An Unorthodox Match Page 3

  Of course. How was it he didn’t remember that? It was all out of control, he thought, panicking. His learning, his family. He needed to take charge, to be more diligent, to organize more. But how? He had no experience.

  His whole life, it had been impressed upon him that he had but one task, one thing worth living for, the only true contribution he could make to the betterment of his family, his people, and the whole world: to learn God’s laws and to teach them, so that the world became a better and holier place, deserving of Divine mercy.

  For the first time in Yaakov Lehman’s life, a small, niggling doubt crept into his heart over what he had learned and what he had been taught that had left him so helpless in the face of tragedy, a burden to his family instead of its savior. He felt a frightening burst of anger at his ignorance, at the knowledge that all these practical skills had been denied him. He clenched his fists. Now he must learn, he must teach himself, or he and his family would not survive.

  The baby’s soft gurgling sounds interrupted his thoughts. When he entered the nursery, the baby had climbed out of his crib and was standing by the door. When had he learned to do that? he thought, astonished. Smiling, he lifted the child into his arms. His diaper was full.

  “Oh, Tateh, you’ll get your clothes all dirty! Here, give him to me,” Shaindele insisted.

  Yaakov looked at the cooing baby, then down at himself. He had nothing to change into if these clothes got soiled. Helplessly, he kissed his son, placing him gently in his daughter’s outstretched arms. The child burst into furious wails of betrayal and loss.

  “Go, Tateh! You’ll be late.”

  “But the baby—”

  Her jaw was set firmly. “He’ll stop crying in a minute.”

  “But how will he get to day care?”

  “I’ll take him.”

  “But you said you’ll be late!”

  She sighed. It wouldn’t be the first time. “My teachers will understand. Just go.”

  Even as he closed the door behind him with guilty relief, he was immediately battered by a wave of misery so strong it paralyzed him. How can I allow this? he thought wretchedly, his hand still on the doorknob. I am the father, the adult, the caregiver, the protector. Shaindele is just a child, my child. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. But then, what was fair about his life? He thought of the rebbe walking through the kollel and turning to stare at his empty seat, and the vision propelled him down the stairs and out into the street.

  It was still pouring. A sudden realization sent him flying back up the stairs.

  “Shaindele, here!” He opened his thin wallet, taking out a ten-dollar bill, his last for the month. “Call a taxi. Wrap yourself and the children up warmly. Take an umbrella.”

  “But, Tateh, Mr. Belkin at the grocery—this month’s bill, it’s still not—”

  “Reb Belkin is a merciful Jew. He will understand. Tell the taxi driver to wait. I want he should take you also to school. I don’t want you should get a cold.”

  “I’ll be all right, really!”

  “Please,” he begged.

  “All right, Tateh,” she finally agreed, taking the money. “And don’t forget to cover your hat,” she reminded him, running to get him a big plastic bag.

  His hat! He wiped off the beads of moisture that had already accumulated in the folds, drying it as best he could. He could not afford another. Gratefully, he took the bag from his daughter, covering his big, black hat and placing it carefully back on his head.

  How would it all end? he wondered as he hurried through the streets as fast as a respectable Talmud scholar dared without being undignified or calling attention to himself, praying hard all the way that his tardiness would not be noticed. His heart pumped so hard it hurt. Who, he thought with despair, would take care of them all now?

  3

  “Those steaks ready anytime soon?” Cheryl Howard called out, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in the perfume of roasting meat on the outdoor grill. It was the thing she loved most about lazy Saturdays, when her shift at work ended at noon and she had the whole afternoon to do whatever she pleased.

  “Two secs, hon,” Ravi answered her calmly, his deep baritone surprisingly accommodating.

