Brooklyn Love (Crimson Romance)

by Yael Levy

  Debby spoke in a quiet voice. “She says she doesn’t feel ready.”

  “Ready? She needs to feel ready?” Suri demanded. “This is something out of a TV show. Next she’ll say she needs to find herself!”

  Debby swallowed hard. “Rachel had said something about wanting to find herself before she got married.”

  “Leah told my sister the same thing. What nonsense! Finding oneself — are these girls lost? Like a pair of misplaced eyeglasses?”

  “I don’t know, it’s the kids these days … Maybe she isn’t ready.”

  “Debby, were we ready when we got married? We got married! We knew what was what. You are spoiling her, darling; you are spoiling our little Rachelli. You have to be tougher, or she’ll let this boy get away and we’ll both have an old maid on our hands.”

  Rachel heard her mother hang up the phone and knew well what this conversation meant: That while her mother didn’t want to meddle in her daughter’s affairs, Rachel’s behavior was pas nisht. She’d been going together with Daniel for a while now without a hint of an engagement, and the situation was inappropriate. It was getting out of hand. It was not good for Rachel’s future. And it was her mother’s obligation to help Rachel get on with things.

  So before Shabbos, when they had finished cooking and they’d sat in the kitchen drinking iced tea, Debby let her daughter know how she felt about the subject.

  “Rachel, you either get engaged to this boy or you have to break up with him,” she said firmly. “It’s just not nice. Not for you, not for him. Not for our family and not for his.”

  Rachel nodded. “I know, Ma.”

  Debby grabbed Rachel’s hand. “If there’s anything holding you back, let’s talk about it.”

  “I just feel nervous about it, Ma.”

  “Mamale,” Debby said, “if it’s just nerves, you’ll have to get over it. Nothing is perfect. You’ll just have to take that leap of faith.”

  • • •

  Rachel remembered the conversation with her mother as she continued her stroll with Daniel Gold down Ocean Parkway.

  “I don’t mean to put pressure on you,” he said, “but you are beautiful.” Daniel held out his hand, ticking off each finger as he listed Rachel’s qualifications: “You are funny, talented, have a good family, and I enjoy spending time with you. All my friends like you.” He raised his hand close to Rachel’s face, careful to hold himself back from touching her. “You have positive attributes, Rachel. But I don’t know how long I can go on being in a relationship with you without touching you. You know the Law allows romantic touch between the sexes only when married. And I wouldn’t feel good about breaking the Law. I think I love you, Rachel. Say you’ll marry me.”

  Other pedestrians passed the two by, and Rachel sat down on a green wooden bench to think this through. I don’t love him, she thought.

  Who needs love, though? True love comes from giving. From being married for years.

  But with Jacob Zohar I felt —

  Don’t go there, Rachel. Ma wouldn’t approve and Leah would be too hurt.

  But I don’t love Daniel Gold …

  What’s not to love? It’s only an issue of passion. And that will grow in a stable marriage — everyone in the community says so. Right?

  Daniel sat down beside Rachel, giving her space to consider his proposal. She observed his chiseled face, his even nose, and his perfect teeth.

  Passion, she thought. Passion had been a failed dalliance of the past. She had let her heart feel for Jacob, and all it did was break. Feelings, Rachel thought, had no place in choosing a husband. For a decision of this consequence, she had to think not with her heart, but only with her head. Silently, she ticked off Daniel’s attributes: She enjoyed having Daniel take her places, and he was an engaging conversationalist — if stubborn and obnoxious at times. But nobody was perfect. And with his looks and brains, she’d have cute kids. So what was missing?

  Daniel gave her an encouraging smile.

  Rachel smiled back. Jump? Why hesitate? she wondered. Was it simply her fear of marriage? Ma had laid it out clearly for her: She either got engaged or had to break up. It was inappropriate to keep dating.

  Daniel moved closer to Rachel and placed his hand possessively on the top of the bench near where she sat, as if he were holding her — but he didn’t touch her.

