Paradise Park (47 page)

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“Maybe it’s just not me. I think maybe I’d feel ridiculous,” I said, looking down at the swishy tulle surrounding me. “All this white stuff makes me nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Estie said.

“I’m not nervous about the marrying part. It’s just the wedding stuff. It’s just, you know, the formalities, taking the plunge.”

Estie said, “You shouldn’t worry, Sharon. It’s not that bad. He’ll be gentle with you. You’ll see.”

Then I realized what she was getting at. “No, no, it’s not what you’re thinking. Not that at all! Estie, I don’t want to offend you or anything, but I’m no virgin here.”

“Sh!” said Estie, and she put her hand on my arm. Then we looked at each other, and we both began to laugh. We went into complete hysterics. I flopped back on the bed, helpless. Estie kept trying to stop, but then the giggles would rise up in her again. “I don’t know what’s so funny,” she kept protesting, wiping tears from her eyes. We laughed and laughed.

I didn’t want to go, but Estie insisted. She took me to the wedding-dress library in her aunt’s basement, which was dark, with naked light-bulbs hanging, but fairly dry. Not too dungeonlike. There were several old washing machines and dryers, and utility shelves and cartons pushed to the side. But mainly there were gowns. They were all hanging up in clear plastic dry-cleaning bags, just forests of them on industrial-strength garment racks. And there was a full-length mirror leaning against the wall so you could look at yourself.

So since there weren’t any guys around, I just stood there in my slip and bra pulling wedding dresses over my head. Estie’s aunt Malka, who was old and spoke Yiddish to Estie, kept pointing me toward these incredibly elaborate dresses all covered with white beads and rosettes and seed pearls on the sleeves and giant bows in back, so when you turned around you looked like a pincushion. I said, “Do you have anything a little more on the simple side?”

“Simple? Simple?” Aunt Malka tisked. “Once only you get married. Once in your life! Here. A gorgeous dress. Gorgeous.”

My head was swimming with satin and satin-covered buttons, and crystal beads. I pulled on more and more gowns—one fancier than the next. Until at last, when I was worn out to the point that I could protest no longer, I tried on a monster that didn’t just have beads and seed pearls, it had whole seedpods on it. The bodice and the sleeves were stiff—in fact the whole thing was so encrusted with gewgaws, the dress probably could have stood up by itself. And it came with a headpiece so puffed up on top, Cher might have worn it at one time. “This!” Aunt Malka declared. “This fits!”

She looked at Estie, and Estie agreed.

There I was in the mirror like some strange mannequin. Actually, like some very covered-up, very modest showgirl. No cleavage, no legs, no wrists, just solid glitz.

“This is one hundred percent!” said Aunt Malka. “
This
is a bride!”

I said, “Okay. Fine.”

Aunt Malka turned on me. “If it is not one hundred percent, I would not say. This is my rule. Not only it should fit. Also it should look one hundred percent. Now I see. Now you are a bride. Out, out,” she said, meaning I should step out of the gown. Estie was unbuttoning me in back. “Now we wrap.” She put the dress on a padded hanger. She fluffed it up and stuck tissue paper in the sleeves and bodice and then she zipped it and the headpiece into a long plastic garment bag, and she said, “Mazel tov. Wear it in good health. Bring back after the wedding.” She kissed me on both cheeks.

T
HE
night before the wedding Estie and I went to the women’s mikveh, which was a plain little brick building with pools of fresh water housed inside. There was a changing room with a shower, and Estie waited outside on a bench. I took off my clothes, and I felt for a minute like, where’s my swimsuit? But the mikveh pool wasn’t exactly like your local Y. You went into the water completely nude, and instead of laps in the pool you plunged down deep and submerged yourself, every bit of you, so you could get spiritually cleansed.

I showered, cut my nails, shaved my legs. I combed my hair straight down my back, and when I was done I had to stand in front of a lady named Mrs. Burstein, who was the mikveh lady, and she checked I wasn’t wearing jewelry or anything on my body at all. She looked me up and down. She started back when she saw my tattoo, the earth on my belly. I guess that was not what she was expecting. Still, she didn’t say anything.

Mrs. Burstein held a towel around me for privacy when I got into the pool room. But also—and this cracked me up—she put a washcloth on top of my head—like I should be modest somehow, and cover my hair, even while I was stark naked!

