Naomi, The Rabbi's Wife

by Miriam Finesilver

  “You asked about Passover the other night,” Julie said. “Would you want to come with me to my parents for Seder Saturday night? They’re in Brooklyn, but all the way out, about an hour from you.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so. How about we meet for lunch next week though?”

  “Love to. How about this coming Monday?”

  “Monday it is.”

  Julie gave Naomi the address to her favorite Chinese restaurant.

  Though she’d splurged on two taxi rides today, she would not give in to such extravagance on returning home. From the commercial, Naomi would receive more money than she ever dreamed of making, and Rhonda assured her the residuals for the year would be enormous as the floor polish company planned on blasting the airwaves with this ad. However, she felt an urgent need to conserve each dollar. Gary had given her his share of the rent for next month, but after May . . . who knew? Would she be responsible for the entire rent?

  When the subway plunged into the inky black tunnel leaving Manhattan on its way into Brooklyn, she cried out to the someone who might possibly be watching over her. I get the symbolism, okay? So where does the tunnel end? Is there a light at the end somewhere?

  With all the vigor sapped out of her, Naomi trudged up the three flights, tired and nauseous once again. She used the handrail to pull herself up as if it were a tow bar helping her up a steep ski slope.

  The first greeting came from Zoey. Nice, but the first thing she wanted to see was a blinking light on her answering machine.

  It did blink—a message was waiting. “Zoey, be with you in a second. Let’s listen to Gary’s message first, okay?” She punched the play button.

  Rhonda’s gravelly voice informed her, “They loved you today. Good job, cookie. Now, are you sitting down? This Friday afternoon you will be auditioning for Saturday Night Live. Call me tomorrow. Proud of you.”

  “Saturday Night Live—wow.” Zoey’s whining made it clear—she wasn’t impressed. “Come on, girl.” Zoey trailed at Naomi’s heels as she walked to the kitchen.

  While opening a can of wet food, Naomi conversed with her sole companion. “Well, you know, Gary only arrived today, and he also had this long layover in Texas. Don’t worry, girl, he’ll call tomorrow.”

  With the cat totally engrossed in her smelly food, Naomi poured some cereal into a bowl and threw in a handful of raisins. She finally found the container of milk in the refrigerator, buried behind the soda and juice. One sniff of the soured milk and down the drain it went. She sat at the table, exhausted, watching Zoey dine oh so elegantly.

  Why not? Naomi reached into her bowl and grabbed a handful of cereal sweetened by the raisins. It didn’t taste bad. Milk? Who needs it? Just more unwanted calories. After a few more handfuls, Naomi gave in to utter exhaustion.

  “See ya in bed,” she told Zoey.

  Nevertheless, sleep eluded her. Too much to ponder and it seemed the bed creaked more than ever before. Maybe Gary’s snoring simply covered up its sound. Then she remembered what lay under the bed. She brought her precious sampler out from hiding and scoured the place for a nail. About to give up for the night, her eyes caught sight of the nail; it still sat in the hole above the dresser. Once her mother’s embroidery again graced her wall, Naomi slept soundly.

  Gulping for air, Naomi walked through the backstage door. “Sorry I’m late. Had an audition.”

  The stage manager shrugged and assured her it was no problem. “It’s the last show anyway.”

  “Thanks.” Naomi dashed into her dressing room.

  Julie looked up and asked, “So, how’d it go over at Rockefeller Center? Am I looking at the newest member of Saturday Night Live?”

  “I think it went well—they kept me extra long. That’s why I’m late. Even did a skit with John Belushi.” Naomi pulled up the back zipper of Julie’s dress. “Guess this’ll be the last time I help you, huh?”

  “You better hurry though,” Julie warned at the same moment they heard the familiar rap on their door.

  “Places.”

  The last performance seemed to drag on forever. With Gary gone and having to work with Don, Naomi was ready to bid a fond adieu. After the final curtain call, the cast and several crew members discussed going out for a drink together, but Naomi left before anything was decided. She would see Julie on Monday, grateful for the chance to continue their friendship. Hopefully it would help fill the void left by Anne.

