Sotah (39 page)
The impact of the hard wooden steps on her bare feet resurrected a nerve buried deep beneath a wisdom tooth. It awoke with vicious suddenness, the pain thrusting up like a dagger through her jaw to her temple. She had no time for dentists. She pressed her palm against her throbbing jaw, then glanced at her watch. The illustrations were due by the end of the week. Her aerobics class was in half an hour.
At the sight of the kitten slipping and sliding up the polished wooden steps toward her, she slackened her pace and forgot her teeth. Maury would be furious. She’d absolutely sworn the last time that it was absolutely the very last time she’d bring some dirty, flea-bitten thing into the house … But this one … nobody with an ounce of human feeling … she simply couldn’t help herself. It didn’t look too bad, she thought hopefully, considering its traumatic and nearly fatal recent past: some upcoming members of the younger generation had been expressing themselves creatively by tying rubber bands around its neck. The bands had been so tight, buried so far beneath the fur, that they had almost been invisible. The poor little thing had been wild with pain until the vet figured out what was wrong. (One hundred and fifty dollars. Wait till Maury got the bill.)
Right, Joan, she told herself dryly, that’s what we need. A little cat to pee on the Aubusson, knock over the Lalique vases, and scratch up the Chippendale. She crouched down a moment, rubbing the homely little flea-bitten creature between the eyes. It responded by pushing up affectionately against her fingers.
A slow smile spread across her face.
The doorbell rang again, and her smile faded. She hated meeting new help. In fact, even though she had had some kind of live-in maid for the last ten years (ever since Maury had made his first Wall Street killing and bought the town house, the Aubusson, etc., etc.), she had never quite gotten used to having someone else do her housework.
In the beginning she’d felt guilty and almost nauseated about asking a stranger to clean her toilet bowls and polish her silver. She’d wound up tagging around after the woman, practically begging her to sit and rest and drink coffee.
Lonely and bored after quitting her job as a book designer for a publishing house (Maury had insisted on that too when he’d made his killing and bought the town house, the Aubusson, etc., etc.), with nothing to do but go shopping and no one to talk to but five-year-old Stacey and one-year-old Steven, she’d found herself using the housemaid as a companion, pouring her heart out in long, revealing conversations. And the woman had been only too happy to put aside her cleaning fluids and listen. At the end of the day Joan had found herself frantically cleaning up the house before Maury got home.
As time went on, the woman had lingered longer over her coffee, had known just where the good cookies were, and had waxed long in meditative, sly advice, until finally, painfully, Joan had realized that no matter how nice she was, or how magnanimous, the woman’s heart burned hot with contempt and resentment that their relationship wasn’t reversed.
After that she’d learned to be more cautious and aloof, to get, as Maury constantly chided her, her money’s worth. But it went against her warm, trusting, egalitarian nature.
The last maid had left suddenly three weeks before. The house was a wreck – the tall bookcases were covered with dust, and the odor from eleven-year-old Steven’s bedroom and bathroom was beginning to go way beyond environmental air pollution standards. She would certainly get “her money’s worth” from this girl, poor thing!
She was enormously relieved Bertha had come up with someone, particularly since The Rosenshein Show was in just three days. As usual, The Rosenshein Show, a monthly event, must find the house, the garden, and the food (not to mention the wife, which was hopeless) perfect. “In my business, nothing puts valued potential clients off more than a hint that Maury Rosenshein, investment counselor, is low on cash and letting things slide.” And nothing made her life more difficult or complicated than when Maury Rosenshein wasn’t happy.
She gave herself one last nervous look in the hall mirror, going through her usual rapid litany: You look much younger than forty-two, even without a drop of makeup, but the body needs serious work. She practiced one this-will-all-work-fine-you’ll-love-me-the-house-the-kids smile. Then she pulled her off-the-shoulder, paint-stained sweatshirt over her shoulder, checked the zipper on her jeans, and opened the door.
S
he had expected to see a sturdy Polish blonde or one of the little, efficient Filipinos. Certainly not a child refugee with shocked, exhausted eyes in a long-sleeved, wrinkled dress and a matted, damp blond wig. The girl looked exactly like one of those “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” she’d tell Maury later that night, trying to win his sympathy. Like one of those daughters from
Fiddler on the Roof,
the one with no luck. Really, she seemed just about ready to faint.
