I’d have to bring food and dishes for us, but that’s fine. We could make it work. I’d like for my siblings and their families to meet Elan since they haven’t yet. I bet they’d like him, given the chance, and the kids would adore him. I’ve watched him play with his nieces and nephews and the sight warmed my heart. But the frown on my mother’s face tells me she’s not interested in what she considers to be a consolation prize. “Maybe.”
They bid me a good night and I stand with my back to the door after they’ve gone. It’s nearly impossible, but I swear I hear a lone car start on the street outside our building. My face burns with mortification because surely the entire neighborhood knows that’s my family, driving on Shabbos. As if they needed a reminder that I don’t quite belong here.
Taking a few deep breaths, I prepare myself to face the Kleins again. Until my parents’ untimely departure, I thought I’d earned at least a scrap of their approval. And I’m confident his father enjoyed my brisket, though he’s lost most of his speech from the stroke and couldn’t tell me so. He did help himself to thirds after all.
I head back to clear the table and when I’ve nearly reached the dining room, low voices in angry tones leak into the hallway, making me stop short. I should probably just walk in, but I’m curious. Elan keeps so much from me outside the bedroom that I can’t help hope this might give me a glimpse into the man I call my husband.
“Where do you get these women, Elan?”
“Same place as Moyshe and Dovid got their wives. Exactly where I’m supposed to. From the shul. From the matchmakers who think they know better than everyone else and the bubbes who like nothing better than to see men and women married off. You want to argue with the rebbetzin? Be my guest.”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.” No, I can’t imagine that his mother does. And for him to sound so short with her, he must be irritated indeed. “You know what I mean. First Rivka, and now this one. If I didn’t know you spent the day watching her, I wouldn’t trust that the food was kosher. I wasn’t sure she was going to make it through the blessing. And her parents—” Her sentence is punctuated by a guttural sound of disgust.
I’m disappointed in my parents, too, but I don’t want them sneered at. They may not share the same beliefs that I do, but they don’t deserve scorn and I wish he would stand up for them. At the very least I want Elan to defend me. Tell them I stumbled through the blessing because I was so nervous, having to perform in front of everyone like some kind of trained monkey, knowing my recital would be critiqued. I want him to swear up and down that I’ve done everything right, that I’m trying so very hard. But all I get is a muttered, “The food is kosher.”
And what kind of problem could they possibly have had with Rivka? As far as I can tell, she was the perfect Orthodox wife. Helped him with the business, kept their home, always acted appropriately and I’m sure never forgot any of the myriad rules because she probably learned them by osmosis in the womb. The embodiment of frum from birth. I don’t particularly feel like hearing any more criticisms of either myself or Rivka, so I step back into the dining room.
“Would anyone like some rugelach?” The smile grows tight on my face and I have to grit my teeth to keep from screaming when the elder Kleins look at me with dubious expressions on their faces. “No dairy, I promise.”
When his parents have gone, Elan helps me clean up. As I go up on tip-toes to put the final dish back in the cabinet, he comes up behind me, resting his hands on the countertops to my sides. I’ve been trapped. I set my heels on the ground and he moves closer until he’s pressed against my back.
“Let’s go to bed.”
This is usually the point that I would grind my hips against the hardness pushing into me, but my libido has been completely squashed by disappointment. In my parents for not honoring their promises. In Elan for not standing up for me. We both know I’m not perfect but it wouldn’t kill him to be more loyal. When we’re alone I don’t always feel like this marriage was a mistake, but when we’re with other people, I constantly feel like a failure.
“I’m tired.” He stiffens behind me and I feel a momentary pang of regret. We usually have sex on Shabbos and I’m refusing him.
He makes a gruff noise before taking a step back. “Of course. You worked very hard today.”
I did. And it’s still not good enough for you. For anyone.
He kisses my cheek, the soft scrape of his beard a familiar enticement that doesn’t quite catch my desire. I squeeze my eyes shut because they’ve started to water and then he’s gone.
