The Saturday Wife (48 page)

A week after the Bar Mitzva, Viktor Shammanov gathered up the men of Swallow Lake and took them on his private jet to witness the triumph of the New England Patriots in the Superbowl. While Chaim too was invited, he gently declined, claiming an inability to take off more time from his congregational work. Surprisingly, he got no special phone call from Viktor—or any of the other invitees—urging him to reconsider, a circumstance Chaim viewed with a mixture of relief and foreboding.

Delilah had come home with leis around her neck and a feeling of heaviness in her heart. The words that had passed between herself and her husband revealed to her how flimsy a structure her marriage really was. More a sukkah than a brick house set on concrete. She had never given her marriage—as a marriage—the least thought, viewing Chaim as she viewed the anchor person for the evening news: Whatever happened in the world, he would be there with his well-pressed suit and toothpaste commercial smile. The idea that her bond with Chaim could ever dissolve or disappear had not occurred to her.

Until now.

She pondered the unthinkable. What would it be like, she wondered, to dump Rabbi Chaim and run off with some rich, sexy, irreverent playboy, who knew how to dance and drink and do more than a quick close-your-eyes-and-wait-twenty-seconds-it-will-all-soon-be-over in bed? She thought about life with Joseph Rolland or even Viktor Shammanov. Joie didn’t really appreciate her luck. A man that extravagant and adventurous. A man looking for meaning in his life. She finally had to admit to herself that was what she wanted, what she had always wanted: a Yitzie Polinsky, someone dark and dangerous who lived on the edge and took the world on his own terms. Not some scared rabbit hiding in some sunless warren, always a terrified hop, skip, and jump in front of some plodding
hunter. This was all frighteningly new, thrilling information for Delilah as it bubbled up from her subconscious into her daydreams.

Yet despite the newfound clarity that her husband held few attractions for her, that he—in fact—bored her silly, she, like many women, was terrified of the idea of losing the roof over her head and the social acceptance and respectability that was the ground beneath her feet. Did she really want to go from “rebbitzin” to “divorcee” and “single mom” with a weekly Parents without Partners meeting in downtown Hartford after a day of scraping goo off the teeth of strangers?

To leap from Chaim into the sheltering arms of another man was one thing, to take a flying leap into the unknown, quite something else again. Chaim, as a rabbi, had adequate reason to send her on her way. No rabbinical court in the world would back her up once he revealed what he knew about Yitzie Polinsky, his suspicions about her relationship with Benjamin, and what he had witnessed between herself and Joseph Rolland. It wouldn’t even matter if in the end he had not a single shred of evidence to back him up. Rabbinical court judges were notorious for their one-sided rulings in favor of husbands; they were all hanging judges when it came to even the merest appearance of impropriety on the part of the wife. This was based firmly on Torah law, which even had a special-Divine category called “the jealous husband.” A man didn’t need proof. All he needed were his suspicions in order to put a wife through humiliating and life-threatening trials. If she was innocent, of course, the bitter waters she was forced to drink made her fertile. But if she was guilty, they caused her “belly to swell and her thighs to waste away.”

There was nothing remotely similar for the philandering husband unless he was involved with another man’s wife, in which case both he and his paramour earned themselves a mandatory death by stoning. These days, of course, such a verdict was unenforceable. The result was that the man went scot free while the woman got divorced and ostracized.

If, one day, time and chance provided her with an opportunity she just couldn’t turn down, in the form of a desirable suitor willing to provide for her the kind of life she had seen all around her since coming to Swallow Lake, she might willingly open the door and walk out. Until then, she had no intention of letting Chaim open it for her, kicking her out into a world of uncertainty, homelessness, poverty, and calumny. She wanted the decision—and the timing—to be hers. That being so, she felt she had no choice but to mend her ways and earn her way back into her husband’s good graces.

The first thing she did was to talk to her former boss at the Riverdale dental clinic. He had been most understanding. That taken care of, she decided to start dealing seriously with her
chesed
project. She began to go through her handbags and pack them up for shipping. She contacted a number of well-known charitable agencies dealing with terror victims. But, for some reason that she couldn’t figure out, none of them had any interest in becoming involved. In fact, unless she was imagining it, she heard muffled laughter in the background during her phone conversations with them, which she found shocking, considering that the subject was no laughing matter. She chalked it up to pressure. Anyone involved with such tragedies had to crack sometime.

She now possessed two hundred and seventy-four used—but more or less still very nice—designer handbags and nothing to do with them. She put in a call to the Israeli embassy. A very nice girl, whose English left much to be desired, explained that if she shipped them to Israel she’d have to pay tax on them, even if they were a charitable donation. Something about putting the local used handbag stores out of business.

“But Israel doesn’t have any used handbag stores!”

“That’s not entirely true,” the girl said, getting a bit snooty. “Anyway, we don’t think a designer handbag is the most important thing a terror victim lacks. Especially the ones that are still in the hospital, or orphaned, or widowed.”

Well, she couldn’t solve
all
their problems.

A bit desperate, she decided, very reluctantly, to call Rivkie, with whom she had had no contact at all since the doula businesss. But times were desperate; besides, Delilah wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, especially if the person involved could still be useful.

“Hi, Rivkie, you’ll never guess!”

She could tell Rivkie wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear from her, but being Rivkie she was polite and kind. She had relatives in Israel who could give them out, she agreed, but Delilah would have to raise the money for taxes and shipping.

