Gravity

by Leanne Lieberman

  Neshama clasps my hand. “I have something to tell you.”

  I turn to look at her, but I’ve lost my eyeholes. I lift my bum and twist the sheet.

  “I got into university,” she whispers.

  The congregation stamps and yells. An adolescent boy stands on his chair, his face red from alcohol. He beats his chest, yodeling, “Yiyiyiyiyiiii” in a falsetto.

  “That’s great!” I hug Neshama and kiss her through the sheet, cotton against the hard plastic mask.

  “Business?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  Neshama pushes back the cuticle on her thumb. “I got into U of T and York, but I also got into the University of British Columbia and the University of Victoria.”

  “You applied away?” The congregation continues cheering, stomping Haman’s name into oblivion.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Wow.” I stare at her. “You’re leaving?”

  Neshama nods.

  I hug her. “Wow, congratulations. Have you told Ima and Abba?” I glance at Ima a few rows up in her silk kimono and white face makeup. The congregation quiets down and the chanting continues.

  She shakes her head. “Bubbie knows. She said she’d pay for it. The extra flights, living costs.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  She nods again.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Yes. Sort of. Nervous and excited and I don’t know...” She pauses. “Now I have to tell them.” She gestures toward Ima with her head.

  “What do you think they’ll say?”

  “That I’m going to burn in hell.” Neshama’s mask conceals her face. She clamps my hand in hers.

  AFTER THE CHANTING, the chairs are pushed away and the dancing begins, the men in one circle, the women in another. At the back of the room, tables sag with baked goods and an immense bowl of alcoholic punch. Neshama and I nibble on poppy-seed hamentaschen and sip the tangy drink. The men form a tight circle, arms woven around shoulders, feet stamping in unison to a lively klezmer tune, clarinets blasting. A man dressed as a bride, a white veil covering his hair, his lips smeared with lipstick, is hoisted up and down on a chair. “Oy, Oy, Oy, Oy!” he shouts. Backless high heels dangle from his thick feet. He blows drunken kisses as they put him down.

  The women hold hands and whirl by, feet twisting and kicking. Dancers break off to form smaller inner circles. A woman dressed as a gypsy spins in the center, hips jiggling, her enormous bosom heaving. The women catcall and ululate in shrill voices. Tiny Queen Esthers worm their way through the swirling, stamping women and form their own small clapping circle around the gypsy lady. Ima spins by, laughing, taking tiny steps in her kimono.

  “You really want to leave all this?”

  Neshama finishes the rest of her punch, hiccups and shrugs. “Tradition is the illusion of permanence,” she recites, her jaw firm.

  “You won’t miss it?”

  “Nope.”

  I slump in my chair. “I really miss the Torah.”

  “So go back to it.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “Maybe for you it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Make the Torah whatever you want it to be. It’s so huge and contradictory, you can find whatever you want and ignore the other parts. Everybody does it.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. Just don’t take it as the word of God.”

  “Do you think Ima does?”

  “Ima floats along in her own little world, taking in the parts that fit her life. Women can’t sing in public—I bet she finds a way out of that one.”

  “And Abba?”

  Neshama shudders. “He really does think the Torah is the word of God, but I try and cut him some slack because everything he does, misguided as it is, comes from his love for Hashem.”

  We both sigh. Then Neshama gets up and pulls me through the circle of dancing, stomping women, weaving into the center. Grabbing my hands she leans back and starts to turn. I shriek and pull back harder, the room spinning.

  ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON when I leave school with Becca and Esther, Lindsay is waiting outside. My cheeks burn. Becca and Esther stare at Lindsay’s short kilt and bare legs. “This is my friend from the summer,” I mumble. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Bye, Ellie,” they say. “Good Shabbos.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Lindsay when they walk away.

  “I came to see you.”

  “You can’t just come here.” I guide her through the side alley to the bank parking lot.

  “I waited for you to come over yesterday.”

