The Big Nap (3 page)

The next morning, at precisely 9:59
A
.
M
., my doorbell rang. I’d showered and dressed early in the morning so that I wouldn’t treat Fraydle to the terrifying sight of my unwashed, morning persona. On my way downstairs I checked my shirt front quickly, to avoid a repetition of the FedEx incident. I opened the door to find my baby-sitter standing awkwardly on the front step. She was wearing the same outfit as the day before. Isaac, who was perched on my hip, reached out a hand to her and cooed.

She smiled at him and held out her arms. “Come,
motek.
”

“My grandmother used to call me that,” I told her. “It means sweet, right?”

“Mmm.” She was busy making googly eyes at the baby.

“Be careful; he can’t sit up by himself yet, so you have to sort of prop him up on your hip.”

“He’s nice and big,” she said. “I have a sister his age and she’s much smaller.”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” I asked.

“We’re eight in all. Three girls and five boys. I’m the oldest.”

“My God!” I exclaimed.

She looked up, shocked at the expletive.

“I mean, wow. Gosh. That’s a lot of kids.”

“Not so many. There are many families with more. Ten. Sometimes even twelve.”

I shuddered. “I’m barely managing with two. I can’t imagine dealing with eight. Your poor mother.”

“She has me to help. And my younger sister, Sarah.”

“But still. It must be exhausting. Do you think she’s finished having children?”

“Oh no. She’s only thirty-five years old. I’m sure she’ll have more.”

My mouth hung open. Thirty-five? The mother of eight was only two years older than I?
Oy vay.

I ushered Fraydle into the house and showed her around Isaac’s bedroom. It, like the rest of our apartment, was full of huge piles of brightly colored, molded plastic in various stages of disrepair. Our home had started to look like the “seconds” section of a toy store.

“Do you mind if I take him out in the stroller?” Fraydle asked. “That way you can maybe sleep a little.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful. He loves the stroller. Usually. Did you see it parked at the bottom of the stairs?”

“I’ll find it,” she said.

“He shouldn’t need to eat, but if he does, there’s a little bottle of expressed breast milk in the fridge. You can heat that up.”

Fraydle nodded.

“Don’t forget to bring extra diapers.”

She nodded again.

“So I guess I’ll go take a nap now.”

She nodded once more.

I walked slowly back to my bedroom. I perched on the edge of the bed, wondering exactly how I was ever going to fall asleep while I was so worried about my little boy off in the hands of a complete stranger. Two hours later I woke up with a start. I’d conked out, half-sitting, half-lying on the bed, and had rather elegantly drooled all over the quilt. Wiping my mouth, I got out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. I splashed some cold water in the general direction of my face and stared into the mirror. My right cheek was covered with angry red creases and my eye was puffy. My hair had flattened out on one side and was doing its best Eraserhead imitation on the other. I halfheartedly patted at it and, giving up, wandered out into the living room. It was silent. No baby. No baby-sitter. I opened the window overlooking the front of the house and leaned out. Below, I saw the stroller, carefully covered by a baby blanket. Presumably Isaac was inside. But could he really be sleeping?

I leaned out a little farther, looking for Fraydle. She wasn’t on the stoop. Panicking a bit, I leaned out farther still. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of her standing about thirty feet down the block. She was talking to a young man in a brown leather bomber jacket. Just then, she glanced
back at the stroller and saw me leaning out the window. She gave a startled little jump and said something to the man, who hurried away. She ran back to the house and I started down the stairs to meet her.

I opened the door to find her blushing furiously and apologizing.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Applebaum. I only left Isaac for a minute. And he was sound asleep. I could hear him from where I was. I promise you I could.”

“That’s fine, Fraydle. I trust that you wouldn’t leave him alone. You were close enough to hear him. It’s really fine. You can call me Juliet, by the way.”

She seemed to calm down. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay, Fraydle. I would do it, too, I’m sure. Except, I’ve never actually been in the position to. How the heck did you get him to go to sleep?”

“I just walked with the stroller. That’s all.”

“When did he go down?”

“Right after we left. As soon as we started walking.”

“You mean he’s been asleep for two hours?” I was utterly and completely shocked.