  Rachel wondered what it would feel like to lean her head back on his arms. Would she feel a thrill? She knew it certainly wouldn’t feel like touching a wet fish. If she had these thoughts, she imagined how difficult it must be for Daniel to abstain from contact with her, too. It’s true, she thought. It’s not nice to go for so long without an announcement.

  Daniel leaned his head in toward Rachel’s neck but didn’t rest his head on her shoulder. Rachel felt the tension of desire to touch, keeping in mind that it was forbidden. It’s not right to tease like this. Jump?

  Now Daniel was putting his cards on the table, too. Daniel Gold, with the impeccable resume.

  “You just know,” Malky had once dreamily gushed to Rachel, but Rachel thought this was the usual line, easily said by those who made the jump. When all was said and done, whether one knew her mate a day, a year, or ten, ultimately an entire marriage was one big jump.

  A Hassidic man approached on the concourse, dressed in his black hat and surrounded by fox fur, a black frock, and knickers. Unlike her Orthodox lifestyle, the ultra-Orthodox Hassidim tried to live exactly according to the lifestyle of their Eastern European ancestors. At eighteen, their kids were encouraged to marry after only a few meetings with parents in tow.

  The Hassid passed by singing a familiar holiday tune under his breath.

  Jump?

  All the Hassidim Rachel knew were able to jump, and while nothing was ever easy, surely plenty of people were happily married. But she heard no inner voice telling her anything. All she heard was silence.

  Maybe it is the effect of art school, where anything is tolerated and everything goes. Maybe I do have to limit myself if I want to get married. And it sure wouldn’t be bad to limit myself with a catch like Daniel Gold.

  The sun low in the sky, Rachel listened to the rumble of passing cars and the pigeons cooing as they waddled by her feet. She looked up and gazed intently at Daniel. “Okay. Why not?”

  Daniel smiled. “Good. Mazel tov,” he whispered, and all of Rachel’s doubts settled uncomfortably in her stomach.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Not a minute past the end of the holiday, the phone rang at Hindy Goldfarb’s house. Hindy was putting the little ones to bed, Shayna was out with friends, and Freidy was cleaning up. Mrs. Goldfarb took the call.

  “Aha. I see,” said Mrs. Goldfarb from the phone in the kitchen. “Well, I’ll have to talk it over with my husband. It’s — yes, quite unusual. No, I don’t know what the protocol is in such a situation either. I’ll get back to you with an answer.” With heavy shoulders Mrs. Goldfarb walked into the living room and met her husband’s eyes.

  Reb Goldfarb looked sympathetically at his wife. “Trouble?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what to do.” Chaya stifled a tear. “The rebbitzen called and — ”

  “It’s not a match?” interrupted Reb Goldfarb, who felt hurt every time his sweet Hindy received yet another rejection.

  “No, it’s not,” confirmed Chaya. “But even more awkward is that the rebbitzen asked — well, Shimshon Kaplinsky noticed our Shayna and would be very interested in seeing her instead.”

  “Ah,” sighed Reb Goldfarb, as he tapped his foot on the threadbare carpet. “But Chaya, do they know that our Shayna is not like our Hindy?”

  “They don’t know Shayna and think she’s probably sweet like Hindy.”

  Reb Goldfarb shook her head. “Does Shayna have what it takes to be the wife of the next great leader
of the Jews?”

  Chaya Goldfarb shrugged. “God works in mysterious ways. Maybe Shayna would grow beautifully, married to such a boy from such a family.”

  “And maybe not.” Reb Goldfarb said as his glasses slid down his nose.

  Chaya Goldfarb raised her palms. “It’s all in God’s hands.”

  He adjusted his glasses to see more clearly. “I think it’s okay,” he said, but his brow furrowed in pain. “Now,” he whispered to his wife, “we just have to figure out how to tell Hindy.”

  • • •

  On the first workday after the holiday, Hindy sat in her creaking wooden chair in front of her computer, as she reviewed the tallies of Mr. Green’s South American import/export corporation.

