The Saturday Wife by Naomi Ragen Read Free Book Online Page B

the lifestyle until they could escape their parents’ clutches. He was simple in his faith, a sincere, Torah-observant Jew, a person who prayed and practiced, studied and struggled. A person who sometimes succeeded, sometimes failed, repented and tried again. And all through his growing years he eventually developed a trust that his faith would see him through every joy and sorrow. It didn’t always make sense to him, the myriad laws, the intricate web of custom and lore that ruled every minute of his life, but it felt comfortable, like an old house that has its creaks and leaks but nevertheless embraces one with its sheltering arms. As for God, He was a comfortable, familiar presence, someone who sat next to him on the couch when he watched television, and who jogged alongside him in the park.
    He never understood Maimonides’ God, that cold, far-off, unknowable Being, more an intellectual exercise than a Father, who had nothing to do with the heart. He believed in a God Who listened to phone calls, heard prayers and whispers, and was not above lending a helping hand when the occasion required it.
    Chaim was comfortable in his own skin, happy with his place in the world, the little niche he’d been born into. A poor imagination is sometimes a blessing. In Chaim’s case, it helped him to ward off frightening visions of a future full of fierce ambitions to accomplish outlandish scenarios in which he would be the main character.
    The idea of taking over from his venerated grandfather, someone he truly loved and respected and in whom he felt great pride, seemed preposterous. A rabbi? Someone who stood at the front and had all eyes glued to him? Someone others looked to for guidance and wisdom? He didn’t see himself as a do-gooder or a leader or even a politician, all of which he understood were invaluable qualities in a pulpit rabbi. He much preferred—and planned for—the simple life of the follower and had no doubt he would eventually discover a leader whose devoutness, charisma, and brilliance would shine out like a lighthouse, leading him in the right direction.
    His parents were satisfied. The last thing they wanted was for him to take over his grandfather’s annoying and penurious congregation of pensioners,who kept pennies in jars and cooked meals on one burner. His mother, who knew a thing or two, was especially appalled by the idea of such an un-American profession for her one and only son, a job that promised bad pay, no advancement, and plenty of aggravation. She wanted him to be a dentist, which in her mind lacked all such drawbacks. His father wanted him to be happy and, if possible, to sell stereo systems.
    At some point during his sophomore year in high school, he realized that math—necessary for both computers and accounting—was not his best subject. As for dentistry, he learned from a distant cousin, who had recently set up an office in Queens, that tuition to dental school rivaled that of medical school—that is, if you could get in, not a small question considering his grades. And even if you passed all the hurdles, you were still left with buying all that expensive equipment, unless you wanted to hire yourself out to an established office and work for someone else “forever for nothing,” as his cousin put it to him. The student loans and the bank loans for the machinery would take years to pay off. Besides, people’s breath in your face… the sound of the drill… the smell of those metals and powders and gummy pastes… ?
    The summer between his junior and senior year, another cousin found him a job up in the Catskills as a busboy at a strictly kosher hotel. He lied about being eighteen, so they hired him. It was a nice enough place for the guests, but the staff lived in ratty, mosquito-filled bungalows and were fed leftovers by hotel owners who took the epithet “cheap bastards” to a new level. The food first went to the adults. A day later, whatever the adults hadn’t managed to eat