Brooklyn Love (Crimson Romance)

by Yael Levy

  • • •

  “Lighter,” Suri said to the hairdresser. She pointed to her niece’s hair. “Can’t you make it blonder? Her mother is counting on me to change her looks, and she won’t listen.”

  The hairdresser stepped back to review Leah’s tresses. They sat in her basement studio, which was filled with shelves of Styrofoam heads sporting wigs, as well as key rings of swatches for many different shades of hair color.

  Leah shook her head. “As I was trying to tell Ma, I like it red, Aunt Suri.”

  Suri looked at her niece. “When your grandparents hid from the Nazis — believe me — they wanted to be blond. Then they could pass for gentiles — and live.”

  Leah sighed. “That was years ago. Nobody cares about shades of hair now.”

  Suri stared at Leah with a look of disgust. “Of course they care. Why do you think Daniel Gold rejected you?”

  “There was no chemistry. That’s all.”

  Suri pursed her lips. “Foolish child. What do you think chemistry is? If you’d let me dye your hair when I told you to months ago, you might still be going out with him.”

  “I’ll get highlights, but I’m not changing the color,” Leah stated firmly.

  “Curly red hair,” Suri shook her tendrils. “You’re so stubborn it’s insane. You think any boy is going to want you?”

  Leah listed all the famous red heads she could think of.

  Suri crossed her arms. “And then you wear those ugly glasses. Why do you have to wear those?”

  “So I can see.”

  “But they are ugly. And they make you look smart.”

  “Smart is bad?”

  Suri wrinkled her nose. “Of course. Who wants a smart girl?”

  Leah rolled her eyes and reviewed the swatches the hairdresser had handed her.

  “I don’t understand why you can’t be more like Rachel. She always listens.”

  Leah snorted. “No, she doesn’t.”

  Suri glared at the hairdresser, who was sipping her coffee during this interchange. “You see how she has to fight with me all the time? A doting aunt and this is how she treats me!”

  The hairdresser nodded. “So which color will it be?”

  Leah chose a color one shade lighter than her own.

  “One day you’ll thank me,” Suri said.

  Leah closed her eyes and leaned her head back so the hairdresser could work her magic.

  • • •

  Hindy came home tired from work and pushed herself to keep going. She took her little brothers off of their school bus and then fixed supper for her family, as she knew her mother wouldn’t be home from her own job for another few hours. When the kids were done eating, Hindy organized clean up and patiently encouraged and waited for each child to do his share of housework. Finally, her parents came home, and though Hindy was exhausted, she ran to the kitchen and prepared dinner for them.

  After she started a load of laundry, she got to work on her ongoing project of sewing gowns for brides who couldn’t afford them. She cut and trimmed, sewing careful, even lines. She hoped the bride who’d asked her to make this gown would appreciate it, at least with as much enjoyment as Hindy had creating in it. And she hoped that in the merit of her kindness, God would send her own perfect match.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rachel sat painting in her studio, where she was working on a portrait of a Czar’s soldier and the soldier’s bride. Two years earlier, her dad had helped her create the studio from the unused porch off her bedroom. She hadn’t expected to still be using it at nineteen — she thought she’d be married — but it wasn’t unusual to unmarried and still be living at home in her part of Brooklyn.

  Rachel tried to keep her studio neat, though to an outsider the room would probably look a complete mess. But outsiders were rarely invited in, and Rachel had her own system for knowing where everything was. Her drawing table was cluttered with half-used tubes of paint, thumbnail sketches of ideas, and her metal T-square ruler. On a shelving unit adjacent to her table she kept her tools: brushes, markers, pencils, a plastic millimeter ruler, and a trusty plastic triangle. Her bookshelves were filled with art books — volumes of classic paintings, modern art, and how-to’s that she’d gotten at a secondhand bookshop. She loved the romanticism and masterful brushstrokes of the Impressionist paintings the best.