  During the subway ride home, Naomi bounced from anxious thoughts—why hasn’t Gary even called. . . what if . . .?—to excitement—I could actually be on something like Saturday Night Live. But yikes! What if Gary sells the I Love Chloe idea and I also get a spot on Saturday Night Live?

  After a brisk walk home from the subway station, Naomi opened her mailbox. Maybe Gary had at least sent a postcard. Like a “wish you were here” card. Yeah, right.

  No such thing from Gary, but a note from her dear Mom. She tore it open with her fingernail as she climbed up the stairs and stopped at the second floor landing to read it.

  “To My Best Daughter, I begged your father to let you come for Passover, but again he would not relent. Will you celebrate Passover with your boyfriend and his family? Love, Your Best Mom.”

  The note shook in her hand. What were her parents going to tell all the aunts, uncles and cousins to explain her absence?

  Oh Mom, I love you so much. I hate to cause you pain like this. That last performance with the group was easy compared to this.

  The next evening she did her best to celebrate Passover alone. In the apartment with her new friend Zoey, she poured and drank some Manischewitz wine, dipped matzoh into a small bowl of horseradish, and asked the cat the traditional question posed every Passover. “So, why is this night different from all other nights?”

  The cat jumped up onto the dining room table and went over to the horseradish, sniffed it, hissed and ran from the room. Her journal entry that evening read, “Dear Diary, now I know what it’s like to feel passed over. Happy Passover to me.”

  Deftly maneuvering her chopsticks, Julie asked, “Are you going to finally tell me about the audition?”

  Of all the cast members, the one most hurt by the show closing was Julie. Sharing the news of her successful audition seemed inconsiderate.

  “Oh, who knows, Julie? It seemed to go well, but you never know. Did you call Rhonda?”

  Julie poured herself another cup of tea. “I’ve left her three messages, Naomi. I look at it like this: she saw me in the show a couple of times, with both Francine and with you. So, if she’s not calling me back, it’s because she doesn’t think I’m good enough. Not as good as you anyway.”

  “But, Julie, her perception of me is all wrong.”

  “In what way? Do you know how many actors would love to be in your position?”

  “She sees me as this comedienne, doing standup routines in a nightclub. That’s not me. I want to be a serious actress.”

  Kerplunk. The lo mein slipped from Naomi’s clumsily-held chopsticks onto her brand-new pink denim pant suit.

  “Case closed,” Julie chuckled. “How’s Gary doing?”

  “I’m sure he’s busy. I’ve left him a few messages . . . just like Rhonda with you, he hasn’t called me back.”

  Julie nodded. “I wonder what’s going to happen with Tony and me . . . now that he’s got the soap opera job.”

  All the cast seemed accepting of their affair. But Naomi always found herself thinking about Tony’s wife. She pulled her chair out. “I’ll be right back.”

  Why did I think I could handle this food? Oh, please, don’t let anyone be in the bathroom.

  When she returned to the table, Julie studied Naomi’s face and pointed to her plate. “You hardly ate anything. Seems you haven’t been feeling very well lately.”

  “I’m fine.”

  After a short pause, Julie patted Naomi’s hand. “You know they’ve come up with this home pregnancy test. You don’t have to go to a doctor anymore.�
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  For how long had Naomi evaded a certain thought? Julie simply brought it to the surface. After lunch, Naomi stopped at her neighborhood pharmacy before returning home. There it was, prominently displayed in the feminine needs aisle, in big bold letters proclaiming “the first-ever home pregnancy test.”

  How’d Julie know about this?

  She brought the package to the cashier, grateful she knew no one in the neighborhood and no one knew her. How embarrassing would that be?

  As always, upon entering the apartment Naomi’s eyes went to the call light on her answering machine. It was flashing—for a change.

  “Zoey, is it him? Finally?”

  “Hope you believe in prayer, cookie.” Rhonda’s voice filled the room. “You got a callback from Saturday Night Live. You got a real shot at this. It’s big enough I’ll even pray! Call me back for the details . . . after you pray!”

