The Big Nap

by Ayelet Waldman

  Libby never came back to college. She moved in with a Hasidic family and began to study for conversion. Her host family had nine children; Libby was an only child from a WASPy New England family. The contrast between her silent home and the apartment stuffed with children must have been astonishing. Libby’s mother had died when she was in high school and the woman of the house became a second mother to her. I know Libby had longed for a mother-daughter relationship, and I’m sure it felt wonderful to have a woman take care of her, and teach her.

  When I’d call Libby on the phone from college she would wax rhapsodic about Yaffa, her “mother.” She told me they spent hour after hour in the kitchen, drinking tea, cooking, talking. There was an endless amount of work to do in that house, what with all the children, but Libby said Yaffa never seemed overwhelmed. Every day had its schedule, its activities, and Libby and Yaffa did them together. Yaffa would quiz Libby on her Hebrew and on Bible studies while they kneaded dough or chopped onions.

  Libby’s conversion was complete within two years, and, with the Verbover rebbe’s permission, she and Josh married in a traditional ceremony. It was kind of a trip for the few of us who came down from Wesleyan for it. We women were kept strictly separate from the men. We sat by ourselves, ate by ourselves, and even danced by ourselves. But it was pretty incredible. People were so full of joy, whirling and twirling to the klezmer band. And Libby seemed genuinely delighted with the life she’d chosen. I remember dancing the hora at the wedding, feeling as if I were part of something ancient, exciting, and beautiful. People, my people, had danced to this music for hundreds of years. It was so compelling and wonderful that it made someone like Libby desperate to be a part of it, of us. When Peter and I were married people danced the hora; they even raised us up on chairs, but somehow it wasn’t the same. It felt almost hollow, and I don’t think anyone was sorry when the DJ changed the record to the Rolling Stones.

  Libby and I kept in touch for the first few years, but then life kind of gobbled each of us up. Last I’d heard, she’d had a couple of sons and was still living in Brooklyn.

  I decided to give her a call. Handing Isaac back to his grandmother, I went out to the front hall, where my father had left my bags. I dug my Palm Pilot out of my purse and looked up Libby’s number. Peter had given me the little electronic organizer for my last birthday. Initially, I was disappointed that the box it came in didn’t contain the sapphire earrings I’d had my eyes on, but I’d quickly grown to love it. It kept all my addresses and all my appointments current and available at the touch of a button. True, I didn’t actually have any appointments, other than the kids’ doctor’s visits, but if I had had somewhere to go, I’m sure my Palm Pilot would have helped me get there on time. I found Libby’s number and went upstairs, where my voice wouldn’t have to compete with the shrill giggles of my children.

  Libby was home.

  “Libby! You’ll never guess who this is!”

  “Juliet Applebaum!” she said.

  I was flabbergasted. “How did you know? We haven’t talked in what, seven years?”

  “I think it’s closer to eight. I have no idea how I knew it was you. I just recognized your voice. How are you? Where are you? Are you married? Do you have kids?”

  “I’m great. I got married about five years ago. I have a daughter named Ruby, she’s three, and a son named Isaac, who’s just about four months. And you? I remember you had two sons. Any more kids?”

  “Well, you know about Yonasan and Shaul. And then I had three more, all boys. David is five, Yiftach is three, and the baby, Binyamin, is a year and a half old. And I’m pregnant.”

  “Wow. Libby, that’s incredible. Five boys. And another one on the way. You must be absolutely exhausted. Do you know what you’re having?”

  “Well, I’m a little tired, but mostly I’m just very happy. The boys all keep each other busy. I don’t know what’s coming this time, but I’m hoping for a girl. I think Josh would be happy if we had six more boys, but it would be lovely to have a little girl. You’re so lucky. Is Ruby just a doll?”

  “She’s great, really, but she’s hardly a doll. Unless Mattel has come out with a new extra-bossy Barbie. Ruby’s a lovely kid, but she sure knows what she wants.”