As we fall asleep I don’t seek out his body but lie curled up on my side facing the door. The symbolism doesn’t require an advanced degree to interpret. There’s an escape from this, a way out, and perhaps I should take it.
I’d thought marrying Elan would make me feel more a part of the community but instead I feel as though I’m being driven away. I shouldn’t feel more alone living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed as a man than I did when I lived by myself, and yet… What have I done?
*
On Saturday after a long morning at services, I’m feeling brittle. I didn’t sleep well last night, tossing and turning, falling into dreams where I was flying through dark woods. For some reason there were doors amongst the trees but all of them were closed. I’d fly into them at top speed but they wouldn’t budge; I’d just end up dazed on the forest floor. Over and over. And then I’d seen it. A door that was open just a crack. So I’d slipped through the narrow opening toward the light and once I’d gotten through, I woke up.
We’re at Moyshe’s house, where we’ve been invited to spend the afternoon and evening. The thought of being around Elan’s parents for the rest of the day makes me queasy but I’m not going to play sick. Elan is at the dining room table with some of the other men discussing the morning’s services. The conversation is loud and argumentative and I’d wager half of it is in Hebrew and sprinkled with Yiddish for good measure. Rarely do I hear my husband’s voice, but I catch snippets of it while I sit on the floor and play with some of my new nieces and nephews.
Of anyone in this family, I think the children like me best. Though they correct my mistakes too. I have a PhD in religious studies, have spent more than half my life learning about the beliefs and practices of faiths around the world. It’s demoralizing to be told by a four-year-old that I’m doing Judaism wrong.
I’ve already been rebuffed for suggesting putting together a puzzle. Tamar had looked at me like I’d tried to hand her a cheesesteak before proposing we string beads instead. “Ima tied the knots at the end of the strings yesterday!”
Of course her mother would remember to do such things so her children could string beads on Shabbos. Perhaps it will be a good thing for any children Elan and I have to grow up in such an observant family. Then they’ll never feel as out of place as I do. They won’t face the same struggles. But the idea of my own children disdaining me because on a listless Saturday afternoon I try to give them Play-Doh or sort cards for a game is depressing.
Maybe I should’ve married another BT like most of the people I met at the outreach center and my seminary. A man like that could understand what it’s like in a way Elan never will. And though I’m sure he’d correct me, perhaps it wouldn’t sound so much like condescension because I’d need to remind him of things too. I know some BTs want nothing more than to marry into a family of FFBs, but there are certainly perks to marrying another slightly out-of-sync person.
Last night’s dream haunts me while I thread beads onto thick strings before dumping them off, hearing the staccato thunks of them pooling atop one another in the bowl. Sure, we can string them but we can’t tie them to make a necklace or a bracelet.
When I look up, it’s to meet the eyes of Elan’s mother. I get the feeling she’s been studying me for a while. Seated as she is next to Moyshe’s wife, I have to wonder if they’ve been talking about me. Though there’s a strict prohibition on gossip, it’s probably one of
the rules everyone struggles with the most. In this I don’t feel so alone.
I smile at her in what I hope is an encouraging, friendly way but she merely narrows her eyes and turns back to her conversation with Shira. And me? I go back to stringing beads, passing the string through the painted wood over and over again until the thread is full, I tip them off, and have to string them on over and over again. Fruitlessly.
*
By the time we get home from a boisterous late dinner, Shabbos is over. I know it’s supposed to be a day of rest, but I may be even more tired than I was last night after an entire day of forcing a smile onto my face.
Despite my exhaustion and feeling out of sorts, when Elan suggests we go to bed with that hopeful tone in his voice I nod, hoping he doesn’t mean merely going to sleep. When he circles fingers around my wrist, tugging me after him, I’m certain. No sleep for us. Not just yet.
Once in the bedroom, he nudges me into a corner, facing me away from where the walls come together.
“Stay there.”
