Brooklyn Love (Crimson Romance) (3 page)

“More stressful than being an artist?”

Ma laughed. “I’d say! How many women are stockbrokers — let alone religious mothers? Oy. The stress!”

“But you love it.”

“Yeah, love it.” Ma sighed. “I love that I can help support my family and marry off you and your brothers!”

Rachel eyed her bed, momentarily wondering if she could go back to sleep.

“And Rachel, don’t throw your things on the floor. It’s disgusting. You’re a
kallah maidel
already. Girls of marriageable age don’t need stuffed animals.”

“Right, Ma.” The portable phone cradled in her neck, she walked to the bathroom, stepping over a notebook, copies of
Vogue
magazine, and two Harlequin romances.

“Since you’re already in slow motion today, stop off by Suri’s before school. Give her back that stupid detective novel I borrowed.”

“Sure, Ma.” Rachel washed her hands, three times on each side as per tradition, thanking God for returning her soul, giving her another day of life.

“Make sure you aren’t wearing those
schmattes
you call clothing.”

Rachel studied herself in the bathroom mirror, debating whether or not to plaster herself with makeup. “Ma, I can’t dress like I’m on a date when I go to FIT. Everyone will look at me like I’m from Mars.”

“You’re a Jewish girl, Miss Fashion Institute of Technology. What’s wrong with that? What’s to be ashamed of?”

“I’m not ashamed, Ma. But silk shirts and suede skirts will get ruined in my painting classes.”

“Nu. Suri says she has a boy for you, the one Leah went out with but said there was no chemistry. He’s a lawyer — he’s a good guy. Don’t go seeing Suri in that bag lady look.”

Debby Shine always seemed to want to make a good impression in front of Suri. Suri’s husband, Michael Kaufman, was Rachel’s father’s business partner, and it was Suri who had convinced Michael to take Abe on and form the law firm of “Kaufman and Shine.” Suri also had three sons about Rachel’s age, but Ma had warned her years ago that they weren’t “right” for her.

Rachel picked up a light-rust-colored Lancôme blush and matching eye shadow, but deciding that her face needed to breathe, she replaced them unopened.

Ma got off the phone, and Rachel slipped on a faded blue denim skirt and white cotton T-shirt. She then added her woolen fuchsia sweater to glamorize her work clothes, to always look marketable — to prevent Ma from killing her.

Lugging her black vinyl portfolio, she walked along her block of twenty-five similar three-story wooden houses, all seemingly narrow homes that belied their true depth. Most of the homes were occupied by Orthodox Jews who were rich, poor, and everything in between. Some had bought when prices were low, others rented. But as all religious Jews had to walk to synagogue on the Sabbath, they lived close together, regardless of their financial standing. Some of the houses had been carefully remodeled in palatial brick, though a few looked neglected, with chipping paint, as if their owners just couldn’t be bothered to care for them. All the homes had small front gardens and stoops and were built right up close to the sidewalk — as in your face and confrontational as everything else in Brooklyn.

She came to a huge red brick mansion with a meticulously landscaped lawn. Years back, Suri had bought two of the old Brooklyn houses and knocked them down to build this stately one. Suri’s youngest son, Macy, thought it was over the top; Rachel agreed but didn’t dare say it. Macy was her favorite of Suri’s boys: They were the same age, and he, Leah, and Rachel had played together as children. Rachel hardly saw him anymore and wondered when he would be home.

“Suri?” Rachel called from the front stoop. She saw her Lexus in the driveway and assumed her mother’s friend was inside, but nobody came to the door.

She rang again.

The maid answered the door. “Señora is out back.”

Rachel walked around the house and saw Suri kneeling in the middle of her yard, frenetically digging at the ground with a sharp rock.

“Suri?” Rachel called again.

As Suri dug, earth splattered her arms and her face, emphasizing the ghostly pallor of her skin.

“Suri, what are you doing?” Rachel slowly walked closer.

Suri looked up, her eyes red and haunted, her uncovered hair in disarray. “
Ich ken nisht.
They’ll come for us. They’ll kill us all,” she said, her tears falling on her pink cashmere sweater. Fervently she clawed at the earth, mud, and grass staining her black leather skirt.

Hesitantly, Rachel moved next to her.

Suri looked up again, straight at Rachel. “Mama?” she said, and then spoke rapidly in her native Hungarian.

Rachel listened with growing alarm. Where was the effervescent, collected Suri Kaufman? Who was this woman?

