The Kiddush Ladies Page 4

For a moment, a childish sense of wonder froze her in the doorway. Instinctively, she kissed her fingers, reached out, and touched the mezuzah. This mezuzah belonged to her mother. It held special family significance because her Aunt Sarah carried it in her dress pocket from Europe to the United States.

  Inside the small wooden case, with the Star of David carved into the front, rested a miniature hand-scribed scroll, containing the most important prayer in Judaism--The Shema. Every few years, her father would take down all the mezuzahs in the house, including this one. She and her brother would walk along with him, door frame to door frame, gazing on as he removed the small tacks that fastened each one, on a slight angle, to the oak doorframes. As he worked, he lectured on the importance of reciting The Shema Prayer every night before bed and every morning. The prayer announced to the world that Jews believe in only one God.

  She and her brother silently watched as he lifted the delicate scrolls from the cases and placed them into a plastic sandwich bag, ready to take to the rabbi. He described how the rabbi carefully inspected each Hebrew letter to make sure they hadn’t faded or the parchment hadn’t deteriorated. If this happened, the scroll wouldn’t be kosher.

  Becky shook off the memory and crossed over the threshold into the bedroom. It remained exactly as it was the day her father passed away, except for the heavy coating of dust now covering everything. The scene--with the beige chenille bedspread crisply creased under the pillows and cascading backward, covering two rather deflated-looking pillows; the Ethan Allen furniture her mother Pledged once a week; and the framed high school graduation portraits of her and her brother--overwhelmed her with nostalgia.

  Her father had the habit of always leaving the closet door half open. A week after the paramedics removed his body from the bed, Becky came back, changed the sheets, and made the bed, exactly as her mother always did. She deliberately left the closet open--for her father.

  Becky’s gaze focused on the bar inside the closet. She could only see the left side. Even though her mother passed away years before her father, her clothes still hung beside his. Every time someone suggested to her father that it was time to throw away or donate her clothes, he would come up with a new excuse to put it off. “Like father, like daughter,” Becky mumbled as she walked to the closet and dropped her supplies. “The house should have been emptied a year ago.”

  The closet wasn’t very large by today’s standards. On the right side hung her father’s five dark suits, one for each day of the work week. Their buttons all faced the same direction. Behind the suits hung his white shirts. He retired years before, but still wore the same suits to the synagogue and holiday dinners. The few casual shirts he wore on weekends hung next to the white ones. She ran the palm of her hand across the dusty shoulders. Time had faded the lines down the shoulder seams where the hangers had creased them.

  Her mother’s side remained untouched since the day she died. Unlike her father’s side, her mother’s was a mess. Becky always found it weird that her mom--a clean fanatic, who waged all-out war against dust, spots, and smears--couldn’t care less that her side of the closet resembled the jumbled mess of a teenager’s bedroom. Dresses hung crooked on hangers that hooked onto the bar in every direction except straight. The clothes lacked any order, synagogue dresses mixed with day dresses. Her mother insisted on wearing dresses or skirts every day until she died. One year for her birthday, Becky bought her a pair of blue jeans. She smiled gratefully, when she lifted them from the box, but never wore them. Becky expected to find them, complete with tags, in one of the drawers.

  What she really wanted to see was sitting on the shelf above the clothes. She stretched, reaching her hand out, until she clasped one of her mother’s synagogue hats. One by one she pulled them down and blew off the dust the best she could. They smelled a bit musty, but each triggered a memory. A camel-colored one with a wide brim started a movie running in her mind’s eye...

  ***

  Becky scooted into the pew next Miriam and Naomi.

  “Is it true?” Miriam whispered into her ear.

  Naomi sat next Miriam. Becky could see Naomi craning her neck forward to see around Miriam, her eyes wide with anticipation.

  Becky smiled at her friends and nodded. “It’s true.”

  Before she could continue speaking, her mother slid into the pew in front of them, turned to face them, and put her index finger in front of her pink lipsticked lips, shushing them. Not a mean reprimand shush, but a smiling, twinkle-in-the-eye shush.