I started down the steps into the mikveh. My body was pale from
wearing clothes, a far cry from those days when I was all tan, top to bottom, those years in Molokai when I was brown all over. I looked down at myself and I saw my stomach spread wide and round. I had hefty thighs. Just as well my bikini days were done.

I moved out into the center of the chest-high water, and I stood in the center of the tepid pool. Then, when Mrs. Burstein gave me the signal, I went under for the first time. I dunked down all the way in the water without touching the sides or bottom of the pool. I kept my eyes open, and my nose open, and my legs open, and the water entered into me, every orifice and every pore, and I prayed. I wished and wished. Oh, God, please come into me like this water. God, please cleanse me. Heal me. Change me from the inside out. God, just like once you made me beautiful—now could you make me good?

When I got out, my mikveh lady looked really alarmed. She started tisking me and draping towels all over me, and telling me, “I was worrying about you! I was afraid of calling nine-one-one about you!”

“Why? What did I do wrong?” I asked her.

“So long! So long you were underwater!”

I told Mrs. Burstein the truth. “I wished I could have stayed forever.” “What? Under there?”

I saw she might be taking what I said the wrong way. “Listen,” I told her, “don’t worry about me.” I kept trying to reassure that mikveh lady: “One thing I can do. I can swim.”

T
HE
day of the wedding it poured. Mikhail and Lena were supposed to arrive in the morning, but they must have got stuck on the interstate in the storm. Rain streamed down the windows and drummed the roof. The water washed the streets and pooled up in the potholes. It was nasty out, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I thought, This is good, all this water coming down. This is cleansing. I thought, Let this rain wash away the bad. Let this rain dissolve all the past. I sat near the window in the living room and watched the rain streaming, and I felt happy because I was still rising up, and my being was growing. Meanwhile, Mrs. Karinsky had one of the kids pick up a big sheet cake from the bakery. No second or third tiers or anything like that, just lots of white goopy frosting. We stuck it up on top of the fridge, because the kids kept putting
their fingers in it. I vacuumed, and we pushed all the living room furniture off to the side of the room. A neighbor friend who was also a rabbi came over from across the street with the ketubah, which was the marriage contract, but since Mikhail wasn’t there yet we couldn’t get started, so he went back to his house in his raincoat and his rubber overshoes. Just like the men in Jerusalem, he had clear plastic wrapping his black felt hat.

The afternoon wore on. And then finally Mikhail called, and he told me they were having car trouble. They had borrowed a car from Aunt Lena’s friend, but it was an older car and Aunt Lena’s friend was older as well, so it turned out she hadn’t driven it for a couple of years. Now Mikhail had got the car running, but they couldn’t stop for fear the thing wouldn’t start again. Mikhail was calling from a pay phone in Connecticut while Aunt Lena sat in the car with the engine running. So they’d be a few more hours. “I’m sorry, Sharon,” he said.

“Don’t sweat it,” I told him. “I’ll still be here.” I was feeling so cheerful.

It was starting to get dark, and Mrs. Karinsky was starting to look a little bit unhappy, because I think the kids were getting on her nerves, all on top of each other in the house, and it was more than a few hours and Mikhail still hadn’t shown, yet he didn’t call again. Mrs. Karinsky said something in Yiddish to the doctor and it sounded like “Where the hell is he?” but I couldn’t tell for sure, since I didn’t know the language.

“Feige, Feige,” the doctor said, meaning don’t be such a worrier.

I myself wasn’t worried at all. I knew Mikhail would come eventually. I didn’t bother getting into the wedding dress. I figured I’d leave it till the last minute, because it was so uncomfortable. Instead I built block towers for the kids and they knocked them down. And I talked to Estie when she walked over the second time. I sat with her at the kitchen table while Mrs. Karinsky was putting up dinner, and we talked about
bashert
, your intended. And I said, “Even if you have a feeling the other person might be your
bashert
, I still think it makes sense to find out some more about him.”

“Of course,” Estie said. “I agree.”

“That’s why I had to go to Brighton,” I said. “I had to see where he lived; I had to understand where he was coming from, you know? It’s because I wasn’t born a Bialystoker. See, you’re used to it,” I said, “being fixed up for life. I mean, marrying a guy you don’t even know.”

“Yitzy and I knew each other since we were three years old,” Estie said.