  “It was a Jewish holiday. I had to go to shul.”

  “Well, you could’ve called.”

  “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

  Lindsay looks at me skeptically. “You’ve come over twice a week for the past two months.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure you have better things to do, like ride in cars with boys,” I mutter. I start walking down the side street.

  “Do you have some time now? We could—”

  “What?” I whirl around to face her. “Get in a car with some guys?”

  “I just thought we’d talk—”

  “I need to get home for dinner. We’re having guests.”

  Lindsay follows me, walking quickly to keep up with my long strides. “I thought you stopped doing that.”

  I walk faster. “They decided to start again. You really need to get out of here.”

  She grabs my arm. “Look, about last time, I just thought it would be fun.”

  I stop. “Fun? What about me?”

  “I like being with you too.”

  “That’s it? Fun? I’m fun, like hitching, like boys?”

  “Oh, c’mon, Ellie.”

  “Fun? Do you know what would happen if I got caught?” I stand on the corner, my mouth open, hands on my hips. “Do you have any idea how much I risk? You probably think it’s funny. Ellie Gold: yeshiva girl by day, whore by night,” I spit out the word. “You can do whatever dangerous stuff you like, but I can’t.”

  “El—”

  “You don’t really even like me,” I hiss.

  Lindsay stares at me, mouth open. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Don’t bother. Ever.”

  I run across the street, leaving her standing on the corner.

  Reaching home, I burst through the front door.

  “You’re late.” Abba stands waiting in the front hall.

  “Sorry.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Busy.” I take off my coat and hat.

  “Busy? Guests will be here soon.”

  “I was busy.”

  He glares at me. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve been acting strange all week.”

  “Just leave me alone.” I push past him to the hall closet. “Hey!”

  Ima peeks her head into the hall. “Ellie, just come and make the salad, okay?”

  Abba follows me into the kitchen. Ima and Neshama are making meatballs, their hands sticky with raw hamburger. I sling my jacket and bag over a kitchen chair. Ima points to the tomatoes beside the cutting board. I pick up the knife.

  Abba asks, “Neshama, did you vacuum?”

  “You didn’t ask me to.”

  “Can you do it now?”

  “I need to finish getting ready.”

  His eyes flare at her. He turns to leave, and I hear the whirr of the vacuum cleaner a moment later.

  “He’s mad at me because I bought hors d’oeuvres instead of making them,” Neshama says.

  “What?” I stop chopping tomatoes.

  “I said, Abba’s mad at me because I didn’t make the hors d’oeuvres. Are you okay? You look really pale.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Neshama digs her hands into a bowl of raw hamburger meat. “Ima, are you going to give a lesson tonight?”

  Ima rolls the cold meat into a sphere and drops it in a pot of simmering tomato sa
uce.

  “Your father’s going to talk instead.”

  “What?” Neshama spins around.

  My hand slips, the knife nicking my knuckle. Blood dribbles out of the cut.

  “He has something to say.”

  “About dating?” Neshama asks.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ima!”

  I run my finger under cold water.

  “What did you do?” Ima asks.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Here.” Neshama gives me a napkin.

  “Let me finish that.” Ima takes the knife from me. “Go shower.” She looks at me carefully. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I mumble, “Yes.”

  In the bathroom, I turn the shower on and let the water beat down on my scalp. I wish it were a rainstorm in China, a monsoon, hot drops falling in sizzling heat. I put the stopper in the drain and let the water build around my feet. I wish it were a flood, water crashing over banks, ripping though fields, wrenching trees, my body snatched by a wave. Tears sneak down my face.

  When I get out, Neshama thrusts the phone into my hands. “Call her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She follows me into my room. I plug in my hairdryer and start fluffing my hair. “She called twice when you were in the shower.” Neshama yells over the noise.

  I freeze and click off the dryer.

  “I answered both times, and then Abba unplugged the phone.”