Fraydle looked at her watch. “A little less, maybe. I’ve got to go back. My aunt is expecting me.”

“No problem. Just wait a sec and I’ll get my purse.”

“No, no. Pay me at the end of the week.”

“All right, if that’s really okay with you. Fraydle?”

“Yes?”

“Who’s the boy?”

To her credit she didn’t say “which boy” or “nobody” or anything else teenager-like and evasive. She just got very quiet.

“Please don’t tell my aunt Nettie or my parents, Mrs. Applebaum.”

“Juliet. Of course I won’t tell your parents. Who is he?”

She paused and then breathed, “Yossi.”

“He’s not Hasidic.”

“No.”

“Why is his name Yossi? Is he Israeli?”

“Yes.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“No!” She sounded almost terrified.

“Really?”

“We’re Verbover Hasidim. Even stricter than Lubovitch. I can’t have boyfriends. I’m not allowed to have boyfriends. The only thing I’m allowed to have is a husband. A husband my parents choose for me.” Her voice was low, rushed, and even a little bitter.

“You’re a little young to be married, aren’t you?” I asked.

“My mother was seventeen when she married my father, and I’m eighteen. I’ve already turned down two matches. I’m going to have to accept one soon.”

“Your parents have already tried to marry you off? Are you serious?”

“Twice. I said no to both, but there’s only so many times a girl can do that before she starts to get a reputation as a snob. Or worse.”

Eighteen years old and already being forced into marriage and a life like her mother’s—baby after baby with menopause as the only end to it. I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry, Fraydle.”

She looked up at me, paused a moment, and then seemed to close whatever window had been opened into her true feelings. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “My parents will make a good match for me.”

“Okay.”

“Aunt Nettie’s waiting. I gotta go.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye bye.” And with that, she ran down the path and up the block. I sat down on the stoop and enjoyed the quiet for a moment. But only for a moment. Sensing, no doubt, that he was in danger of ruining his reputation as the most obnoxious baby in Los Angeles, Isaac woke himself up and let out a howl.

T
HAT
night Isaac actually slept for three hours in a row, between the hours of 2:00 and 5:00
A
.
M
. When I woke to the early-morning grunting that generally preceded his early-morning shrieking, I positively leapt out of bed. It’s remarkable how fabulous three hours of uninterrupted sleep can feel when you’re used to none at all. I scooped the baby out of his bassinet and hustled out of the bedroom so that he wouldn’t wake Peter. I went into the living room, snapped on the radio, and settled in for our morning feeding and session of
Morning Edition
on National Public Radio. Isaac had gotten used to nursing to the comforting voice of Bob Edwards. Since I never got the opportunity to read the paper, my half-hour or so of listening to the radio in the early morning hours was all that stood between me and complete ignorance of world affairs.

After Isaac had sated his appetite I put him into the
Johnny-Jump-Up clamped in the kitchen doorway. He began happily leaping up and down, and I, in a sudden and rather inexplicable bit of Martha Stewart–like ambition, decided to prepare a homemade breakfast. Soon I had a pile of lovely, golden, misshapen banana pancakes warming in the oven, the table was set for three with the juice poured and the syrup heated, and the coffee was hot in the French press. I went to wake up the other members of my family.

Ruby woke, groggy and grumpy, but cheered up when I told her that pancakes were in the offing. Her father needed a little more encouragement.

“Honey! Wake up!”

Grunt.

“Sweetie. Sweetie. SWEETIE.” I grabbed the pillow off his head. “Wake up! I made coffee. And pancakes!”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, burying his head under the covers.

“Oh, c’mon, Peter. The pancakes are getting soggy.”

I leaned over him and started nuzzling his neck. “Please, wake up,” I whispered. Then, I plunged my tongue into his ear.

“Eeew!” he screamed, leaping about six feet in the air. “For crying out loud, Juliet, what’s your problem?” He sat on the edge of the bed, digging his finger into his ear. “That is just so disgusting.”

I smiled sweetly. “I made breakfast.”

He looked up at me, surprised. “What?”

“Pancakes. I made pancakes.”