“Seriously?” I was shocked.

“His sister made the match,” she said. “His sister Leah—because she’s my best friend.”

Almost for explanation I looked over at Mrs. Karinsky at the counter, but she didn’t turn around; she just kept grappling with her half-frozen chickens. I was so surprised by this. It was just so different from what I had thought. “You mean you—sort of—
liked
him? From before?”

Estie giggled nervously.

“Wow,” I said. “I thought it was just me; I thought it was just my old culture—wanting to know him better before I got engaged. But the thing is, now I do know. I know about his music. He’s a genius! I had no idea before. I could hear it as soon as he started playing; he’s going to make it. He’s got the stuff. And I know the details of how his wife actually drove him nuts, and I know all about his family on both sides—the Christians and the Jews….”

Then Mrs. Karinsky did turn around.

“The Christians!” Estie shrieked. Her eyes widened.

For a moment I couldn’t even speak. It was as if accidentally I’d dropped a hand grenade right there on the kitchen table. Catastrophe!

“What do you mean?” Mrs. Karinsky asked in a dreadful voice.

“A few members of his family back in Russia were—Christians,” I said.

“A few members? Who?” Mrs. Karinsky exclaimed, and she stood there with the cold plastic bag of chicken giblets in her hand. “Who?”

“Well, like his aunt.”

“His aunt? Oh, my God,” she cried. She tossed the giblet bag onto the counter. She went running to get the doctor. I heard her banging down the stairs into the basement office. I heard her calling, “Mendy! Mendy!”

“But his parents were Jewish,” I said to Estie.

She looked at me with terrified eyes. “This is a horrible mistake! Sharon, what’s happening?”

Breathing hard, Mrs. Karinsky came in from the hall, and Dr. Karinsky behind her.

“Sharon, what did he say about his family?” Dr. Karinsky asked me.
His jovial manner was gone. He was sad and gentle and cautious. He had the look of a doctor about to tell bad news.

“Which side of the family is this aunt?” Mrs. Karinsky asked at the same time. She was practically wringing her hands. Her whole face was full of woe.

So I started telling them, all about his aunt and how she’d practically adopted Mikhail when her sister died.

“Her sister!” Mrs. Karinsky turned away like she was going to be sick. “Her sister was Mikhail’s mother!”

“I guess so,” I said.

“But no one knew,” she said to the doctor. “He said nothing of this, or God forbid, he lied.”

“Let Sharon tell,” Dr. Karinsky said.

“Veyismere,”
she groaned.

And I was trying to tell everything I remembered about Mikhail’s family, but the whole time Mrs. Karinsky was sighing, and Estie was shaking her head like she couldn’t believe her ears, and whenever I tried to comfort them and tell them that to me this wasn’t such a big deal, I’d set off a new flood of moans and groans—and any kid who tried to come into the kitchen was screamed at so harshly he ran away as fast as he could—which is why we didn’t even realize Mikhail and Lena had finally arrived. None of the children got a chance to tell us.

It was such a scene when Mikhail peeked in the kitchen door. Mrs. Karinsky was carrying on, and the doctor acted as though there were a death in the family. It was such a scene of tragedy, you never would have guessed we were about to have a wedding.

“I’m sorry,” Mikhail said, first thing, when he saw everyone’s faces.

“They’re not happy,” I said.

“We should have rented,” he said.

“No, it’s not that. It’s not the car.” All of a sudden I felt like crying my-self. The Karinskys were so beside themselves, they were starting to get to me. I looked at Mikhail and I wanted to run to him and bury my head in his black frock coat, but I was trapped in the kitchen, with Estie at the table and her mom and dad practically blocking the open doorway.

“We must talk to you, Mikhail,” said Dr. Karinsky sorrowfully.

“All right,” Mikhail said. He still did not know what was the matter.
So he followed the doctor down the stairs to the office. I wished I could fling myself down the stairs after them, but I was left with Estie and a hysterical Mrs. Karinsky, and poor Aunt Lena, who was sitting all dressed up on the living room sofa, and not exactly receiving much of a welcome after her car trip! So I got Aunt Lena some ice coffee and I admired her crimson suit, and all the while Dr. Karinsky was giving Mikhail what for. So after about fifteen minutes I couldn’t stand it any longer. I said, “I’m going down there. This is ridiculous!”