“Rivka was a good woman,” Bina agrees before sipping at her tea. “So perhaps we’ll start there?”
Elan Klein. Yes, he’s promising.
“Do you think he’d be interested in me? You don’t think being a divorced BT will be an issue?” The Kleins are one of the more conservative families in the neighborhood, although Elan is definitely the most liberal of the bunch. His brothers Moyshe and Dovid wear black hats over their kippahs while he wears only the yarmulke, and their full beards contrast with Elan’s neatly trimmed one. His mother in particular is one of the people here who isn’t particularly warm to BTs and tends to avoid me. But those may not be my biggest problems. “I’m also pretty sure he thinks I’m an idiot.”
Bina’s head tips in confusion but then recollection lights her face. “Oh, yes. The brisket incident.”
My face heats with the hideously embarrassing memory. It was the day I first moved here and I’d been so thrilled to be in my own apartment with my very own kosher kitchen that I’d bought a brisket at the butcher and spent the hours it took to roast salivating over the smell. Only to realize when I sat down to eat that I’d used non-kosher chili powder and had to start all over again. I’d rushed—in tears—back to the shop where Elan was closing up, and had to confess why I was back so soon. He’d sent me home with chicken breasts and told me to try the brisket again the next day. Not unkindly, but still.
Ugh.
I’m half-tempted to ask if all of Forest Park knows about said incident, and if it’s gone down in the annals of community lore, but I don’t want to know. It was over a year ago. I should try to let it go. But the brand of humiliation in my brain glows again at the memory.
“I doubt it. Everyone makes mistakes.”
Not like that. But I let her confident assurance soothe me, covering my embarrassment with more conversation.
“I didn’t even know he was looking.”
Surely I would’ve heard. And surely I would’ve paid attention. Elan is a bit surly, perhaps, but not in a rude way. Just gruff, coarse, with his hard-working hands—my grip tightens on my mug when I think of what he might look like somewhere other than behind his counter, free of his apron and the strictures of the interactions between men and women who aren’t related. My mind starts to wander further afield and I follow. I haven’t thought of a flesh-and-blood man like this in a long time.
“Looking is maybe a strong word—”
“Bina!”
“Well, he should be. And I can be quite…persuasive.”
Just what I need. Bina trying to foist me on some poor unsuspecting man who may still be mourning his wife’s death. I’m tempted to thunk my head on the café table but I refrain. What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll say no. At least it won’t be years before we figure out we’re wrong for each other, not like with Brooks.
“Fine.”
Though she tries to smother it, the smile breaks over her face, and she circles his name with her pen. I’m half-expecting her to start sketching hearts and wedding cakes. She’s probably trying to decide which caterer we should use for our reception, imagining what our babies would look like. “I’ll see what I can do.”
*
And that is how I find myself accepting the least romantic proposal in the history of the world a month later. I’ve been on four dates with Elan in the time intervening, along with seeing him at community events where Bina shoves us together. September is heavy on the Jewish holidays so there have been lots. We’ve discussed all the important things:
Children? Yes.
Keeping strictly kosher? Yes. Though I’d wrung my hands in my napkin under the table when confessing that despite my best efforts and intentions, it’s something I regularly fail at. Not because I don’t care—I do, very much—but because it happens to be an area where my brain fails me. By the tightening of his mouth, he’d remembered Brisketgate. I’d thought that might be the end of it, but he’d asked me for another date when dinner was over.
Shomer Shabbos? Yes, though like keeping kosher, I haven’t perfected the practice of being entirely observant of the Sabbath and perhaps never will. But it’s not for lack of effort.
Moving to Israel? No. Though a couple of his sisters have and he’s visited, we’re both rather attached to New York.
Keeping our jobs? I don’t want to give mine up, perhaps even after we have a family, and he has no intention of going back to yeshiva even if my job could support us both. Says he prefers working with his hands to arguing all day. He’ll leave the studies to his brothers.
