ILLUSTRATION BY SANDY NICHOLS

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SANDRA HURTES SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH NEWS

fter five tumultuous the 10th day, however, I found
years in which I tried release as I hit the bottom of the
to turn the boy I fell in pit I had been steadily falling into
love with into the man and my self-inflicted torture came
my parents wanted to a grinding halt.
When my husband first
him to be, my husband
escaped into the night with a walked out, I wanted to believe
toothbrush and a warning: "I'll that I was better off without him
and that the differences between
be back for the stereo."
For the first nine days of his us were just too extreme. But I
departure, I would have taken knew better.
In trying to be my parents'
him back in a wink. The flow of
pain showed me no mercy as it good daughter, I allowed their ex-
touched each crevice of my mem- pectations to become my own.
ory, reminding me of all the times Rather than treasuring the dif-
I shouted at him, "I want a di- ferences in my husband, the very
reasons that I fell in love with
vorce."
The empty bed I crawled into him, I tried to extinguish them
each night sagged with the and make him someone of whom
weight of my loss. The mirror I my parents would be.
Every Friday night I marched
looked into laughed back in my
face, "See what you've done?" On him over to their house for Sab-
bath dinner, even if what we re-
ally needed was to relax or be
Sandra Hurtes is a New York-
with friends. On the Jewish hol-
based freelance writer.

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idays we adhered to my parents' boro he lit up and left cooking in
customs, rather than defining our the ashtray.
His worst fault, though, was
own.
Even though I would often that he tried, too, to turn me into
hear my mother's voice escaping someone else. His style was
from my lips as I carried on about flashy, and he wanted a woman
the shoes in the hallway, the who loved to party as much as he
socks on the floor, and the dish- did. He was the last one to leave,
es in the sink, I couldn't stop. My and I was the first one to point to
mother's criticisms were deeply my watch while yawning, "Can
embedded in me and became part we leave yet?" _
He played James Dean to my
of my own angry barrage at the
person closest to me — my hus- Pollyanna, and my untouched
body was irrevocably awakened
band.
Not that he was an angel. He by his wandering hands, with
had his faults, one of which was their refusal to stop when I
sitting in the bedroom for hours mouthed the word, no. His ag-
at a time to play the harmonica gression and conceit, so different
while listening to Leonard Cohen from my shyness and insecurity,
sing "Suzanne." When his bad lured me like a magnet. Togeth-
mood passed, he would step into er we were a perfect complement
the living room and reject the — he released me from my sweet
record I was listening to. "What's wholesomeness, and I quenched
for dinner?" he would ask, while his hunger for an anchor and a
I did a slow burn like the Marl- steady meal.

My mother loved to cook for
him, and before we married he
was a regular at my family's din-
ner table. He loved to be the cen-
ter of attention just like my
mother, and when I was seated
between the two I juggled them
as if they were balls in the air,
making sure that each one got his
and her share of the limelight.
The first time I shone brighter
than either of them was on my
wedding day. As I stood under
the canopy, the rabbi read the
blessings and then asked me, "Do
you take this man to be your hus-
band?" I looked at the man I was
about to promise to spend my life
with, and I started to laugh.
Everyone in the temple laughed
with me, but my soon-to-be hus-
band scowled down at me and
whispered, "You had to steal the
show." He was right. On my wed-
ding day I was sure of one thing