  Her mother looked beautiful in her camel coat with the matching camel hat. She even wore matching high-heeled shoes with tiny gold buckles across the front. She looked like a movie star. “My mom said the baby will be born in June.” Becky announced this news to her seven- and six-year-old companions as if it was more important than a man walking on the moon.

  ***

  Becky placed the hat on the floor and began putting together one of the boxes she brought from home. Before setting the hat inside the box, she ran her fingers along the rim. Her throat tightened a bit, remembering another moment with her mother. “Some things aren’t meant to be,” her mother said a month later--after she miscarried for the second time.

  She placed the hat into the box and picked up another. This one triggered a smile--a blue pillbox with dotted mesh overlay that draped over her mother’s eyes. Each Friday afternoon, during the walk home from school, Miriam and Naomi tried to guess which hat her mother would wear to Saturday morning service. The pillbox was Naomi’s favorite.

  Becky pulled the camel hat from the box and held it up with her left hand--perfect for Miriam’s black curls and blue eyes. On her right hand perched the pillbox. Naomi would finally get her wish and own it. Even though it looked a bit old fashioned, it would emphasize her wide-set hazel eyes and her elegant jawline. Her mother would approve of giving the hats to her other daughters.

  Becky gathered the rest and tossed them into a box destined for the Jewish Community Center’s pre-school dress-up corner. Then she sealed and labeled the box.

  To make sure she didn’t miss anything, she stepped onto a small stool retrieved from the bathroom and ran her arm along the shelf. It hit something--an old shoe box.

  Becky carried it to the bed and sat down, holding the box on her lap. Inside were pictures, a handkerchief, a few old ticket stubs, and stack of yellowed letters bound together with a pink ribbon. She stared at them for a moment. Something about them seemed odd. Then it dawned on her that there was no address or stamp on the front, just her mother’s first name.

  The ribbon and letters weren’t as dusty as the rest of the articles in the box. Based on the worn condition of the envelopes, they had been opened--a lot. She loosened the knot and an envelope slipped, landing on the floor beside her. She pulled out the thin piece of stationary and unfolded it.

  My Dearest Mildred,

  Becky quickly read the sentimental words of love. When she reached the bottom of the page, she dropped the letter to the floor, ran to the bathroom, and violently threw up.

  Chapter 4

  Naomi

  Naomi read the ornate calligraphy scrawled across the creamy envelope: Ms. Naomi Feldman & Family, before pulling out a gold embossed invitation from the double-lined envelope. A small piece of gold tissue paper floated gracefully to the floor. She quickly scanned the ornate print until reaching the words she prayed wouldn’t be there, Black Tie.

  Damn, of course, it was going to be a black tie wedding, but seeing it printed on the invitation made it financially impossible to ignore. She began a mental inventory of her pathetic wardrobe, knowing full well that not one hanger held anything that fit.

  Black tie presented no problem for Miriam and Esther. They owned racks of stunning clothes. And if they didn’t want to wear a repeat, their very high VISA card limits solved that problem.

  Naomi scrutinized her plain black skirt--a practical style for both office and synagogue. Actually, the website where she bought it said, practical
for office, church, and easily adapted for evening wear.

  Practical sucked. She tossed the invitation onto the kitchen table and opened the door to the basement. “Ezra, time to get dressed.” She didn’t wait for him. Instead, she walked to the sink, filled the coffee pot with water, and scooped good old-fashioned Maxwell House into the white filter. As she scooped, her mind drifted back to the wedding, calculating the cost of a shower gift, wedding gift, and a new black suit for Ezra. She shook her head, not even enough left over to buy a pair of pantyhose.

  “Mom, is it too late for scrambled eggs?” Ezra emerged from the basement. “It will only take me a few minutes to make them.”

  “Go get dressed, I’ll make the eggs.”

  She cracked four eggs into the bowl. Of course, her older son, Josh, would be a groomsman, which would entail renting a tuxedo. She dumped the eggs into the hot pan and watched them sizzle. Maybe, if she dug deep into the back of the closet, there would be one leftover dress needing minimal alterations. She could have it dry cleaned, taken in, and made presentable.

