sympathetically. “Here,” he said generously, whipping out a photograph of his darling Rivkie sitting on the bed of her dorm room with several girls. “It’s one of those.”
Chaim studied the photograph. He recognized the pale sweet face of Rivkie. His heart sank as his eyes ran over two similar girls—both dark-haired and excellent rebbitzin material, he had no doubt—but then he stopped, zeroing in on a blonde who looked into the camera with no smile at all. She seemed to be staring right at him. And there was no doubt about it: She was definitely a looker.
FOUR
H e went to Bernstein Women’s College that Saturday night. He shaved closely and, on his roommate’s advice, borrowed a nice blue sweater to wear over slacks, instead of his good Sabbath suit, which had a spill of schnaps on his lapel from that morning’s kiddush. His hair was combed back and neat, but not greasy. His eyes were eager.
“Chaim Levi for Delilah Goldgrab,” he told the housemother, who looked him over with a tentative smile of approval. Obviously, she had seen worse.
He sat on the sofa edge and fidgeted with the gray tweed upholstery beside other fidgeting young men, most of whom looked severe and distinguished in their black suits and homburg hats. Future sages of America, he thought miserably, cursing the little brat who had pushed passed him toward the pretzels and damaged his suit and probably his future.
Graduation and rabbinical ordination were just around the corner. He was eager to try out his skills with a congregation, feeling more and morecertain that this was his calling in life. His job applications needed to be filled out; otherwise he’d have no choice but to work in the Bronx for his grandfather. This was not his first choice by any means, but it was something he could fall back on; he felt fortunate to have it. Among his classmates, he knew, there were many eager applicants for the few assistant rabbi and teaching positions available in normal geographical locations around the country, classmates who were smarter, better qualified, and more articulate than he. Leaving the space for Spousal Information blank was a sure way to ruin his chances. Nevertheless, job or no job, he told himself, there were limits to what a man could force himself to do, what he should be expected or required to sacrifice. This certainly included giving up any hope of happiness by marrying a woman for whom he had no passion.
He’d searched diligently through the sacred texts for backup and enlightenment on this score. What he’d come up with was advice that ranged from: Rise up, my love, my fair one and come away. For, lo, the winter is past and the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; and the time of singing is come… My beloved is mine and I am his. To: And I found more bitter than death the woman.
It was confusing, Chaim thought, shaking his head, particularly since both sentiments were expressed by the same man, considered moreover to have been the wisest one of all, Solomon himself. Chaim’s teachers had sometimes taken pains to explain away the discrepancies by pointing out that Solomon had written these things at different stages in his life. Still, Chaim wondered about taking marriage advice from a man who’d had a thousand wives and hadn’t been happy with any of them.
He stared through the partition at the girls emerging from the elevator, all of them bright-eyed, attractive, and modestly dressed. Perky, he thought, depressed. He had been dating their clones for years. The sincere, “deep” conversations about the duties of Jewish parenthood and the sacredness of the home. And all the while, there was this subtle undercurrent of probing remarks designed to dig out how much money his parents had, where he expected to live, and if he would be learning full-time and expect her to be a Woman of Valor—breadwinner, bread baker, and baby-maker rolled into one obviously saintly package—or if he would
Chaim studied the photograph. He recognized the pale sweet face of Rivkie. His heart sank as his eyes ran over two similar girls—both dark-haired and excellent rebbitzin material, he had no doubt—but then he stopped, zeroing in on a blonde who looked into the camera with no smile at all. She seemed to be staring right at him. And there was no doubt about it: She was definitely a looker.
FOUR
H e went to Bernstein Women’s College that Saturday night. He shaved closely and, on his roommate’s advice, borrowed a nice blue sweater to wear over slacks, instead of his good Sabbath suit, which had a spill of schnaps on his lapel from that morning’s kiddush. His hair was combed back and neat, but not greasy. His eyes were eager.
“Chaim Levi for Delilah Goldgrab,” he told the housemother, who looked him over with a tentative smile of approval. Obviously, she had seen worse.
He sat on the sofa edge and fidgeted with the gray tweed upholstery beside other fidgeting young men, most of whom looked severe and distinguished in their black suits and homburg hats. Future sages of America, he thought miserably, cursing the little brat who had pushed passed him toward the pretzels and damaged his suit and probably his future.
Graduation and rabbinical ordination were just around the corner. He was eager to try out his skills with a congregation, feeling more and morecertain that this was his calling in life. His job applications needed to be filled out; otherwise he’d have no choice but to work in the Bronx for his grandfather. This was not his first choice by any means, but it was something he could fall back on; he felt fortunate to have it. Among his classmates, he knew, there were many eager applicants for the few assistant rabbi and teaching positions available in normal geographical locations around the country, classmates who were smarter, better qualified, and more articulate than he. Leaving the space for Spousal Information blank was a sure way to ruin his chances. Nevertheless, job or no job, he told himself, there were limits to what a man could force himself to do, what he should be expected or required to sacrifice. This certainly included giving up any hope of happiness by marrying a woman for whom he had no passion.
He’d searched diligently through the sacred texts for backup and enlightenment on this score. What he’d come up with was advice that ranged from: Rise up, my love, my fair one and come away. For, lo, the winter is past and the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; and the time of singing is come… My beloved is mine and I am his. To: And I found more bitter than death the woman.
It was confusing, Chaim thought, shaking his head, particularly since both sentiments were expressed by the same man, considered moreover to have been the wisest one of all, Solomon himself. Chaim’s teachers had sometimes taken pains to explain away the discrepancies by pointing out that Solomon had written these things at different stages in his life. Still, Chaim wondered about taking marriage advice from a man who’d had a thousand wives and hadn’t been happy with any of them.
He stared through the partition at the girls emerging from the elevator, all of them bright-eyed, attractive, and modestly dressed. Perky, he thought, depressed. He had been dating their clones for years. The sincere, “deep” conversations about the duties of Jewish parenthood and the sacredness of the home. And all the while, there was this subtle undercurrent of probing remarks designed to dig out how much money his parents had, where he expected to live, and if he would be learning full-time and expect her to be a Woman of Valor—breadwinner, bread baker, and baby-maker rolled into one obviously saintly package—or if he would
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