neared the synagogue, they began passing people they knew. “Good Shabbes,” they said, nodding. Some answered; some didn’t. In either case, they smiled.
“Good luck,” he whispered to her at the entrance, parting to make his way to the men’s section. She squeezed his hand, then let him go.
She climbed the stairs. For the first time she could remember, she felt it necessary to reach out for the banister, gripping it firmly as she put one foot in front of the other, pulling herself forward to a place she didn’t want to be.
When she opened the door to the women’s balcony, she was relieved to see that she had arrived early enough to find it almost empty. Most women—herself included—usually turned up about halfway through the service, just as the morning prayers concluded and the Torah portion of the week was being read. That way, they could use the reading time to catch up on the latest gossip before they needed to fall into respectful silence for the rabbi’s sermon.
Slowly, the pews around her began to fill.
The secretive, silent stares. She could feel them touch the back of her neck, then crawl down her spine with disgusting and electric swiftness, not unlike aroach scurrying down bare skin. Wherever she turned, she seemed to encounter them, like beams of high-intensity light aimed at the sky to warn away jets from skyscrapers.
Mrs. Garfinkel, who usually turned around to greet her, sat facing straight ahead. And Mrs. Finer, who sat behind her and never gave her the time of day, didn’t even bother to return her nod. Or was that what she usually did? Abigail suddenly couldn’t remember. Was it her imagination, she thought, or was the buzz in the women’s section an octave lower than usual? She felt raw and vulnerable, like an unbandaged burn victim anticipating pain from the very air around her.
Helen came in later than usual. She reached out and hugged Abigail, kissing her on both cheeks. “Be strong!” she whispered, leaning into her. Abigail breathed in the fragrance of her good perfume and her good fortune, a life without complications, a life in which it was so easy to be strong. Not that she begrudged Helen her life. She deserved it as much as or more than anyone. She was, after all, such a good person. She baked for the poor, visited the sick, and held fundraisers for weary domestic-abuse victims.
And I, Abigail thought, no longer have that scent. I smell of scandal and failure. I’ve been added to the “dontinvitem” list, a person to be avoided at all costs.
Joyce came in at her usual time. She walked with the slow caution and heartrending straightness of back that is the pride and achievement of the very old, each step a defiant rejection of lurking pitfalls. She had broken her hip last year, and now used a cane. She was a great-grandmother, a small, elegant European survivor, who wore lovely gold bracelets and earrings, and always dressed like mother of the bride. She said nothing, reaching out for Abigail’s hand and holding it the entire time. God bless her, Abigail thought, wanting to cry.
“It’s shameful, shameful! What is the world coming to? Your wonderful husband. How can they say such things? We all know it’s a lie. Really, Abigail, don’t let them get to you, my dear. They are always looking to pull down the best people. Let me know, whatever you need, my dear. Anything. Anything at all,” Joyce whispered during the rabbi’s sermon, ignoring all shushing.
In response, Abigail reached over and kissed her cool, papery cheek.
How simple, how natural were the words. It was what one expected in suchcircumstances from the people who knew you, words that carved in fine relief just how badly most of the people she knew had behaved.
“How was it?” she asked Adam, as they walked home.
He looked straight ahead. “Fewer people seeking free accounting advice… And the rabbi wants to speak to us right after the Sabbath. Isn’t that kind of him!”
“You think?”
“Good luck,” he whispered to her at the entrance, parting to make his way to the men’s section. She squeezed his hand, then let him go.
She climbed the stairs. For the first time she could remember, she felt it necessary to reach out for the banister, gripping it firmly as she put one foot in front of the other, pulling herself forward to a place she didn’t want to be.
When she opened the door to the women’s balcony, she was relieved to see that she had arrived early enough to find it almost empty. Most women—herself included—usually turned up about halfway through the service, just as the morning prayers concluded and the Torah portion of the week was being read. That way, they could use the reading time to catch up on the latest gossip before they needed to fall into respectful silence for the rabbi’s sermon.
Slowly, the pews around her began to fill.
The secretive, silent stares. She could feel them touch the back of her neck, then crawl down her spine with disgusting and electric swiftness, not unlike aroach scurrying down bare skin. Wherever she turned, she seemed to encounter them, like beams of high-intensity light aimed at the sky to warn away jets from skyscrapers.
Mrs. Garfinkel, who usually turned around to greet her, sat facing straight ahead. And Mrs. Finer, who sat behind her and never gave her the time of day, didn’t even bother to return her nod. Or was that what she usually did? Abigail suddenly couldn’t remember. Was it her imagination, she thought, or was the buzz in the women’s section an octave lower than usual? She felt raw and vulnerable, like an unbandaged burn victim anticipating pain from the very air around her.
Helen came in later than usual. She reached out and hugged Abigail, kissing her on both cheeks. “Be strong!” she whispered, leaning into her. Abigail breathed in the fragrance of her good perfume and her good fortune, a life without complications, a life in which it was so easy to be strong. Not that she begrudged Helen her life. She deserved it as much as or more than anyone. She was, after all, such a good person. She baked for the poor, visited the sick, and held fundraisers for weary domestic-abuse victims.
And I, Abigail thought, no longer have that scent. I smell of scandal and failure. I’ve been added to the “dontinvitem” list, a person to be avoided at all costs.
Joyce came in at her usual time. She walked with the slow caution and heartrending straightness of back that is the pride and achievement of the very old, each step a defiant rejection of lurking pitfalls. She had broken her hip last year, and now used a cane. She was a great-grandmother, a small, elegant European survivor, who wore lovely gold bracelets and earrings, and always dressed like mother of the bride. She said nothing, reaching out for Abigail’s hand and holding it the entire time. God bless her, Abigail thought, wanting to cry.
“It’s shameful, shameful! What is the world coming to? Your wonderful husband. How can they say such things? We all know it’s a lie. Really, Abigail, don’t let them get to you, my dear. They are always looking to pull down the best people. Let me know, whatever you need, my dear. Anything. Anything at all,” Joyce whispered during the rabbi’s sermon, ignoring all shushing.
In response, Abigail reached over and kissed her cool, papery cheek.
How simple, how natural were the words. It was what one expected in suchcircumstances from the people who knew you, words that carved in fine relief just how badly most of the people she knew had behaved.
“How was it?” she asked Adam, as they walked home.
He looked straight ahead. “Fewer people seeking free accounting advice… And the rabbi wants to speak to us right after the Sabbath. Isn’t that kind of him!”
“You think?”
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