cie szlak trafi.
Louis coughed. Valerie smiled tightly, looking as happy as if she were having a Brazilian bikini wax.
“Nice seeing you,” I said, moving out of Ron’s reach. “I’ll tell my parents you said hello.” Every few months, in between girlfriends, Ron calls and suggests that we give it another try, probably to practice his moves. He was obviously having a dry spell now.
I stepped around another cluster of people, prepared to approach Zack, but he wasn’t where I’d seen him. I spotted him near the long refreshment table in the center of the rectangular room and found him engrossed in conversation with the blond real estate broker I’d seen in the restaurant. From the way she was looking at him, she wasn’t discussing interest rates.
“Her name is Reggie,” Ron said, coming up alongside me. “She’s hot, isn’t she?” He ran his hand down his jacket, simulating striking a match, and blew on his raised fingers. “Zack knows how to pick ’em. But the lady has competition.”
Blues in the Night Page 10