  As she painted, Rachel looked up through the windows and observed the beginning of the sun’s descent. She appreciated having so many windows opening onto the world outside her room, for she found nothing more beautiful than that world. She had only to look up to see the sky in pinks, somber purples, and every hue of blue. Looking down from the second floor, she could see the solidly rooted trees, whose orange and yellow leaves swayed in the wind, and the red-shingled rooftops of the other narrow Brooklyn homes surrounding hers. Comforting scenes, she always thought. Familiar in every season. A landscape that was part of where she’d always belonged.

  The walls beneath the windows were covered with Rachel’s drawings and paintings, as well as photos of other artists’ works that inspired her. She loved this studio, this sanctuary, for here she felt completely at peace.

  She picked up her old, splattered brush and gazed at the canvas in front of her. She had already painted the background of rickety shacks, all muted grays and browns in the gentle morning light, and she was now working on the subjects, a tall blond soldier lifting his young wife onto his horse. Rachel had been working on this painting for days, and the emotional energy required for the project was beginning to drain her. With her deadline approaching, she had no time to afford mistakes.

  Dipping her brush into a deep red, she boldly painted the bride’s auburn hair. It was the same color as her own, though more vibrant in the painting. She heard Fitz’s voice in her head: “Art isn’t truth. It’s all about image.” She glanced at the green acrylic paint and debated adding it to the red. Any wrong move would put her hours behind schedule. More red or green? Should she make the logical choice — or the passionate one?

  Impulsively, she brushed the green over the red hair, and then stood back and held her breath. She breathed a sigh of relief. The accent was beautiful, the quiet green pushing the red to stand out and reach its potential. She continued the delicate strokes and started thinking of the next colors to use. That’s how it is with art, she mused. There was always a balance, an ongoing dance, of using both feelings and logic to achieve one’s goal.

  Her hands ached and her eyes needed rest, but Rachel kept working. The painting was due in class Monday morning, and she only had a little more than an hour left to make sure all her work was done before she would have to get ready for Shabbos. She could almost hear the bells chiming, “Bong bong bong bong! Four P.M. Friday. Time’s up. It’s the holy weekend, and if you’re not ready, you turn into a pumpkin.” At least Cinderella had had until midnight. These short fall Fridays when the sun set so early never left her enough time to get her work done. Really, she was already cutting it close at this hour, and she knew she could always rely on Ma to remind her that time was passing.

  In a fury, she worked on the portrait of the girl, or how she imagined the girl would look. The couple in the painting was supposed to be her great-grandparents, though it was hard working without any pictures for reference. All the old photos had been destroyed, so the only references she could use were stories. She had heard her ancestors’ histories repeated dozens of times when the family was together, often during the three meals of Shabbos. That was family time, which was time to talk.

  Thinking about how much she cherished the togetherness of Shabbos meals, Rachel recognized the smell of simmering chicken soup wafting up from the kitchen, and she realized she had better go downstairs and turn off the stove. Otherwise, the broth would simmer away and evaporate, leaving only mushy chicken, carrots, and petrishke in the pot. It h
ad never happened on her watch, but she was sure it would be quite an ugly scene if it did.

  “What’s going on with the soup, Rachel?” Ma called from downstairs.

  “Ma, I’m on a deadline. Could you take care of it?” she replied.

  Rachel hadn’t realized her mother had come home from work, but now that she was here, Rachel knew she could count on Ma to take over. Rachel and her mother usually divvied up the Shabbos preparations, even though both knew that nobody could cook like her mother. Debby Shine put her whole soul into her cooking, elevating it to the level of art. Rachel could not think of cooking as an art, hard as she tried. So she usually didn’t bother trying.

  “I’ll turn off the soup. But Rachel, where is the cholent?” Ma called.

  Rachel stopped painting and guiltily stared at the portrait.

  “Ma, I forgot to put it up,” she answered hesitantly. “Could you?”