  Why did such exciting news have to come at this time? She started scribbling a note reminding herself to call Rhonda in the morning, but quickly laughed and crumpled it up. Like I’m really going to forget something this big. Okay, let’s do this stupid test already.

  Thirty minutes later she stared at the white plastic thing in her hands. So many emotions all at once. She experienced a momentary thrill—Wow, my body really works. But then she quickly scolded herself—she could not afford such thinking.

  Naomi again called Gary, and again his answering machine picked up. “Please call me. Or else I’m flying out there. Call me already.”

  She fed Zoey and watered the plants.

  Man, seems I can’t even keep a philodendron alive. Everyone else has ferns and all kinds of beautiful hanging plants in their apartment. I water them, mist them, feed them expensive plant food …. It’s like they just hate me.

  Okay, what to do next? The New York Times crossword puzzle had already been done. Everyone was talking about a new movie, Grease. Why not treat herself? She would have to sit alone in the theatre, but it would be a distraction at least for a few hours. Julie had raved about the soundtrack from this musical and it was playing down the block.

  An hour later, Naomi sat in the third row, aware of all the dating couples surrounding her. Yet once the lights went out and the previews of coming attractions began, she was drawn into the wonderful world of “let’s pretend.” A world where she felt most at home.

  By the time John Travolta and Olivia Newton John sang a duet, she was transported right into their world, so much so that as she walked the three flights back up to her apartment, a neighbor cracked open his door to see who was singing. She nodded to Mr. Sullivan and continued to sing about her one of a kind love . . . lo-oh oh oh-ove.

  Naomi did not stop singing for her neighbor, but did stop immediately when she did not see a blinking light on the all-important machine. She again called her “one of a kind” guy.

  He answered on the third ring.

  “I was going to call you in a few minutes. Brought home some Chinese for dinner. I’m starved. Let me at least eat the egg roll and I’ll call you back.”

  When the phone finally rang, she snapped off the television—she had no idea what she had been watching anyway—and with quivering hands picked up the phone.

  “Gary?”

  “What’s the matter? Sounds like you’ve been crying.”

  How could she just jump into this? “Hey, I just miss you, okay?” Ouch, that was the wrong course to take. Quickly she went into damage control mode. “Nah, I’m just bummed cause I think I killed another plant. How’d it go for you today?”

  “They want me to do some more edits, but I think they like the premise with the soap opera parody, and especially doing it with a live audience. It’s a completely new idea for prime time, so why shouldn’t they like it, huh?”

  “So, how long do you think you’ll stay?”

  “C’mon, don’t pressure me, okay? You know how many writers would kill for this opportunity? So, what’s going on there?” After receiving no reply, he pressed, “Naomi, what’s the matter? I don’t need you getting all weird on me.”

  “Gary, I’m not . . . weird . . . I’m . . .” If the word was spoken, the stark reality would be irrevocable. And if she refused to speak the word . . . no, it would not change reality. Trapped. Cornered. Reality would not change, yet perhaps the right words could shape a harsh reality into something acceptable, even desirable. “I’m going to have your baby. I’m sorry for sounding upset a minute ago. I mean we should be excited. Right?”

  “Are you trying to say you’re pregnant? Is that it?”

  His combative tone told Naomi the attempt at coloring reality with sunshine failed. “Yes, Gary, I am. I’ve been nauseous and—”

  “Naomi, is this all in your wacky imagination? I’m going to kill you if you’re scaring me for nothing.”

  “No, Gary. I took a test today. I’m pregnant.”

  “Stop your crying. You’re giving me a headache.”

  Choking on her tears and with labored breathing, she managed to get out a few words. “If only you were here with me.”

  “Well, I’m not, but it’s okay. We can handle this. It’s not the end of the world. Do you have an idea where to go?”

  “What? You mean a doc—”

  “Oh, give me a break, Naomi, you know what I’m talking about. A place to get rid of it. There’s a place near Lincoln Center. Go look it up in the phone book. It’s a clean place. Listen, you got enough money?”

