Brooklyn Love (Crimson Romance)

by Yael Levy

  God, she had piles of handmade cards and notes she’d received when? At summer arts camp when she was eight years old? At the time, it had all seemed so important. But she wasn’t eight years old anymore. She had better go through her correspondence.

  And her books. Did she really need the illustrated Golden Books Daddy had bought her when she was six? Or The Phantom Tollbooth at nine? Surely it was time to pack them away for her own children, and Daniel could probably upload new books she wanted on his iPad.

  • • •

  The smell of stewing beef and potatoes permeated the house. There was nothing like waking up to the aroma of cholent on a quiet, sunlit Shabbos morning. If for any reason Rachel didn’t have her cholent, her whole week would be ruined. Ma called this a meshugas — a crazy obsession — though she accepted that her daughter, the crazy artist, was full of idiosyncrasies. Rachel even insisted on having her hot cholent in the hot summer months. “What a meshugas!” And if her mother didn’t make it, she’d purposely go to a synagogue that served it after services — or she’d mooch off a friend.

  “Rachel, mamale, you’re awake?” Ma called from the kitchen downstairs.

  “Yeah. Ma, you want to go to shul?”

  Her father would have left early for the morning prayers, but Rachel and her mother usually went a bit later; they needed time to prepare for lunch after the services.

  “All right. I’m just reading the paper,” Ma called back.

  Rachel got dressed in her Sabbath finest, a green woolen suit that accentuated her auburn hair. She added a simple silver ring and necklace. Not too much jewelry, so that her future groom would know that it was his responsibility to buy her jewelry. Fine jewelry was a status symbol that separated the single girls from married women. As Rachel was still single, she dared not wear as much jewelry as a married woman.

  In shiny black pumps, she stood on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, where she kept her makeup. When she was done applying it, she slowly went downstairs to the warm, aromatic kitchen to have some breakfast and sit with Ma before services.

  Ma was at the kitchen table reading The Jewish Press. She wore her well-coifed, chin-length blond wig and Mabe pearl earrings set in gold. Ma’s hair was actually a pretty red, but Jewish law required her to cover it when she left the house. Her hair was an intimacy reserved for her immediate family. And as it was unprofessional for an MBA to wear a hat or scarf to cover her hair, Ma wore a wig so as to not stand out. Rachel knew she’d cover her hair like her mother when she married, though planned to wear funky hats instead of a wig. She was also wearing a two-piece blue knit Chanel suit, which Rachel was sure she’d purchased from a sales rack.

  “Nice suit,” Rachel said.

  “You like it?” Ma looked up from the paper. “Just got it at Loehmann’s. Fifty percent off.”

  All Brooklyn women loved Loehmann’s. You weren’t a true Brooklynite if you didn’t appreciate it. And you certainly weren’t Jewish if you didn’t love it. Loehmann’s was a utopian store, where one could buy the finest quality, designer-label fashions — of course with the designer label cut off — for a fraction of their retail value. Even when times were tight, Debby Shine could afford something to make her look chic and put together. Dressed for success.

  “Rachel, you had a nice time last night? I didn’t even hear you come in.” Ma looked up from her paper and motioned for Rachel to have something to eat.

  Rachel took a cookie. “It was nice. Leah had a new friend over, Ilana.”

  “So they asked you about Daniel?”

  “I don’t talk. There’s nothing to say yet.”

  “That’s smart. It’s better not to have these eitzah gebbers meddling with their immature advice.”

  Rachel smiled. “Right, Ma. Only your advice.”

  Ma took umbrage. “Listen, mamale, don’t be so cute!” She took a moment to calm down, rifling through her newspaper. “You think I need advice? I’m married already. It’s for you I give advice.”

  Rachel sighed and looked out the kitchen window. “Ma, I value your advice. Really. I was just kidding around.”

  Ma finished her coffee and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “All I want to tell you, mamale, is that it’s a bad idea to share these private things with your friends.”

  “Everyone is going through the same things, Ma.”

