Craving Flight (12 page)

A
little over
a week later, we’re hosting our first Shabbos. Thus far, dinner has gone really well. I’m glad I took the day off even though I might have been close to a nervous breakdown for much of it while I was cooking because I was agonizingly conscious of not screwing up. It’s one thing to eat a salad and leftovers when it’s just me and Elan, as we’ve had to do a couple of times already, and my parents would probably be delighted if I served enchiladas or something—
she hasn’t gone entirely off the deep end
!—but it would be a whole different matter to tell his parents I’d failed.

Elan seems to me a dutiful son. He’s taken over the family business so his brothers could continue at yeshiva and Klein Brothers wouldn’t have to close, after all. But sometimes it seems as though tensions between him and his parents run quite high. Maybe because he’s not as rigid in his observance as they are? I can only hope it’s not entirely to do with his decision to marry me.

I know I’m not their idea of a dream wife for their son—I’m a ba’alat teshuva after all, there are no distinguished rabbis in my family, and they don’t care that my grandfather was a well-known record producer. Elan’s never shared with me the reasons he doesn’t seem as close to his parents as Moyshe and Dovid do and I don’t want to pry. It’s not like I want to hash out the reasons for my own familial drift.

Speaking of…

“Z—Tzipporah,” my father says, not bothering to contain his eye roll. He’ll call me my chosen name but not without letting me know he doesn’t like it. “It’s late and your mother and I should be going.”

What?

“But…” It’s Shabbos. We’d invited them to stay and they’d agreed, if reluctantly. I cleaned the guestroom today, made the bed. Even bought flowers for the bureau. Delphinium, my mother’s favorite. I know they think it’s ridiculous, to not drive on Shabbos, but I was hoping they’d respect my feelings, if not my beliefs. Elan’s parents will be horrified. “I thought you and Mom were going to stay.”

“We were, but we’re supposed to meet the Gilberts for dinner tomorrow evening and we won’t make it in time if we wait until sundown tomorrow.”

“But—” They hadn’t mentioned dinner with the Gilberts when I invited them to have Shabbos with us over a week ago. Which means they either already had the plans with the Gilberts and always intended to leave early, or if they made the dinner plans after the fact, did it blithely, knowing it would upset me.

Elan rests a hand on my thigh under the table and leans over. “It’s okay, Tzipporah. We offered a place for them to stay so they wouldn’t have to break Shabbos. It’s not your fault that they’re choosing to. No one will hold you at fault. You’ve done your duty. Don’t worry about it.”

Disappointment and humiliation are making my throat tight, even though I know Elan is right and he’s absolved me of any responsibility. It’s their choice and we’ve done everything possible to make it comfortable for them to keep the Sabbath. It’s not our fault they won’t.

So I plaster on a tight smile in the face of Elan’s parents’ blatant disapproval. “Of course. But won’t you stay for dessert?”

I don’t expect them to say yes and they don’t, bidding the Kleins good night. Tonight had been awkward, which I fully expected, but I’d thought all things considered it had gone pretty well. Until now.

I offer to walk my parents to the door, excusing myself from the table.

“Thank you for dinner,” my mom says, shrugging on her coat. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.”

I can’t help muttering a sulky, “Not on Shabbos.”

“Don’t be difficult,” my father snaps, irritation flaring on his face. “We sat through hours of conversation with those people.”

“
Those people
are my family now and you barely talked to them.”

“What are we supposed to say to them, Zoe? They’re from a different planet.”

“You only feel that way because you don’t know them.”

Not that I’m comfortable with Elan’s parents by any stretch of the imagination, but they certainly don’t deserve to be referred to as “those people.” If my parents tried a little harder…

“Maybe next time you can come up to Avon?”

My mother’s suggestion softens me but there’s no way we’d be able to spend the weekend at my parents’ home. They’d probably serve us ham and cheese omelets on Saturday morning. The very idea makes my insides knot up. It’s been one thing to try to muddle through when it’s just me, but to involve Elan and have my parents disregard his faith that way would be unacceptable.

“Maybe for Sunday brunch,” I offer. “Sarah and Joel could come too.”

I’d have to bring food and dishes for us, but that’s fine. We could make it work. I’d like for my siblings and their families to meet Elan since they haven’t yet. I bet they’d like him, given the chance, and the kids would adore him. I’ve watched him play with his nieces and nephews and the sight warmed my heart. But the frown on my mother’s face tells me she’s not interested in what she considers to be a consolation prize. “Maybe.”

They bid me a good night and I stand with my back to the door after they’ve gone. It’s nearly impossible, but I swear I hear a lone car start on the street outside our building. My face burns with mortification because surely the entire neighborhood knows that’s my family, driving on Shabbos. As if they needed a reminder that I don’t quite belong here.

Taking a few deep breaths, I prepare myself to face the Kleins again. Until my parents’ untimely departure, I thought I’d earned at least a scrap of their approval. And I’m confident his father enjoyed my brisket, though he’s lost most of his speech from the stroke and couldn’t tell me so. He did help himself to thirds after all.

I head back to clear the table and when I’ve nearly reached the dining room, low voices in angry tones leak into the hallway, making me stop short. I should probably just walk in, but I’m curious. Elan keeps so much from me outside the bedroom that I can’t help hope this might give me a glimpse into the man I call my husband.

“Where do you get these women, Elan?”

“Same place as Moyshe and Dovid got their wives. Exactly where I’m supposed to. From the shul. From the matchmakers who think they know better than everyone else and the bubbes who like nothing better than to see men and women married off. You want to argue with the rebbetzin? Be my guest.”

