by Andrew Kane
The three story brownstone on Carroll Street had been a wedding gift from Binny’s parents. And what a house; so spacious, Rachel thought, so beautifully adorned and comfortable. Yet, so empty.
Rachel’s eyes fixed on her bed. They had made love often, whenever it was permissible, not only for the sake of children, but for the mere pleasure. She had been surprised by how much she had enjoyed being with him, by what an attentive lover he had turned out to be. For these things she could only be thankful, especially considering the ghastly stories she’d heard about the husbands of some of her classmates. But she couldn’t help but think that her peers had all succeeded where she was failing. It wasn’t fair.
“God will choose the time to bless us,” Binny had told her the first time she had been upset over her period. “We have to trust in Him.”
How many times she had clung to those words. How many times she had reminded herself of the sincerity in Binny’s eyes. If he could have so much faith, so must I.
But recently things had changed. Binny, too, was now growing impatient. He was coming home from yeshiva much later in the evenings, and disappearing to study on Shabbos afternoons during the time when they used to take walks together. The bedroom had turned chilly, clinical, and sex had become a chore. She tried talking to him about it, and he responded with the same exact words: “God will choose the time to bless us.” Except he no longer sounded comforting, and his eyes bore only disappointment.
She had complained to Esther a few weeks earlier when they’d gotten together for lunch. “Oh, deary,” Esther had remarked, “what do you expect him to say. They all say the same thing; they really don’t know much about life.”
“But what should I do?”
“Gee, I have a novel idea: why don’t you see a doctor?” Sarcasm.
Rachel knew Esther was right, but was scared to take such a step. Let me give it more time, she had told herself, just one more month. And now that month was up, and time was running out.
She looked at the phone on the night-table, and thought about calling Joshua. It was during moments like these when she thought about him most, when she needed to hear his voice. He was still her protector, her savior. Lately, she’d been calling him more often, and had begun to feel bad about it. Not only because it was almost like cheating on her husband, but also because it was hurting Joshua.
She picked up the phone, dialed his number, and hung up as soon as she heard it ring. She picked up the phone again, but this time she dialed a different number. The woman on the other end answered, “Kingsbrook Jewish Medical Center.”
“Yes, hello, may I please speak with Doctor Marcia Schiffman?”
“Please hold.”
Esther Mandlebaum had had it with men. Hasidic men, that is. After her fourth failed shiddoch, she vowed never to be fixed up again. From now on, she would choose her own dates, and none of them would have hats, dark suits, or peach fuzz on their faces.
Though the decision had been long in coming, her last conversation with Rachel had put the proverbial nail in the coffin. It had been frightening to have seen Rachel like that, so devastated over not getting pregnant. Good God, thought Esther, is that all there is to life? And Rachel, of all people, what happened to her dreams?
Well, it won’t happen to me, Esther told herself. And in truth, Esther had already begun to sow the seeds of her aspirations. Secretly, unbeknownst even to Rachel, she’d enrolled in an acting class with a small repertory company in Greenwich Village. She’d been sneaking into Manhattan, two evenings each week for the past three months, and had been getting away with it. She figured she could also get away with dating “regular” men. She even had a specific prospect in mind.
His name was Steven Butler, a fellow would-be thespian she’d met in drama class. She didn’t know if that was his real name or stage-name. Many acting students took stage-names prematurely, probably in the hope of one day being able to use them. She wondered why his name even mattered to her. Probably because Butler didn’t sound Jewish.
Why did it make a difference if he was Jewish or not? She tried to tell herself that it didn’t. The more sinful, the more enticing. She wanted to escape, to live an unencumbered, expressive life; to be a successful, famous actress. How could something like being Jewish be important? Yet she still wondered about his name.
Looks-wise, he was most assuredly a stunner. At least six feet, trim, jet-black wavy hair, Clark Gable mustache, green eyes, and a square, cleft chin. His mere presence made her shiver, and when he spoke, his deep, raspy voice made him “unbearable.” To her, this was what God had intended man to be.
Her only problem was attracting his attention. For the past three months, she’d made several attempts, and while he always responded affably, he somehow managed to make her feel invisible. She wondered if she was being paranoid, if his “indifference” was only in her mind. Her limited experiences with men—the Hasidic “boys,” as she called them—had left her bitter and insecure. Of the four she had dated, all had eventually rejected her. Not that she was particularly enamored with any of them, but she had been willing to give things more of a chance.
She had even kept her secrets and, ever the consummate actress, had managed to play the obsequious Hasidic lass. Yet, for some reason, they all eventually stopped calling, and the shodchin was running low on new candidates.
Perhaps she hadn’t been as good an actress as she’d thought, or they hadn’t been as dumb as she’d imagined. Perhaps her masquerade had been a bit too obvious, and the boys a mite more perceptive than she’d expected. That was an explanation she could live with.
But there was another possibility, one that pained her because it related to her appearance. She had always seen herself as overweight and unattractive, and had believed that others saw it too. Her parents and Rachel had constantly disputed this, telling her she was crazy, insisting she was beautiful. But how much truth could she expect from them?