  “So what? You have a limited amount of time to make a major life choice, you can’t ask your friends for advice. You can’t buy a house or choose a career through a committee, and you certainly can’t choose a husband and get married by one. It’s what you alone think and feel about the person who is right for you.”

  Rachel nodded. “We all want to find our bashertes.”

  “Just remember the applicant pool is limited.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You kvetch about some guy who turns out to be your friend’s basherte, you could cause problems.”

  “I know.”

  “Every mother thinks their child is the most wonderful. Special. So if a boy is not your basherte, nu, so he’s someone else’s. It’s best not to talk.”

  Rachel nodded and finished her breakfast. It was funny how she and her mother could argue even when they agreed with each other. The old clock that hung on the yellow daisy wallpaper ticked loudly, reminding them it was time for shul.

  Ma cleared her throat. “Marry a boy who can take care of you, because with your painting-shmainting, you won’t be able to afford anything. Marry a man of substance. When you get engaged, God willing soon, then you can tell everybody. When it’s a done deal.”

  • • •

  Rachel and her mother nodded silent “hellos” to the other women as they quietly reached for prayer books and sat down in the women’s section to pray. The synagogue was actually located in the dusty basement of a yeshiva, with only thick curtains, not walls, separating the men from the women. The congregation didn’t yet have the funds for a building, but Rachel liked it because it was a humble place of worship. The congregation was humming a melodious tune, and Rachel looked around to see familiar faces. She noticed Ilana, the new girl from Israel, sitting in the back with her prayer book on her lap as she meditated. Rachel waved to her, but Ilana didn’t see her — she seemed to be lost in thought — and Rachel briefly wondered what was going on in Ilana’s life that pushed her to extreme prayer.

  Rachel enjoyed the services but did not look forward to the kiddush afterward. For one, the food was terrible — stale egg kichel, herring, and schnapps. It was an old-fashioned Litvishe kiddush, a style brought over from the Old Country, from Lithuania and Poland and parts of Russia. Cold, analytical, cerebral Litvaks — like Spock from Star Trek — did not know how to throw a party.

  She preferred a Hungarian-style kiddush: cholent, stuffed kishke, steamy hot potato kugel pudding, and mushy cakes. Tasty gastric nightmares. But her parents weren’t Hungarian Jews, so she had to make do.

  The worst part of the kiddush, though, was the socializing after services. While most Brooklyn shuls kept all men and women separate, in this one, everyone was united for snacks after the service and the ordeal always frightened her. She couldn’t stand guys hitting on her, gazing at her with a hunger in their eyes as though they wanted to devour her, then superficially chatting, all the while craning their necks to see if there was a prettier girl in another part of the room.

  She’d tried the scene a few times. It hurt feeling so lonely — and she hated always feeling like she never belonged. As much as she’d like to fall in love, it didn’t seem possible in an arena that had so many unknown variables. If she had to choose, she preferred the old-fashioned approach to dating: matchmaking based on careful research and selection. Then she could find a man of substance, with whom she’d never feel lonely and she could respect — like Daniel Gold
. The worst part of socializing was the “So maybe I’ll call you.” What was that supposed to mean? If they couldn’t commit to a phone call, how would they be able to commit to marriage? She couldn’t tell their age, their intentions, or their family background from these informal socials.

  Midway through the services, the top of the lace mechitzah that divided the men from women was lifted. Rabbi Cohen spoke of the week’s Torah chapter. The sexes were separated so as to concentrate on God instead of socializing — but united for the lecture, so the women could see and hear the rabbi as he spoke.

  Though the rabbi was a small man, his words filled the room. It almost seemed to Rachel as if a white light surrounded him as he spoke, and as she listened, everything seemed sharper and clearer, and colors and sounds were more vivid. Fitz had once described a psychedelic drug trip, and Rachel wondered if this religious experience was like that. For the few moments that the rabbi spoke, Rachel experienced a different plane of reality. She felt close to God … spiritually connected to humanity and a higher power. Getting high on Torah, what a trip.