  “My Shaul is the same way. He’s under the impression that he’s in charge of all the others. He even bosses his older brother around. Yonni is such a gentle soul that he does whatever Shaul tells him to.”

  “I imagine with five you must be home with them?”

  “Of course. I haven’t worked since I was pregnant with Yonni. I wouldn’t want to miss any of this time. It’s just so magical, don’t you think?”

  Magical? Well, sometimes. And a lot of the time it’s boring and stressful.

  “Definitely,” I said aloud. “So, listen, Libby—do you live anywhere near Borough Park?”

  “If right in the middle counts as near, then yes.”

  “Oh, wonderful. That’s great. Here’s the thing: I’m trying to track down a family in Borough Park. Maybe you know them, the Hirsches?”

  “The head of Yeshiva B’nai B’chorim?”

  “Yes, I think that must be him. I wasn’t sure of the name of the yeshiva, but I know he’s the head of one.”

  “Of course I know the Hirsches. Everyone knows the Hirsches. Or, at least, everyone knows of them.”

  “Do you know them or just know of them?”

  “I’ve never met Rav Hirsch, but I actually do know his wife, Esther. Our boys are in cheder together.”

  “Cheder?” Libby’s glottals were better than mine and I’d spent my entire childhood in Hebrew School.

  “You know, like nursery school for little boys. David and her son are in the same class. I’ve even been to her house a few times for tea. What do you want with the Hirsches?”

  “Well, it’s kind of a long story. How about if I invite myself over to your house and I tell you all about it there?” Once I was ensconced in her home, maybe I could persuade Libby to introduce me to her friend.”

  “I’d love to see you.” She sounded a little doubtful, obviously worried about what it was I was after.

  I decided to just go ahead and be pushy. “Are you busy tomorrow morning? Do you think I could stop by at around, say ten-thirty or so?”

  “Sure,” she said, getting over whatever concerns she might have felt. “That would be fine. I would love to see you, Juliet.”

  “Great! I’ll see you at ten-thirty.”

  Before I could hang up, Libby quickly said, “Um, Juliet, remember to dress appropriately, okay? You know, modestly?”

  Luckily, I’d brought along the outfit that had convinced Yossi that I was Orthodox. “No problem. I’ll be so modest, you won’t recognize me.”

  Thirteen

  I had expected Borough Park, the capital of American Hasidic Judaism, to look something like the pictures I’d seen of Manhattan’s Lower East Side at the turn of the century. Crowded tenements, scores of black-hatted men in sidelocks rushing to and fro. I probably wouldn’t have been surprised to see the odd pushcart. Instead, as I drove my mother’s car down Thirteenth Avenue, I found a bustling, commercial district like any other in the city. There were stores everywhere. Some looked like discount clothing outlets, but others were decidedly upscale. Granted, the men were wearing their black hats and coats and many did have long beards. But the women were dressed to the nines. If I didn’t know that laws of modesty required them to cover their own hair with wigs, their perfectly styled coiffures would not have given them away. While there was the occasional matron in a dowdy dress, most of the women wore flattering and elegant suits with gorgeous, matching hats. They pushed huge strollers of the most expensive makes; Apricas and Peg Peregos. My neighbors back in Los Angeles looked provincial and old-fashioned by comparison.

  Libby’s apartment building was a huge, concrete-and-metal structure built probably in the mid-1950s. I parked in the pay lot across the street and carried Isaac into the building. I’d
left Ruby in New Jersey with my parents. The lobby had a sitting area with pale pink couches, darker pink carpeting, an elaborate silk flower arrangement, and a doorman. I gave him Libby’s name and apartment number and he buzzed her for us.

  “A Mrs. Applebaum for you, Mrs. Bernstein,” he said into the intercom. He paused for a moment and then turned to me. “Please go ahead, seventh floor.”

  Libby’s apartment was pleasant and large. The front door opened into a living room with an oversized brown corduroy sectional couch wrapped around two walls. A large television was set into a sturdy wall cabinet, surrounded by bookshelves spilling over with titles in both Hebrew and English. The set was tuned to Teletubbies, and three little boys were stretched out on the floor, eyes glued to the screen. Libby turned from the door she’d opened for us and called out, “David, Yiftach, Benny, look, it’s Mama’s friend Juliet.” The boys looked up and smiled good-naturedly but immediately turned back to their show.

