Questioning Return. Beth Kissileff

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СКАЧАТЬ “Yes and yes. But they . . . they do love me, even if they were hard to take as a kid . . . or now. The worst horror I brought on them was suggesting I might leave school because I loved working as a line cook in a restaurant, something they considered working class.”

      “Celebrity chefs can be a pretty big deal these days.”

      “Not good enough for the Doctors Zeligson. So they sent me here for a summer to a program on historic preservation of buildings and objects, because they thought contact with physical objects was what I should do, something that involved learning but also the world of the physical. One weekend the program set up an optional visit to a yeshiva, to let us experience different aspects of the country. I went and just felt . . . at home; it was my place, so I went back there, and then I wanted to stay at the end of the summer. Last summer, so I’ve been here a year now. Hashem’s doing.”

      She wanted to ask him how he was so sure, but didn’t want to pick a fight. So she stayed silent, hoping he wouldn’t ask her whether she too believed Hashem was looking out for her.

      “How did you get here?”

      She decided to just keep it simple. “Shani’s cousin is my friend and classmate in graduate school. My friend told me her family had an apartment for rent. I took it, so Shani and Asher invited me over for my first Shabbat. It was nice but . . .” Wendy paused and decided to just be candid, “I don’t know, I felt kind of like an outsider there, awkward.”

      “Me too!” Wendy’s formerly laconic companion seemed more excited by this than by anything else all night. “I mean, if you want to have guests, you need to ask them about themselves, welcome them. I was never asked one question!”

      Wendy concurred. “That’s what was bothering me. It was just kind of nice polite general conversation but no one talked to me! I couldn’t figure out why I felt out of place.”

      “Hey, they fed us; we shouldn’t be criticizing our hosts,” he said evenly.

      “Maybe not, but it is fun.” She grinned at him, wondering if she had said something to offend his sense of what was gossipy speech, lashon hara, and what was not.

      “True,” he said, and smiled back.

      She was surprised he would knowingly go against doing what he thought he was supposed to. Maybe, as Lamdan had said, it wasn’t so simple: those who believed still did have their human moments of frailty and betrayal. She continued, “No offense, but I really hated that turban Shani was wearing. I felt bad for her because she kept trying to keep it on her head; her fiddling with it made me feel off kilter, you know? White women and turbans just do not work—you know, like white women and dreadlocks?” Wendy didn’t know why she had to be so catty about the turban, except that it did seem way too big for Shani’s head, and ready to topple off at any provocation. The other married woman there that evening was wearing a crocheted maroon hat with silver embroidered flowers and buttons to give it panache.

      To Wendy’s surprise, her companion laughed. “I’ll have to remember that: white women—no turbans. Important fashion memo.” They walked in silence for a few more moments. Then he asked her, “So what are you doing this year?”

      “Like you, my parents don’t approve of my path either.” She looked over at him and he smiled at her to encourage her to continue. “I’m working on a PhD in American religion.”

      “That sounds hard. But wait, if it’s American, why are you in Israel?”

      “I’m looking at Americans who come here and become more religious.”

      “Oh, like me.”

      Wendy had no response.

      He added, “It’s okay. It’s good that you’re interested. You should definitely talk to the guys at my yeshiva. There are lots like me, people who just didn’t quite fit in with our families and their expectations.”

      “Yeah?” She changed the subject, “You didn’t tell me how you knew Shani and Asher.”

      “I don’t. There is some connection through relatives, Asher’s great uncle and aunt, maybe, who live in Portland and are patients of my parents. When they were coming to Israel for the wedding, my parents said they had a son here. Asher got my number from them and invited me. I don’t even know his relatives, and he doesn’t really either since he grew up mostly here.”

      “So why did you come tonight?”

      “Change of pace, something different from the yeshiva.”

      The two had arrived at Mishael 5. Donny asked to come up to use her bathroom, since he still had a long walk before he got back to his yeshiva in the Old City.

      Wendy assented. Donny insisted on leaving the door to her apartment open. Amalia was staying over at Shani and Asher’s, and there weren’t other occupants who might come in, so the open door at the top of a staircase where there were no other occupants made no difference either way.

      Wendy plopped down on the couch in her living room in a daze. The boxes of books were gone, their volumes unpacked and settled on shelves. The apartment was beginning to look like someone lived there. She needed posters and pillows, throw blankets and knickknacks, the little things that made a place special to its inhabitant. Should she offer Donny a drink or something when he came out? All she had was water and milk, though there was some of that avatiach she’d bought earlier. She should at least offer.

      After he left the bathroom, Donny stood for a moment in the hall outside the bathroom to say the bathroom prayer. Wendy heard him saying something quietly, in a soft whisper. She called out, “What?” confused that he was not responding.

      He finished his recitation, entered the living room, and stood above her, looking down at her on the couch.

      “Can I get you something to drink, a slice of avatiach? I got it at the shuk this morning.”

      “I should get back. It’s late,” he said rationally before adding, “Yeah, sure, I’ll have some avatiach before I go.”

      Wendy stood, shakily, and then said, “I don’t even know what to cut it with. I must have some knives here.”

      “Don’t worry, if it’s too much trouble.”

      “No, I’m glad you walked me home. I want to give you something.” As soon as she said those words, she felt her error. He would take it as suggestive. It felt suggestive, though she wasn’t entirely sure what the suggestion would be. He smiled at her; she smiled back, looking at him facing her. She walked over to the counter where the knives could be. She opened a drawer and found a huge knife, long and sharp enough to cut the watermelon, and a new plastic cutting board. She took the hunk of watermelon from her fridge and surrendered it to the counter. With Donny watching, Wendy started to hack at the fruit. The knife seemed powerless, or she was just not strong enough to prevail against the tough rind.

      Finally, Donny stepped in. “Allow me. I have great knife skills from my time as a line cook.” He expertly cleaved the chunk of watermelon in two and then dismantled it, stripping the pink juicy flesh from the rind and cutting it into even, bite-size pieces as Wendy stood back, gazing mutely. His body seemed different now with a knife, his movements confident and precise, knowing exactly where each digit and limb should go, how much pressure to СКАЧАТЬ