“Suri, it’s me,” she said in a soft voice. “Do you need a doctor? It’s me, Rachel. Should I get help?”

Suri returned to her digging as if Rachel wasn’t even there. “I have to bury them.”

“Suri, are you okay? What’s going on?”

“What?” Suri snapped.

“I, uh, just wanted to give you back your book.”

Suri looked up, recognition spreading to her eyes. “Rachel,” she said simply and stood up, dusting off her hands.

“Suri, what — ”

“Please, darling.” Suri shook her golden hair, her voice and demeanor returning to the smooth one Rachel had always known. “I was only planting.”

“In October?”

Suri gave her a dazzling smile. “Potatoes. You can plant them all year long.” Suri stood as if she had not a care in the world and looked Rachel up and down. “Nice sweater. Why aren’t you wearing any makeup, sweetie?”

“What?”

“Lipstick, darling. You look so pale.”

“I’m on my way to school. But what were you doing?”

Suri waved a muddy hand, appalled. “Terrible attitude, Rachel. Terrible. You never know who’s looking. You should always look your best.”

“I’m not my best?”

“Please, darling, why would you want to ruin potential matches because you looked plain? You have what you have to work with. Make the most of it! Why be vulnerable to the yentas?” She meticulously wiped her hand with a handkerchief, clucking at her chipped, earth-stained fingernails.

“Vulnerable? Suri, what was that with planting the potatoes?”

Suri’s smile froze.

“Suri, you, like, weren’t there. You frightened me.”

“Why all these questions about me? It’s you I’m concerned about.”

Rachel gently kicked a rock in the garden. “Look, Suri, I have to be going. I’ve got to get to school.”

Suri’s eyes widened in horror. “Seriously? Without any makeup? Are you insane?”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “I’m the insane one because I’m not wearing makeup?”

Suri sniffed. “No need for dramatics.”

Rachel kicked the rock again, harder. What was wrong with this family? No wonder Leah tried to stay away from her aunt.

Suri shook her head. “Really, Rachel, you must put your best foot forward.”

“Suri, I really have to be going. I have a class at ten.” Rachel began walking toward the house.

Suri grabbed her arm. “Look, I told your mother about this boy. He’s wonderful, a real catch! His name is Daniel Gold. He’s a brilliant lawyer from Columbia University. In fact, he’s friends with Yossie and — ”

“I’ll look into it,” Rachel replied. She wasn’t sure what she would think of a friend of Yossie’s. If this Daniel were one of Macy’s friends or even Aryeh’s, Suri’s middle son, then she would feel a little better. Aryeh worked with Hindy at the import/export business of her parents’ associate Harry Green, and he always seemed like someone she could trust. Besides, she had to find out what happened between Daniel and Leah before she agreed to anything.

“Daniel checked you out already. Your rabbi gave a lovely recommendation — though you should know your eleventh grade history teacher thought you were airy.”

“I
am
airy. But my high school history teacher? I didn’t realize she even knew my name!”

Suri sighed. “Fine. Call me when you’re ready. No guarantee the boy will still be available, though. A catch like him will get snapped up soon.”

Rachel leaned over to kiss Suri’s cheek. “Thanks, Suri.”

“It’s only because I love you, mamale. I wouldn’t care otherwise.”

“I know.”

Rachel went back into the house, passing by Suri’s ornate gold-framed hallway mirror. As she waited for the maid to let her out, Rachel observed her pale reflection. Was Suri right? Would makeup change her all that much? She enjoyed playing with makeup — but it seemed that everybody wanted her to paint on the same face every other girl was expected to paint, too.

The maid walked over to Rachel to let her out.

“Thanks, Marissa,” Rachel said and gave her Suri’s book. Then she nodded toward the backyard, where Suri had resumed planting her invisible potatoes.

“What’s with Suri today?” she asked.

“Sorry, no speak English.” The maid smiled, looking a little frightened, and showed Rachel to the door.

The metal doors of the packed subway train opened. Rachel landed in Manhattan, geographically a bit over twelve miles from her home in Brooklyn, though otherwise light years away.

“Sorry. Excuse me. Pardon me.” Rachel repeated the mantra while she bumped into the other passengers, packed like sardines in a can.