  “Teletubbies, feh!” Libby said. “It’s one of the only shows I let them watch, so they’re just crazy about it.”

  “Ruby loves it, too,” I said.

  Libby smiled and gently tapped the older boy on the behind with her foot. He giggled, and swatted her away.

  I almost didn’t recognize my college roommate. In fact, if I’d bumped into her on the street I might have walked by without more than a faint feeling of having seen her somewhere before. In college, Libby had been beautiful, in kind of a horsy way. She’d had long blond hair that fell to her shoulders and had always been swept back in a headband: denim for every day, velvet for special occasions. She was tall, probably five foot eight or so, although I’m so short that anyone over five foot two seems like a giant to me, and leggy. Now, Libby had covered her blond hair with a brown wig teased into a puff at the top of her head. She was still thin, and carried her pregnancy like a basketball stuffed under her shirt. She wore a plain navy maternity dress, and heavy support hose covered her beautiful legs. Libby looked almost exactly like your typical Hasidic matron. But she couldn’t cover up the long, narrow nose that one of her ancestors had schlepped over on the Mayflower and proceeded to hand down to every generation of patrician New England WASPs that sprang from his loins.

  “Juliet! You look exactly like you did in college!” she said.

  “Yeah, exactly,” I replied, “except now my hair is red, and I’ve gained thirty pounds. Other than that, I look exactly the same. You, on the other hand, haven’t changed a bit. Well, except for the clothes. And the hair. And the pregnancy.”

  She patted her wig absently. “It’s actually kind of ironic that I have natural blond hair that I cover with a brown wig. Half the women in the neighborhood cover up their mousy brown hair with luxurious blond wigs. I’d never do that, though. It sort of defeats the purpose of dressing modestly in the first place.”

  Libby led me into the kitchen. It was a bright room painted a soft yellow with children’s drawings taped to the walls. There was a large white table pushed up against one wall, surrounded by eight chairs made of blond wood with woven straw seats. I sat down at the table, cradling a sleeping Isaac in my arms. Libby leaned over me and touched him gently on the cheek.

  “What a sweetheart,” she said.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I brought him. I haven’t had a chance to pump any breast milk and he’s never had formula.”

  “Not at all, not at all. What a little sleeper he is!”

  “Hardly,” I said. “He’s only just started napping in the past week or so. And, he still wakes up all night long. Last night at my parents he woke up every hour and a half.”

  “That’s the time change. And the unfamiliar crib. He’ll adjust,” Libby reassured me.

  “Were your guys good sleepers?” I asked.

  “Oh, we’re so lucky. They all slept through the night at about six weeks.”

  My mouth dropped open. “I’m trying not to hate you,” I said.

  Libby smiled. “It has nothing to do with me, I promise you. My boys just came out like that. They’re all pretty easygoing. Well, all except Shaul. He’s my challenge. He’s smarter than the rest of us and knows it.”

  We chitchatted for a while longer and then fell silent. I took a cookie from the platter that Libby had put on the table.

  “So, Juliet. What’s all this with the Hirsches?” she asked.

  I chewed for a moment before answering. The Finkelsteins didn’t want the Hirsches to know about Fraydle’s disappearance because they felt that that might jeopardize her match with Ari. It was certainly not my place to give away that secret. On the other hand, what if my speculation was right? What if Fraydle’s father had, despite her opposition and his wife’s support of her right to make a free choice, shipped Fraydle off to the Hirsches, knowing that once the marriage took place, neither Fraydle nor her mother would do anything about it? If that was the case, and if I could find Fraydle before the wedding, then I owed it to her and to her mother to do something.

  First I swore Libby to secrecy. She promised to tell no one what I was going to tell her. Then, I told her the whole story. When I finished, I looked up at her. Her face was white, except for two spots of color, high on either cheek.