And as for the chemistry… I do find him intimidating because he is a sizable man, not to mention somewhat curt, but to be honest, that turns me on. The attraction is undoubtedly there on my end and I suspect it’s mutual.
Regardless, it’s awkward discussing these important and intimate things with someone I barely know, but in some ways it’s a relief. Less risk of falling for someone who makes my mouth water but with whom I don’t share anything in common. Or coming to find out we’re compatible in the bedroom but I find him morally reprehensible.
Of course, there’s no way to see if we’re a good fit in bed. Which seems a bit silly, given that neither of us are virgins and sex can be a deal breaker as I well know. But rules are rules and we’ll keep them. Especially me. I will not be the wicked, worldly woman leading a good frum man into temptation.
But tucked safe in my own bed, away from any possible accusations, I’ve fantasized about him, hoping that perhaps the stern, severe demeanor will carry over into the bedroom. While I touched myself, I pictured him taking control of me, imagined what it might feel like to be on my knees at his feet, perhaps with my hands bound behind my back. I can hope. But it’s not exactly something you can bring up during these conversations.
Would you perhaps like to hit me? Tie me up? Hurt me? Be quite…forceful?
No. Which is too bad, because that’s something I want almost as badly as to be part of this community, live this life. Since I can’t ask, I’m hoping the fantasy will be enough to get me through. It could be, with how Elan looks, his gruff manner. Which is more than I could say for Brooks. At the very least, Elan won’t sleep around. Perhaps not out of love for me, but because of his faith. It might be sad, but that has to be good enough.
And after a month during which it’s been open season on us both, with prospects seemingly vaulting out of the woodwork, we’ve been driven together by a fear of what else we might end up with. We are, at least, of a similar age—Those girls, Elan had groused last week, Some of them could be my daughters—and our personalities aren’t oil and water.
For his part, he seems to find me pretty—his eyes hardly leave me when we’re together—and for mine, I like that he doesn’t try to talk over me. It might be nice if he were a little more verbose but I can work with this.
He does seem to feel I’m a bit…strange, but it appears to be a minor inconvenience, not a deal breaker. A good, handsome, hard-working man who can overlook my status as a new-comer and divorced. And if we marry each other, we can make the constant nagging stop. I’d never pegged myself as a marriage-of-convenience type, but then again I’ve never been subjected to this level of well-intentioned meddling.
“Would you accept me as your husband, Tzipporah?”
“If you’d be willing to take me as your wife.” Take me.
A wry smile turns up the corner of his mouth. “It will get the wolves off our backs, yes?”
It’s the first hint of humor I’ve seen from the aloof man, and the comparison of the seemingly frail but shrewd old women to vicious wild beasts is enough to make me laugh.
There’s a distinct lack of romance, but perhaps we’re both too old and world-weary for these things. Maybe we’ve been made cynical by our first marriages: me, because even the most promising beginning led to heartbreak and infidelity, and him…I think Elan worshipped Rivka, and the idea of getting that lucky in love twice is laughable. Though if I’m being honest, a hint of
passion would help me not feel as though I’m a chore to be done.
If I’m spectacularly lucky, shared values and mutual respect dusted with attraction will someday bloom into something akin to love. And if not…well, I’ll have cemented my place in the community I love, the place where I can live a life that is faithful to the beliefs that have become the center of my being. Elan and his family are well-liked and respected here, and perhaps some of that will rub off on me. I can only hope.
*
When I get home from what I’m hoping will be the last date I ever have to go on, I call my parents, bracing myself for their disapproval as the phone rings. They’d been disappointed when Brooks and I had gotten divorced. I could’ve told them how he’d cheated on me, but I hadn’t wanted to disparage him. Particularly since he’d made me feel like it was my fault. As if my increasing religiosity and growing need for kink had been the reasons for his perfidy.
