The phone rang. I couldn’t answer it on Shabbat, but I could listen if the caller left a message.
Zack was frowning. “I don’t want to lie to Rabbi Bailor, Molly.”
Another ring. Maybe the caller was Connors.
“It’s not as if you ever see him, Zack.”
“And if I do?”
One more ring. Then the answering machine would pick up.
“I said I’m sorry, Zack. Rabbi Bailor took me by surprise.” It wasn’t our first spat, and it wouldn’t be our last, but I hated the feeling. “Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’m not happy, either.” He glanced at the phone on his nightstand. “I know you want to find out who’s calling.”
“It may be Connors. But this is more important.”
“I don’t think there’s much more to say, Molly. I have a problem with lying.”
He left the room. I hurried to the answering machine in the den and heard Connors’s voice.
“. . . won’t know till tomorrow, Molly. Call me after your Sabbath, and we’ll talk.”
Chapter 20
Zack was subdued and our conversation strained while we walked the five blocks from Citrus to Beverly and Detroit and B’nai Yeshurun, the synagogue where Zack has been serving as rabbi for a year and a half. I was contemplating apologizing again, but it was hard to find the right moment. Every few seconds, it seemed, we exchanged Sabbath greetings with men and boys of all ages who were making their way to one of a multitude of shuls in the area. And maybe, I told myself, it was better to leave things alone.
Since our wedding I’ve accompanied Zack to shul most Friday nights. Orthodox women generally don’t attend Friday night services, but I don’t mind being alone in the women’s section. I enjoy the introspection the privacy affords, and the melodies sung with gusto and harmony by Zack and the other men standing on the other side of the wood-paneled mechitza.
I was in the middle of the last stanza of “L’cha Dodi” and had swiveled around to bow and greet the Sabbath Queen when I noticed a woman in the back row. We exchanged smiles. I turned back and sang the final refrain.
After the service I saw her in the lobby. She was putting on a black raincoat, and I caught a glimpse of a trim figure in a brown wool tweed skirt and camel turtleneck sweater. She was around five four, pretty in a quiet way. Fine lines around her mouth and hazel eyes put her in her late forties.
“Good Shabbos.” I extended my hand. “I’m Molly Abrams. Welcome to the shul.”
She shook my hand. “The rabbi is your husband?”
“Yes.” She looked familiar. “Have we met?”
After eight months at playing rabbi’s wife, I’m still an ingénue, and while I haven’t committed any serious gaffes, a few weeks earlier I’d slighted a woman when I hadn’t welcomed her back from a trip abroad. In a shul with a membership of over three hundred families, I was bound to slight other congregants. I hoped I hadn’t offended the woman standing in front of me.
“I’ve attended services here once or twice,” she said. “Someone pointed you out to me. The rabbi’s charming new bride. Apparently, your husband was quite the catch.” She smiled. “But to answer your question, no, we haven’t met.”
I relaxed. “Well, I don’t know about the charming, but I’m glad we’re meeting now. Are you new to the community?”
“I moved here almost a year ago from New York, but I haven’t really met a lot of people. And I’m still shul hopping, trying to find my place.”
From the brown hat on her chin-length highlighted blond hair, I had assumed she was married. The “I” suggested she wasn’t. I glanced at her left hand. No ring. Divorced, I thought.
“There are plenty of choices, although I hope you’ll like B’nai Yeshurun.” I smiled. “Would you like to join us for dinner at my parents’? I know they’d love to have you.”
My parents have raised us to follow the example set by Abraham, who is eponymous with hospitality. Zack and I often invite congregants for a Shabbat meal (the first few months we were universally turned down—the congregation wanted to give their rabbi and his bride time to get to know each other). And I’m always prepared in case Zack brings an unexpected guest. A tourist; someone who has just moved to L.A.; someone who, Zack suspects, can’t afford a meal; someone who dreads spending Shabbat alone. Since marrying Zack I’ve become much more aware that people often hide loneliness behind a smile.
“I’d love to take a rain check,” the woman said. “I’m having dinner with Rebecca and Henry Stone. I assume you know them?” When I nodded, she said, “I told Henry I’d meet him here. I guess it was bashert.”
