The Saturday Wife Read Online Free PDF Page A

clothes.
    Afterward, Yitzie was very romantic, very concerned. On the way back to Bernstein, he stopped a block away. There, in the shadowed alleyway ofan office tower, he held her close and kissed her just the way she’d always imagined in her fantasies. Yet, alone, sitting on her dorm-room bed, she felt a sense of deep shock and horror.
    She undressed and took a shower, fingering her body tenderly, as if it belonged to someone else, someone childish and vulnerable. She examined herself, her clothing, the dark blue skirt, the white lamb’s-wool sweater. She was not in any pain; still, the idea of what might have happened was profoundly terrifying to her.
    Was it a sin? she wondered. And if so, which one?
    She was free and single. And sex without marriage wasn’t actually forbidden anywhere, as far as she could tell, whatever blather they’d thrown at her in high school. True, she hadn’t gone to the ritual baths, but that was more Yitzie’s problem than hers, sin-wise. She began to calm down, soaping herself and standing in the downpour of lovely hot water until all her bad thoughts just washed away. It was just nature taking its course. She shrugged, a secret little smile curling her lips as she allowed herself to think, How lovely! How lovely! And now that they had done it (she began to convince herself of that fact, although she was by no means sure; it had all happened so fast, and she was so totally inexperienced), she was now certain, beyond a doubt, that chuppah and kedushin —a marriage canopy and a sacred wedding ceremony—were on the horizon, the next step for the two of them.
    She would be Mrs. Yitzie Polinsky, daughter-in-law of the renowned Torah sage Rebbe Menachem Polinsky of Crown Heights. And Yitzie? He would find his place in law or accounting or be taken in by one of his father’s wealthy Hasidim as a trainee and later a partner in some lucrative import-export business. There would be a lovely home in Jamaica Estates, one of those mock Tudors that Donald Trump’s father had put up and that were going for a million or more these days. They’d put in a swimming pool—she had to have a swimming pool—and beautiful Henredon French country-style furniture. She already had a scrapbook filled with ads for exactly the pieces she wanted. She’d have a large china closet filled with wonderful silver ritual objects, and all those creamy, gold-edged porcelain pieces made especially for Jews by Lenox: the seder plate, the kiddush cup, all of which would never be used and would pass untouched to her children, who would also never use them. She’d have a charge account in Lord & Taylor and Macy’s. And they’d have great sex and a house filledwith little yeshiva boys and pretty yeshiva girls. And everyone who’d been unkind to her in high school would eat their hearts out.
    So she didn’t object when Yitzie suggested another “party” at the same friend’s house. But this time, when they got there, he took out a camera.
    She stared at it. He kissed her and then started to unbutton her blouse. It was just that she was so beautiful, he explained rapidly. He wanted a picture of her like this, to always remember, for when they got old.
    The idea that he was thinking so far ahead into the future thrilled her. “You know, Yitzie,” she cooed, “we really should do something about this if we love each other so much. Why don’t we just get married?”
    She saw his eyes twitch as he continued to smile and fiddle with her buttons.
    Had he not heard her? she wondered, as she suddenly leaned out of his reach.
    He sat back. “What’s wrong?”
    “I asked you a question.”
    He made a sound like mmmmhummyeehmm.
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means you’re interrupting me.”
    She snatched the camera and threw it against the wall.
    “What the… ?” Yitzie jumped up. “That’s a Canon!”
    “I want an answer.”
    He was on his knees, gathering up the pieces, appalled. He looked at her, his eyes