I’ve recovered enough of my self-esteem to realize it was nothing about my behavior that forced him to stray—he could’ve asked for a divorce instead of sneaking around. I wish he would’ve. But at the time I’d merely wanted to retreat and lick my wounds. And I really don’t want to discuss my sexual preferences with my parents. Like I need to give them any more reasons to think I’m some kind of freak.
“Hi, Zoe.”
“Dad…”
“Sorry. Tzipporah.” He says my name with disdain and the tension in my shoulders grows. It’s been years since I changed it. I wouldn’t mind an honest mistake now and then—I was his Zoe for thirty-odd years after all—but he barely makes an effort because he disagrees with my choice.
I’d grown up vaguely aware of being Jewish but it was something that defined me about as much as living in a blue house. It was just something that was true but seemed to have very little impact on my day-to-day existence. When I’d expressed interest in having a bat mitzvah though, my parents had indulged me. My brother and sister had thought it was strange, voluntarily adding work to my school schedule, what with the Hebrew classes and everything else involved. But I’d done it.
My very secular parents hadn’t shared an opinion one way or the other when I’d become active in Hillel when I was in college and went on a birthright trip to Israel, maybe believing my seeking to be a phase. But it didn’t escape my notice that they’d seemed almost relieved when I fell in love with and married Brooks, the waspiest WASP who’d ever donned seersucker, regardless of the fact that he was my dissertation advisor.
Since my great grandparents came here from Eastern Europe, my family’s been following the assimilation model. Perhaps my parents thought marrying a gentile would cement my secular status for good. But it hadn’t. I’d felt that missing piece just as keenly after I’d gotten married as I had before—perhaps more so. My parents could ignore the things they didn’t see every day and probably didn’t think much of it.
The first time they’d seen me in a headscarf though, they’d objected. More and more strenuously as I started dressing modestly, and keeping kosher as best I could under the circumstances. Every step, they’d raised eyebrows and sighed. When I moved here, they accused me of joining a cult. If it weren’t for how much stress the frum community places on the importance of family, I might’ve ceased talking to them years ago. Instead I’ve persisted through their side-eye and micro-aggressions, their groans and contempt, trying to be a family despite our differences.
Telling them I’m marrying a man I’ve only been dating for a few weeks won’t go over well. It won’t matter to them that it makes me happy, and they won’t care that Elan is a good match for me, better than I had any right to expect.
Forcing my voice into a falsely chipper tone, I get what should be a happy announcement over with. “I have some good news. I’m getting married.”
Chapter Two
‡
Our wedding is on a Tuesday night, which of course my parents grumble about. Why can you not get married on a Sunday like normal Jews?
Bina generously sits next to my mom through the ceremony. She must be the most patient and charming woman alive, but I could hear the thoughts running through my mother’s head. Why do I have to sit on the other side of the room from my husband? Maybe it’s a good thing none of our relatives could make it. A wedding on a Tuesday? Zoe’s lost her mind.
And perhaps it’s paranoia but I don’t think Elan’s family was much happier, though for opposite reasons. I’d asked on one of our dates if they’d be okay with him marrying a divorced BT. He’d shrugged. “My brothers have married well enough for the whole family.”
I think he meant it as a joke but it had made me self-conscious. Too religious for one set of parents, not enough for the other. Will I never make anyone happy?
Regardless, it’s too late to fret. The ceremony is over, the dull gold metal band on my finger proof that I’m a married woman now. Again, I suppose, although many people have told me Brooks didn’t count. Perhaps not, but he certainly had an impact on me and not for the better.
I don’t want to think about him right now, though. I should be thinking about Elan. My husband.
We’re being shown to the room where we’ll spend our first moments alone together. I’ve always wondered what happened in the yichud, and now I get to find out.
When we’ve been closed in the small room, I sneak a glance at Elan. He’s standing there, taking up so much space. It’s not as obvious in his shop where the ceilings are high and there’s always a counter between us, but in here, he seems…big.
