FICTION

neel

MARIA POLLACK

Special to The Jewish News

I

f you hold your breath
long enough, you can
almost see them, at the
edge of his shoulder,
ice-blue, silvered and
shining.
He pretends they're not
there. He walks about and
acts as if he were like any
other man.
During services, we wait
until he is called. We move
forward in our seats and peer
over the balcony. His singing
rises to meet us. The notes
rise and fall and rise again
like swallows. Both are lifted
up to God.
My mother says it isn't
right. Young women's minds
should not be on the singer. It
is the song that is important.
"You'll see," she says, "a
man like that will only bring
grief to your household." She
lifts the linen cloth into the
air and skillfully drops it on-
to the table — perfectly align-
ed and without a wrinkle.
Hers is a practiced hand. She
has an artist's touch.
"But Mama, he knows
almost as much about the
Ibrah as the rabbi!" In my ex-
citement, I drop one of the
Sabbath candles, which I've
taken out of the sideboard
drawer, onto the floor. It
cracks in half and rolls
underneath the dining room
table.
"Rachel, keep your mind on
what you're doing!" My
mother's voice is sharp. I
kneel down and pick up the
bits of candle.
She sighs. "Rachel, one day
you will see. It's important to
have a good husband, but not
the best. For what happens
when you are more than
blessed?" She shakes her
head. "Besides, people may
wish you other than what you
pray for when you are given
too many gifts."

I know she is remembering
my father. They say he was a
handsome man with quiet
ways and a scholar's mind. I
look up at her. I can see she
looks tired so I keep quiet.

love her back, I think.
And so it happens. They get
betrothed. During the service,
we throw candies and clap our
hands. The little ones rush up
afterward to collect the

and open and dazzling. They
were like an eagle's wings.
Feathers shimmered in the
sunlight and they reminded
me of the sea. Shots of silver
were mixed with emerald and

Be careful what you wish for;
it may be yours.

But at school, it's different.
My best friend, Sarah, talks
about him all the time. She
sees him three times a week
because her little sister,
Becky, is studying for her bat
mitzvah and he comes to their
house to give her Hebrew
lessons.
Sarah tells me she loves
him. She squeezes my hand,
but I say nothing. Her eyes
are blue flecked with gold and
her hair is wavy, thick and
black. My hair is brown and
my eyes are green. He will

sweets. My mother kisses my
cheek.
Just before they announced
their engagement, I went to
Rabbi Levy's house to deliver
a message for my mother.
Mrs. Levy is my mother's best
friend. They were girls
together.
He was there in the rabbi's
garden. But he didn't notice
me. Thinking himself very
much alone, he revealed
himself. He was staring out
across the mountains and
that's when I saw them — full

sapphire patches. They
changed and shifted in the
light. I wondered why he'd
want to come to earth and
pretend to be someone other
than who he was. Had he seen
her from far, far away? She is
that beautiful and sweet.

I hid behind a chestnut tree
and watched his face. For a
time, he looked as if he were
listening to some far off voice
calling him over and over
again. A shadow crossed his
face, touched his brow and

lingered there a moment.
That happens to my mother
at times.
Sarah is the most beautiful
bride I have ever seen. Her
mother has sewn tiny pink
and green stemmed satin
rosebuds down the sleeves of
her gown. Her father holds
her arm tightly. She cries as
her parents walk her down
the aisle. But he is there
waiting under the chuppah.
They will have their own
house, their own children. I
stand Text to my mother and
wonder if anyone will ever
love me.
When we were children,
Sarah always won at marbles.
-Before dropping them into
their small black-leather
pouch, she would roll her win-
nings, those lustrous
multicolored spheres of light,
in her palms. They would
make a soft knocking sound.
I would bite my lip and try
not to think. Those wondrous
balls with imprisoned blue
and sea-glass green shafts of
light would never be mine.

He breaks the glass and
they kiss. Now they can never
be separated in this life, just
as the glass can never be put
back together. They are hus-
band and wife. His eyes are
dark and filled with joy. She
waves to me as, on his arm,
she leaves the temple. Why
does she never have to feel
this way? I close my eyes and
darkness is there. I make a
wish.
Their baby is three months
old. She cries and cries and
cries. Perhaps she knows she
has no mother.The rabbi calls
him up to say Kaddish. I
never realized his middle
name was Duman, like the
angel who will appear before
us with fiery staff and ask for
an accounting of our lives.
Before he begins to recite
the prayer, he looks over at
me. His eyes catch mine, in all
their shame and sorrow. El

"LH F nFTROSUEVARFINEWS

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