Devout

Jody first approached me in early October, after our Canadian Women Writers class ended at three o’clock. I’d noticed her from the first day, a sweltering September Tuesday. Our classroom didn’t have desks, but long rectangular tables in a horseshoe configuration, so students could study each other as much as the course material. Jody was beautiful in looks, but even more so in the prepared, confident way she participated in discussions.

As I packed books and the thick course kit into my knapsack, Jody stood so close I could’ve touched her bare midriff. She dressed like most girls at university; I hadn’t expected to see other students practicing tzniut, modesty of dress, when I started undergrad three years ago. Their uniform was shredded jeans, sagging sweatpants, or leggings that colored, not covered, their anatomy. When I imagined myself wearing those clothes, an image of my outraged parents always followed.

“Hey, Rivka. Do you have another class now?”

I was elated that Jody knew my name. I rarely spoke during discussions.

“No. I’m done for today. “

“Wanna grab coffee?”

“Um … sure.”

Walking to the nearest campus Tim Hortons, I knew we were a mismatched pair. Jody donned a cropped sweatshirt and low-rise khakis. I wore my year-round attire: midi-length skirt and long-sleeved shirt covering my collarbone. Tights, regardless of temperature. Non-Jews sometimes mistook me for a Mennonite.

As we waited for our drinks, Jody talked about class, how she liked Atwood’s short stories better than her novels. We settled at the only available table, and she blurted, “I’m Jewish, too.”

My face must’ve shown my surprise. Jody laughed.

“But … I’m a really bad Jew. We’re talking working-on-Yom-Kippur bad,” she said. “Well, not the one three weeks ago, but only because they didn’t schedule me.”

Now I fought to keep my expression neutral.

She continued, “We’re talking eating-English-bread-pudding-during-Passover bad.”

My effort failed; my mouth dropped open. “Both your parents are Jewish?” Her surname, Rogers, made the paternal side seem unlikely.

“Yeah. My dad’s grandparents were Rothberg when they came over.”

“So …”

She shrugged. “We’re not good at religion.”

My black coffee felt too hot even through the cardboard sleeve, but I couldn’t use the restaurant’s non-kosher milk. Jody took a sip of her mochaccino.

“I couldn’t handle such strict adherence to Judaism, or any religion. But I admire people who can.”

My excitement at Jody’s friendliness deflated. Maybe I wasn’t a friendship candidate as much as an anthropological curiosity. Or maybe she saw me as an opportunity to unload guilt over her failed adherence to our supposedly shared faith.

She didn’t know the turmoil beneath my appearance.

Jody continued. “I’m not putting you on a pedestal. It’s just, it’s hard to make friends in a big university, or you do and then your schedules change. I thought I’d see if you wanted to hang out sometimes after Canadian Women Writers, grab coffee, whatever. Sometimes I go downtown to shop. But no pressure.”

“Yeah. I’d like to.”

* * *

Opening the front door, I heard an unfamiliar male voice coming from the living room. My mother called out, “Come meet David.” It seemed another unwelcome suitor — unwelcome to me, certainly — awaited. Anxiety thick as syrup coated my insides.

The past year, my parents kept bringing up the subject of marriage. They saw it as the appropriate next step after university or even while I was still in school. I also imagined they were scared, after what happened with my sister Meri. My mother had a friend who liked to play matchmaker, knew lots of young men, or so she said, and encouraged me to meet with her. When I’d expressed disinterest, I’d hoped that would be the end of it. Instead, my parents were taking it upon themselves.

I took off my shoes, placed them on the boot tray beside the front door, and carried my knapsack to the living room. My feet dragged despite the smoothness of my tights against the broadloom.

The guy was my age, wearing a black suit tailored to his medium frame. He sat at one end of our leather sofa, and my parents, at the other, smiled too big when I appeared. On the coffee table was a tray of the kosher iced sugar cookies my mother always ordered for entertaining.

A beat too late, the young man stood up for me. The faux pas showed in his nervous grin.

“Nice to meet you, Rivka.”

My “Hi” came out dusted with the disinterest, but then I felt bad; he’d come here thinking he’d meet a marriage-minded girl. “Nice meeting you,” I added. David sat down.

My mother spoke fast, saying how David and I had “so much in common,” like we were the only people in the world reading literary fiction. David’s teeth were so yellow they encroached on orange. What did he do — or not do — to have that color at his age?

I’d been equally uninterested in the guy my parents trotted out last month, though his teeth were nice. But he was nine years older, something that deeply troubled me.

“It’s good when the woman is younger,” my mother had said after the 30-year-old left.

Good for whom? Resentment and fear had log-jammed my mind. My youth as a commodity for childbearing. A much older man laying claim to me when the reverse wouldn’t be allowed.