  He had a trigger temper and didn’t like being nagged. Usually, Cheryl was cautious about it. But now her focus was on her cell phone as she tried once again dialing Lola. The phone rang and rang with no answer. She’s probably mad. But not to answer at all? She bristled, telling herself she had nothing to feel sorry about. A mother was allowed to speak her mind. She just wondered when Lola would get over it, hoping it wouldn’t take another three months. They’d disagreed plenty over the years, but these long silences were something new. It was freaking her out.

  Annoyed, and a bit frightened, she put the phone facedown on her bare stomach. The cool glass felt good against her warm skin. Leaning back, she stretched out her tan, shapely legs to the full length of the chaise longue. Soon she was slowly sautéing, the waves of heat positively spiteful, she thought, shielding her eyes with the back of her hand and directing her irritation at the relentless Florida sun. A sudden ache for San Francisco’s chilly gray summer skies swept over her. She turned over.

  “What did you do with the beach umbrella? I’m frying back here!” she accused as the backs of her knees began to itch from sunburn.

  There was no reply.

  Uh-oh, she thought uneasily, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side. She gave him a cautious sidelong glance, gauging his emotional temperature.

  His hands were crossed over his chest, and he was glaring.

  “Okay, okay, sorry, sorry,” she said contritely. “It’s my daughter.”

  She watched in relief as he slowly unfolded his arms and picked up the grill fork, turning his attention back to the meat. “You were the one who put the umbrella in the shed. You said the rain would ruin it.”

  “Right, right. Sorry, honey,” she cajoled. She loved him, but he was a handful.

  “You heard from her?”

  “She called me last week. After three months.”

  “So, what’s up?”

  “Well, she went for this interview, see, to get accepted to some brainwash program in this fanatically religious neighborhood in Brooklyn. Guess what? They turned her down! Said she was too old.”

  He nudged the sizzling steak onto its still bloody raw side. Without looking up, he said, “So you’re happy, right? That’s what you wanted.”

  His tone was unfriendly, she thought. Judgmental. “No. I didn’t want her to get turned down,” she fumed. “What I wanted was for her to wise up and go back to Manhattan to get a job. But getting turned down only made things worse.”

  Now he suddenly gave her his full attention. “How’s that?”

  “Well, see, the rabbi who told her she was too old and too smart to be a student in his program offered her some job doing something online for the yeshiva. Imagine, with her degrees and experience to be stuck working for some rinky-dink little Jewish outfit in Brooklyn for peanuts! Makes me sick to think about it.”

  “Is she complaining? Asking you for money?”

  She felt her temper rising. “You’re not getting this, Ravi! Those fanatics are clever. They didn’t ask for money, just slave labor! And of course they were clever enough to throw in a place to live with free meals and as many free brainwashing courses as she needs to permanently screw up her life for good! She says the rabbi wants her to see if this life is really for her by trying it out for a few months. Oh, they are diabolical, that bunch. Once they get their claws into you, you can never escape. And they make you think it’s your choice! That it’s what you want! I tried to tell her, but she can’t see any of it. She says she’s happy! It’s insane.”

  “And this is what you told her?”

  “What, you think I should have lied?”

  “And how did she take it?”

  “She hung up on me. And now she won’t answer the phone at all.”

 
“What did you expect? And what do you care? She’s an adult. She’s not asking us to bail her out of jail. Leave her be.”

  “Yeah, you’re the expert at that. When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?” she asked him spitefully before she could stop herself.

  He slammed down the fork and threw the apron at her.

  “Cook your own damn dinner!” he said, storming off to sit by the pool. On the way, he grabbed a beer.

  Her eyes followed him, the idea of going after him, pleading for forgiveness, flashing through her head. But it was just too damn hot. What the hell. I don’t need this crap. Besides, if it wasn’t for him making Lola feel so unwelcome that time she came home after losing her job, maybe none of this would have happened. She was sick of it. Sick of him.

  Reluctantly, she picked up the apron, walking over to the grill. It looks done to me, she thought, poking at the steak, then lifting the still-bleeding meat to her plate. The rarer the better as far as she was concerned. She thought about those soccer players stranded in the Andes after a plane crash who wound up eating each other. There was an inner cannibal in all of us.

