The Sacrifice of Tamar (24 page)

The random violence of the city. It had nothing at all to do with one personally. There was no way to protect yourself. You were prey in the jungle. A simple, minor decision to go down one street and not another, to see a play, or a movie, or to baby-sit your own nephew in your sister’s home, could put you in the predator’s path.

Worst of all, it was completely meaningless. At least if you got brutalized by terrorists, it was premeditated, founded on some cause, some high ideal that had to do with G-d and country. But to be savaged to satisfy some sick stranger’s idea of a good time? To lose your life because someone needed a necklace or designer sunglasses?

For a moment, she considered forgetting the whole thing.
She could just lie down and take a long nap with the shades drawn, all safe, all locked in with bars on all the windows, and triple locks on the door, and an alarm system in the front… Why not? The thought was almost irresistible in its seductiveness. She shook her two hands as if shaking off the paralyzing fear were something that could be accomplished physically. No! She couldn’t afford to sleep anymore! There was a life growing inside her. A little blessing or the worst curse. A gift or the greatest punishment a woman could ever have. And whatever it was, it was thriving on her passivity. It wanted her to sleep.

To destroy the possibility of the curse, she would have to uproot the blessing as well, annihilating the child she had so prayed for, her husband’s child. I won’t think about it now, she thought. I’ll be like Scarlett O’Hara. I’ll think about it tomorrow. After I’ve spoken to Hadassah.

I wonder what she’ll look like, Tamar thought, trying to distract herself. She tried to imagine Hadassah no longer religious, bereft of the imperial aura of her exalted family. Would she be wearing something fashionably goyish and embarrassingly immodest? Would
he
be there, and would he be tall and blond without head covering and wearing a cross?

A little prick of shameful pleasure touched her heart at the idea of the Rebbe’s daughter wallowing in wickedness. But it was just for a moment, just until she remembered the baseness of her own humiliation, the sickening degradedness of her own body, her own life. She fought the almost irresistible urge to get undressed and shower, a compulsion that was hitting her ten or fifteen times a day lately.

She fought it, she fought the nausea, she fought the fear of the lonely subway cars, the deserted stations, snapping her purse shut and adjusting her hat in front of the little mirror on the refrigerator door. Originally she’d put a mirror there because a friend claimed it helped with dieting. Now she stared deeply into
the gray depths of her own eyes, suddenly finding someone she didn’t want to meet there; someone she would have gladly crossed the street to avoid.

Those eyes had been there. They’d witnessed everything.

Maybe someone will kill me on the subway. Yes, that would be best, she thought. Then I would never have to look into those eyes again.

She looked away, frightened at the depth of her self-loathing. G-d heard you. And she hadn’t really meant it! What good would it do, after all, to be dead? Your soul lived on, with all its memories, all it had done to be ashamed of, to be thankful for. It would only end the painful activity of living, the way deep sleep ended the painful clarity of day. But it would not end the existence of her eternal soul. The torture would simply go on in another form, as the day continued in the dreams of night.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, a series of images hit her: A tiny, perfect head of silky dark hair. Tiny, white flailing fists of perfect little fingers. The heaviness of the head resting on the crook of her arm as she gently transferred the weight to Josh. Her husband’s dancing blue eyes as he looked down.

My child, my child. My perfect little baby. The festive circumcision ceremony. Her mother’s wet, happy eyes as the child is named for
Tateh
. The precious little boy, precious
kaddishul
. Love and hope and happiness…

She felt giddy, as if she’d swooped down the highest loop in a roller coaster and was heading back up.

No, she did not want to die. Not yet.

She closed the door behind her and walked quickly to the subway station.

“Well, well, Tamar,” Hadassah said, opening the door, her tone an unnatural octave higher with forced enthusiasm. “Long time.”

They stared at each other, trying to find something in each other’s eyes to hold on to and care about.

“The last time I saw you was at your wedding,” Tamar said nervously. “You probably don’t remember.”

She didn’t.

“Oh, yes, the famous wedding.” Hadassah flinched. “Ten thousand people packed into the ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria. The Waldorf’s kitchen taken over and koshered by ten rabbis and Cohen’s Glatt Kosher Caterers. A lavish, costly, golden affair. A wild, joyful, foot-stamping, schnapps-drinking marathon. The closest thing to a day in Hasidic heaven anyone is likely to experience on this poor and limited earth. The closest thing to a royal coronation Orchard Park is likely to see,” she said, nervously mimicking the exaggerated tones of an overwrought disc jockey.