“We’ll leave you and David to talk,” my mother said now.

“Apologies, David, but I’ve got important reading for tomorrow,” I said quickly, hoisting my knapsack neck high. In my room, I flung the knapsack on my bed and lay down, eyes to the ceiling. A few minutes later, I heard David leave.

* * *

“David loved the cookies. I gave them to him to take home,” my mother told me at dinner.

He shouldn’t eat sugar. Did you not notice his revolting teeth?

With a tiny edge of impatience, my father said, “Bubbeleh, David’s a respectable young man.”

“No doubt. But I’ve told you I’m not ready for marriage.”

“January, you’re 22. That’s old enough.”

“I don’t feel it.” I had trouble swallowing my next bite.

“It’s not a feeling. You just do it when it’s time. You wanted university, you got university, and now you’re almost done. What’s the logical next step?”

“A job.” Reaching across him for the plastic Diet Coke bottle, I emptied the remaining liquid into my glass.

“If you meet someone now, you could be married in the spring,” my mother said. “Perfect time, before it gets too hot.”

I’m not Chana, I’m not Eli, I’m not Ari. “Make wedding plans while I’m drowning in exams and essays?”

“Your mother will handle everything. Please give David a chance.”

Taking a too-big gulp of my drink, I coughed as carbonated liquid stung my nose. “Please … stop. Stop.”

What would happen to me after graduation, if I continued to resist marriage? As I waited for the pain in my nose to subside, the words of the enraged Capulet threatening Juliet popped into my head: “But, as you will not wed, I‘ll pardon you: Graze where you will you shall not house with me…Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.”

* * *

I have four older siblings: two sisters, two brothers. Chana, married at 19, had her first baby 11 months later. At 30, she had five kids and was again expecting. Eli was almost 29, an accountant who had two sets of twins with his wife; they said they wanted “a couple more.” Ari, at 23, was studying to be a rabbi. He married Wendy, a Reform Jewish girl who became Orthodox, though she sometimes confided in me how much she missed Burger King and Halloween. Only a year my senior, she’d recently announced her second pregnancy. Devotion to Orthodox Judaism fulfilled Chana, Eli, Avi, and their families. They were extremely happy.

Meri was different. She left. She said she changed her name from Miriam because even that never felt right. My parents did phone her on her 27th birthday in June, but Meri told me there was no gift, hadn’t been since she moved in with Kate four years ago. It was rare, but not unheard of, to do what Meri did; it was called going off the derech, off the path. My parents were not so dramatic, so vengeful, to mourn her as if she’d died, something I’d heard of Orthodox parents doing. But I was the only family on Meri’s side at her and Kate’s city hall wedding last year. At the celebratory dinner, I ate a kosher meal Meri’d had delivered to the seafood restaurant.

I visited Meri and Kate with a frequency best kept from my parents. They thought I was having regular dinners with an Orthodox friend; in reality, I hadn’t talked to that girl since high school. I loved my parents, loved the Jewish life they’d given me, loved my siblings, loved waking up Friday mornings in giddy anticipation of the Shabbat family dinner, the self-reflection of the autumn high holidays, the perpetual childhood joy of Channukah, Purim, and Sukkot. Every time I stepped into our synagogue, I felt familiarity and belonging. I loved to learn, and Judaism was a scholarly faith requiring extensive study beyond simple belief. When I graduated from my religious high school, my parents agreed I could go to university after previously saying no. I believed that their change of heart — or change of mind — was somewhat related to Meri. They’d give me some space but were greatly concerned the secular world would dilute my faith.

It was true that on campus there was so much temptation, so many enticing experiences beckoning. Forbidden fashions, forbidden foods, dating based only on attraction and, yes, sex outside of marriage, the most forbidden thing of all. I maintained my “goodness,” at least in behavior. The non-Orthodox Jewish world was forbidden fruit waiting to be tasted.

* * *

Simply put, being around Jody was fun. Her sense of humor was sardonic but not mean, with no shortage of sex jokes which, to my relief, I understood. She dated both guys and girls, spoke of “very chill” parents and a grandmother who “understands me completely.”

When Jody didn’t have to work after our twice-weekly class, we usually got coffee and then went for a long walk around the campus or sometimes to a cheap, early movie. I told my parents I was spending after-school time with a new Jewish friend. That was entirely true, and I always got home by eight.

Wherever we went, people stared at Jody but seemed to look right through me. I hoped it was only due to my modest dress. I wanted to believe I was desirable, capable of attracting someone when the time felt right.

One afternoon, Jody said she needed new, pre-distressed jeans because the hole in another pair got so big one leg ripped off. “Maybe I’ll go for smaller holes this time,” she said as we rode the subway to a downtown department store.