  I relax.

  “Ellie, she’s going to call when Shabbos is over.”

  “I don’t want to talk to her.”

  “She’ll keep calling. They’ll get suspicious.”

  Neshama pushes the phone into my hands and closes my door.

  I sit down on the bed, wrapped in my towel, and dial Lindsay’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Finally.”

  “Look, you can’t call here anymore.”

  “I was wondering when you’d—”

  “You’re not even in love with me, are you?” The word furls off my tongue before I can stop myself. I curl up in a ball on the bed.

  Lindsay doesn’t say anything.

  “Then just forget it,” I say. “Please stop calling.”

  “Can’t we just be friends?”

  I smirk. “You don’t get it. I don’t want just a friend. I want a...a...” I can’t say the word. “It’s not a game to me. It’s not tag, or hide-and-go-seek, or dare. This is who I am.” I want to say I deserve more, but this sounds like something you’d hear on a talk show about personal growth. “Aren’t I more important than boys in cars? Aren’t I?” I demand.

  Lindsay doesn’t answer. I want her to say, Yes, of course. I want her to tell me that she loves me. She won’t. Lindsay doesn’t love me. A sob rises up my throat. I wait another moment and hang up the phone.

  Neshama knocks softly on the door. “Can I come in?”

  “Go away.” I sob silently, my chest heaving.

  She pushes open the door and sits next to me, wrapping her arms around me. My tears stain the front of her yellow blouse. She strokes my wet hair.

  “I thought you had a crush on Joey McIntrye.”

  I start to hiccup.

  “What about Bo from Days? And Danny Durschwitz?”

  I start to laugh, still crying. I wipe my chin with the back of my hand.

  Neshama passes me a tissue. “The guests are going to be here any minute.”

  I nod and blow my nose.

  THE GUESTS ARE similar to the ones from the fall: a few young men, but mostly women in modest clothing, eager to learn. Abba leads the blessings, Neshama and I bring out soup and salad and clear dishes. Ima serves meatballs. I eat without tasting my food, barely listening. I remove more dishes, help bring out dessert and tea. When Neshama and I start clearing the last dishes, Abba stops us.

  “Wait,” he says, “I want to show you something.” He clears all the dishes onto the sideboard except one teacup, which he places in the center of the table. Neshama and I gape at Abba as he walks around the table, flapping each corner of the tablecloth, shifting the crumbs toward the cup. He scoops the crumbs into the cup with his fingers. “There,” he says, and places the nuts and fruit back on the table, a pleased expression on his face. “All clean.”

  Neshama gives him a skeptical look.

  “Come, sit down.” He pats the chair next to him. Neshama and I sit automatically, the other guests resuming their seats.

  “Neshama,” my father begins.

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me, what are the things prohibited on the Sabbath?”

  Neshama stares at him. Abba hasn’t tested us like this in years. “All work, including sowing, reaping, gathering, winnowing, food preparation—”

  “Ah, what is winnowing?”

  “Winnowing?”

  “Yes, what is it?” The guests gaze curiously at Abba and Neshama.

  She pauses. “I have no idea. I’ve only been taught to memorize, not—”

  “Let me explain.” He leans forward, knuckles on the edges of the table. “Winnowing involves beating the wheat to release the kernels. Yes?”

  Neshama nods.

  “Tell me, Neshama, is this work?”

  “Yes, Abba.”

  “And may we work on Shabbos.”

  “No, Abba.” Neshama stares straight ahead, avoiding the guests’ eyes.

  “Very good. Now, tell me, when we shake out a tablecloth on Shabbos eve, are we not releasing the crumbs from the cloth as if we were winnowing?”

  Neshama grimaces. “I suppose you would think so.”

  “Then should we consider shaking this tablecloth to be work?”