  Ezra needed a new suit for graduation. She would just have to hit Jake up for the money a few months earlier than planned.

  She tried to avoid thinking about Jake, but every time a money issue arose, it was impossible not to. Ever since he walked out, the money fountain dripped dust. The cheap son of a bitch preferred spending their life savings on the new man in his life. The SOB actually had the chutzpah to tell her to be grateful he gave her the house.

  “Grateful,” she shouted at the empty kitchen. How could she be grateful? After twenty-three years of marriage and busting her ass to put him through medical school, he announced his sexual preference for men. Naomi squeezed her temples--Ughhhhhh.

  “Hey, Mom,” Ezra yelled from his bedroom on the second floor.

  She hated when he did that. Why couldn’t he walk down the steps and talk like a normal human being? She dumped the eggs onto a plate.

  “Mom, my suit’s too small. Can I wear khakis and a sweater to the synagogue?”

  She shook her head while walking up the steps. When would he stop growing? His present rate of growth would send them into bankruptcy in less than a year.

  She obeyed the new sign taped to his bedroom door that read “knock before entering.” Ezra was a great kid. Even after Jake left, he continued to do well in school and showed no signs of drinking or drugs. Baruch Ha Shem.

  When he opened the door, it only took a glance to realize he wasn’t just trying to avoid wearing a suit. “Fine, wear the khakis, but I swear that suit fit last week,” she said.

  “Not really,” he said, yanking at the waistline of his pants. “I just pulled them down below my hips. The same way I do with my jeans.”

  “Hurry up, change, and eat your eggs. Synagogue starts in a half-hour and, for once, I’d like to be on time.”

  “Why,” he asked. “No one else comes on time. Who’s sponsoring the kiddush this week?”

  “The Rosens. Noah is bringing his fiancée to shul. The wedding’s getting close. It’s time to introduce her to everyone.”

  “I heard she isn’t Jewish.” He offered this information as if it was a flash news bulletin.

  Everyone who stepped into the synagogue during the last six months knew Maria wasn’t Jewish. For goodness sake, her name was Maria. No self-respecting Jewish mother would name her daughter Maria.

  “Ezra, we all know she’s not Jewish.” She looked at his face, so handsome. Just like his father, wavy black hair and an adorable cleft chin, but the hazel eyes were hers. Everyone said he would be a good catch someday. But no one knew this to be truer than Naomi. “Get dressed, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m leaving in fifteen minutes, with or without you.”

  She walked into the bedroom she used to share with Jake and ignored the feeling that the king-sized bed was sneering at her.

  The face in the bathroom mirror looked tired. Jake moved out over three years ago, and the loss still reverberated through the house. Reaching into the top drawer, she pulled out a tube of concealer. It didn’t cover the dark circles she cried into existence the day he informed her that their marriage was a sham he couldn’t take any longer. His heart, he claimed, belonged to a guy named Brian, who worked as a nurse at the hospital.

  Her fist pounded the granite vanity top. Brian--and he said there were others over the years. Naomi picked up her lipstick and fought to control the desire to smash it against the mirror.

  She raked the brush through her hair and captured it in a ponytail at the base of her neck. The brown dye covered the gray and the three years of living with stress kept her thin, but who would want a forty-nine-year-old woman whose husband ditched her for a man?

  That’s why the support she received from the kiddush ladies was so important. They staved off some of her loneliness, but as much as she loved them all, they couldn’t fill the empty side of the bed or the void that caused a permanent hollow sensation in her chest.

  Not even bothering to put her makeup back into the bag, she left the bathroom and walked to the closet. It held the same boring clothes as it did yesterday.

  Before Jake left there were shopping sprees when she spent hundreds of dollars at Kaufman’s, Sak’s, and Lord & Taylor. Those department stores closed their doors in Pittsburgh around the same time Jake pulled the credit cards from her wallet. He’d always let her buy anything she wanted. Stupid, naïve me--bribery to make up for all his late hours at the “hospital.”