  “Juliet, you have some nerve,” she said.

  I was taken aback. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “What do you think we are? Do you think we’re some barbaric tribe of people? That we kidnap our children and sell them in marriage?”

  “No, no—I just—”

  She cut me off. “You just assumed that this man, this learned rabbi, would smuggle his child out of her mother’s house and send her to be with a man she doesn’t love.”

  That was true, I had to admit. “I know it sounds terrible, but you have to understand, Libby, the man is acting very strange. His daughter has been gone for days, but he refuses to call the police.”

  “Maybe because he knows her. Maybe because he knows that she ran away and he is trying to save her from herself. If the police find her and arrest her as a runaway, do you think any self-respecting man would marry her? Her father is trying to salvage a future for her out of the mess she made.”

  “Libby, you don’t know that, any more than I know that he sent her out here. Neither of us knows what he’s capable of.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe I don’t know him. But I do know Esther Hirsch. And I know she would never harbor a kidnapped girl, no matter how much she approved of the match. I know she’d never let her son marry a girl who didn’t want to be his wife.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Libby slapped her hand on the table. “You know what? I’m going to introduce you to this woman. I’m going to let you see for yourself whether or not she’s a white slaver. But so help me Juliet, don’t you dare open your mouth about your crazy ideas. You just come with me to drop David off at cheder. We’ll tell Esther you’re an old friend. You’ll meet her and you’ll see that she’s just a loving mother and not a criminal.”

  “I never accused her of being a criminal,” I said weakly.

  Libby just glared at me.

  Fourteen

  LIBBY lent me a stroller for Isaac, and I helped her get her boys ready to go out. We walked the few blocks to the school in silence and arrived before most of the other mothers. Libby kissed David goodbye and sent him into the classroom. After a few minutes, the other boys began arriving, and Libby introduced me to their mothers as an old friend from college. Esther Hirsch and her son Nosson came a few minutes late. She was a woman in her forties, no taller than I, and quite plump, with a prodigious shelf of a bosom. Her merry brown eyes were surrounded by laugh lines and she greeted me with a smile and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Welcome. It’s so lovely to meet you. Your friend Libby is very dear to me, you know!”

  Libby looked surprised at the warmth of Esther’s greeting but blushed happily.

  Just then, Isaac woke up from his nap and began fussing. I lifted him out of the borrowed stroller and jiggled him
up and down, to no avail.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to nurse him,” I said to Libby. “Is there somewhere I could go?”

  “There’s the ladies’ room,” she said doubtfully. “But I’m not sure how clean it is.”

  Esther put her arm around me, and squeezed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t want to nurse in the ladies’ room. Come to my house, we live right next door. You’ll nurse and we’ll have a cup of tea and some cake. I made a sour cream nut cake this morning. It’s still warm.”

  I happily agreed. Libby shot me a worried look, but she couldn’t beg off without insulting her friend. The three of us gathered our assorted babies and headed off down the block.

  Libby and I made ourselves comfortable at Esther’s kitchen table, a lovely piece of antique pine. As I pulled out a breast for my hungry son, it occurred to me that I’d sat around more oversized kitchen tables eating kosher baked goods in the past week than I had during the course of my entire life. Esther bustled about the large kitchen, pulling china plates and cups out of the French country–style cabinets and cream out of the massive, double-door, Sub-Zero refrigerator. She cut the cake on the marble countertop and carefully laid the slices on a cut-glass serving dish. Finally, she sat down with a contented grunt, and served us each a generous slice of cake and a large cup of tea.

  “So, Juliet, dear. Tell me about yourself. Where do you live? Are you observant? How many children do you have?”

  I neglected to mention that my husband wasn’t a member of the tribe. I started by describing Ruby’s Jewish preschool. Once I’d thoroughly detailed the succah Ruby’s class had constructed in the yard of the synagogue, I pressed Esther to tell me a little about her own kids. She happily told me all about her three sons and one daughter. They ranged in age from little Nosson up to Shira, the daughter, who, at twenty-six, was her oldest.