  Rachel saw her father on the other side of the divide, in his long white prayer shawl, intently listening to Rabbi Cohen. Sitting beside her father was someone blond and lithe, and Rachel realized it was Macy. He adjusted her father’s prayer shawl, which had almost fallen to the floor, and Rachel thought about what a good heart he had. She had once seen him literally give a homeless guy the shirt off of his back. Though Macy’s dad, Michael Kaufman, prayed elsewhere, Macy insisted on praying in their synagogue, when he decided to pray at all; he’d timed all of the shuls in a one-mile radius and found Rabbi Cohen’s to be the quickest service.

  Rachel grinned at Macy; he winked back. And then she saw him. She felt her heartbeat quicken, surprised that her body reacted so strongly every time he was around. The waiter who had asked her out — Jacob Zohar — what was it about him that made her feel this way? He was sitting in her shul right beside Macy! She felt her face heat up — why was he in her synagogue? She’d never seen him there before.

  She watched as Jacob’s gaze shifted from the rabbi to … her. He stared at her and she caught his gaze; she wanted to will herself to look away but she could not. Leah loves him … Was it disloyal to only look at him? He smiled at her across the room, and before she could stop herself, she smiled back.

  The lecture ended and the service soon finished up. Rachel hung back for the communal buffet of cakes and sodas before everyone walked home. She said hi to Ilana and conversed while straining her neck to see if Jacob Zohar was at the buffet. She noticed he was talking privately to the rabbi. Macy came over to Rachel with plates of cookies, and then blatantly surveyed Ilana’s face and figure.

  “I’m Macy Kaufman at your service. Where have you been hiding all my life?” Macy said as he stared at Ilana.

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “That is so lame, Macy. Can’t you come up with a better pickup line?”

  Ilana laughed and introduced herself. “I’m Ilana Cohen,” she said.

  Macy noted her Israeli accent and stroked his chin as if he had a beard. “Ilana from Israel. That’s far,” he said. “What brings you to my domain, fair maiden?”

  “Your domain?” Ilana giggled at Macy’s antics. “You own New York?”

  “Nah. Just Brooklyn, it’s my birthright.”

  “Isn’t Israel the birthright for Jews?” Ilana challenged.

  Macy shrugged off her loaded question. “Israel is for Jews who are … um … Jewish. We’re Brooklyn Jews — that’s a whole other tribe. So what gives, princess?”

  “Princess? Never been called that before,” Ilana said. “My parents are very religious — my dad’s a rabbi. They didn’t like my friends — said they were a wild crowd — so they shipped me off to live with my aunt and uncle in New York. They’d rather I live with my religious aunt and agnostic uncle than to hang out with friends who they felt were dragging me down.”

  Rachel shook her head. “They think there’s nothing wild about living in New York?”

  Macy nodded and turned to Ilana. “Ever been to the zoo? It’s very wild. Tigers, bears … ”

  Ilana smirked. “They were scared I’d be a bad influence on my younger siblings.”

  Macy’s eyes sparkled. “I love bad influences!”

  Ilana shook her head. “Sorry, Macy, my evil deeds extend to telling my parents I don’t want their life — and singing in public.”

  “Hmm.” Macy looked genuinely crestfallen. “At least you sing. I play guitar — let’s get married.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. Macy did play the electric guitar, but very loudly. Ilana just laughed. “Sorry, I’m not from Brooklyn. I need to fall in love before I get married.”

  Rachel couldn’t agree more.

  Macy offered to walk Ilana home, leaving Rachel alone at the buffet. Until she wasn’t alone.

  “Hey,” Jacob said. Rachel could feel his presence before she saw him stand beside her.

  “I wanted to apologize for being rude,” Rachel said. She looked into his brown eyes and thought of hot chocolate on a cold day — the warmth exuding from him when all around there was none.

  Jacob shrugged. “I understand. I just thought — ”

  “What do you think of my friend?” Rachel interrupted.

  “Which friend?” Jacob looked confused.