“You looked like a princess,” Tamar said sincerely, wondering at Hadassah’s sarcasm. It had been all of those things and more. And Hadassah, whom she’d glimpsed only from a distance, had looked even younger than her seventeen years, like one of her own elaborately overdressed alabaster dolls, all painted-on smiles and glassy, visionless eyes.

“Yes, well, let’s talk about something else, shall we?” Hadassah said impatiently, a bright hard smile freezing over her features.

Tamar, who’d been about to say: “I was surprised you even invited me,” caught herself up short.

For years she had wondered at receiving the highly coveted invitation. There had been no contact between them since that Sunday at the Met. Two years. The rebbe and rebbetzin of Kovnitz had forbidden it. Hadassah had been yanked out of Ohel Sara and put into Bais Yaakov of Williamsburg—the strictest girls’ yeshiva in the city. Sundays at Jenny’s had ended forever.

Mameh
and
Tateh
had been so deeply hurt, unable to comprehend why the Rebbe did not want their precious Tamar to play with Hadassah anymore. Tamar squeezed the bridge of her
nose with taut fingertips. She could forgive Hadassah many things, but not that. What had she told her parents? Certainly not that Tamar had been the most reluctant participant, the one who made sure they left on time, the one who made the phone call that brought them all safely home?

Whom had Hadassah sacrificed in order to save her own neck?

“Can I use your bathroom?” Tamar suddenly asked, her knees wobbling, a sudden nausea taking her breath away.

“Of course. It’s there, on your left,” Hadassah said quickly, feeling a growing alarm. Tamar looked absolutely green.

“Thank you,” Tamar whispered, hurrying.

She splashed cold water on her face and rinsed out her mouth, deciding against using the mint mouthwash because she didn’t know if it was kosher or not. She had an urge to open the medicine cabinet, to check for all kinds of illicit, nonkosher things, but she restrained herself.

“You okay now?” Hadassah asked, her eyes flickering with unwilling concern.

Tamar nodded. “It’s the train ride. I’m usually just nauseous first thing in the morning.”

“So… you’re really pregnant?”

Tamar nodded, trying to keep her face blank, unwilling to give Hadassah the pleasure of seeing her misery. She wondered again if this was going to work. “I’m sorry to bother you after all this time, but I just didn’t know who else to tell,” she began stiffly. “I’m so afraid of hurting everyone, you know, so embarrassed, humiliated.”

“What’s not nice we don’t show,” Hadassah murmured, but without mockery, sadly. “But you can tell Hadassah, right? She’s such an outcast lowlife, it doesn’t matter what she knows. Is that it?” she said, amused.

“I suppose,” Tamar said wearily. The witch. She
would
figure it all out in two seconds. She wondered if this whole thing wasn’t the second biggest mistake of her life. She got up shakily. “Maybe I should go.”

“No, no. I’m just being a bitch as usual. It comes very naturally to me, I find. That’s what I always was and Ohel Sara and my parents’ rules just put this nice little party dress over it… Would you like a drink?”

“Yes. I mean, no, thank you.”

“I know, you can’t even drink water in my house. The cups are unsanctified by a dip in the mikvah, the orange juice without rabbinical supervision… But look, a paper cup filled with Coke from an unopened bottle and just a touch of rum! Even my father would drink that.”

“I don’t think I should…” Tamar hesitated, wondering if there had been some wicked intent in the phrase
unopened bottle
. She sighed, deciding to ignore it, to be less touchy. She never drank liquor except for a sip from a tiny paper cup in the synagogue on Shabbos afternoon after
kiddush
.

Hadassah pushed the rum Coke into her hands. She gulped it down gratefully. “Thank you very much.”

Hadassah slid onto the white damask couch pillows, tucking in her feet daintily beneath her. “You look like hell,” she said affably, her eyes narrowing.

“I know,” Tamar said. “And you look…”

“Say it. Like a bimbo shiksa that the little Ruach Chaim boys would throw leaves at if she walked down the wrong street in Orchard Park.”

Tamar, who had been thinking along those lines, blushed. “Your clothes look very nice on you,” she said honestly.