“Wow. Okay. I’m up.” Peter scratched his little potbelly, pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, and followed me into the kitchen. We stopped in the hall and watched Ruby and Isaac. They were holding hands, and Ruby was gently bouncing the baby in the Johnny-Jump-Up. Her red curls
glinted in the morning sunlight that, unusually for L.A., a city where the fog and smog don’t ordinarily burn off before midmorning, streamed in through the window. Isaac had a huge grin on his face. As we watched, Ruby leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Jump, Izzy. Jump jump jump,” she said.

“Hey, Peach,” Peter called.

She ran across the floor and leapt into his arms. “Good morning, Daddy. Look at the bootiful day.”

“It sure is beautiful, honey.”

We had the most pleasant meal together that we’d had in months. Since Isaac’s birth, Peter and I had been behaving less like lovers and more like fellow laborers in a baby factory. And he was definitely a part-time employee. We’d gone from spending virtually all day together—Peter had always worked at night while I was asleep—to seeing each other about as much as your average married, professional couple, that is, not very much. I didn’t know if it was the lack of time, or my exhaustion, or just the added pressure of another baby, but something wasn’t right between us. We hadn’t gone out on a date or even had a good long talk in ages. And let’s not even discuss our nonexistent sex life.

“Juliet,” Peter said, “you seem like yourself for the first time in months.”

I smiled at him. “I feel like myself for the first time in months. No wonder authoritarian regimes use sleep deprivation as a form of torture. It’s amazingly effective.”

He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

I felt a twinge of irritation. It wasn’t my fault I’d been out of sorts. How would he feel if he had to spend his nights comforting a fussy baby? And hey, I wasn’t the one at the studio all day and half the night. However, I was
determined not to let anything ruin the mood of my lovely day. I suppressed any and all negative feelings and smiled—a stiff little smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Is your little Orthodox girl coming today?” he asked.

“Yup. At ten. I can’t wait.”

Peter dressed Ruby, made her lunch, and took her to school on his way to work. I waved goodbye from the front step and then took Isaac upstairs. By a quarter to ten we were both bathed, dressed, and waiting for Fraydle.

At ten we were sitting on the front step.

At a quarter past ten we were standing at the end of the walk.

At ten-thirty we were halfway down the block.

At ten forty-five, I put the baby in his stroller and stormed off to Mrs. Tannenbaum’s. When I got to the market, I saw that the door was locked and the
CLOSED
sign was up. I peered through the glass of the door, and spotted a young girl sitting in the back on a high stool, reading a book. I rapped a few times on the glass and she looked up. She shook her head and motioned toward the
CLOSED
sign. I rapped again, insistently. Finally, she got down off the stool and came to the door. Opening it a crack, she said, “She’s closed today.”

The girl looked like a less attractive version of Fraydle. Her hair was the same dark color and was worn in the same simple braid down her back, but it was thinner and less glossy. Her eyes were dark blue but without any of Fraydle’s purplish vibrancy. Her mouth and nose were both just slightly larger than Fraydle’s. But still, I was confident I knew who she was.

“Sarah?” I asked.

She looked puzzled. “How do you know my name?”

“My name is Juliet Applebaum. Your sister Fraydle
works for me. She didn’t show up this morning and I came to look for her.” Sarah fidgeted uncomfortably with the button on her shirt. “Do you know where she is? Can you call her for me?” She didn’t answer. “I’m not mad, or anything. I just want to know if she’s okay, and if she plans on coming to work today. Or ever, I guess.”

Still nothing.

“Sarah,” I said, sharply.

She looked up, startled. “You should talk to my father,” she said.

“What? Did your father decide she couldn’t work for me? Is that what happened?”

“Please, just talk to my father.”

“Sarah, what’s going on here?”

“Fraydle’s gone.”

Now it was my turn to be startled. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where is she?”

“She didn’t come home yesterday. Everybody is looking for her right now. I’m supposed to stay in the store in case she calls or comes here.”

I didn’t know what to say. Suddenly, I remembered the young man in the bomber jacket. Could she have gone off with him? Could she have run away with Yossi? Should I tell her parents about seeing them together?