“Bashert?”
“I’m Cheryl Wexner. I’m sorry, I thought I said. You left a message saying Rabbi Bailor suggested that you talk to me about Hadassah? I’ve become close to her, and I’m a little concerned about her. Is she all right?”
“Actually . . .”
I was debating how much to say when the double doors to the men’s section swung open. Seconds later I exchanged “Good Shabbos” greetings with Henry Stone and introduced Cheryl to my father-in-law, Larry, who told me Zack was talking with a congregant.
“Have you seen Justin?” Cheryl asked Henry.
“He was talking with some of the other young people. I’ll go check.”
Henry left. I was accepting a kiss from my father-in-law—he looks exactly the way Zack will in twenty years—when my ex, Ron, strolled over. He’s a Jewish Adonis, tall and blond and extremely good-looking. That, along with his zest for life, was one of the qualities that had attracted me. Apparently it attracted other women, too, which is why I divorced him eighteen months after our wedding.
“Me, too?” Ron offered his cheek.
When pigs fly, I thought, producing a smile. “I don’t think so.”
I’ve worked past my anger and hurt, but Ron still sets my teeth on edge. I was grateful to see Zack exiting the sanctuary and heading our way.
“Zack, this is Cheryl Wexner,” I told him when he was at my side. “Cheryl, this is my husband, Zack.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” Ron said. “I’m Ron Hoffman, Cheryl. I’m on the shul board.”
“Nice to meet you, Ron.”
“I’m the one Molly let get away. But she has good taste. She married my former best friend. My ex with my ex.” He punched Zack lightly in his arm. “Two strikes.”
Ron likes to make light of our divorce. I suspect he has two goals: deflecting criticism—or worse, pity—and making me and Zack uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell whether Zack was annoyed. He hides his feelings better than I do. Cheryl Wexner definitely looked ill at ease.
“So what do you do, Cheryl?” Ron asked.
“I’m an educational consultant. I help students with their college and graduate school applications. Oh, Justin. Over here.” She waved.
Walking toward us were Henry and a young man in his midtwenties. He had trendy narrow rimless glasses and wore a teeny red-and-black crocheted yarmulke on brown hair that was a little long and shaggy.
“I was wondering where you were,” Cheryl said when he was at her side. She slipped her arm through his. “This is my son. Justin, this is Mrs. Abrams, the rabbi’s wife. Justin is a screenwriter and the reason I moved here. He told me Los Angeles was paradise, and he was right.”
Her eyes were animated, and I could hear the pride in her voice. “It’s nice to meet you, Justin. What type of screenplays do you write?”
“I’m working on a futuristic thriller. Kind of noir, like Gattaca?”
“Molly’s as noir as they come,” Ron said. “She gets her jollies from looking at crime scene photos and hanging out with cops.”
“Molly writes true crime books,” Zack said.
“You’ve been published?” Justin asked me.
I mentioned my books and my pseudonym. I could tell from his politely blank expression, and his mother’s, that they’d never heard of me.
“You study with Rabbi Ba
ilor, right?” I said. “He was my teacher almost fifteen years ago, and Zack’s.”
“Mine, too,” Ron said.
“It’s nice that you’re still in touch,” Cheryl said.
Ron grinned. “Actually, Molly and the rabbi—”
“Have a special relationship.” Zack put his hand on Ron’s arm. “How do you like studying with him, Justin?”
“He knows his stuff,” Justin said. “And he’s cool. No pressure, you know?”
“Ready to go?” Henry Stone said.
Cheryl turned to me. “We can talk tomorrow night, Molly, or Sunday. Whatever is best for you.”
“Talk about what?” Ron said.
“Sunday is fine,” I told her, though if Connors came through, which I fervently hoped, there would be no need to talk to Cheryl. “I’ll phone you.”
“That would be lovely. I’m glad we met, Molly. Shabbat shalom.”
“Shabbat shalom.”
“Talk about what?” Ron said again after they left.