  She sat down at the table and poured herself a cold beer, chugging it down until the alcohol spread a pleasant, drugged calm inside her chest. She took two or three bites of the meat but spit it out, her appetite disappearing. Yeah, too raw. Even for her. She got up and put it back on the grill, poking at it absently, glancing over to where Ravi sat with his back to her, dangling his bare feet into the pool.

  Most of the time, they got along just fine. But when it came to family, he was one big wound. She’d never met his parents or siblings, who were all back in India. Only once had he even shown her a photo: very gray and grainy. She imagined them scurrying around without shoes in the squalor of some third-world backwater. The only other photo she’d seen was of his daughter. In it, she was about two years old. Last she’d heard, the child was already in second grade. She had no idea if he kept in touch with any of them. He, unlike her, never talked about his family.

  She remembered the first time he’d walked into her hair salon in San Jose looking like an extra for Aladdin, an enormous turban wrapped tightly around his head. When he sat down in front of her and removed it, mountains of thick black hair cascaded down his shoulders like an avalanche.

  It took her a while to exhale.

  “You sure about this?”

  He closed his eyes and gnawed his lips, giving a sharp nod and a guttural sound almost like a bark.

  When she was done, hair carpeted the floor.

  “Well, don’t you look handsome?” She smiled proudly, holding up a mirror behind his head so he could admire her work.

  Instead, he stared, devastated, his large, dark eyes welling.

  “I am a hopeless sinner,” he whispered, trembling as he took out his wallet.

  “Aren’t we all, honey,” she answered, touching his shoulder sympathetically.

  A moment passed between them as his dark eyes searched hers, a question asked and answered.

  She wasn’t surprised to find him waiting for her outside the next day when she closed up shop, looking sweet but forlorn. Without the distraction of the odd headgear, he was actually quite attractive, she noticed, tall and graceful. She was touched to see that he had trimmed his beard and mustache meticulously.

  “I didn’t thank you properly yesterday. I was in shock. Can I take you out for coffee?”

  “Sure, why not? I like sinners.”

  She found him really easy to talk to. She told him all about her fanatic parents and how she’d run away from home with some musicians, and how happy she was.

  He seemed to admire that. “Like all good Sikhs, I started wearing a turban at the age of fourteen,” he told her. “I was an expert in tying it beautifully tight. I married a Punjabi girl, and we came to America. We were happy at first, but she started feeling very homesick. All she talked about was going back to Punjab. She missed her family, her sisters, the food, the rituals, the climate. I don’t buy it. There is a big Sikh community in San Jose, and a big gurdwara—that’s our temple. We already had a kid by then, a daughter we named Balvindra—which means strength. But then one day, I look on my wife’s computer and I see she’s writing to this old boyfriend, some guy who her parents didn’t like. A Hindu. It was bad … I got a little carried away.”

  She stopped, searching his face, cautious. “What do you mean?”

  “I threatened to take the kid away and leave her. I didn’t mean it. But soon after, I come home after work and she’s gone. Just took the kid and got on a plane. I called, I wrote. Divorce is very taboo among Sikhs. But she wasn’t coming back. She wanted me to come and live in Punjab.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Her family missed her and took her and the child in and helped her file for divorce. I signed everything she sent me. What can you do? I went to see the kid once. My ex was remarried by then—not to the Hindu, to some Sikh engineer. Very rich. And Bal didn’t even know who I was.”

  “Ouch.”

  He nodded slowly. “Right after that, I started getting headaches.” He pressed his fingers into the center of his skull. “There was this pain in the middle of my head, right above my turban on my forehead, and my ears would ache like hell. I used to bow down my head every two, three minutes, press my turban near my ears and push it forward to get some relief. This went on for about a year. Finally, I got these bumps by my ears and in the back under the turban. I couldn’t concentrate. I was sure they were going to fire me. And also, I met this girl at work, a Californian, but she wouldn’t go out with me because she thought the turban was too weird. I also began to feel it was too weird. I started feeling like the only Sikh in San Jose. After my divorce, I stopped going to the gurdwara. I just didn’t fit in there anymore.”