Between the closeness of the room, the enormity of what I’ve just done, the heat and weight of my dress, and the stifling disapproval of my parents that I can sense though they’re filing into the reception with the other guests, I’m feeling overwhelmed. It doesn’t help that I haven’t eaten or had anything to drink all day since I was determined to fast.
“Tzipporah.” Elan’s soft voice calls me out of wherever it was I’d drifted off to. I lift my gaze and find him regarding me, intent. “You look like you’re about to faint. Sit down, please.”
I let him lead me over to a couch. Some wonderful person has put a plate of fruit and nuts and a large carafe of water with some cups on a side table. He pours me a measure and puts it in my hands, curling my reluctant fingers around the glass. It’s been years since a man touched me in a deliberate way and the contact is shocking, creating an intense burst of pleasure that stuns me.
The way Elan treats me is already different than Brooks. Brooks had been hungover at the ceremony and so drunk at the reception I hadn’t been sure we’d have a wedding night at all. We had, but it was perfunctory at best before he’d passed out and I’d been awoken in the middle of the night to him heaving into our hotel room toilet. I should’ve known then.
“Is it really that bad?”
Is that what he thinks? I turn to face him and the furrow between his brows leads me to believe that yes, he’s attributing my dazed state to regret.
“No. It’s not. You’re not…” I struggle to find the words to explain. I’m happy to be married to him, I’m looking forward to starting our life together, but there’s a certain finality to this day. I didn’t expect to mourn my former life, thought I’d become acclimated to the new one, gotten over how much my day-to-day existence has changed. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, feel more fulfilled, respected and valued. And yet…
He’s tipped his head to look at me, that same patient, intent look he always has. Am I going to survive being married to this man who can make me blush and stammer with no more than a look? Will he forever make me feel flustered and out of sorts?
“Please don’t think I regret this. I wouldn’t have agreed to marry you if I didn’t want to, no matter how much nagging I was subject to.” A corner of his mouth tugs up because he knows exactly what I’m talking about. He’s been on the receiving end of quite a bit of “encouragement” too. With that small change in his features, I feel lighter. He’s not
always so severe. “I’m very happy with my choice, but my parents aren’t. I’m sorry I’m letting it temper my happiness.”
He shrugs and nudges the cup toward my lips. I tip the glass and the water in my mouth is cool. It doesn’t quench my thirst though, but whets it, making me swallow the whole glass in a rush. I immediately want more, but he shakes his head. “Have something to eat before you have any more to drink. You don’t want to upset your stomach.”
I know. It’s not like I’ve never fasted before. I know how to break the fast without getting sick. There are few things more pathetic than a bride puking on her wedding day. Elan already thinks I’m silly, I don’t need him thinking I’m a complete and utter moron.
After I’ve crunched a handful of almonds between my teeth and swallowed, I realize he’s watching me instead of eating himself. “You should eat too.”
“I will, now that I’m not worried you’re going to pass out.”
The idea of blacking out in front of him is enough to turn my stomach, especially with his chastising tone, but there’s something to be said for the image of him gathering me up off the floor, gently patting my cheek and calling to me until I came to. He might roll his eyes while he’s doing it—silly Tzipporah—but he wouldn’t panic, and he wouldn’t leave me facedown in the carpet. I’m sure of it.
He drinks with more control than I had and reaches for a strawberry. Elan likes strawberries. Something I should remember now that we’ll be living together.
*
At the door to his apartment—no, our apartment, I reach for the mezuzah and bring my fingers to my mouth. The one gracing the doorway to my old apartment had been wood, but this one is metal and glass. Regardless, I know if I were to crack the small, narrow boxes open, I’d find the same thing inside: verses from the Torah inscribed on parchment. Kissing the mezuzah is a habit I used to feel self-conscious about, but no more. Now I’d no more come or go without touching it than I’d leave without putting clothes on. Elan does the same, and then we’re standing in a hallway.
Craving Flight Page 2