I stood nearby as she examined racks of jeans that, to me, only varied slightly in color or width. Once she’d selected five possibilities, I told her I’d wander around while she was in the change room.

It was early November, and the other side of the store’s fourth floor was a glittering field of green, red, gold, and silver. The beauty was undeniable. As I walked closer, I heard the uplifting holiday music, a siren song for shoppers. I passed between two eight-foot-tall toy soldiers acting as the entrance to the wonderland. Ornaments gleamed, strung lights shone, and heavily bedazzled Christmas trees reached nearly to the ceiling.

It was well organized, too; there were themes. Hanging signs rimmed with faux icicles read Nutcracker Notions, Ever-A-Green Christmas, Santa’s Sleighbells, Canadian Christmas Cabin, and Dandy Dickens. Train sets, sparkling tree-top angels, plush penguins and polar bears, skating and ballet dolls, and miniature Victorian villages begged to be coveted and bought. Many things were so pretty I couldn’t resist touching them.

After some wandering, I found the Channukah section, which was about five percent of the department. It didn’t have a kitschy name, just a corner to itself. On offer was a small selection of metal menorahs on a glass shelf and a rack of dreidels in bubble packaging. The greeting cards were exclusively blue and white. I pictured non-Jewish store buyers, young or young-acting, congratulating themselves on their “diversity.”

Meri and Kate had a holiday tree every year; Kate had been raised Anglican. The first December I’d visited, it felt weird even sitting close to the tree. While Meri had fashioned a chain of Star of Davids from aluminum foil, the other decorations were for Christmas. But now I was much more comfortable visiting in December.

In the homey Canadian Christmas Cabin section, I fingered a palm-size cabin ornament of real wood. Painted-on snow covered the roof, and a teeny front door really opened. But for the loop of red thread attached to the top, you wouldn’t know it was a Christmas ornament. A tiny cabin hardly spelled out Christianity, and I loved its cozy, welcoming vibe. Heart pounding, I decided to buy one for Meri and Kate. Then, I grabbed a second, identical ornament and hurried to the checkout desk.

* * *

The Christmas department reappeared in my mind at inopportune times: during class lectures, when I talked to Jody, at home at dinner. Each overseas-manufactured trinket was like non-kosher food — easily available but off limits to me.

In a dream, I was being married in an Orthodox synagogue, standing under the chuppah. My husband-to-be had his back to me, so I never saw his face. As the rabbi spoke, Christmas decorations covered the canopy of the chuppah, so many that it sagged. The four staves supporting the canopy sprouted tinsel and strings of candy canes. I woke with a jolt, ashamed my subconscious could even conjure such a thing.

* * *

Meri buzzed me into her building. I climbed the steep staircase covered with worn-out broadloom to her and Kate’s second-floor apartment.

“Pepperoni pizza tonight,” Meri teased, meeting me at the door.

“Ha ha,” I replied as she hung my coat and knapsack in the closet. I handed her a reuseable bag with two bottles of her favorite organic orange juice.

“Dairy, actually,” she said. That meant bagels, cream cheese, tuna salad, and egg salad. Meri’s kitchen wasn’t kosher; my parents wouldn’t have eaten there no matter what she served. But I was used to keeping kosher in non-kosher environments and appreciated how Meri always bought kosher food for me.

Kate, setting the table, grinned hello to me. An IT specialist, she earned much more than Meri, who did administrative work for a nonprofit theatre. But Meri insisted on splitting expenses, so they’d remain in their modest apartment until they saved the down payment for a house.

After dinner, we relaxed on the living room sofa. Meri rested her head on Kate’s shoulder, making me feel proud that they felt they could be themselves around me.

“How are they,” Meri asked, referring to our parents. They only spoke with Meri a few times a year. I didn’t know how much contact Meri had with Ari and Eli and never asked. Chana estranged herself from Meri for “tearing ima and aba’s hearts out.”

“Trying to marry me off. They think it’s time.” Because my voice cracked on the last word, I took a deep breath.

“Partly because of me, no doubt,” Meri said. Kate looked sad. “They’re worried about another kid going off the derech.”

“Marriage is scary,” I replied. “To instantly go from daughter to wife. Then, a year later, mother …”

The next thing was hard to say, because I’d never said it out loud: “I’m not sure I even want kids.”

“You’ll contribute to the world in other ways,” Kate said quietly. But she didn’t know my family’s devotion to our faith.

At school, I was surrounded by students with the luxury of options. They studied everything from engineering to acting. Summers, they backpacked around countries I’d barely heard of. They graduated and took jobs in office towers or on tree farms or teaching English overseas. They never spoke of marriage but of partnerships based on attraction and common interests.