“How much do you think that will be?” she asked.

“Well, it depends on how much they estimate the bags are worth.”

“Look, between you and me, some of them are fakes that are worth thirty bucks, and some are worth two thousand.”

“Well, the tax on a two-thousand-dollar bag is going to be a lot of money, believe me. But if you get it together, let me know.”

“Thanks, Rivkie.” She hesitated. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch. It was just so awkward and all. I mean, after the doula business. How is she?”

There was silence. “Her hand has healed.”

“Oh. I’m glad to hear it. And how are things going with the two of you?

“Fine, fine. Josh has just accepted a position as rabbi of the Lincoln Center Synagogue on the Upper West Side.”

“Wow, Manhattan!”

“It’s a nice congregation. Look, Delilah, I’ve got to run. Take care of yourself, and let me know if I can help you. ‘Bye.”

“ ‘Bye, Rivkie. And thanks. For everything. Oh, by the way, you don’t happen to have any friends or relatives that live in Swallow Lake, do you? Someone you might have spoken to about me?”

There was dead silence on the other end. Then a tiny voice. “Why do you ask?”

“Because someone wrote Chaim an anonymous letter about Yitzie Polinsky.”

“Delilah, I—I’m… well, I have to ask
mechilah.”

The traditional request for forgiveness that went around before the high holidays and Yom Kippur was rarely used at other times of the year, unless the penitent truly feared for their eternal soul.

“
Mechilah
?” Delilah asked suspiciously. “For what?”

“Delilah, I swear I didn’t know it would get back to Chaim. Mariette Rolland is friends with my mother. And I might have mentioned it to my mother years ago.”

“Rivkie, I have something to tell you.”

“Yes?”

“Your clothes? They never actually fit me. They were too big, especially around the butt! And you can forget about
mechilah.
You can kiss my little ass, and that goes for your husband too!” She slammed down the phone.

Mariette Rolland. How appropriate, Delilah thought. She looked at the boxes and boxes of handbags. What to do with them? She picked up a Chanel and turned it over. Not bad. Someone would pay good money for it on eBay. A little light clicked on in her head. She piled them into cartons and put them down in the basement. Every day, she’d auction off one of them, until she had enough money to pay the taxes and shipping costs for the rest.

She got busy. She started cleaning the house, taking the baby out for walks. She skipped her aerobics classes and, instead, baked fattening cakes for myriad Sabbath guests.

“Chaim?” She poked her head into his study.

He looked up from his open books, eyeing her silently.

“I thought you might be hungry. I made a little snack.” She placed a mug of hot freshly brewed coffee on his desk with a blueberry muffin, warm from the oven. “And Chaim?”

His eyes shifted from the food to her face, which was settled in pleasant docile lines. “I have made up lists of people we should invite over soon. Can you check them over and see if I’ve left anyone out?”

He looked down at the neatly typed pages, holding dozens and dozens of names.

“This looks fine, Delilah.” He nodded correctly. “Now, if you’ll just excuse me, I have some work… .”

“Oh, sure, of course. Sorry.” She smiled, looking chastened and pathetic, he thought, as she closed the door behind her.

He looked down at the food. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it.

THIRTY-ONE

T
he Sabbath following the Superbowl, Chaim sat nervously in his chair, waiting impatiently for the moment he could rise and approach the podium. All the while, he anxiously patted his jacket pocket, like a best man fingering the rings, to make sure the pages of his speech hadn’t somehow disappeared. Finally, the Torah reading was completed, along with all the post-reading blessings. This was his cue. He rose, taking the papers out of his pocket, and strode purposefully down the aisle and up toward the podium.

Just as he was about to mount the first step, Arthur Malin reached out and touched his arm. “Rabbi? I want to ask your kind permission to address the congregation this Shabbes. The board has something very special to tell them. Would you mind?”

Chaim looked down at the speech clutched in his hand. He had opened his mouth to object when he realized all the members of the board
had now risen and were standing in front of him like an opposing football team, ready to tackle him to the ground.

“You don’t mind, Rabbi, just this once?” Stuart smiled affably.

“Really, Rabbi, do us this favor?” Joseph nodded.

“You’ll understand why in a minute.” Ari rubbed his hands together.

Chaim looked at them and at the congregation. It was, after all, their synagogue. He was just the hired help. He bowed, turning around and walking back to his seat. He sat down heavily, crumpling the pages in his fist as he rammed them back inside his pocket.

“I thank the rabbi for giving up his pulpit for me. Thank you, Rabbi Chaim! I have wonderful news!” Standing in the front of the synagogue surrounded by the other male members of the board, a huge smile on his face, Arthur Malin announced: “The board held an extraordinary meeting after the Superbowl and agreed to accept the fantastically generous gift of the Shammanovs to build us a new synagogue and a new rabbi’s house. We signed the papers yesterday. The new synagogue will have sixty-five-thousand square feet! A catering hall that is fifteen thousand square feet! It will have twenty-eight classrooms, a two-thousand-square-foot library, recreation rooms, screening rooms, a swimming pool, and a cafeteria—so you can eat after every minyan! In addition, there will be a fifty-six-foot-high waterfall in the lobby with a reflection pool that will symbolize our new theme: Mayim Chayim, living waters—and I must say, since this whole thing started off the coast of Maui, it’s particularly apt.” He chuckled.