  “I guess,” Neshama says slowly. “In your opinion, but—”

  “Then”—Abba slips into a sing-song, his right thumb coming up to accent his point—”by scooping up the crumbs like I showed you, we have found another way to keep God’s word. And when we are closer to Him, then we are closer to bringing Moshiach.” He smiles at the guests around the table. They tenuously smile back at him.

  Neshama’s mouth settles into a hard tight line until her lips disappear altogether. She perches on the edge of her chair.

  When the guests have left and Neshama and I are alone in the kitchen, I whisper, “If we all just sang and didn’t worry about crumbs, wouldn’t Moshiach come faster?” Neshama glares at me and marches into the dining room where Abba is still sitting with his prayer book. She yanks off the tablecloth, sending salt and pepper shakers tumbling, knives clattering, dirty forks flying onto the carpet. She whips the tablecloth, ripping it through the air, the remaining crumbs scattering over the table and chairs. “Who cares,” she yells, “who fucking cares?”

  Ima pushes open the kitchen door.

  Abba gawks, mouth open, eyes wide.

  She flings the tablecloth on the floor at Abba’s feet. “How dare you involve me in your crazy ideas? That’s it. I’m finished with your religious crap. I’m leaving.”

  I crouch to gather the forks.

  Abba stands up. “What are you talking about?”

  Neshama gulps, clenches her hands. Her beautiful blond curls have come undone from her bun, descending down her back. “I got into Business at UBC and UVic.”

  Abba clutches his prayer book, his eyebrows shooting up. “BC? I thought you applied for programs here.”

  “I did, and away too.”

  Abba stands up. “How will you afford this?”

  Neshama backs against the wall by the buffet. “Bubbie said she’d help.”

  Abba paces. “Where will you live?”

  “In a dorm.”

  “With kosher food?”

  “Oh, stop it. I’m leaving.”

  He stops pacing and looks at her for a long moment. Neshama glares back at him, arms crossed over her chest.

  He turns and walks straight out the front door without his coat.

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK I c
ome home every day after school and catch up on all the homework I’ve missed. I keep myself busy so I won’t think about Lindsay. When I do think about her, it’s not lust or love I feel, but anger. I’m not imagining her skin or hair, but the look on her face in the car. I write a makeup test on Shakespeare. On Wednesday after school I drag Becca and Esther to an IMAX film on coral reefs, and in the evening I help Abba make muffins for a school bake sale. He doesn’t talk to me the whole time, glowering in the flour. Neshama is almost never home. She even sleeps at Bubbie’s one night.

  FRIDAY AFTER SCHOOL, Ima asks me to go to shul with her.

  “Which shul?” I ask.

  “Just this one I’ve been going to for a while.”

  “What’s it like?”

  She pauses, thinking. “It’s like, like one big burst of energy.”

  “Oh, well, sure...I guess so.”

  She smiles. “You’ll like it.”

  Ima’s shul is a nondescript building off Bathurst. We go up a narrow flight of stairs to a large multipurpose room, with a screen down the middle and rows of chairs. A modest ark sits on a wooden table at the front of the room. On the women’s side a hallway leads to a bathroom and a small library where we leave our coats heaped on a table.

  Ima and I choose seats in the middle.

  “Why’s it so quiet?”

  “We’re early.”

  A few women smile and nod to us as they take their seats. I notice the men’s side has no chairs; the tops of the men’s heads are visible over the thin screen. The room gradually fills up, grows crowded until there are not enough seats and young women stand at the back. Ima is the only woman wearing a scarf covering her hair. A few young mothers with babies wear stylish hats.

  A voice from across the screen calls out, “Mizmor Le David,” Sing the song of David; and voices rise around me, male and female, loud and vibrant, passionately chanting the first invocation of the start of Shabbos, the Psalm of David. Ima closes her eyes, her prayer book to her chest, her voice blending in with those around her. I haven’t heard her sing since December.

  “Sing the song of David, render his words unto him, and let peace into your soul.” Her voice slides through me, breathy and passionate, making me shiver.