Avigdor

I

t’s a good thing I don’t have to be anywhere for at least another four hours. I need some space. I drop Tali off and head to the edge of Brooklyn, to Potter’s Corner. This is one place nobody, and I mean nobody, knows about. Not even Moishe Katz who went with me to Minnesota and loves to garden.

The first time I made pottery was in camp, back when I was in bunk zayin, which means I must have been nine. The camp had just gotten a dozen pottery wheels and a large ceramic kiln— there had been some donation “to further campers’ artistic talents” and they couldn’t think of how else to blow that money. They even had a professional potter come and teach us how to throw clay. Most boys took that expression literally, and there were always clumps of clay flying in the air; we’d always head to the pool after our pottery sessions. But a few of us really got the hang of it.

I loved the way you had this boring lump of clay, and with just water and your hands, you could turn it into practically anything. It could be a vase or a pitcher, a bowl or a plate. While the other boys kept throwing the same vase all summer because they never had the patience to do it right, and the teacher wasn’t willing to fire a lopsided item, I made a set of four bowls. Each had the same basic shape and design but every one was unique.

I learned how to paint and glaze, figured out how to etch designs into wet clay, how to use my fingers to create small grooves that formed a delicate design around the bowl.

The potter told me that the grooves I was making were usually used on vases, not bowls. “Well, I want to put them on my bowl,” I told him.

He looked at me closely to make sure I wasn’t being fresh, and then said, “You’re right, boy. Who cares what people usually do? Chart your own destiny.”

I had no idea what “destiny” meant back then, but the line stuck in my brain.

When I got home, I presented the bowls to Mommy. “Oh, wow,” she said, “you made them yourself? They’re so… they’re so pretty.” I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was trying to figure out what on earth to do with them; they’d never look right in her breakfront overflowing with silver. She took them and told me she’d put them somewhere safe.

I saw them five years later. I was tackling the cavernous cabinet over the fridge for Pesach. They were on the top shelf, at the very back. I ran my fingers over the smooth glaze, the tiny ridges I’d spent hours creating. And I got this crazy itch to feel the clay spinning under my hands, to control every contour, to create whatever I wanted. I looked up pottery in the Yellow Pages, and that’s when I found Potter’s Corner. On foot it took me 40 minutes just to get there, so I could never stay long. But now, at 23, I have a car and a lot more freedom. I can make a few dishes and glaze a few more before my mother starts calling, wondering when I’ll be home.

I yank off my tie and stuff it in my pocket, wiggle into one of the smocks they keep in the corner. I’m in middle of creating a full set of dishes. Not that anyone I know will ever want them, but I’ve already made so many vases and jugs, I wanted to try something new.

Dishes can be tricky; I’m trying to get them thin and elegant, but also strong and firm. In no time, I’m hunched over the pottery wheel. It’s spinning, spinning, spinning, and with just the slightest pressure from my hand, I can change it all.

 

Tali

I

like day dates — no one is home when I get back, so I can just process on my own without needing to give a full report, without trying to sound enthusiastic enough to go out again if he says yes (I almost never say no), but diffident enough that if he says no my parents won’t be devastated.

I run upstairs, kick off my heels. I reach for the phone — Dina is waiting for my update — but then pull my hand back. I’m too scared to share. Too scared to tell her that I really like this guy but I’m nearly certain he’ll drop me because I come across as so pathetic.

Instead, I flop onto the floor and try to untangle my brain. But just then I hear the front door open, and Mommy singsongs: “Anyone home?”

Her voice has a weird pitch, as if she’s performing for someone, and I know that that means she must be with a social worker coming to discuss the placement of some kid who needs a home ASAP because his own home is falling to pieces. If things are crazy enough, the kid may even be with them right now, suspicious, terrified, and trapped, like a bird with a broken wing. I jump up, glance in the mirror, and bound down the stairs.

The kid is with them. Seems to be about seven, although some of these kids are so malnourished they look a lot younger than they really are. He’s trying to look defiant, but he’s failing miserably.

“Hi, there,” I say. “What’s your name?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Daniel, tell them your name,” the social worker says.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, “we can have a great time together even if I don’t know your name. Wanna come see our toy closet?”

The kid’s head bobs around as he tries to shake no and nod yes at the same time. I just head off to the playroom, and sure enough, he follows me.

Eventually, we’ll find out the horrors he went through. One day, he’ll open up, and tell me about a life no kid should ever have. Or maybe not. Some relative may swoop in and rip him out of our home in a month, a week, tomorrow.

But right now we’re playing Battleship.

As I carefully arrange my ships on the grid, an uncomfortable thought worms its way in, a pebble in the shoe of my brain. What would Avigdor think of a family that has random kids floating in and out of their home all the time? Worse, what would his mother think?

 

Avigdor

I

’m in my room, picking out a tie for our third date, when Mommy bursts in. “What time are you supposed to meet that girl?”

That girl… She makes it sound like Tali is a convicted murderer.