  “I … I don’t know … I …”

  “It’s probably $300 at the most. I’ll put a check for $200 in the mail tonight, okay?”

  Naomi doubled up almost into a fetal position on her couch, trying to endure the inconsolable pain. Zoey jumped onto the couch and rubbed her head against Naomi’s ankle, while Gary’s voice droned on.

  CHAPTER 4

  Autumn 1978

  Like a howling in her innermost being. Plunged into a tunnel that seems to have no end. Who knew that a moment in time would cause the inner springs of a human soul to collapse? A choice was made. A permanent wound etched into the heart. What was promised as the way to be free was a lie she chose to believe.

  The latest edition of the trade paper Backstage sat on the kitchen table. Unread. Might as well stop wasting the forty-five cents each week. Funny, Gary had pointed out she needed to get rid of “it” because she had her career to think about. Now, five months since taking care of “it,” her career was the last thing she thought about.

  Once upon a time there was even a “hot agent” setting her up with auditions. And a hot TV show gave her a callback, but Naomi never contacted Rhonda for the details. Soon Rhonda left a message with a stern warning. “Call me, cookie, or you’re getting dumped into my dead file. I mean it.”

  Naomi did not call back. It was all quite appropriate anyway—she felt like a dead woman walking.

  With residuals from the Mop & Glo commercial supplemented by part-time waitressing at the Bistro, Naomi met her rent and other expenses each month. But for how long? Now responsible for the entire monthly rent, cab rides were a thing of the past. Gary never returned to pack up and ship his things but asked Naomi to perform this task. Numbly, she complied. Not long afterward, she learned Gary’s television series had been given the green light, and Chloe, the role promised to her only a short time ago, had been given to Francine.

  And who could she talk to? Shame, her constant companion, only multiplied when she thought of her parents. And what about Anne? Her good friend had the wisdom to caution her, but she had only scoffed at her. The only good decision she made in the last year was keeping her precious furry friend. Holding one of Zoey’s paws each night as they lay together on Naomi’s pillow, hearing the sweet purring like an engine and feeling the warm breath on her cheek—that was her sole comfort.

  It seemed summer would never end. Hot, humid and grimy. Yet autumn did arrive. Riding the subway home after a short lunch shift at the Bistro, she overheard two elderly men in conversatio
n.

  “Benny,” one of the men was shouting over the din of the train tracks, “You won’t see me tomorrow night.”

  “What? You won’t be there for Rosh Hashanah? What’s this?”

  “My family and I, we’re trying out a new synagogue. Don’t tell anyone.”

  If tomorrow’s Rosh Hashanah, then it’ll be Yom Kippur soon.

  Echoing somewhere deep in her soul Naomi heard her mother’s words. “If you ask God to forgive your sins, He will, you just have to ask.”

  Wasn’t Yom Kippur the time set aside to ask for forgiveness?

  Naomi took her usual path from the train station to her apartment, yet something was definitely not usual today. This dead woman walking suddenly had all her senses on alert. There was an exhilarating newness in the air. She stepped off a curb and took a few steps when the “Don’t Walk” sign flashed. Usually she would continue to the other side of the street, ignoring the horns blaring at her.

  Today, however, she turned around and leapt back to the curb. Her eyes were drawn to the concrete structure she passed with indifference every day. But today it commanded her attention. Its immensely broad steps leading up to the three heavy wooden doors made it appear like an impregnable fortress. Yet the exquisite stained glass panels above made her eyes water with its stunning beauty. They formed an archway high into the entrance of this synagogue. The two side panels displayed glowing menorahs and the central panel was etched with the treasured Ten Commandments.

  Great. Just what I need to see. I’ve broken every one of them.

  Why did she feel like an interloper, an outsider, unwelcome in this holy place? She was Jewish after all. Despite this sense of rejection, her eyes were transfixed and her feet velcroed to this place.

  One of the ancient-looking doors opened and a young man strolled out. He was about 6'1" and had an athletic build, wearing a gray sweater over a simple white T-shirt, and loafers without socks. Naomi realized he spotted her. She must have looked ridiculous standing there and staring up at this imposing building.