Craving Flight

by Tamsen Parker

  Yes, I’ve put my skills as a researcher to use in Forest Park, although not consciously most of the time. They’re just part of me: the way I think, the way I learn, a lens through which I see the world. But I don’t think I put on my scholar hat when I come home at the end of the day. If anything, I feel as though I take off all my hats—advisor, teacher, researcher—when I’m here and what I’m left with are my headscarves, my commitment to my faith, the deepest and truest part of me.

  After depositing the kugel in the fridge, I manage to stumble my way to the subway, across the crowded campus, and into my classroom. Luckily the class I’m teaching today is a topic I’ve taught a thousand times before, something I probably talk about in my sleep: the role of language in religion. And though the students seem somewhat less engaged than in past years, I suspect it has more to do with me than them. I feel like a zombie.

  I end class a little early and clear my throat. “I wanted to take a minute to speak with you all. It has come to my attention that a few of my students visited my husband’s place of business yesterday and were not very respectful of him or of our community.” Our, Elan. I said our, because I mean it. I do. “I’m not sure if it was students from this class or one of my other sections, but I wanted to say—”

  What do I want to say? I look out at the rows of students, many slumped behind their fold-down desks, pens dangling from fingers, but all eyes are riveted on me.

  “I know the way I dress and some of the traditions I keep seem strange to many of you. I wasn’t raised as an Orthodox Jew, so to be honest, some of them seem strange to me too. But this is the life I have chosen to lead. No one has coerced me into it, and though I’ve made more mistakes than I can count, on the whole, they have accepted me and supported me. Even if they hadn’t, they don’t deserve to be treated like animals in a zoo.”

  The image of my students pointing at Bina or any of the other women who have befriended me, and saying cruel things about them wrings out my heart. And how could they possibly say those things when I come here day after day and perform my job admirably? I’m a good professor, maybe the best lecturer in the department, and my research has been well-received. Not to mention that in my personal life, I left a man and a life I didn’t find satisfying and found another. Brainwashed and subservient my butt.

  There’s a tightness around my throat that I want to clear, but if I do, I might cry. That’s best avoided. Because heaven forfend someone in academia have feelings about anything, never mind being violated in this very personal way. I also realize as I say the words that it’s true. The people who have been unkind or suspicious of me are a small minority now. I have proven myself and I have been accepted. I should try to let go of the rest, even if they happen to be my in-laws.

  And Elan…he’s never done anything to deserve this. His only fault was marrying me and I hate the fact that I’ve caused him nothing but pain and embarrassment. We can end this ill-advised marriage if he wishes to and he can find a wife better suited to him. In the meantime, I won’t allow anyone to disparage or ridicule him.

  “My husband is a good man. He is kind and hard-working and he does not deserve your mockery. Please leave him and my community out of this. If you have questions about my faith, you may come to me directly and I’ll be happy to speak with you. Class is dismissed.”

  My students are usually rowdy as they leave because our session is the last thing standing between them and the weekend, but today there’s a definite pause before anyone heads for the door. And when they do, it’s in a herd of whispers and shuffles.

  I pack up my notes and other things, conscious as ever of the time. The days are Autumn-long, but I can’t dally if I want to make it all the way to my stop before I have to get off the subway, never mind light the candles. I must be more focused (or perhaps less?) than I thought because when I turn to the exit, two of my students are waiting for me. Stephanie and Mike.

  “Professor Klein, we wanted to say—”

  “I actually don’t have time for this. I need to get home before Shabbos starts. If you have something you’d like to discuss, you’re welcome to come by during my office hours next week or make an appointment. Excuse me.”

  A remorseful glance passes between them but they trail out of the small auditorium, muttering something to each other. I think I’ve found some of the culprits. And next week, if they don’t come to me themselves, I’ll be asking them to stay after class. I won’t report their atrocious behavior to the university, but I need to do something about it. Best thought of when I’m not rigid with anger and I want to yell.

  I get the rest of my things packed up and ready to go. This week’s Shabbos may very well be even more uncomfortable than last’s. At least I’d felt as though Elan was on my side whereas now the only friendly face will be Bina’s. I’ll just have to glue myself to her side, there’s nothing else for it.

  Before I can head out the door though, someone calls to me from halfway up the stairs. “Tzipporah.”

  My emotional turmoil must be causing me to hallucinate, because there’s no other reason Elan would be standing in my lecture hall in his dark suit and spotless white shirt, his kippah visible from this angle because for once, I’m standing above him.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I came here to give you a divorce.”

  My heart falls into my stomach. I knew he was upset but I didn’t think it was this bad. He hasn’t even given me a chance to explain.

  “Elan, please. Don’t do this. Give me a chance. I—” And then my sorrow transmutes into anger. This is incredibly unfair. I’m being punished for the actions of others and he’s being so unreasonable that it makes me want to scream. I have tried to be what he wants, and to be written off so quickly as a mistake sets off a flurry of objections. “What do I have to do to pass muster? When will you stop doubting me? I just want you to love me. I know I’m not Rivka, your perfect Jewish wife, but I’m doing the best I can. Rabbi Horowitz and Bina think I’m good enough. When will I be good enough for you? You’re the one whose opinion I value the most.”