I remembered their gift that was in my knapsack. I got up, hurried to the front hall, and returned with the ornament. Meri sat upright. Kate looked almost as surprised.

“Riv … wow. You bought us a Christmas decoration?” Meri reached for the ornament.

“I thought it was nice. It doesn’t seem too Christian.”

They both laughed. “It’s winter-themed,” Kate agreed. “Love the natural wood.” She passed the cabin ornament to Meri, who traced her fingers around the edges.

“You know,” she finally said to Kate. “This is the kind of house we want. A cozy little place where everyone is invited.”

An hour later, waiting at the bus stop outside Meri and Kate’s apartment, I thought of the other cabin ornament I’d purchased, hidden under my bed.

* * *

The next morning, Mom asked if I was coming home right after school. I said yes, thinking nothing of it, but as I was leaving the house, I heard her calling the kosher bakery for a same-day order of sugar cookies.

I tremored with fear and fury all day, barely able to eat lunch or pay attention in my three classes. When Canadian Women Writers finished, I told Jody I was going downtown to shop. She was heading that way, she said, but had to work.

“What are you shopping for,” she asked me on the subway platform.

“I’m not going home right now. I think my parents are trotting out another marriage prospect.” They’d be angry when I pulled a no-show, but I coulkd made up excuses. Transit delay. Had to research a paper I forgot was due. A classmate asked for help.

“Jesus,” Jody said. “I haven’t even decided which gender I prefer. Or if I should go straight into an M.A. program or take a gap year to work.”

The subway roared into the station. In the thundering noise, not even Jody heard me cry out, “Don’t make me get married,” to my absent parents. The breeze from the train rustled my hair around my shoulders, the hair I’d be expected to shave off and cover with a wig when I became a wife.

* * *

In the Dandy Dickens section, I added a plastic model of six cherry-cheeked, Victorian carolers to my shopping basket. I’d already selected a hand-sized Santa figurine donning red velvet, a package of toy soldier ornaments in candy-colored uniforms, and a box of green and silver ball ornaments from Santa’s Sleighbells.

In Nutcracker Notions I set my basket on the floor to examine a boxed Sugar Plum Fairy doll. The costume exposed a woman’s body in an unthinkable way, according to my upbringing. The tutu’s horizontal layers of tulle couldn’t cover the doll’s long legs and arms; the satin leotard was a second skin over its torso and bottom. My parents wouldn’t have let me become a ballerina. Though I’d never had the aspiration, that thought increased my anger. About ten inches high, the doll was $69 before tax, and I added it to my basket. I’d use my remaining textbook money for this semester. Ignoring the Channukah section, I walked to the checkout desk.

* * *

I nearly crashed into the young man exiting through our front door as I was coming in. We made quick eye contact, then he stepped around me and pounded down the porch steps.

My arms shook as I lowered my loaded knapsack to the floor.

My parents stood at the entrance to the living room. On the coffee table behind, the sugar cookies were on their usual tray.

“You said you were coming right home.” My mother’s low voice was scarier than shouting.

My father added, “Benjamin waited two hours.”

A pretend excuse would only make this happen again. I carried my knapsack to my bedroom, slammed the door. Unzipping the bag, I took out my haul, laying everything on my bed. Crouching to retrieve the cabin ornament underneath, I started decorating.

I leaned the Santa figurine against my computer monitor. The Sugar Plum Fairy doll had a metal stand so, after fluffing the tulle tutu flattened by the box, I set it on my dresser. The cabin ornament and the Victorian carolers went beside it.

There was no place to hang the dozen ball ornaments and toy soldiers. Thinking fast, I arranged the soldiers, standing, in a semi-circle around my computer. As my father opened my bedroom door, something I couldn’t remember him ever doing, I dotted the glass ball ornaments over my bed pillows.

He was aghast, his expression frightening.

“What is this … dreck … in my house? What’s wrong with you?”

My mother appeared beside him. Her eyes widened, then watered. After a moment, they walked away.

* * *

In December, I hung the glass ball and toy soldier ornaments on Meri and Kate’s tree. Their cabin ornament took the place of a star while the Victorian carolers and Santa figurine went on the top shelf of their living room credenza. I had decided to keep the Sugar Plum Fairy doll and my cabin ornament; they remained on my dresser. My parents didn’t comment. I saw my mother put the cookie tray in the storage cupboard and hoped matchmaking attempts were over.

That afternoon, sunset would usher in my favorite holiday. I invited Jody, whose family didn’t celebrate Channukah, to be with mine. Maybe she’d decide a little Judaism in her life was okay. Maybe my parents would see options for me besides early marriage. Jody and I were already talking about being roommates after graduation. I was terrified of my parents’ reaction if I moved out. But I knew of an apartment building with wonderful neighbors.