Sotah (44 page)

“Well, if you really feel up to it, it would be great! And Dina dear, perhaps you could wear one of your new outfits? That pretty apple green dress?”

The short one, Dina remembered. The one whose little sleeves could not be pulled down to cover her elbows, whose skirt barely brushed the tops of her knees. She remembered the mortification on her face as she’d looked at herself in the mirror. Joan had bought it. And now she expected her to wear it.

“It would make me very happy, and it would help my husband. These guests are important clients of his. It never hurts to have a pretty girl around.”

Untrained in the art of throwing gifts back in the giver’s face, Dina experienced a sense of defeat, of powerlessness. So she tried to compensate by turning to a different battlefront. “But I must wear my wig, Joan. It would be immodest, a sacrilege, not to!”

Joan looked at the wig. It had been washed and combed and sprayed into a glamorous blond dream. “Dina …” She hesitated, reluctant to cause offense but pushed beyond the limit of silent acceptance. For days she had watched Dina doing strange, incomprehensible things, but this business with the wig was the weirdest. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I can tell you’re an intelligent girl. So tell me something. How can you put on that flashy, Barbie-doll wig and think you’re being modest! Why, your own hair—and mine, for that matter—is much less attractive. Don’t you think that it’s a bit ridiculous?”

Dina opened her mouth to speak, then walked slowly to the mirror. She studied herself for a few moments, then took the wig carefully off the wig stand and put it on. The change was startling and instantaneous. She went from a pretty young girl to a flashy, provocative woman.

She felt the blush rushing up her throat. It was, she thought with great surprise, more than just a bit ridiculous. But everyone did it this way in Meah Shearim and Bnai Brak! All the religious women. And all of them considered themselves paragons of modesty.

“I can’t explain it. I don’t know,” Dina said miserably, feeling her last sense of confidence, of superiority, begin to disintegrate. Joan shrugged helplessly and closed the door behind her.

Dina sat down on the edge of her bed, trembling. All this time, despite her gratitude, she had viewed Joan’s shameful ignorance of her own religion and culture as both pitiable and contemptible. Yet more and more Dina began to realize how little she herself really understood about so many of the things she did.

Could you really win G-d’s blessing with empty gestures and mindless rote? Was she really any better than Joan, who did so many things wrong yet was so full of such sincere kindness and generosity? Who was a good wife to her husband and a caring if misguided mother to her children? What right did Dina Reich Gutman—child abandoner, husband deceiver—have to feel superior to anyone?

Slowly she unbuttoned her long-sleeved white blouse, button by button, feeling a little part of her self-respect bleed away with each one. She unzipped her calf-length pleated skirt and laid it neatly on the bed. She sat there, unmoving, the green dress beside her.

The ordeal, she thought, finally, dully, remembering with a stoic ache the joyous abandon in which she had once slipped into a pretty new bathing suit as her lover waited for her on warm white sands. And that sin had led to this one, she thought helplessly, slipping the dress over her uncovered hair. She felt no joy, no abandon, now, just self-loathing. With great effort she opened the door and walked out into the hall. She might as well have been naked.

She watched the unself-conscious mingling of the men and women, their easy equality and mutual respect. It was so different from the awkward social gatherings she knew, where the men and women segregated themselves in different parts of the house, never dreaming of having any kind of conversation.

She took in the trays with little hot canapes and then heavier trays with drinks. She balanced them carefully, walking among the strangers in the large living room. Some smiled at her politely, others ignored her, which she preferred. And then there were the other ones. The men in the catering staff whose hands strayed accidentally to her chest, and a few of the guests who stared at her with a look she couldn’t mistake. There was one, especially. A slim, blond man with cynical blue eyes and a loose, sensuous mouth. He looked at her under half-lowered lids, as if each movement of her body were meant for him alone. His eyes sought hers with mocking but unmistakable interest. She felt her hands tremble each time she approached him. His big pasty white hands smelled of talcum powder. And always, his fingers, taking the morsels or the glasses off the trays, slipped and touched hers.