I wouldn’t have moved anyway, but his terse command ensures it. Trying not to wring my hands, I watch him move about the room. The first thing he does is remove the runner on his side of the bed and fold it neatly before putting it to the side. Then he rummages in the closet and emerges with what looks like a…tarp.
Before I can school my features, my nose wrinkles up. That’s alarming. What on earth has he got planned for me? A tarp? Luckily he doesn’t notice my expression because he’s too busy shaking the thing out and spreading it on the floor. A hundred possibilities run through my head, each more disturbing than the last. I try to convince myself that I have a far, far filthier imagination than Elan does, but the man is quite cunning. And dirty.
When the tarp is laid out to his satisfaction, he opens the deep bottom drawer of the nightstand and draws out a few large pillar candles and a box of matches. What is he, setting up mood lighting for whatever it is exactly he’s going to do with the tarp?
I don’t have more time to wonder, because he turns on me. “Strip. Everything but your tichels.”
I expect him to go about his business. Most of the time he undresses me himself but when he orders me to do it, he doesn’t watch. But he is now, his gaze so intense I feel like I’m already naked. I move slowly, unbuttoning the sleeveless blouse I’d put on over my shirt, a piece of my old wardrobe I’d been able to salvage. I’d worn it today as some sort of silent protest I’m sure didn’t register with anyone else. My face is getting hot under his scrutiny and I swallow, my fingers fumbling at the buttons.
“Don’t be nervous, little bird. Not yet. I’ve been inside you. I’ve tasted you. What’s a little nudity?”
He’s right but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
When I’ve removed every last article of my clothing, he orders me to kneel in the center of the tarp. The candles that he’s set out on a ceramic plate are right in front of me and he takes the opportunity to light them, knowing my eyes are glued to where he’s setting the flames.
When the wicks are alight, the flames glow in the darkened room, their subtle flickering hypnotic. It makes me slightly less self-conscious, but no less confused. Why did he leave me my headscarves? He loves my hair. Loves to close a fist in it and pull, loves to bind it in his ropes. Loves that it’s for him and only him. So why is it still bound up in the elaborate thing I styled hoping to impress his family? Which was silly, given that all the women wear sheitels. Like most of the women here.
The smell of the blown out matches permeates the room, smoke curling up to the ceiling. I watch it rise and dissipate, distracting myself from the unknown until his voice startles me.
“On your stomach.”
I do as I’m told, stretching out on the tarp and laying my hands alongside my head. My hipbones dig into the wood and my breasts are pressed into the hard floor, but it’s not entirely uncomfortable.
When he breaks out several lengths of forest green rope from another drawer of the nightstand, I’m even more at ease. This is familiar. I breathe and watch as he rigs cuffs around my wrists, attaching me to a leg of the bed on one side and a foot of the bureau on the other. I like when he makes me into a work of art with all the intricate knots and weaving of the cords, but there’s something sexy too about this workmanlike proficiency. Competence is hot. The only thing I don’t like is that it’s quickly over and I can’t ogle him and his dexterity as he wraps more cuffs around my ankles and affixes those to the remaining posts.
Once I’m in his ropes I don’t care so much what else he has in mind. He might hurt me, yes—I’ll probably enjoy that part—but he won’t harm me. I believe he will honor his promises. Perhaps he’ll never be romantic or terribly emotionally intimate with me but he does care and he wouldn’t betray my trust. Especially not when I’ve handed myself over so fully.
He tugs at the ropes, more I think to give me that little thrill of being controlled and contained than to actually check his work, and then he goes once again into the drawer, extracting a blindfold. I lift my head without having to be asked and he fastens the fabric snug around my eyes.
After it’s been tied tight, he lays a hand on the back of my neck. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I don’t respond because he hasn’t asked me a question, but when he tightens his grip and shakes me gently, the words come to my lips: “Yes, master.”
“You’re a little spacey already, aren’t you?”
“Yes, master.”
There’s an unintelligible grunt, but it’s accompanied by a stroking of the nape of my neck and then he’s gone.