“Please, come in, sit down.”
Bertha walked slowly into the living room and settled herself comfortably on the pretty little sofa with its blooming glazed chintz pillows. Dina followed with small hesitant steps until she was barely inside the door. She put down her suitcase but clutched her purse tightly under her arm.
It was a beautiful room by any standards. The wall paneling glowed with calm, unshowy richness. The tall French doors let in the dappled shadows of the blooming garden. And colors, subtle oranges, deep pinks, vibrant roses and violets, rioted on fabrics and in lovely fragile vases full of real flowers. “This place is such a gorgeousness. I could stay here forever.” Bertha leaned back into the plump, downy softness, giving her words substance. Then she seemed to remember herself.
“Let me introduce you two. Joan, this is Dina.”
Joan offered the girl her hand, but Dina seemed confused and just stared at it.
“She’s just tired,” Bertha said quickly. Maybe it was true, and maybe it wasn’t, she thought. Go know. “She’s been on one of those horrible group flights for twelve hours, the kind where they pack you in like herrings in sour cream. Maybe you should just show her to her room, Joan. We can talk later.”
For one moment the sensible question of what possible use this pathetic refugee was going to be with the housecleaning went through Joan’s mind. But it was pushed out rapidly and completely by the worthier and more foolish instinct to lead the little tired thing up the steps, wash her face with a warm, soft washcloth, and tuck her into bed.
“Come, Dina, it’s just up the steps.”
The maid’s room had just been redone in pine with pretty Laura Ashley wallpaper. It was small but cozy, with its own bathroom and a pretty dressing table. The big, old-fashioned windows let in generous light, and on a fine day one could even make out the lovely old oaks of Central Park. It was a place that had never failed to evoke a little gasp of pleasure from those seeing it for the first time.
But there was no reaction on this girl’s face, Joan noted with disappointment and a growing concern. She seemed frozen into an attitude of dull, sorrowful acceptance—an attitude, Joan realized with sudden insight, that would probably have remained the same had she been ushered into a dungeon under the stairs filled with bats.
“Are you hungry, dear?” she asked gently.
Dina shook her head.
“Then I’ll let you get some rest. We can talk later.” She closed the door behind her with the respectful gentleness of one leaving a sickroom.
Joan walked meditatively down the steps. She sat down next to Bertha on the sofa, pulling a pillow onto her lap and clasping her hands together until the knuckles showed white. “Bertha dear. We’ve known each other a long time.”
“This is true.” The older woman nodded with vague unease.
Joan unclasped her hands and spread them out beseechingly: “So what is this we have here?”
“I understand your concern, Joan, believe me I do. I can only tell you what I know. She’s twenty. An Israeli. Arrived this morning. Wants work as a maid or au pair. Likes children …”
“That’s not what I mean …”
“Maybe she’s just tired.”
“She looks more than just tired, Bertha.”
“Then maybe it’s the language barrier.”
“Does she know any English?”
“They all do. They learn it in school. But of course, I can’t say for certain. We haven’t, uhm,
conversed
much. But she’s sweet. You can see that.”
“I don’t know.” Joan shrugged.
“Look, Joan. I can see you have doubts, and I know that this is a business, but I want to be honest with you. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll take her back. I’ll find you someone else. But honestly, I wanted this girl to come to you first. Lots of people—I don’t have to name names, but people you wouldn’t expect—are trying to cut corners these days. They’re turning these girls into slaves. They’re giving them floors and windows and laundry and cooking and the kids. They’re making them serve dinner and do the ironing and plant tulip bulbs—you name it. I think she’s had a bit of difficulty back there. Some kind of trouble. Not legal, of course. Family, something. She’s just tired, I think. And I know she’ll be in good hands with you.”
Nobody spoke. The kitten jumped up and sat on the pillow in Joan’s lap.
“Cute,” Bertha said. “Needs a bath, though.”
Joan stroked it behind the ears. “Nothing’s perfect.”
“Look, in a day or two if she’s not all right, you’ll let me know. I’ll take care of it. Unless you’ve already decided you don’t want her. I could take her back with me now.”