She refused to look at him, refused to know. She hurried into the kitchen and pressed her back against the wall, closing her eyes. She envisioned the world she had left behind, a world in which strange men lowered their eyes in respect and modesty when a strange woman passed them on the street. A world in which a woman, even alone on the streets at 2 A.M., was perfectly protected, perfectly safe. And then she envisioned Judah, his big arms around her, protecting her. She opened her eyes, and the visions vanished with heartbreaking swiftness. She had lost her right to even think of either one.

Joan walked over and put an arm around her. “You’re doing a great job. Thank you, Dina! So what do you think of all this?”

“The men are so … so …”

“The men are rich, power-hungry bores,” Joan whispered.

“No, not that, exactly.” Dina blushed, thinking of the white hands. She was too ashamed to speak of it. “But the women are beautiful. They talk with men who are not their husbands?”

“Oh, Dina! Of course! And some of them—actually, most—don’t have husbands, at the moment, anyway. They’re an interesting bunch. You see that one in the stunning red suit standing by the window? She’s got her own chain of minimarkets. And the blonde by the door—she’s opened her own law firm. And take a look at the one by the piano—she’s got the hottest art gallery in SoHo. What do you want to be when you grow up, Dina honey?” Joan laughed, throwing back her head and draining the white wine from the goblet.

Dina felt a little dizzy. What do you want to be? It was a question never asked in the
haredi
world, to boys or girls. What you would be was ordained the moment you were born: the boys would be scholars, if they did not fail. And the girls would be wives and mothers with some little, unimportant work on the side to help pay the rent, the food money. She had never even imagined the question. She looked over the women around her with fresh respect and a little awe and not an inconsiderable pang of envy.

The meal was long. The work was tiresome. Her feet throbbed. Her arms ached. Her head felt as if a sledge-hammer were slowly working its way down the middle. And then thankfully, joyfully, she was at the door, giving out the wraps and hats. They were leaving. She looked up briefly at each one, waiting with dread and anxiousness for the cynical blue eyes to be safely on the other side of the door. But he never turned up.

Finally the room was empty. Joan locked the front door behind the catering staff and disappeared upstairs. Dina began emptying the ashtrays, almost sleeping on her feet. She went into the kitchen to load the dishwasher yet again. And there he was, leaning against the counter. She let out a little gasp of surprise.

“Pretty little thing,” he said, not taking his eyes off her, not moving. She stood, shocked into stillness.

“Like a little flower waiting to be plucked,” he crooned boozily, his mouth loose again.

“All the guests … they went home,” she said. “Time to go.”

He moved toward her now, too quickly for her to protect herself. His hands encircled her waist and roamed appreciatively lower.

“Dina!” Joan called.

“In the kitchen, please,” Dina managed weakly, like a badly mauled small animal trapped by an experienced predator. She felt the hands withdraw, the heavy talcum smell waft farther away.

“Oh,” Joan said, giving Dina a curious, troubled look that darted from her pale, petrified face to the man’s calm, cynical one. “Mr Weill, you’re still here! I’m almost certain I saw your wife leave a while ago.”

“Yes,” he drawled easily. “She’s an early-to-bedder. But the night’s still young. Thought Maury and I could spend a few more minutes going over those figures he mentioned.”

“Why, I’m sure he’d be delighted,” Joan said with a frozen smile, steering him firmly out of the kitchen. “Dina, that’ll be all this evening. Why don’t you go to bed, dear,” she urged, casting a worried look in her direction.

At this he stopped and turned, giving Dina one long, questioning look.

Dina stared back at him wretchedly. Then all at once a strange understanding flowered with horrifying clarity in her heart. A husband who chased after other women; a man whose hands sought intimacy with strangers even as his wife stood nearby, deceived and secretly humiliated. A man not unlike Noach.

She lay awake all night, unable to stop thinking.

She thought of Joan’s words: “After all, it was your idea to come, wasn’t it? Why not just relax and enjoy yourself for the time you’ll be here? I’m sure that’s what the people who love you are hoping you’ll do before you go home.”

The people who love me. Home. She missed it with every fiber of her being. Yet had she really been happy there? She thought of the easy confidence of the women she had seen, women who were able to move through the world with strength and independence toward some self-defined goal. She had never been able to choose anything, even her own husband.