I glance at my watch. “Nineteen minutes,” I tell her. “I’ll be leaving in a few.”

“You can’t go,” she says, “this is wrong, all wrong.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t even know where to start,” she says. She flits around my room rearranging everything on the shelves. It drives me nuts, but I twist my fingers together and try to focus on what she’s saying.

“Maybe start at the beginning?”

She sinks onto the chair by my desk. Picks up the onyx paperweight I bought in Minnesota. Puts it down. “Remember how I had that awful flu last month?”

I nod.

“Well, I just couldn’t do the shidduch research I normally do. My head was fuzzy, and my throat was so sore, I sounded awful. It was embarrassing to call people. So I asked Tatty to do the research.” She’s quiet for a minute, groping for the right words.

“Tatty is a wonderful man. He works very hard to support us, he never misses his shiur, he gives a lot of tzedakah. So those are the kinds of things he looked for when he was checking out the Lewins. And all that was great. But… but… he doesn’t quite understand social conventions.

“Avigdor, I’ve been making some phone calls now that I’m feeling better. Did you know that the Lewins take in foster kids from who-knows-where all the time? There’s one in the house right now! Some barely religious kid with a crazy story living with them.”

That sounds fine to me, but I don’t think that’s what Mommy wants to hear, so I stay silent. “It gets worse,” she presses on. “One of their kids has problems. He’s in the remedial track in school. Avigdor, this may be genetic.”

“Ma, half the universe has a sibling with some kind of special needs. Suri would have been in such a program, if you and Tatty hadn’t hired a staff of tutors to get her through school.”

“Avigdor Dovid!” Mommy’s eyebrows are shooting dangerously close to her sheitel. I zip it.

“And if all that weren’t enough, do you know that her mother, who grew up in Kentucky, has a sister who isn’t frum? Her name is Kim and she’s a pilot with American Airlines!”

“Would Delta have been any better?” I ask.

“Avigdor!” Mommy never screams, but when her voice gets squeaky you know you’d better watch out. “This is your future we’re talking about. Marriage is forever! How can you marry a girl from a family like this?”

I look at my watch. “Ma, my date is starting in twelve minutes. I am not going to back out on her when she’s putting on her lip gloss. It would make her feel horrible, and it’s just not fair. Can we discuss this when I get home?” Ma is silent so I offer my final parry. “I’m sure Tatty would agree that this is what we should do.”

Mommy stands up and walks to the door. She turns around when she’s halfway out of the room. “You can go on this date, but keep it very pareve. This is not going to happen.”

***

I wasn’t trying to keep it pareve, but that’s the way it ended up. I was chalishing to ask Tali about the foster kid they have, but I wasn’t sure if it would be awkward for her. She said something about being tired because she had “needed to help her mother a lot in the past few days,” but didn’t take it any further.

So for two long hours we spoke about nothing.

I dropped her off, and she said, “Thank you so much, I had a lovely time.” I nearly said, “Did you really?” but caught myself just in time. Potter’s Corner closes at six, and I had already davened Maariv so I had no excuse not to head home.

I walked into the kitchen, hoping to find some leftover chicken nuggets from supper. Instead I found both my parents sitting at the kitchen table, untouched cups of tea in front of them. They both looked up as I came in.

“So how did it go, Avigdor?” Tatty asked in a too-cheerful voice.

“It was fine,” I said, trying to figure out where this was going.

“Do you want to meet her again?”

“Ummm…” I glanced at Mommy. She looked down. Tatty caught both looks.

“Avigdor, Mommy and I have been discussing this. The Lewins are a wonderful family. The fact that they give their son the help he needs and take in foster kids makes them more wonderful, not less so.” Tatty’s voice was low and firm. “And an aunt off the derech? It’s always tragic when a Yid loses his way, but we don’t reject a girl because of her aunt’s choices.”

Mommy was still looking down, tracing the pattern of the fleishig tablecloth as though her life depended on it.

“If you want to continue dating Tali, you can do it with our blessings,” Tatty concluded.

Great. Just great. I have their blessings — or at least Tatty’s blessings — but the thought of sitting across from Tali watching her take tiny sips of Diet Sprite for the next 50 years makes me feel panicky. Even if it eventually becomes big gulps of orange juice.

And yet, I have a sense that there’s someone inside her that I’d want to meet. But she isn’t showing me that someone. This is making me crazy.

I take the easy way out. “I appreciate that,” I tell Tatty, “but it won’t be necessary. I just don’t think this is going to work.”

Relief washes over Mommy’s face. Disappointment over Tatty’s. I bolt.

 

Tali

I

knew he’d say no.

Mommy looks sad when she passes on the message from the shadchan: “He really likes you, he just doesn’t think you’re right for each other,” which is shadchan talk for “He doesn’t like you at all, and doesn’t think you’d be right for anyone.”

The next few days pass in a haze of dull misery. I need to get away for a few hours, to think, but Daniel gobbles up most of our energy. He’s filled with rage, a bubbling cauldron that explodes at the slightest provocation.