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.” No, I can’t imagine that his mother does. And for him to sound so short with her, he must be irritated indeed. “You know what I mean. First Rivka, and now this one. If I didn’t know you spent the day watching her, I wouldn’t trust that the food was kosher. I wasn’t sure she was going to make it through the blessing. And her parents—” Her sentence is punctuated by a guttural sound of disgust.

I’m disappointed in my parents, too, but I don’t want them sneered at. They may not share the same beliefs that I do, but they don’t deserve scorn and I wish he would stand up for them. At the very least I want Elan to defend
me
. Tell them I stumbled through the blessing because I was so nervous, having to perform in front of everyone like some kind of trained monkey, knowing my recital would be critiqued. I want him to swear up and down that I’ve done everything right, that I’m trying so very hard. But all I get is a muttered, “The food is kosher.”

And what kind of problem could they possibly have had with Rivka? As far as I can tell, she was the perfect Orthodox wife. Helped him with the business, kept their home, always acted appropriately and I’m sure never forgot any of the myriad rules because she probably learned them by osmosis in the womb. The embodiment of frum from birth. I don’t particularly feel like hearing any more criticisms of either myself or Rivka, so I step back into the dining room.

“Would anyone like some rugelach?” The smile grows tight on my face and I have to grit my teeth to keep from screaming when the elder Kleins look at me with dubious expressions on their faces. “No dairy, I promise.”

When his parents have gone, Elan helps me clean up. As I go up on tip-toes to put the final dish back in the cabinet, he comes up behind me, resting his hands on the countertops to my sides. I’ve been trapped. I set my heels on the ground and he moves closer until he’s pressed against my back.

“Let’s go to bed.”

This is usually the point that I would grind my hips against the hardness pushing into me, but my libido has been completely squashed by disappointment. In my parents for not honoring their promises. In Elan for not standing up for me. We both know I’m not perfect but it wouldn’t kill him to be more loyal. When we’re alone I don’t always feel like this marriage was a mistake, but when we’re with other people, I constantly feel like a failure.

“I’m tired.” He stiffens behind me and I feel a momentary pang of regret. We usually have sex on Shabbos and I’m refusing him.

He makes a gruff noise before taking a step back. “Of course. You worked very hard today.”

I did. And it’s still not good enough for you. For anyone.

He kisses my cheek, the soft scrape of his beard a familiar enticement that doesn’t quite catch my desire. I squeeze my eyes shut because they’ve started to water and then he’s gone.

As we fall asleep I don’t seek out his body but lie curled up on my side facing the door. The symbolism doesn’t require an advanced degree to interpret. There’s an escape from this, a way out, and perhaps I should take it.

I’d thought marrying Elan would make me feel more a part of the community but instead I feel as though I’m being driven away. I shouldn’t feel more alone living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed as a man than I did when I lived by myself, and yet… What have I done?

*

On Saturday after
a long morning at services, I’m feeling brittle. I didn’t sleep well last night, tossing and turning, falling into dreams where I was flying through dark woods. For some reason there were doors amongst the trees but all of them were closed. I’d fly into them at top speed but they wouldn’t budge; I’d just end up dazed on the forest floor. Over and over. And then I’d seen it. A door that was open just a crack. So I’d slipped through the narrow opening toward the light and once I’d gotten through, I woke up.

We’re at Moyshe’s house, where we’ve been invited to spend the afternoon and evening. The thought of being around Elan’s parents for the rest of the day makes me queasy but I’m not going to play sick. Elan is at the dining room table with some of the other men discussing the morning’s services. The conversation is loud and argumentative and I’d wager half of it is in Hebrew and sprinkled with Yiddish for good measure. Rarely do I hear my husband’s voice, but I catch snippets of it while I sit on the floor and play with some of my new nieces and nephews.

Of anyone in this family, I think the children like me best. Though they correct my mistakes too. I have a PhD in religious studies, have spent more than half my life learning about the beliefs and practices of faiths around the world. It’s demoralizing to be told by a four-year-old that I’m doing Judaism wrong.

I’ve already been rebuffed for suggesting putting together a puzzle. Tamar had looked at me like I’d tried to hand her a cheesesteak before proposing we string beads instead. “Ima tied the knots at the end of the strings yesterday!”

Of course her mother would remember to do such things so her children could string beads on Shabbos. Perhaps it will be a good thing for any children Elan and I have to grow up in such an observant family. Then they’ll never feel as out of place as I do. They won’t face the same struggles. But the idea of my own children disdaining me because on a listless Saturday afternoon I try to give them Play-Doh or sort cards for a game is depressing.

Maybe I should’ve married another BT like most of the people I met at the outreach center and my seminary. A man like that could understand what it’s like in a way Elan never will. And though I’m sure he’d correct me, perhaps it wouldn’t sound so much like condescension because I’d need to remind him of things too. I know some BTs want nothing more than to marry into a family of FFBs, but there are certainly perks to marrying another slightly out-of-sync person.

Last night’s dream haunts me while I thread beads onto thick strings before dumping them off, hearing the staccato thunks of them pooling atop one another in the bowl. Sure, we can string them but we can’t tie them to make a necklace or a bracelet.

When I look up, it’s to meet the eyes of Elan’s mother. I get the feeling she’s been studying me for a while. Seated as she is next to Moyshe’s wife, I have to wonder if they’ve been talking about me. Though there’s a strict prohibition on gossip, it’s probably one of the rules everyone struggles with the most. In this I don’t feel so alone.

I smile at her in what I hope is an encouraging, friendly way but she merely narrows her eyes and turns back to her conversation with Shira. And me? I go back to stringing beads, passing the string through the painted wood over and over again until the thread is full, I tip them off, and have to string them on over and over again. Fruitlessly.

*