Chapter 21
My dad gave me a bear hug and a kiss and slapped Zack on the back. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and has more gray than brown in his hair—no surprise, since he’s fifty-eight, something I find hard to believe. My mom kissed me and Zack and disappeared into the kitchen, which was just as well, because she probably would have had heart palpitations if she’d seen Bubbie G jump off the den sofa as if she were a girl of eighteen, not a widow of eighty.
“Malkele,” she said.
Macular degeneration has stolen most of the central vision from my grandmother’s once bright blue eyes. I don’t know what she saw as she held my face and kissed my cheeks, but I wanted the moment to last. I love the rose scent of her perfume, the velvet touch of her time-worn skin, which she smooths religiously with lotions she’s accumulated over the years, lotions she would dot on my hands and cheeks when I was a little girl standing in the bathroom while she sat at her vanity table and applied makeup.
“You look beautiful, Bubbie,” Zack said.
“Tenk you, Zack.”
With her Polish-Yiddish accent, “Zack” came out as “Zeck.” (“Zeck” is Yiddish for “sack,” no correlation to his name, but I’ve given up trying to correct her.) Bubbie also pronounces most ths as dees or tees, and she often calls us by Yiddish endearments.
Sheyfeleh, shepseleh (they both mean “little sheep”), mammeleh (little mother), zeeskeit (sweetheart). We tease her about it, but she doesn’t mind. In fact, she recently shared a joke about a mother whose son is leaving for his first day of school.
“Behave, my bubaleh,” the mother tells the boy as they’re waiting for the school bus. “Take good care of yourself, tateleh.”
“I will.”
“And eat your lunch, shain kindt.”
“I will.”
“Mommy loves you a lot, ketsaleh!”
When the boy returns from school, the mother asks, “So what did my oitzerel learn?”
“I learned my name is David.”
Bubbie kissed Zack on both cheeks, too, and allowed him to escort her to the dining room and get her seated—no small matter, since she rejects most offers of help.
We were seven for dinner: Bubbie and my parents; Zack and me; Noah and Joey, two of my brothers. They both resemble my dad. Noah, twenty-five, is in his third year of law school. Joey, two years younger and two inches shorter, has a degree in computer programming but has joined my father’s construction business and is enjoying working with him.
My youngest sister, Liora, I learned, was having dinner with my brother Judah and his wife, Gitty.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked my mother in the kitchen after the men had recited Kiddush and we’d all enjoyed Bubbie’s freshly baked challa.
My mother is fifty-seven, but can pass for her late forties. She has brown eyes, rich brown hair that she’d tucked into a black velvet crocheted snood, and a trim figure that she maintains with yoga and the Israeli dance class my sister Edie gives.
“No occasion,” she said. “Gitty isn’t feeling well. Liora offered to help with Yechiel so Judah could go to shul, and they invited her for dinner.”
“Gitty’s pregnant, isn’t she?”
Yechiel was two, and my sister-in-law had commented that she and my brother Judah were looking forward to having another child. And at last Monday night’s mah jongg game, she’d looked pale.
My mother looked flustered. “You’d have to ask Gitty.”
“Sorry, I put you on the spot. Forget I asked.” I resisted the urge to tell her I was a few days late. “Do you know Cheryl Wexner, Mom?”
She transferred the last slice of sweet-and-sour salmon from a Pyrex dish to a plate. “Where have I heard that name?”
“She helps students with college applications, and does educational consulting.”
My mother nodded. “Some of the kids mentioned her. How do you know her?”
“I met her in shul tonight. I plan to invite her for a Shabbos meal, and I thought you might do the same. She’s been living here almost a year and hasn’t connected with the community. I think she’s lonely.”
“I’ll give her a call this week. Is she married?”
“Divorced, is my guess. No ring, but she was wearing a hat. Her son was with her. Justin. He’s in his midtwenties.”
“That’ll be nice for Joey and Noah.”
“How’s Noah doing? He looks so sad.”
Two months ago, his fiancée had broken their engagement.
“He’s having a hard time, but he’ll be okay. I’d like him to start dating again, but he’s not interested. It’s much easier in romance books, isn’t it? Well, not easier, but there are always happy endings.”
