“Everything’s okay, honey. It’s just that your husband was brought in. He was in a car that spun out of control.”
“Don’t part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist but you have ceased to live”
Francois de Fenelon
Everything’s different tonight. For one thing, Shalom’s home early. Yes, he works on Chol Hamoed. Yes, we talk about it, or don’t talk about it, or scuttle around it until my words are like a coral-colored crab, coming at everything from the side. Tonight, though, he’s home at seven, instead of his usual 10:15.
Atarah emerges from her room and I drop a kiss on her forehead. She’s pale beneath the blush. The house is unusually quiet, the other kids all at their cousins. My sister has this thing for Succos sleepovers; tonight, it’s a heaven-sent blessing.
“Ready?”
A nod.
She’s going out for the first time tonight. The boy — a Yair Landstrom — sounded good through all our enquiries, as we poked through the words to find hints of trouble, or maybe even droplets of truth. A learner — not one of the sparkly, insecure types who asks questions to make the rosh yeshivah frown in concentration and who has a small following of chassidim. The solid, dependable type. Atarah needs that. She’s like Shalom. Besides, I couldn’t bear the thought of her going out with some firecracker of a boy.
Create a free account to keep reading.