  “Oh, so the haircut was not the beginning of your war, it was the end?”

  “Exactly.”

  She shrugged. “Religion is a pain. Run away as fast as you can, is what I say, and never look back. That’s what I did. I haven’t been struck by lightning, tornadoes, or plague even once,” she said, grinning.

  But his face was serious. “It’s not a joke to be cut off from your past, your beliefs, your heritage. It’s a tragedy.”

  She didn’t pursue the subject. Soon after, they moved in together. He and Lola had never gotten along, which didn’t matter since Lola had long since moved out. But after she lost her job and moved back in, there had been daily flare-ups.

  “She’s becoming a born-again,” she told him accusingly when Lola left for the Chabad camp. “I mean, a Jewish born-again, if that’s the expression to use. She’s getting herself involved in this cult! All because you weren’t nice to her!”

  “Are you Jewish?” he asked levelly.

  “Like we never discussed this.” She rolled her eyes.

  “And your husband, her father, your parents?”

  “As I told you, he was her father, but not my husband. And yeah, he was a Jew—which I didn’t know until much later, by the way—and so were my parents, as you know. What’s your point?”

  He looked puzzled. “But you are not happy? Because your daughter wants to follow her religion, your family’s religion?”

  “I didn’t bring her up that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wanted her to be free. Make her own choices. Not like how I was brought up.”

  “I see. And you, Cheryl, are so, so happy.”

  From then on, she had made every effort to avoid the subject. They’d been living together for four years when he got a lucrative job offer in Boca Raton. She’d followed him, using all her savings to open her own hair salon. Some, maybe even most, of the time they were good together. He didn’t drink or smoke or find ways to make her jealous. Like her, his tastes were simple: movies, barbecues, speedboating, nights on the couch in front of the television. Sex was sporadic, but friendly. Most of all, their combined incomes left her more financially secure than she had ever been in her life
. They never spoke about marriage, which was fine with her. She had never needed a man to make her feel secure. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand her daughter. Not that she was unsympathetic. To lose the man you love in the heat of that passion … it was a tragedy. Then for it to happen again! But Lola was so young still, so smart! Why was she so desperate to tie herself down, to be subservient to some set of rules made up by a bunch of self-serving men with long beards?

  She looked at Ravi, startled by the beard. She was so used to it, she almost didn’t see it anymore. Besides, there was no comparison. Ravi wasn’t religious, not anymore, she told herself uneasily. She should never have shared the Lola stuff. Of course he would side with her! He’d never forgiven himself for taking off his turban. Any day now, she expected him to start growing his hair again. It would have happened already if he hadn’t been living with a hairdresser who watched him like a hawk and brought out the scissors the minute his hair grazed the tops of his ears. The God she didn’t believe in had a wicked sense of humor saddling her with the two of them!

  She took the steak off the grill and put it back on her plate. Truth was, she wasn’t all that hungry anymore, all this tension upsetting her stomach. Even though she’d hardly eaten more than a few bites, she was sure to get heartburn now. It was so bad these days. Like angry villagers marching with torches through her stomach and chest, threatening to burn down the whole building. None of the pills were working anymore. She looked at the picnic table with its cans of diet cola and Heineken, bowls of potato chips, and soft white hamburger rolls. It was like committing hara-kiri, she thought, imagining the dragon fire that would leap up and torch the back of her throat at midnight.

  “Lola had a hard childhood,” he said suddenly, sitting down in the chair next to her.

  She tensed. “What makes you say that?”

  “Single mom, bad neighborhood…”

  She bristled. “San Jose was a very expensive area.”

  “So what? It’s still full of bums and drifters.”