Then she thought of the man who had dared to touch her, to force intimacies on her, because she was a woman and a servant and a stranger. A woman in Meah Shearim was respected. And safe.

Nothing was simple or clear-cut.

She went through the next day like a robot. The ache in her heart, so long numbed by the anesthetic of shocking change, now sent unbearable tremors through her whole being. The only idea that kept her from collapsing with grief and despair was one thought: The Sabbath was coming. Only one more day to the magic, healing balm of its peace and rest. Only one. Then she would have the time she needed to make some sense of all the contradictions, to meditate, to pray for understanding and forgiveness.

She got up two hours early Friday morning, wanting to get all the chores done as soon as possible. She polished and scrubbed and dusted. She made breakfast and prepared the children’s sandwiches for lunch.

The day passed. The pale morning light waxed into the white-gold heat of midday, then began the gentle, subtle wane into dusk. She waited for the familiar soft glow of serenity to begin. Yet there was no change. The TV blared. The telephone rang and was answered. The kitchen appliances kept up their ordinary voices of rumbling activity. And outside in the street, cars and buses crisscrossed the restless face of the city.

With a growing dull pain of recognition, Dina felt her heart would finally break: here, in this house that had all the riches a human being could ever dream of, in this great city of overwhelming wealth and abundance, there would never be either peace or rest. The Sabbath would never stray through its heavily carved and polished mahogany doors, never weave its magic healing grace around its great streets and roads and thoroughfares. They were condemned to an eternity of weekdays, each one the same as the next, and she along with them.

“We’re going to the movies tonight, Dina. I thought maybe you’d like to come with us,” Joan asked her.

She shook her head miserably. “I can’t.”

“Well, maybe you’ll join the kids tomorrow. Maury and I, unfortunately, will have to work all day. But the kids are going to the country for some horseback riding and tennis. It’ll be fun. Why don’t you join them?” Joan urged her.

“Joan, both you and your husband will work on the Sabbath?”

Joan felt distinct discomfort under Dina’s incredulous gaze. “Well, Maury usually does. But this is just one of those things for me. A rush job. Otherwise I’d join the kids, too,” she began, feeling strangely apologetic.

“I thought American women were strong, independent! That they were free!” Dina cried.

“This is my choice. This is what I want to do!” Joan raised her voice in a counterattack.

“Oh, Joan, you mustn’t work on the Sabbath! The Sabbath is precious and holy! It’s a gift from our Creator. A day of rest! I cannot ride on the Sabbath, or see movies, or …” There were so many things! It was easier to say what she could do. “I must light candles and pray, eat a festive meal, and go for a walk or read …”

A lecture! This was too much! “Well, of course, it’s your day off. It just seems such a shame to waste it that way,” Joan said stiffly.

“You do not understand anything, Joan. You know nothing,” Dina said sadly.

Joan swallowed hard. Dina’s calmness. Her calm assumption that she knew something Joan knew nothing about (and had managed to live quite nicely without, thank you very much!) made Joan want to scream.

It was ridiculous. She was the maid, simply the maid! A backward, uneducated foreigner. But somehow, somehow … What was it? Pity, a strange mothering instinct, or just simply curiosity, kept her from throwing in the towel. After all, there had been no arrogance in the girl’s tone, just sincere regret. But it was so hard to keep bumping into this mysterious secret knowledge! It made her feel like a stupid child.

This was a whole new world, Joan began to realize. It was going to broaden the scope of her understanding and test her real tolerance and respect for other cultures, other life-styles. It was easy to respect Hindus, Buddhists, Baptists. After all, they couldn’t threaten or compel you. They had no claim on you.

But this, this back-to-roots Judaism, it did all those things. It was in her blood and genes and history. It had to be dealt with. Even rejecting it meant some kind of emotional upheaval fraught with self-justification, denials, rationalizations, philosophy. It was a threat and a pain in the butt, and most of all it was a challenge.

Hurt, Joan walked away and sat down in the garden. She would have to spend the whole day slaving over those horrible blond rodents! She looked back at Dina. No power on earth could force her to work on Saturday. Which one of them was really strong? she wondered. Really free and independent!