Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (28 page)

BOOK III 

CHAPTER 31
 

Chava Sims, neé Feuerstein, lay in her bed, silently wondering what was happening. She was trying to be sympathetic about Paul’s sexual naiveté, but couldn’t help feeling wounded by his behavior. In the few times they had attempted relations, they had barely kissed or held one another before Paul penetrated her. A few seconds later, it was all over and he would retreat to his own bed in silence. Now it seemed as if he was avoiding her altogether. She tried to tell herself that he was just embarrassed, and she knew that if they didn’t talk, it would only get worse.

“Pinchas,” she said softly from her bed.

“Hmm,” he groaned, acting half asleep, hoping she would leave him be.

“We don’t have to sleep apart tonight,” she said, reminding him that she had observed her seven days of cleanliness and had just been to the
Mikvah.

“I know, I know, but I’m very tired. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“But, I think…”

“Please, Chava, I must go to sleep! I have a long day tomorrow in yeshiva.”

And that was that.

After a few more attempts, seeing that the situation was not improving, Chava Sims consulted Rav Schachter.

“This happens sometimes,” the rabbi said. “As he gets more comfortable, things will be better. You must be patient and understanding.”

In the weeks that followed, the rabbi’s words proved incorrect, but there was one thing that did change. At first she had thought she’d come down with a virus or something, but after days of unrelenting nausea and vomiting, she realized what it was. She had difficulty believing it, but it was undeniable; it didn’t take much for her to get pregnant.

When she told Paul, he was ecstatic. “Oh my God, Chava, this is so wonderful!”

Only, instead of embracing or kissing her, as she had hoped, he ran out to the yeshiva to tell his friends.

That night, she began despising him.

Rachel Weissman stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, feeling a surge of disgust. She had prayed that this month would be different, but still the bleeding came. It had been over a year since her wedding, and she would still have to endure yet another month of waiting, hoping, beseeching God.

She tried to convince herself that it wasn’t so bad. A week of menstruating, a week of cleanliness, and then back to the
Mikvah
.
Next
time
it
will
be
better
.

She thought about Binny, about their times together in bed. It had all began so wonderfully, filled with tenderness and innocence. Their first time had been both strange and exciting, far from the calamity she’d feared. She had bled from the penetration, and had to wait the week of cleanliness before she could go to the
Mikvah
and be with him again. And what a reunion that had been, one that most certainly should have produced a son. But it hadn’t.

Rachel went into the bedroom, and looked around. It was an impressive room by all standards: silk wallpaper with blue flowers against a white background; wall-to-wall light blue carpeting; two queen size beds, the extra one for when they had to sleep apart; walnut night-tables with matching armoire and dresser, and an abundance of closet space for her ever-growing wardrobe. There seemed no end to Binny’s generosity.

The three story brownstone on Carroll Street had been a wedding gift from Binny’s parents. And what a house; so spacious, Rachel thought, so beautifully adorned and comfortable. Yet, so empty.

Rachel’s eyes fixed on her bed. They had made love often, whenever it was permissible, not only for the sake of children, but for the mere pleasure. She had been surprised by how much she had enjoyed being with him, by what an attentive lover he had turned out to be. For these things she could only be thankful, especially considering the ghastly stories she’d heard about the husbands of some of her classmates. But she couldn’t help but think that her peers had all succeeded where she was failing. It wasn’t fair.

“God will choose the time to bless us,” Binny had told her the first time she had been upset over her period. “We have to trust in Him.”

How many times she had clung to those words. How many times she had reminded herself of the sincerity in Binny’s eyes.
If
he
could
have
so
much
faith,
so
must
I
.

But recently things had changed. Binny, too, was now growing impatient. He was coming home from yeshiva much later in the evenings, and disappearing to study on
Shabbos
afternoons during the time when they used to take walks together. The bedroom had turned chilly, clinical, and sex had become a chore. She tried talking to him about it, and he responded with the same exact words: “God will choose the time to bless us.” Except he no longer sounded comforting, and his eyes bore only disappointment.

She had complained to Esther a few weeks earlier when they’d gotten together for lunch. “Oh, deary,” Esther had remarked, “what do you expect him to say. They
all
say the same thing; they really don’t know much about life.”

“But what should I do?”

“Gee, I have a novel idea: why don’t you see a doctor?” Sarcasm.

Rachel knew Esther was right, but was scared to take such a step.
Let
me
give
it
more
time
, she had told herself,
just
one
more
month
. And now that month was up, and time was running out.

She looked at the phone on the night-table, and thought about calling Joshua. It was during moments like these when she thought about him most, when she needed to hear his voice. He was still her protector, her savior. Lately, she’d been calling him more often, and had begun to feel bad about it. Not only because it was almost like cheating on her husband, but also because it was hurting Joshua.