The kitten snuggled against her, its memory short, its nature forgiving.
“No, leave her. Just leave her. We’ll work it out.”
Perhaps it was Joan’s own kind nature, her honesty and open goodness, evoking the agency woman’s own best instincts. Or perhaps it was simply good business practice or G-d himself watching over Dina Reich. How else can one explain that despite Bertha’s panic at having Dina left on her hands, and despite having achieved the perfect cue to beat a hasty retreat, she nevertheless found herself bringing up the most potent problem of all. She took a deep breath. “Before you decide, Joan, there is something you should know.”
Joan looked at her steadily.
“The girl is very religious. I mean extremely, extremely Orthodox. The agency gets them every once in a while. They are good workers—the best. Very reliable, hardworking. But you have to know their rules.”
“Rules?”
“Well, religious stuff. Like Saturdays. They must have Saturdays off, and that means stopping work before sundown on Friday.”
“I can live with that.”
“Fine. Okay. But there’s also the business with the food. You know. The kosher business. Were your parents religious at all? Grandparents?”
Joan shook her head. “There are no beards in my family at all. Even my grandfather—I’ve got this great picture of him looking like Ronald Colman in this dapper-looking suit, sitting outside his family’s country villa—even he was a rich Polish businessman who thought religion was for poor Jews. And my grandmother was sent to a Polish Catholic girls’ high school because it offered the best French lessons. Half the other girls were Jewish, too. She thought Yiddish was embarrassing. She thought Jews who looked too Jewish were embarrassing.”
“Did they get out of Europe in time?”
Joan hesitated at the painful subject. “My grandmother did. But he … the Germans closed down the factory one day and he just disappeared. I think that’s why my mother at least kept Seder night. I mean, in the end it didn’t matter what he believed, he died for his religion anyway. We do go to the Reform temple for New Year’s and Yom Kippur, although the kids spend most of the time playing tag down in the basement. I myself don’t really see the point in any of it.”
“Well, Dina is from Jerusalem from a very traditional home. She’s got to have kosher food.”
“You mean like Hebrew National salami and Levi’s rye bread?”
“I guess.” Bertha shrugged, feeling like someone legally blind leading someone totally blind. “Oh, and not to put milk in her coffee if she’s eaten meat. And no crabs or clams, or ham.”
Joan listened, fascinated. “Maybe I should write this down.” She jumped up to get a pencil and a large notepad. She glanced at the clock. There went aerobics. She shrugged. Who had the energy, anyway? She settled herself comfortably next to Bertha. “And what about things like
Coca-Cola
and milk? Is that all right? And eggs and rice. Please. Go on …”
The truth was, Joan didn’t need a big notepad. Everything Bertha knew would have fit on one small Post-It note.
Dina could hear the voices of the two women rising and falling. She stood, exactly where Joan had left her, unable to make the slightest decision. Finally she put her purse down for the first time since leaving Jerusalem.
She still couldn’t believe how fast she’d gotten a passport. It seemed that Kurzman had connections in the Interior Ministry now that an ultrareligious party member was minister of the interior. It had taken hours instead of the usual two weeks. The visa, the ticket, everything had been arranged ahead of time. In the midst of her near hysteria, she had not had time to wonder why or how this could be. After all, her decision to go had been so sudden, shockingly sudden. At least it had seemed so to her.
Her head swam with potent images: Judah, the baby, her father … Jerusalem rooftops gleaming silver after a rain, the silver-white sky. The old stones of the houses in Knesset Yisrael, pink as dawn, the green of hardy little plants sprouting impossibly between the mortar. She lay down on the strange bed in the unknown room in the foreign house without even taking off her shoes. The ache in her head spread to her stomach and then to her womb. She pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them, trying to take up the smallest possible space, trying to disappear completely.
When she awoke, she felt her mother’s kind hand shaking her awake. She expected to see Dvorah’s small, dark, neat head in the next bed, Chaya Leah’s red, unruly hair; to hear her little brothers rioting in the next room. She smiled to herself, relaxed, until she opened her eyes and heard the raised voices just outside her door. “I never liked it before, so why should I start liking it now?” It was a man’s voice, low and insistent.