My mother writes romance books under a pseudonym, Charlotte D’Anjou. My father’s favorite pear. Recently, she was “outed,” and she’s nervous about reactions from her students and colleagues, and her principal.
“How’s the book coming along, Mom?”
“I’m stuck on a scene. To kiss or not to kiss.” She laughed. “Maybe I’ll call you Sunday and you’ll talk me through it.” She handed me two plates. “For Zack and Dad. Serve Zack first,” she instructed, as she always does.
“Not Dad?” I teased, knowing the answer.
“Your husband comes first.” She smiled. “Speaking of husbands, is everything okay, Molly? You both seem preoccupied.”
“Sorry. I do have something on my mind, but it has nothing to do with Zack.” Half a truth, but there was no need to worry my mother.
“And Zack?”
What to say? “We had a little disagreement about the thing that’s on my mind. But we’re fine.”
“Something you want to talk about?”
I shook my head. “It’s confidential.”
“But you and Zack are happy?”
“Very.”
“Good.” She patted my cheek.
When Ron and I were married, my parents took for granted that our marriage was sound until I told them otherwise. Sometimes I feel burdened with the need to reassure. No one’s fault, just an aftershock of divorce.
My melancholy evaporated during dinner. I joined in the singing and conversation, which is always lively. And I listened attentively when Noah gave a dvar Torah about the week’s portion that we would read in shul tomorrow.
Jacob leaving home after he has stolen the birthright. His dream of angels climbing and descending a ladder. His first meeting with Rachel.
“The commentaries explain why Jacob cried when he first saw Rachel,” Noah said. “Jacob knew he wouldn’t be buried with her. He was crying out of grief for their lost love.” Noah folded the paper from which he’d been reading and placed it on the table. “Maybe that’s one of the reasons we break a glass under the chuppah at a wedding, because even true love can’t last forever. So we have to appreciate it while we have it.”
“Well done, Noah.” My father smiled.
“Ditto,” Joey said.
Joey usually
goes for quips. I’m sure that, like the rest of us, he realized this must have been a painful dvar Torah for Noah to give.
Under the table Zack took my hand and squeezed it hard. I squeezed back.
“Beautiful.” Bubbie was sitting next to Noah. Her eyes had misted. “I wish for you what I had with your Zeidie, he should rest in peace.” She pulled Noah toward her and kissed him. “You, too, Yossele.”
“Noah first, Bubbie.” Joey laughed.
“When love comes, you don’t tell it to wait, sheyfeleh. You grab it and don’t let go.” She made a clutching motion with her hand. “I was seventeen when Zeidie and I were married. This was in ’41, during the war. When the Germans came we were separated, and I didn’t know where they took him. After the war I heard Zeidie was alive. In my heart I never gave up. Sometimes I think this is what kept me alive. Because I knew.” Bubbie G pressed a hand against her chest. “But to hear it?” She shook her head in wonder.
Bubbie rarely talks about her experiences in the Holocaust, which claimed most of her family. Parents, grandparents, four siblings, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins. Many of the stories, my mother says, draw Bubbie back into a dark time too painful to revisit. But this was a wonderful story. Except for Zack, we had all heard it before, but I never tire of hearing it.
“A friend told a friend who told me,” Bubbie continued. “Zeidie was in Sosnowice, she said. Our home town, in Poland. So I went with my friend Edja to the train station. We took with us a loaf of bread, because you couldn’t buy food, you know. And you didn’t need tickets. Everything was open. Nobody checked. Every day people were taking trains to look for someone. A father, a husband, a wife, a daughter. Most of the time, they were empty trips.” Bubbie sighed and had a far-away look in her eyes.
“So we waited ten, twenty minutes until the train came into the station. Then we had to wait again before we could get on. Every minute to me was like an hour. Finally we were on the train, and the train started. A big noise, and we were moving.” Bubbie mimed the motion. “All of a sudden I hear people yelling, ‘Genny, Genny! Yitzchok is here! Yitzchok is here!’ Zeidie heard I was in Munich, and he came looking for me. He got off the train when it arrived in the station, you see, the same train I was going to take to look for him.”
Now You See Me... Page 12