  The very thing I was most afraid of not being able to have is the very thing I’ve been handed. But it’s not enough. Apparently while I was praying, I forgot to ask for someone who would love me. Who would look at me adoringly and not just with lust-glazed eyes. Thinking it would be enough was so very foolish of me.

  “I don’t want to love you, Tzipporah.”

  People who say words can’t hurt you are idiots. None of Brooks’ mocking, none of the tortures Elan’s visited upon my body, none of the blatantly disparaging looks I get have ever hurt me so much as those small words. I don’t want to love you. I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. He’s stolen them.

  “I have spent my entire adult life defending myself and my choices to my family. Even before she got sick, Rivka couldn’t have children. Did you know that?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I mourned, of course, because we both wanted to have a family. I would’ve been happy to adopt but she was set on the idea of experiencing pregnancy and childbirth. It took her a long time to even admit we might need help. We argued about it a lot, but I still loved her. Very much.”

  I know he did. It’s on his face every time he talks about her. The reverence and affection painful reminders of things he withholds from me.

  “My parents though, they wanted grandchildren and they wanted me to leave her. Find a proper Jewish wife, they said, one who will give you children, no matter how. I fought them every day. It got better when Moyshe and Dovid got married and started families but it got worse when Rivka got sick. They couldn’t wait for her to die.”

  Restrained rage makes his voice hoarse. I can only imagine how hard that must have been for him, fighting to keep Rivka alive or at the very least comfortable, all the while his parents wishing for her death. What monsters.

  “They didn’t say that of course but I could tell w
hat they were thinking…” Of course not. Because wishing for someone’s death is not a very Jewish attitude to hold. The sanctity of life is everything; almost all other laws can be cast aside if it means a life can be saved. So no they’d never admit that, but I’m sure he felt it.

  He shakes his head and I want to hold him. Comfort him. No one should have so much asked of them, not even this man who could carry the world on his back and not break a sweat. But he has been carrying it and it’s so very heavy. “It wasn’t so long before my mother started urging me to get married again. I resisted even after I was ready out of stubbornness, and when Bina offered you…to be honest, part of the attraction was that I knew they wouldn’t want me to choose you. She’s too committed to her job, Elan. Too set in her ways. Choose someone who’s not so…strange. Someone younger, more likely to give you children. Does she even want babies?”

  The listing of my faults makes me clutch at my arms folded across my chest, my fingertips probably leaving bruises. Some of it is nonsense and I know it—I’d love to fill our house with children and I’ve already changed how I live my life drastically in my attempts to adhere to my faith. But some of it is true and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t be younger, and I’ve tried to fit in here but I’ll always be a bird trying to swim in the ocean, having to come up for air periodically because otherwise I’ll drown. Foolish.

  “So you don’t love me.” I can bear that, right? Brooks didn’t love me, nor was he particularly kind. He didn’t respect my faith or my need for pain and domination. Elan gives me all of those things. He respects me, values me, fulfills my needs in the bedroom. I should be grateful instead of feeling like my bones are uncomfortably hollow. Or…I can leave. As he’s come here to tell me to do.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  My eyes snap to his, his tense jaw, his knitted brows.

  “But you—”

  “You’re usually so good at listening, Tzipporah.”

  I rewind our conversation back in my mind but it seems so clear. I’m not the wife he wants and he doesn’t feel like bearing the responsibility of defending me and my myriad quirks to all and sundry. I’m a burden to him and he’s borne enough for one lifetime. I can’t say I blame him but it hurts.

  “I said I didn’t want to love you. I didn’t say I didn’t love you.”

  He lets the words hang in the air, drifting slowly to the floor.

  “I have a confession to make.” His lips purse guiltily and he looks away. What has he done? “I followed you here today. Though I hoped you wouldn’t, I half-expected you to leave the house and dig a backpack out of a bush along the way. Change into pants and a short-sleeve shirt. I didn’t want to believe that our life was a joke to you, but after your students came into my shop…”

  I can see how that might fan the flames of his doubt, particularly if his family’s been adding kindle to it.

  “Did you know there’s a little alcove just over there?” He tips his head toward the front of the lecture hall where he’s come from. “It’s cramped but it can fit a man.”

  I know the alcove he’s talking about. I refrain from telling him I’ve stumbled upon a pair of students having a, uh, rendezvous there when I had to retrieve some notes I forgot. He’d be horrified.

  “I took the subway, I walked the campus. And I realized how strong your faith is. I have it easy, being surrounded by people who look like me, talk like me. Even the ones who don’t are familiar with the mores of the neighborhood. No one blinks an eye at my tzitzit, my kippah. But every day, you wear your modest clothes and your beautiful tichels and you go out in the world. I saw people stare at you, I heard a few of them talk and you must too. It can’t be easy but you do it. It fills me with pride that my wife is so devout. I thought so before but now I’ve seen it. And to hear you teach your class, impart your wisdom to your students with humor and compassion. It filled my heart so full I thought it might burst.”