“Why, thank you dear,” Hadassah drawled, genuinely surprised, her eyes wary, searching for some body language, some veiled imprecation of her tight jeans and sleeveless leotard, an outfit chosen specifically for this visit in the hope that it would
send little Rebbetzin Tamar Finegold running back to Orchard Park, disinvolving her from boring melodramas.

But Tamar didn’t look as if she were capable of moving, let alone running. She seemed quite doggedly settled and comfortable, Hadassah groaned inwardly, annoyed by the dumb animal look of pleading and pain in her eyes. Guilt trips. She
hated
guilt trips.

So where do we begin so we can get this over with? Hadassah thought. How does one help an ultra-Orthodox former class-mate, with whom one has not been on speaking terms for at least five years, with the most important decision of her life? “Soo, how’s your trip down? Found me okay?” She smiled brightly.

Tamar began to weep.

Hadassah got up and walked slowly over to her. “Do you want to talk… about… it?”

“
No! G-d, no!
Please, I can’t. Never!!” She shook her head vehemently. “It was so…” She shuddered. “No, I didn’t come for that. To talk about that. Please don’t ask me!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Here, take a tissue.”

“Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose firmly.

“Tamar, I’d like to help you. But what is it you want from me? Advice, encouragement, comfort?”

“I want you to tell me what you would do if it was you. And why,” she said slowly, with a great effort at control.

“But why me? I mean, why not Jen, for example? She’s like you. Religious. Besides, you were always closer to her.”

“I spoke to Jen this morning. She was so happy for me. She knows how long I’ve been praying for this to happen…”

“Praying? For
this?!
”

“To be pregnant. For a child. She doesn’t know about the rape.”

“You didn’t even tell Jen?” She sat down, pressing her steepled fingers nervously against her mouth. “Why? No, don’t
tell me. Because she’s one of you now, isn’t that right? Even though she’s in college, she’s moved into Orchard Park, so that disqualifies her.”

“Something like that,” Tamar admitted slowly.

“Look, you can do anything you want. But if you want to know what I think, I think you should let me call Jenny. She should be here with us.”

“
No!
G-d, I feel sick—” She ran to the bathroom.

Hadassah dug her sharply manicured nails into her scalp. Why had she agreed to this?! Why hadn’t she stayed in Hawaii? How long was this going to take, anyway? She wouldn’t want Peter walking in on it. She walked into her bedroom and closed the door. She dialed rapidly.

“Jen? It’s me. You’re never going to believe this…”

She told her everything. “Well, say something! . . . I don’t know. How would anybody be? She’s throwing up in my bathroom. And she wants me to tell her to have an abortion, to give her permission… No, I’m not really sure… Well, that’s what… No, I can’t handle it! You get down here and fast! . . . Well, I don’t care… just do it. You know how she gets…”

“Hadassah?” she heard faintly from the other side of the door.

“Gotta go… What’s the fastest time you can possibly make it, Jen? . . . Fine, I’ll keep her here. Hurry.” She hung up. “Feeling better, Tamar?”

“I think I better go. I think maybe this isn’t—”

“No, no, no. Don’t go, we have so much to… uhm… catch up with… old times,” she mumbled unconvincingly.

“You’ve never forgiven me, have you, for phoning my parents that night? I see that now. It’s been such a long time, and I did get invited to your wedding… I’d forgotten. But we were friends once, weren’t we? When we were little and during those Sundays at Jenny’s… And you saved me from Freda that Purim she called me the only ugly Queen Esther…”

“Sure we were friends. There were some good times… like I remember…” Hadassah began, but then got bored with it. “Admit it. You always thought I was the big snob, the spoiled rich, rotten,
apikores
. And when my family decided to bury me, you put in your self-righteous shovelful, too, didn’t you?”

Tamar stared at her, stricken.

“Hey, it’s okay. You were just behaving normally. I wouldn’t have expected anything else. And you know what? I don’t really care enough to be mad. So why don’t you tell me how it is I can help you? What is it you want from me, Tamar?”

“I want…” she began, when suddenly her mind went blank. She was so desperately tired, so glad to be off the subway and in a safe apartment house with a doorman, behind locked doors with windows fifteen stories up, and to have company, even if it was a reluctant Hadassah. “I’m so… exhausted. I was frightened on the subway the whole way I was coming to you…” Her eyelids drooped.