She picked up the phone, dialed his number, and hung up as soon as she heard it ring. She picked up the phone again, but this time she dialed a different number. The woman on the other end answered, “Kingsbrook Jewish Medical Center.”

“Yes, hello, may I please speak with Doctor Marcia Schiffman?”

“Please hold.”

Esther Mandlebaum had had it with men. Hasidic men, that is. After her fourth failed
shiddoch
, she vowed never to be fixed up again. From now on, she would choose her own dates, and none of them would have hats, dark suits, or peach fuzz on their faces.

Though the decision had been long in coming, her last conversation with Rachel had put the proverbial nail in the coffin. It had been frightening to have seen Rachel like that, so devastated over not getting pregnant.
Good
God
, thought Esther,
is
that
all
there
is
to
life
?
And
Rachel,
of
all
people,
what
happened
to
her
dreams
?

Well,
it
won’t
happen
to
me
, Esther told herself. And in truth, Esther had already begun to sow the seeds of her aspirations. Secretly, unbeknownst even to Rachel, she’d enrolled in an acting class with a small repertory company in Greenwich Village. She’d been sneaking into Manhattan, two evenings each week for the past three months, and had been getting away with it. She figured she could also get away with dating “regular” men. She even had a specific prospect in mind.

His name was Steven Butler, a fellow would-be thespian she’d met in drama class. She didn’t know if that was his real name or stage-name. Many acting students took stage-names prematurely, probably in the hope of one day being able to use them. She wondered why his name even mattered to her. Probably because Butler didn’t sound Jewish.

Why did it make a difference if he was Jewish or not? She tried to tell herself that it didn’t. The more sinful, the more enticing. She wanted to escape, to live an unencumbered, expressive life; to be a successful, famous actress. How could something like being Jewish be important? Yet she still wondered about his name.

Looks-wise, he was most assuredly a stunner. At least six feet, trim, jet-black wavy hair, Clark Gable mustache, green eyes, and a square, cleft chin. His mere presence made her shiver, and when he spoke, his deep, raspy voice made him “unbearable.” To her, this was what God had intended man to be.

Her only problem was attracting his attention. For the past three months, she’d made several attempts, and while he always responded affably, he somehow managed to make her feel invisible. She wondered if she was being paranoid, if his “indifference” was only in her mind. Her limited experiences with men—the Hasidic “boys,” as she called them—had left her bitter and insecure. Of the four she had dated, all had eventually rejected her. Not that she was particularly enamored with any of them, but she had been willing to give things more of a chance.

She had even kept her secrets and, ever the consummate actress, had managed to play the obsequious Hasidic lass. Yet, for some reason, they all eventually stopped calling, and the
shodchin
was running low on new candidates.

Perhaps she hadn’t been as good an actress as she’d thought, or they hadn’t been as dumb as she’d imagined. Perhaps her masquerade had been a bit too obvious, and the boys a mite more perceptive than she’d expected. That was an explanation she could live with.

But there was another possibility, one that pained her because it related to her appearance. She had always seen herself as overweight and unattractive, and had believed that others saw it too. Her parents and Rachel had constantly disputed this, telling her she was crazy, insisting she was beautiful. But how much truth could she expect from them?

She simply believed she was ugly, and nothing anyone could say would change that. In the past, she had attempted dieting, every diet under the sun, even to the brink of starving herself. But regardless of how little food she ate, each time she looked in the mirror, all she saw was “fat.”

She hated herself, and that was why she so desperately needed to escape her life. Her dreams of the stage, of Steven Butler—these were her fantasies, her salvation. If she could attain them, she would be okay. She had to succeed; her happiness depended on it.

But what could she do about her weight? There was only one answer left, one that she had avoided because it had always seemed grotesque. She’d heard about it over the years from some of the girls in the community, but had never believed she could actually do it. Not until now.

It was seven o’clock in the evening, and Esther lay in bed with anticipation. The following night she would once again see Steven Butler. She was so entranced in fantasy, she didn’t even realize that she was touching herself. She’d just finished dinner with her family downstairs, and had thought about doing some reading before going to sleep. Her class was working on
The
Tempest
, and she’d planned to finish it before tomorrow’s session. But she couldn’t read, and she wasn’t able to sleep either. All she could do was lose herself in thought.

Suddenly, she got up from the bed and went to the bathroom. She locked the door, something she’d never done before, and sat down on the floor. She stared at the toilet for a few minutes, until she built up the nerve to bring herself closer to it. Then, she leaned over the bowl, stuck her finger down her throat, and vomited. The purging took five minutes; cleaning it up, much longer. She wanted everything to be spotless. There shouldn’t be a trace of what she’d done.

Afterward, she returned to bed and cried. Yet, despite the awful feelings she had for what she’d done, she was somehow relieved. She was no longer anxious about Steven; she finally had control over her appearance. A few minutes passed, and she was able to pick up
The
Tempest
and concentrate. She would sleep just fine.

Esther Mandlebaum now had another secret.