  He clutches his chest as if it hurts, as if he’s feeling the ache anew and I feel an answering throb behind my breast bone. To hear him say these things is exhilarating.

  “I’ve been trying to convince myself that what I felt for you was some mash of duty and defiance and animal attraction. It’s not. Sometimes my love for you is so big I feel that I’m drowning in it. It’s a fearsome thing, to be tasked with caring for a woman like you. So intelligent, so vibrant. I pray every night to be worthy but in the daylight, it feels dangerous to love you so much. It’s easier to be quiet when my family criticizes you. To shrug and let them believe I’ve made a mistake and that staying with you is the honorable thing to do. It’s not. It’s selfish and I owe you more than that.”

  I have to scrub at my eyes because I don’t want to mar this moment with tears but I can barely contain myself. He loves me?

  “From now on I won’t allow them to speak of you like that ever. Not in my presence. And I promise to give myself to you as you’ve always given yourself to me. Completely. Please have faith in me in this as you have faith in me in everything else. Tzipporah, I love you.”

  Before I can leave any room for a sliver of doubt, I fly down the stairs and into his arms. He catches me up as if I weigh nothing and holds me against his body, my feet off the ground. “I love you too, Elan. I’ve just been afraid. That you didn’t think I was good enough. That I didn’t please you and—”

  “You do, little bird. You do. I promise you that. Even when you make mistakes, I love you and I’m so proud you’re mine.”

  He puts me down and cradles my face in his hands, brushing away the few tears that have managed to escape through my lashes. Tears finally of happiness.

  “Now let’s get home so we can observe Shabbos properly. I know how important that is to you.”

  “It is,” I sniff and he grins. “Besides, the kugel I made is perfection.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Not one bit.”

  Epilogue

  ‡

  One Year Later

  “Turn.”

  I spin half way around, leaving my arms out so he can see his handiwork. He hooks a finger under a strand of rope and pries it looser, evening out the tension. I don’t know how he does it, but he always seems to know just where these things need to be adjusted.

  He looks awfully pleased with himself and I can’t wait to look at his creation in the mirror. It feels good, certainly. A web of rope around my chest, holding me and reminding me that he’s with me even when we’re far apart. He used a vibrant turquoise today, one that complements my hair. Both of them secrets I share only with him.

  “Go look,” he says, knowing I’m practically bouncing on my toes with impatience. I want to see too. I flit over to the closet and open it to reveal the full-length mirror on the other side of the door.

  “Oh.” I could tell when he was weaving it that the harness he tied around my chest was more intricate than usual. Sometimes it’s just a hastily tied cuff above my elbow, or a single strand belted around my waist. Though it hasn’t been an issue for months, when I’d been niddah he’d leave a bracelet for me on my dresser since he couldn’t touch me to tie something on, but always I have his rope on me when I leave the house.

  I knew today’s project was on the fancier end of the spectrum, but I hadn’t expected this. He’s somehow managed to fashion the knots and the strands to look like abstract wings. It’s utterly beautiful and it brings tears to my eyes. Not just the product, but the time and thought and effort that went into creating this for me. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. Of course it doesn’t help that I’m more emotional these days.

  He steps closer until his body is pressed the length of mine, his front against my back as his arms come around me and his big hands cup my swelling belly. He has something to hold onto now, with me being seven months pregnant, but even before I’d started to show, he’d done this and it delights me.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful, Elan. Thank you.”

  I know we
ll enough by now that his gruff noise is actually thinly masked joy. My opinion of him matters so much to him, as much as his opinion matters to me. I do my best to let him know in words how much I appreciate everything he does for me, how much I want him and need him, though it embarrasses him sometimes.

  He kisses the side of my neck and I tilt my head in invitation. He nibbles and sucks at the sensitive skin for delectable minutes until I’ve been reduced to a puddle, but he stops suddenly and swats at my behind.

  “No time for that, you temptress. I don’t want you late for school.”

  Yes, right, school. I’m finishing out the semester, but then the baby will arrive and I’m taking a leave of absence. We’ve let his parents think it’s permanent and mine believe it’s temporary. In truth, we’re undecided. We’ll figure it out.

  My pregnancy has eased things with our families some. My parents are excited to add to their small brood of grandchildren and are crossing their fingers for a boy since they have only granddaughters so far, but I don’t think they really care either way. They’ve also stayed over for Shabbos once. They seemed bemused by it all—the services, the rituals, the restrictions—but they tried and that’s what matters the most.

  Elan’s mother clucks over me constantly and my sisters-in-law have been friendlier as well. Everyone loves to talk about babies. I’m sure there’s more conflict to come and I’m not entirely comfortable that it took getting pregnant for them to warm to me, but hopefully over time they’ll value me for more than giving Elan a child. In the meantime, I’ll bask in his love for me.

  He helps me dress and watches as I bind up my hair. When I’m presentable, he walks me to the subway stop, his face delightfully covetous as he bids me a simple goodbye. What he’s not saying is that he’ll be thinking about me all day, planning what to do with me tonight, how best to launch his little bird into the sky. He’s given me the gift of flight and a safe place to land when my wings grow tired. My life, my love, my Elan.