  Five million dollars. She rubbed her eyes, thinking maybe she wasn’t seeing correctly. No, there was a sizable discrepancy between the cash coming into Green’s company and huge amounts of charitable contributions being made. The outgo did not fit the sales tallies.

  What’s going on? she wondered. She’d noticed a while ago that a few thousand dollars here and there seemed to be misplaced. She’d been working it out with Aryeh Kaufman in Accounting before the Sukkot and Simchat Torah holidays. They’d been off for more than eight days since then, and suddenly she was confronted with a backlog of the company’s receipts. More than two weeks’ worth and — she thought as she tried to keep her tired eyes open — over five million dollars.

  “Denise, have you seen these?” she asked her co-worker about the latest figures.

  “I saw them, but I still don’t know what’s going on. Harry must be into some new South American venture that’s really raking in the bucks. He hasn’t said anything to me about it, though. What are you thinking, Hindy?”

  Harry Green was a truly nice and generous man. But this was wrong. She couldn’t overlook it. Not five million dollars over the course of two weeks, especially when the incoming receipts were for coffee. It was a remarkably high mark-up; Green normally made that amount maybe every quarter or so. Certainly not in ten days. So what should she do?

  The incoming tallies seemed out of place, but there was more: millions of dollars donated out as quickly as they came in.

  Hindy rubbed her eyes and chewed on her pencil eraser. If it hadn’t been for the holiday, she might have brushed them aside. But seeing the numbers in front of her all at once — something was off.

  And why millions of dollars of donations to Kaplinsky’s Monevitcher Yeshiva?

  Something wasn’t right. But what to do? Go to the big boss and say, “Harry — something stinks”? If there were something legitimate going on to which she wasn’t privy, she’d look like a fool at best — lose her job at worst.

  Denise felt the same way. “Why don’t you talk to Aryeh again? Maybe he has an explanation.”

  Hindy agreed. She and Aryeh were supposed to talk business last time when they went out for bagels, but somehow they ended up talking about other things, and Hindy lost track of the time. She took all the sheets with her up the elevator to the thirtieth floor to Aryeh’s office. She found Aryeh sitting in front of his computer, hunched over spreadsheets, nervously chewing on his own pencil. He looked up to see Hindy, and suddenly they both understood.

  “Five million in ten days, Aryeh, from Brazilian coffee beans?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The semester was almost over, and Rachel had pushed herself to finish her latest assignment from art class — this time, a self-portrait. But with her upcoming engagement party, she felt anxious that her work had suffered from lack of more attention.

  “Rachel, how could you say it’s disgusting? It is me,” Fitz said.

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Did it take you three minutes or five to get it together?” she asked. “It is just awful.”

  The class stood at attention during critique, studying and analyzing Fitz’s work: used sanitary napkins, used toilet paper, and dirty used Q-tips glued onto a huge canvas, encrusted with swirls of silver spray paint.

  Tricia seemed intrigued. “Interesting technique. Fitzgerald, would you care to elaborate on your work?”

  Fitzgerald stood erect, raising his voice for emphasis. “I am saying — no, I am not saying. I am screaming! I am screaming out my essence — that I feel like trash! I am used up, and I am dirty, yet I am proud. I am not ashamed of who I am. Maybe you all just want to dump me like these objects in my painting that get dumped every day by people everywhere. But nobody will dump on me. No. Because it is beautiful to be trash.”

  Tricia clasped her hands to her chest, visibly moved by Fitzgerald’s statement. For as she always told her class, art has no bounds, no rules, and Fitzgerald screamed out truth and beauty in his own rather peculiar way.

  Rachel grimaced at Fitz. She couldn’t believe Tricia actually fell for his bull. Tricia noticed Rachel’s reaction.

  “So, Rachel, care to critique Fitzgerald’s work? How do you feel about it? Do you think the self-portrait could be made stronger?”

  Rachel knew that Tricia was baiting her — daring the religious girl to say that used sanitary napkins were not art. Daring her to say in front of the class that even art, even passion, needs some boundaries to be beautifully actualized and realized.

  Rachel was not in the mood for a debate. She was already the token observant Jew everywhere she went outside of Brooklyn.