  Rachel heard a familiar sigh, followed by the sounds of her mother busy in the kitchen. “Some balabusteh you’ll make,” her mother grumbled just loud enough for Rachel to hear. But Ma was right, as always. It had been Rachel’s responsibility to cook the aromatic Shabbos stew. She hadn’t meant to be irresponsible, but she had so much on her mind these days between school and Daniel Gold. Sometimes, in quiet moments, her mind still wandered to that sweet waiter, Jacob Zohar, but she pushed these thoughts out of her head. Leah was in love with him, so there was no point in thinking about him. Ma always said the first quality to look for in a guy was availability. Daniel Gold was a catch — and he was certainly available. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Would she marry Daniel Gold?

  She stopped herself, knowing she had to get back to work or she would be late for Shabbos. Gazing at the painting, Rachel remembered the vivid descriptions of the women in her family, all of them strong, great balabustehs — capable women — who took care of their homes and their families with efficiency, grace, and a smile. She wondered if any of them ever forgot to make the cholent when they were supposed to.

  She glanced at her watch, knowing that she had to speed up the pace of her work if she was going to finish it before sundown at 4:17. If she worked even one minute past sundown, she’d break the law and desecrate the Sabbath. Rachel would never want to sin like that. True, she could resume working on Saturday night or Sunday, but realistically, it wouldn’t happen. Saturday was date night with Daniel, and Sunday she had to work as an art counselor at the Home for Disabled Adults.

  The penetrating ringing of the phone broke her trancelike concentration.

  “It’s me,” the male voice announced on the other end.

  “Daniel?” Within months, this man could become her husband. Her heart pounded so loudly that she wondered if he could hear it.

  “I have to cancel tomorrow night. I have previous plans I completely forgot about.”

  “You don’t want to go out with me?”

  Daniel laughed. “It’s not that at all. I’d promised to go with Frisch to a comedy club for his birthday. He’s an old friend from Columbia, so it would be inappropriate for me to cancel.”

  “Oh.” Her parents would be so disappointed. “I guess that’s a good reason to cancel a date.”

  “Look,” he countered politely, “you could come if you like. But you might get bored with my friends from Columbia.”

  “That sounds great! I’ve never been to a comedy club!” What would her mother say?

  Ma called up the stairs. “It’s time to light the candles, Rachel.”

  “I have to go,” Rachel told Daniel.

  “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll pick you up Saturday night. Have a good Shabbos.”

  Rachel hung up the phone and left her painting supplies out, her canvas drying. She took one last look at the muted portrait of a young soldier and his young bride gazing at each other with love in their eyes, knowing they were destined for each other. Basherte. Would that happen for her and Daniel? With that thought repeating itself in her head, she raced down the stairs before Shabbos descended over Brooklyn.

  Rachel lit the Sabbath candles that were anchored proudly in ornate silver candlesticks. She was ready to greet the Sabbath Queen, an invisible presence, and a royal guest.

  Ma lit a candle for every member of the family, even for her sons who had married and moved on to New Jersey. Rachel watched Ma make the blessings as she lit each candle until the polished silver candelabrum was ablaze with light. As the sun set, Rachel wished Ma a “Good Shabbos” and set the table with the white tablecloth used only for Shabbos. Daddy had already left for the synagogue, and Rachel placed two loaves of braided challah bread at his seat at the head of the table. She covered the challah and then set out chilled wine and a shiny silver goblet fit for a king.

  “So where is Daniel Gold taking you after Shabbos?” Ma cut straight to the point.

  Rachel carefully set out the glass wine goblets. “To a comedy club in the city,” she said, feigning indifference.

  Ma settled onto the blue fabric couch in the living room to chat with her baby before Daddy came home from shul. “Comedy club,” she repeated, and added under her breath, “Still no supermarket?”

  Rachel smiled as she set out the finest Sabbath china. “Ma, he’s definitely not taking me on a date to the supermarket.”

  Ma pretended to examine a rip in the seat cushion. “Well, you know what I think about this whole dating nonsense anyway.”