  She pulled a beige cardigan off of the hanger and slipped her arms into the sleeves. It looked respectable over her black turtleneck. The black hat Esther bought her in Israel pulled the ensemble together and covered the gray roots springing from her part.

  She twisted the backs on the decent-sized diamond studs Jake presented to her on their tenth wedding anniversary. Of course, she still wore them. Why punish perfectly good diamonds because the purchaser was an asshole? “Ezra,” she called, “two-minute warning.”

  The storm that blew through in the early hours of the morning put the kibosh on walking. Snow and ice coated the sidewalk.

  It would be another hour before the neighbors began digging out.

  Ezra walked into the kitchen. She grabbed her keys from the hook near the phone and tossed them to him. “You drive.”

  As he eased into the snow-covered lot, she twinged with guilt. Even though they weren’t orthodox, she still believed driving to the synagogue was wrong. They attended the orthodox synagogue because she grew up in one. The conservative shul never felt right. It lacked the great divide--the mechitza, which separated the women from the men.

  They entered the sanctuary through the double glass doors. Once inside, Naomi and Ezra parted, but not before she located his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. He shambled, as only a teenager could, over to the men’s side of the mechitza.

  ***

  More women than usual sat on the women’s side, but her chair remained empty, waiting for her. Many women didn’t enjoy attending orthodox services because of the great divide. She preferred it, loving to close her eyes and let the ancient chants soothe her soul. She didn’t understand the Hebrew words, but according to the rabbi, her soul did. By Shabbat morning, her soul craved the words. Naomi grabbed a Siddur from the bookshelf and sat down.

  Within seconds, Laurie slithered from her spot at the end of the row into the vacant chair next to Naomi.

  “Did you get the invitation?” Laurie asked.

  “Yeah, it came this morning. Expensive paper,” Naomi replied, hoping the rabbi couldn’t hear them.

  “Of course, you expected anything less?” Laurie said.

  Both took three steps back and three steps forward before beginning the Amidah prayer. The timing of the prayer was perfect. Naomi didn’t want to talk about the wedding. She lost herself in the English translation of the prayer on the left side of the book.

  As soon as the repetition ended, they sat down.

  “She didn’t invite Miriam,” Lau
rie whispered.

  “That’s impossible,” Naomi replied.

  Laurie shook her head, eyes wide. “She didn’t invite her.”

  The absurdity of the gossip that often took root in their small synagogue never ceased to amaze Naomi. “Of course she invited Miriam. They’re closer than sisters. How could she not invite her? The whole idea is incomprehensible.”

  “Well, start comprehending,” Laurie said. “Because Miriam just asked me if I received an invitation and, when I said ‘yes,’ she replied, ‘I didn’t.’”

  Naomi shot Laurie a sideways glance. “It will be delivered today.”

  “I told her the same thing. Let’s just hope it is.”

  Naomi didn’t like hearing Laurie jump to this conclusion, but everyone had noticed Becky snapping at Miriam more than usual. Stress always brought out a nasty streak in Becky. She never directed it at Naomi. Miriam was always her chosen target.

  “Last week, Becky told me she wasn’t inviting Miriam. I didn’t believe her. Now, I’m worried that she meant it.” Laurie shifted her gaze from Naomi’s face to the Siddur in her lap and flipped through the pages, trying to catch up to the rabbi.

  The rabbi finished the Shir Shel Yom prayer, and the congregation closed their books. Rabbi Morty began every sermon with a joke, and just as he hit the punch line, Naomi turned to smile at Becky. She caught Miriam’s eyes first and saw they were filled with sadness. A pang pierced Naomi’s heart. She winked at Miriam, hoping it would be received with the warmth she intended.

  In the last seat of the last row, Becky bent over, tugging at a real or imaginary twist in her pantyhose. She never could focus when she was nervous, and with Maria sitting next to her--adult onset Attention Deficit Disorder. When Becky straightened, Naomi caught her attention and smiled. The corners of Becky’s mouth appeared to be on strike, refusing to lift into a smile.