She simply believed she was ugly, and nothing anyone could say would change that. In the past, she had attempted dieting, every diet under the sun, even to the brink of starving herself. But regardless of how little food she ate, each time she looked in the mirror, all she saw was “fat.”
She hated herself, and that was why she so desperately needed to escape her life. Her dreams of the stage, of Steven Butler—these were her fantasies, her salvation. If she could attain them, she would be okay. She had to succeed; her happiness depended on it.
But what could she do about her weight? There was only one answer left, one that she had avoided because it had always seemed grotesque. She’d heard about it over the years from some of the girls in the community, but had never believed she could actually do it. Not until now.
It was seven o’clock in the evening, and Esther lay in bed with anticipation. The following night she would once again see Steven Butler. She was so entranced in fantasy, she didn’t even realize that she was touching herself. She’d just finished dinner with her family downstairs, and had thought about doing some reading before going to sleep. Her class was working on The Tempest, and she’d planned to finish it before tomorrow’s session. But she couldn’t read, and she wasn’t able to sleep either. All she could do was lose herself in thought.
Suddenly, she got up from the bed and went to the bathroom. She locked the door, something she’d never done before, and sat down on the floor. She stared at the toilet for a few minutes, until she built up the nerve to bring herself closer to it. Then, she leaned over the bowl, stuck her finger down her throat, and vomited. The purging took five minutes; cleaning it up, much longer. She wanted everything to be spotless. There shouldn’t be a trace of what she’d done.
Afterward, she returned to bed and cried. Yet, despite the awful feelings she had for what she’d done, she was somehow relieved. She was no longer anxious about Steven; she finally had control over her appearance. A few minutes passed, and she was able to pick up The Tempest and concentrate. She would sleep just fine.
Esther Mandlebaum now had another secret.
CHAPTER 32
Brooklyn College was located on Avenue H in Flatbush, the heart of Kings County. Its impressive campus of trimmed lawns, surrounded by neo-Georgian red-brick buildings, lent an aura of another place and time, while its perpetual social problems made it very much a place of its time. From its inception in 1937, the campus had been regarded as a hotbed of left-wing ideology, earning it the nickname of the “little red schoolhouse” from its critics. By the late sixties, it had become a center for political and racial upheaval, marked by protests against the Vietnam War, and demonstrations by minority students demanding open admissions.
Joshua’s first day was devoted to registration and orientation. There was a large meeting in the assembly hall, at which the dean and other officials gave speeches about registration procedures, college rules, activities, etcetera. Afterward, Joshua was confronted with the task of filling out forms and choosing classes. Much of this was simple. There was a list of required courses for freshmen, which took up most of his schedule and left room for only one elective. The instructions were to pick an elective from one’s “major.” There came the dilemma.
Joshua sat, pondering the list of potential majors, while the room emptied out. When he realized that he was one of the only students remaining, he forced himself to decide. He stared, once more, at the dotted line, and filled in “pre-law.” What the hell.
The first recommended course for pre-law majors, he noted, was Introduction to Political Science. He got up to hand in his forms.
The line, which had been quite long just fifteen minutes earlier, had dwindled to three, including him. He approached the desk with his papers, and a tired looking black woman extended her hand to take them without even looking at him. She examined the forms, and flipped through some other papers as she entered his name for various classes. It seemed to be going smoothly, until she looked up at him, and said, “Sorry, poli-sci is full.”
“Full?” he asked, not quite knowing what she meant.
“Full. You’ll have to pick something else.”
“What else?”
“How do I know?” Chafing.
“But I’m a pre-law major, and that’s the first pre-law class.”
“But it’s full.”
He looked at his list of classes again, and chose the one that came after Introduction to Political Science. “How about political science-two?”
“No can do, you need the introduction course first.”
“But it’s closed.”
“That’s true.”
He went to the next course on the list. “How about U.S. Constitution-one?”
“Need the poli-sci courses first.”
He was getting the hang of this. He looked down the list one last time, searching for a course without a prerequisite. There had to be one. Finally, a title struck him, Introduction to Ethnic Studies. Without speaking, he showed her the list with his finger pointed to it.
Her expression was disdainful, as if she didn’t approve. He returned a hearty smile—who gives a fuck what you think? She returned to her rosters, found the class, and entered his name.
He walked away, wondering why she’d been so rude. Here he was, finally entering college, an adult, at the gateway to the civilized world, and getting mistreated. By a black person, no less. It had been naive of him to think that blacks supported one another in the white world. Now he knew otherwise. He wondered what other lessons awaited.
His name was Alvin Thompson, and he was a full professor in the department of Ethnic Studies. He was black; in fact, the only black teacher Joshua had. He was about five-ten, of average build, and good looking. To Joshua’s eye, he could have passed as a double for Sidney Poitier.
In temperament, however, Professor Thompson couldn’t be compared with anyone. He was reputed as a firebrand, extremely acrimonious, with no concern for what others thought of him. A proud son of the ghetto. Self-anointed messenger of truth.