  Rachel stared at him squarely. “Leah Bloom. In your programming class at Brooklyn College.”

  “Oh. Right. The frizzy hair? Right — I remember her. She’s a funny kid.”

  Rachel felt her cheeks redden. “Funny? Like ha-ha funny or funny?”

  Jacob stretched his legs. “I hope that didn’t sound mean. We share notes, she’s a good person.”

  “I know she’s good. She’s my best friend. But do you like her?”

  Jacob stood back. “Why do you ask? She’s very — ”

  “Pretty? Nice? Smart?” Rachel raised her eyebrows.

  “No.” Jacob picked up his prayer book, which he’d left on the buffet.

  Rachel panicked. Leah said she loved him — but he didn’t love her back? Leah’s feelings were unrequited? She needed to know — before it was too late. Rachel was running out of ideas. “How about capable? Do you find her capable?”

  Jacob shook his head. “No. I mean, I’m sure whoever marries her will find her to be all those things. Or attractive in some way,” Jacob said. “Look, is there a reason you’re bringing this up?”

  “So you don’t want to go out with her?”

  Jacob backed away. “What?”

  Rachel quickly tried to change the subject. “Why are you taking a programming class, anyway, if you’re studying to be a rabbi?”

  “Oh, I thought it would be a good idea to take computer classes on the side just to have something to fall back on. It’s an elective course and I’ll be done next semester. It’s really interesting because we learn about — ”

  Rachel heard her parents before she saw them. “Who’s your friend, Rachel?” asked her mother.

  Rachel cautiously introduced them.

  “So you’re the waiter Suri told me about?” Debby said as Rachel watched her size up Jacob.

  “Uh, yeah.” Jacob nodded.

  Rachel’s father joined the trio. “Sholom Aleichem,” he extended his hand to Jacob. “I’m Rachel’s father. Abe Shine, but you could call me Abe.”

  Debby shook her head. “He doesn’t want to meet you, Abe,” she said. “It’s Rachel he’s after, isn’t it?”

  Rachel felt her cheeks flush bright red and noticed that Jacob’s did, too.

  Mr. Shine squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “A regular heartbreaker, is my Rachel.”

  Debby Shine rolled her eyes. “Nonsense! Our daughter doesn’t play games.” Abe winked at Jacob, then stepped away to conver
se with a friend. Debby turned to Jacob and smiled. “So what are your plans for the future?”

  Jacob stepped back. “I … uh … ”

  Rachel jumped in. “Jacob is studying to be a rabbi.”

  Debby Shine’s smile froze. “You can’t live off of that.”

  Jacob cleared his throat. “Right, so — ”

  Debby interrupted him. “Our daughter is dating a fellow who graduated from Columbia University’s law school. Maybe you know him?”

  Rachel felt like she was going to die. She hoped the ground would open up and swallow her whole so she wouldn’t have to endure the humiliating inquisition. She wanted to steer the conversation, wanted to stand up to her mother and insist she see Jacob as a beautiful soul instead of as a checklist that didn’t measure up to her standards — but she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  Jacob’s face was beet red as he nodded. “I get it.” He stared at her mother, and then turned to Rachel. “Good luck,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

  Her father said goodbye to his friend, then turned and nudged her mother. “Come on, we need to get home for lunch so I can take my nap — my pillow is beckoning.”

  Debby Shine nudged Rachel farther away from Jacob. “Good idea,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Hey, it’s the Shines!” Michael Kaufman called from across the street. Michael was walking home from his shul with his boys Yossie and Aryeh. Macy, who must have left shul at the same time as Rachel’s family, was catching up.

  “Shalom aleichem!” Abe greeted them. The Kaufmans crossed the street to shake hands with Abe and nod polite hellos to the Shine women. All the Kaufmans were wearing sleek, double-breasted Italian black suits, starched white shirts with French cuffs and gold cufflinks, and big black Borsalino hats.

  “So, how was your Litvishe kiddush?” Michael jibed.