She walked eight blocks from the station to her school on 27th Street, the Fashion Institute of Technology. She enjoyed strolling, taking in all the sights and sounds and smells. A world as different from Brooklyn as a French loaf is from rye bread. More than anything, she was happy to get away from the intense dating scene that permeated all aspects of life in Brooklyn. “How are you?” quickly turned to “Seeing anybody yet?” “Could you please pass the mustard” led to “I know the perfect guy for you.” Whatever the situation, marriage was the answer.

“Think it’s gonna rain?”

“Get married!”

“Have indigestion?”

“Get married!”

She walked by the flower district, sidewalks teeming with vases and baskets full of colorful roses and lilies and flowers whose names she didn’t know. She passed through the garment district; a region of sweaty men pushing wheeled racks of dresses along Seventh Avenue, notion and fabric shops, and imposing office buildings filled with designers and showrooms. Echoing off the tall gray buildings, a babble of languages buzzed through the air. Smells of roasting chestnuts and pretzels rose from vendor stands, mingled with car exhaust and varieties of perfumes from the endless pedestrian traffic.

From the outside, FIT was just a series of office buildings, but those buildings probably housed the greatest concentration of raw talent in the city, perhaps in the world. Rachel still couldn’t believe she was a student there, that they’d accepted her over a year before. With no prior art training, she’d competed against accomplished artists from the High School of Music and Art, renowned from the 1980s television series
Fame
. Though she liked
Glee
, there was something about
Fame
that really spoke to her, and Rachel had watched old re-runs so many times that the songs still blared in her head.

She remembered taking the drawing tests as if it were yesterday. She’d sat next to kids with years of training, who seemed smug and complacent that they’d be getting seats at FIT. Kids with fluorescent-colored hair, rings all over their bodies, and grungy ripped jeans. Real artists. Kids who looked at her as if she were some kind of deviant, with her sleek auburn hair brushed back in a neat ponytail and freshly laundered long-sleeved shirt and long denim skirt.

She remembered her fear. Why had she even bothered coming to the tests? Who was she kidding? Rachel Shine, an Orthodox Jewish girl from Brooklyn — an artist? She should just walk out and forget about being an artist, she’d thought. She could be a receptionist. Or go to nursing school. Her mother had always wanted her to be a nurse. “Those little white uniforms are cute, and what a great way to meet a doctor!” She’d heard that line so many times that even when they weren’t together, she could still hear Ma’s voice in her head.

But her father understood. He didn’t talk much, but when he did speak, she knew to listen. “I always wanted to be an architect,” he’d told her, “but in those days, who’d hire a religious Jew to be an architect? Maybe I could have gotten work. But the career path was so undefined then.” His own mother had told him, “Go be an accountant. You’ll always have work.” So he did. And he always had work. And accounting gave him a good job as he’d worked his way through law school. Now he was a successful tax attorney and had Michael Kaufman as a partner. But that didn’t make up for his lost ambition: He’d always wanted to be an architect.

“Try,” Abe Shine had told his youngest child, his daughter with the dreams. “Try as hard as you can, Rachel. Follow your heart, or you’ll always regret it. You can always be a receptionist if it doesn’t work out.” Then he’d looked at his wife and chuckled. “Or you could always go to nursing school and meet a cute doctor. But give it your best shot.”

The faculty at her private religious high school did not want her even thinking about FIT. Who knew whom she’d meet there? What kind of crazy artists would confuse her religious path? Or worse — maybe she’d marry “out!” Better to stay in Brooklyn, where it was safe.

But, like the
Fame
theme song said, Rachel wanted to learn how to fly. She had worked on her portfolio and stood firm with her school to release her transcripts.

Voraciously, Rachel had studied art books and practiced drawing and painting on her own. She worked incessantly on her artwork, and apparently it was good enough. The FIT evaluators found something promising and “raw” in her work. A
tabula rasa
, one instructor had called her — a blank slate like an untouched canvas. Rachel was a student they could teach. So she’d been accepted, while some of the talented Music and Art kids hadn’t made the cut.
Remember, remember, remember.

• • •

“Hey, Rachel, you’re late,” Fitzgerald intoned in his trademark monotone voice. Fitz took it upon himself to critique Rachel’s artwork as well as her habits. At six feet tall, he stood sketching at his easel, wearing a white paper jumpsuit that complemented his bleached spiky mohawk. Lean and pale, with shaven red hair, Fitzgerald resembled Vincent Van Gogh — except when he dyed his hair green or purple or yellow, depending on his mood. Then he resembled Van Gogh in a colorful period. Today he was a symphony in white.