On first impression, Joshua thought he was okay. He appeared to be a gentleman, impeccably groomed—conservative, brown, plaid suit; starched white-collared shirt; carmine bowtie; maroon hush puppies. And he was remarkably eloquent, not a trace of “street-talk.”
He had quite a following, standing room only, flowing into the hallway. Joshua was surprised at that, considering the ease with which he was able to register for the class. But then he realized that most of the audience weren’t students at the college. They were Thompson’s disciples from outside.
The sole subject of the class ended up being the endless subjugation of blacks in America, and the ways—a’ la Thompson—to change that. One of the first things Joshua learned was never to argue with Thompson. He had tried once, during a lecture in which Thompson was going on about living conditions in urban America, and the white man’s effort to deluge black neighborhoods with drugs.
“But that’s not completely true,” Joshua heard himself say, not believing that the words had actually left his mouth.
Thompson looked around the room. “Do I hear a voice of dissension?”
All eyes turned to Joshua.
“Well?” Thompson asked, looking directly at the culprit.
Joshua trembled, wishing for a trap door in the floor.
“Did you have something to add?”
“No, not really.” Sheepish. “I was just saying that I don’t think that all the drugs in black neighborhoods come from white folks. I think things are more complicated than that.”
“Ah, I see.” The professor scratched his chin. “You think things are more complicated than that. Well, why don’t you tell us what you mean, Mr… .”
“Eubanks, sir. Joshua Eubanks.”
“Okay, Mr. Eubanks, why don’t you share some of these ‘complications’ with us.”
Joshua didn’t think it wise to bare his expertise on the subject. “I’d rather not, sir.”
“You’d rather not.” Thompson looked around the silent room. “Is that because you really don’t know what you’re talking about, or because you don’t want us to know how much you do know?” The crowd chuckled.
Joshua kept silent.
“Well?”
Still silent, Joshua was aware he was letting Thompson intimidate him. He was angry with himself for getting into this position.
“It seems you don’t know anything.” More laughter. “Well, Mr. Eubanks, in this class we have a rule. It’s simple. If you don’t know, don’t say.” He looked out at the audience, as if this were a warning to them as well. Then, he turned back to Joshua. “Okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Thompson continued on, his followers spellbound, until he’d gone about twenty minutes overtime. Joshua had heard that this was typical, and surmised it was also intentional—the professor must have enjoyed having his students arrive late for their other classes, for it made him feel more important.
As the classroom emptied, Joshua heard his name called. He turned, and saw Thompson looking directly at him, beckoning “come hither” with his forefinger. Joshua swallowed hard, and hobbled over.
As soon as Thompson and Joshua were the only ones remaining in the room, Thompson looked at the cane in Joshua’s hand, then into his eyes, and said, “Tell me, Mr. Eubanks, why did you give up so easily?”
“I realized I had made a mistake.”
“A mistake? And what might that mistake be?”
“I shouldn’t have contradicted you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wasn’t my place.”
“That’s good, Mr. Eubanks. Every Negro should know his place, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Mr. Eubanks. Every Negro should know his place, shouldn’t he?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand…”
“Of course you don’t, Mr. Eubanks, but I bet you’re good and angry right about now, huh?”
“Yes sir,” Joshua answered, kno
wing he wasn’t sounding nearly as peeved as he felt.
“Then good. You should be angry, because you behaved like a scared little Negro, or would you prefer boy.”
Joshua was dumb-struck.
“Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Eubanks. Next time, if you want to be a scared little Negro, then keep your mouth shut from the start. That’s the way it’s done. But, if by any chance, you desire to grow up and become a man, then never let anybody intimidate you. And that includes me!” He stood in Joshua’s face. “Next time you have something to say in my class, you say it! Otherwise, I’ll be sure to fail you.”
“Yes sir.”
Thompson turned away, waving Joshua out of his presence.
Joshua obeyed, left the room, and walked down the hallway perplexed. He loathed Thompson, no doubt, but also realized that the professor did indeed have a thing or two to teach him.
Joshua stood on the Brighton Beach boardwalk, leaning over the railing, looking at the ocean, wondering why Rachel had sounded so desperate on the phone, and why she had insisted on meeting him here. She was late, giving him time to ponder the waves breaking on the sand.
It was an early autumn day, a mite too chilly for the beach. Two teenaged lovers strolled along the edge of the water, and a sanitation worker was combing the area for debris; otherwise, the place was empty. The sky was clear, and the view extended to the horizon.
Joshua had a vague recollection of his mother taking him to the beach as a child, but wasn’t sure if it had been Coney Island or Manhattan Beach. He was certain it hadn’t been here. This wasn’t a place black people frequented.
The boardwalk was quiet. A few pedestrians meandered back and forth. There was a row of food concessions, most of which were closed. He had walked there from the train, and had passed through streets with large apartment buildings, and an impressive commercial district beneath the El. He had seen only white faces, mostly elderly, and—he assumed—Jewish. He remembered that the Eisenmans, the couple that had lived next door to him, had recently moved to this area. Mrs. Eisenman had told him that they wanted to be with people their own age, but he had known the real reason. White people, except for the Lubavitchers, were disappearing from his neighborhood rather quickly these days.