  “No, Ma, really, why don’t you tell me?” Though she must have heard the supermarket theory a hundred times, Rachel played along.

  Ma stared Rachel in the eye. “I don’t think this dating business is appropriate for Orthodox Jews,” she proclaimed.

  Rachel nodded, tacitly encouraging her mother to go on as she joined her mother on the couch.

  “I mean, two people put on their best clothes and go out somewhere exciting and everything is so romantic. Is that reality, Rachel? Is it?”

  “No, I guess not,” she replied agreeably.

  “So a few months after the wedding, reality sets in, and they’re shopping together in the supermarket,” her mother continued, hitting her stride. “Now maybe they were romantically compatible, but maybe not in real life. Maybe he likes the expensive, plush toilet paper and she goes for the economic choice! You can tell a lot about a person in a supermarket.”

  Rachel laughed. “I hear you, Ma. But I think you can get to know a person anywhere, even in a comedy club.”

  Her mother waved her hand in disgust and pushed her big round glasses farther up on her nose. “Nu, what can you tell in a comedy club? That he’ll laugh at a good joke? So who won’t laugh at a good joke? But the glue in a marriage, the loyalty, the communication, the respect — even a person’s character, I tell you — that’s what you’ll learn in a supermarket.”

  Ma was an independent thinker, and though Rachel had heard variations on the theme dozens of times, there was always a new angle. “Okay, Ma. Say we go to a supermarket instead of a club. What deep mysterious secrets will I uncover?”

  Her mother frowned seriously. “Mamale, there are so many signs. How does a boy react when he’s waiting on line? Is he patient for ten minutes? Does he start cursing at twenty? Or try to cut the line, maybe? Is he polite to the checkout girl or the produce man? I’m telling you, life is full of these little trials. Believe me, had I gone with your father to a supermarket on a date, I’d have had a completely different view of him. Not that I’m complaining, of course. But do you want to be with some movie star image in a make-believe world, or with a fine character who’ll be a good life partner?”

  Rachel picked up a novel from the coffee table. “And all this you can tell just by standing in line at a supermarket?”

  “Well, the right supermarket, that is. Something crowded and pushy — you know what I mean.”

  Rachel laughed at her
mother’s sincerity. “You make it sound like it’s got to be one way or the other. Can’t a guy be exciting and also a good husband?”

  Ma leaned back in the couch, acting defeated. “You laugh? A mother gives good advice to her daughter, and you laugh? A chutzpah!”

  Rachel knew what her mother was thinking: that she’d successfully married off her three sons, and now her daughter was talking like an opponent and acting like a know-it-all. Maybe she got those ideas from that art school she went to. Maybe they shouldn’t have allowed her to go.

  “Rachel, I’m saying that romance, excitement — it’s all nice, but it’s icing on the cake. But what makes up the cake — now that is very important.”

  Rachel thought about Daniel Gold. He certainly was the worldliest man she had ever met, and that made him exciting. So far he’d taken her to a museum, a concert, a nice restaurant, and strolling along Battery Park. It had only been a few weeks since their first date — and each date was more exciting than the last. Most of her friends only got to go to hotel lounges or airports to talk. Maybe the boy would spring for a cola. But Daniel was a man of means and taste. Rachel didn’t know much about his character, but he seemed like a nice guy. More important, everybody who heard about his qualities loved him. Even Ma, no matter what she said. After all, it wasn’t like he was a waiter — or a rabbi.

  Ma interrupted her thoughts. “The exciting guys are usually too busy being exciting to be there for their wives. Do you want an exciting guy, or someone stable like Daniel Gold — a husband to be there for you?”

  As if on cue, her question was followed by two knocks on the front door. Tall and thin like Abraham Lincoln, with a generally quiet and inexpressive manner, Abe Shine entered his home. Rachel had always thought that her father was handsome. Tonight, he looked like a dashing Italian movie star.