  “Fitzgerald, to be quite honest … ”

  The class waited for her to say what they were all thinking: that Fitzgerald hadn’t done his assignment on time and had thrown together a piece with the idea of bulling his way through the critique. That used sanitary napkins and toilet paper were disgusting.

  Rachel took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t have used silver paint,” she continued. “It gives a brittle, metallic look that detracts from the earthiness of the other elements. It looks more like trash than treasure — like discarded foil. It confuses your message.”

  Fitzgerald smiled, knowing Rachel was giving Tricia even more bull than he had. He rubbed his chin as if in deep contemplation.

  “What materials would you have used?”

  “Muted browns, Fitz, definitely. To meld with the human tones. And gold foil.”

  Tricia gave him an A.

  Eventually the class critiqued Rachel’s work: a self-portrait in as realistic a style as Rachel could manage. But the whole feel was very blue, and the background of slicing, jagged strokes was jarring … conflicted. Clearly, whatever was going on inside Rachel Shine was affecting her perception of herself, coloring her artwork.

  “What’s going on, Rachel?” Fitzgerald asked as they sat near the sink in the paint-smelling classroom, sipping coffee during break. “You’ve literally got the blues.”

  “My parents are planning my engagement party.”

  “Ah, the happiest time of your life. So why so miserable?”

  “Blue hues in my art don’t mean I’m unhappy.”

  “Say what you will, but we all know the truth.” Fitz intoned: “The art never lies.”

  Rachel sighed. She’d quoted the same maxim a hundred times. “It’s a big commitment, that’s all.”

  “Why are you getting married if you aren’t ready?”

  “Because I have to.”

  Fitzgerald exploded, almost spilling his coffee cup. “That is such shit, Rachel!” He banged his fist on the sink top, nearly scalding his hand with his coffee. “How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty? You’re beautiful and talented, and you have your whole life ahead of you. And you’re ready to sign your life away to some rich guy who may or may not make you happy because your parents like him? Rachel, that is shit!”

  “No, Fitz, it’s not like that!” Rachel started to cry.

  The other classmates glanced up from their chat groups to see what the commotion was all about.

 
; “What the hell do you know about life, Rachel? Or men? Or marriage? What do you know about yourself, for that matter? You’ve given your life over to your parents, your community, now to your fiancé … It’s your life! Your life should belong to you — ”

  Tears slid down Rachel’s cheeks. “Fitz, please.”

  “Please what? You don’t go into such a commitment feeling blue! You get married to someone because you want to!”

  “Stop!” Rachel shouted at Fitzgerald. “Just stop it. I can’t deal with this now. I can’t, I can’t — ”

  The world of other values confused her. What he was saying made sense, but it wasn’t what she saw back in Brooklyn. It was tempting to hear him. If she waited, she might find the person she wanted to marry who wasn’t enveloped in cold blues, but in reds or warm pinks or even gentle yellows. Someone like Jacob, for example. No! Don’t even think that! Because if Fitz was wrong — she’d be worse off than dead.

  Between Fitz’s ideas and the marker fumes, Rachel started to feel dizzy. The class was now working on a marker-rendering project, and she was trying to capture the look of a perfume bottle on paper.

  “Rachel, your perfume looks off,” Christine remarked jokingly. “Any less emotion and you are going to turn into an accountant.”

  Christine was right. Rachel’s perfume bottle looked like a blob of gray. Suddenly, the light from her new diamond ring shone in her eye. And then she burst out crying.

  “I’ve got to get out of here.” Rachel ran to the bathroom and let herself bawl.

  Christine followed her to the ladies’ room. “Rachel, what’s up with you?”

  Rachel tried to tell her, but instead she vomited into the bathroom sink.

  “I know you’re not pregnant. It’s about your fiancé?”

  Rachel nodded, her face white from the exertion.

  Christine picked at her lip ring and pushed back her dyed-black hair. “You’ve gotta let him go, Rachel. He ain’t worth it. Nobody’s worth that. He makes you sick, and you’re not even married yet!”