He comes in and out of the room several times. I suppose I should be trying to decipher what all the sounds mean, but he was right. I’m well on my way to subspace and I can’t bring myself to care. Besides, it’s more fun when it feels like he’s doing magic. Why do I want to pull the curtain back? I don’t. I just want to enjoy the show, especially after the stress of the day.
Minutes later, his voice rumbles across my consciousness. “Still with me?”
“Yes, master.” Even I can hear how dreamy and singsong my voice is. His laugh is tinged with wickedness and I smile in response.
That’s when the burning starts.
I yelp and pull at my ropes, panicked by the sensation, but it’s only a drop over one of my shoulder blades that quickly becomes tolerable. Followed by another at the base of my spine and another. It all falls into place. The candles, the tarp, why he didn’t want me to take down my hair. He’s dripping hot wax onto my back. And now that I’m expecting it, though I don’t know where the next drop is going to fall, I can control myself more. Well, a little more.
A drop lands just below my armpit and makes a scorching trail down the side of my ribs. I hiss through my teeth. “Fuck.”
“Language, Tzipporah,” he admonishes in that warning tone that makes me crazy. I swallow to keep the next curse from coming out of my mouth when there’s another drip just below the last one. Sadistic fiend.
At last I’ve had more time to get used to the sensation and I’m not so shocked every time a drop lands. I’ve found my breathing and it helps me through the splashes searing into my skin. I can tolerate it on my back, but when a drop falls on my upper arm, I squeak and pull at my bonds, rattled. “Master, please, no.”
There’s a pause and then a movement before his heavy hand is at my neck and his beard is gently rasping behind my ear. “No, what?”
“Not on my arms, please, master. I can take it on my back, but on my arm it hurts so much more.”
“And not the good kind?” His voice is gentle and teasing which makes it all the harder to say no.
“No, master. I could—I could take it. If you needed me to, but I—” My chest seizes up with fear at the memory. Not of the pain precisely, because that’s near impossible to remember, but with that animal instinct of run. It’s possible that on some other day, at some other time, I’d be more willing to at least try, but after th
is nerve-racking Shabbos, it’s too much.
He hushes me, rubbing a thumb across my cheek. “Not today. You’ve been very brave.”
Gratification feathers around my heart. I’ve pleased him. And the “Not today” pleases me. Not that I’ll be looking forward to it precisely, because it hurt. A lot. But perhaps he understands that my refusal is due mostly to the circumstances. At least he believes I’m strong enough to take more, and his faith in me in this one small thing heartens me. He soothes me and pets me until I’m settled back into languor and I memorize his touch, what it feels like on my skin and over the wax.
“You can take a little more, though, I think.”
“Yes, master,” I agree, because I want to. I want to thank him for giving this to me, for showing me what I’m capable of so I will give him this gift.
He stands and I brace myself for the scorching drops falling on my skin and there it is. That blistering heat. I whimper because I’ve grown unused to it but I sink into the experience more quickly this time. He begins longer pours—not just small drops, but lingering ribbons of wax drizzled over my skin. Everything leaves my head besides sensation: the enduring heat, how the wax feels different when it’s poured over covered spots versus untouched skin, the contrast of the cool and crinkly tarp under my cheek.
I am free.
He pours two crescents of wax over my shoulder blades where wings might be. I can almost feel them sprout from my back so I can soar though I’m anchored to the ground. Then he’s unfastening the ropes he’s tied me with and I feel like I might fly away until he rolls me to my back and pulls the blindfold from my face.
His dark eyes are alive with desire for me. If I’m a bird, he’s a hawk and he’s going to snatch me right out of the sky. I want to be caught. But first he reaches for the clasp holding my headscarves in place. His fingers are deft, having learned how to unfurl my creations, and it’s not long before my hair is loose underneath me, spread out over the tarp.
“Beautiful,” he says. “And so good.”
Craving Flight Page 9