I come home from work each day to find Mommy at her wit’s end and the house in shambles. I usually convince Daniel to go out with me. We drive to the park and toss a ball, hard. Or we run on the shady path around the perimeter of the park. We run and run until our sides ache and our breath comes in short spurts. Then we flop down and just sit. It’s the only time Daniel is calm.

Today, I come home to find the house empty. A note tells me that Mommy’s taken Daniel shopping. Finally, my chance to escape. I haven’t been to Potter’s Corner in months. But now, I need it so badly. I need to take an ugly lump of clay and turn it into something beautiful. I need to transform sludge into a vase or dish that will be delicate, yet strong and firm.

I park haphazardly, pound up the flight of stairs leading to the entrance. I burst through the door. And find myself assaulted with the noise of a dozen tweens hogging every single pottery wheel in the place.

What are they doing here on a Tuesday afternoon?

I take a second glance. A bunch of them are sporting micro-kippahs, little circles so small the bobby pin goes almost across the whole thing. And they’re singing some camp song.

Then I see something that makes my heart sink even lower. There are three yeshivish counselors with these kids.

One of them is Avigdor Waks.

He sees me a minute after I spot him. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to turn away and ignore me, but instead he comes over.

“You know how to make pottery?” he asks, as though he didn’t just tell the shadchan last week that he never wants to see me again.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“Look,” he says, “I know this is mega awkward, but we’re having this camp reunion for our kiruv camp from Minnesota—”

“Minnesota? You worked in a kiruv camp in Minnesota?”

“Yeah. I know, it wasn’t on the r?sum?… Anyway, these kids barely know they’re Jewish, and we wanted them to see what frum life is like in action. They just got in yesterday. We took them to Landau’s for Shacharis, that totally blew them away. And they’re supposed to go a yeshivah and get a brachah from a gadol tonight.

“But we can’t totally overwhelm them, so I suggested we do this in between. We asked Potter’s Corner to have more staff members on hand to help the kids out, but one of them called in sick and the closest the other counselors have gotten to clay is the Play-Doh cookies they made when they were five. So, um, do you think, maybe…”

If I were 12, not 22, I’d take a piece of clay and throw it at the guy. Who does he think he is? I’m not good enough for him to date, but when it comes to his good deed of the day, suddenly he wants my help. I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think, but suddenly I feel a half dozen pairs of eyes of me.

That’s all these kids need to see: how two Orthodox Jews undate each other. So I take a very deep breath, give him a twisted smile and say, “Sure, I’d love to help these kids make nice stuff.” Then I walk as far away from him as I can possibly get. A minute later I’m sitting with Jared, showing him how to put a little pressure on his vase, but not too much, or it will collapse.

For the next hour, all I see is gray clay and fumbling hands. I demonstrate and guide and encourage. The kiln is filled with misshapen vases. Then it’s time for the kids to leave for their next activity.

The place clears out. I sag against the wall. But one person says behind.

“The other counselors said they can manage the evening program by themselves,” Avigdor say. “I thought maybe we could make our own vases. Or plates. Or whatever.”

“Is this a date?” I ask him tightly. “Because as far as I know, I didn’t make the grade. I wasn’t good enough for Top Bochur of Brisk and Lakewood. And I don’t hang out with guys if we’re not actually considering marrying each other.”

“Hey,” he says, “don’t get so prickly. This wasn’t about making the grade, for heaven’s sake. I just didn’t feel like I was able to get to know you, you were kind of… frozen. Goodness knows, I tried. I gave you three dates, and—”

“Yay for Mr. Middos. He gave Frozen three full dates. Three strikes and you’re out. If you’re not a perfect dater, and, of course, a perfect person, then you’re out. Well, just for your information, I’m not perfect. And my family is even more imperfect. So you may as well go back to your campers and leave me alone.”

I try to sweep out of the room. I have to get out of here, to go back home to Mommy and Daddy, to Tzvi and Daniel too, to a place where people can be genuine. But there are pottery wheels all over, and I can’t get out gracefully.

He follows me. “I know,” he tells me. “I know all about your family. And it’s fine with me. Really. It could be that my mother—” He stops short, looks flustered.

“She can’t stand me, right?” I say, sick from the growing realization. “This isn’t the family she wants her son marrying into. What if my brother acted weird at the vort? What if we had a foster kid around during sheva brachos?”

“It would be hard for her,” he says in a very low voice. “And that makes me sad. But my father would be thrilled if I joined a family like yours.” He bites his lip and suddenly I see something vulnerable beneath the smooth exterior. “And I’m not willing to live like this anymore. I’m sick of always being told to look over my shoulder, to watch out for what other people will say or think. Who cares? I want to make the decisions that are real. And something tells me that you know how to do that, once you stop sipping Diet Sprite.”

“Real comes with a price tag,” I tell him. “Real means people talk about you and don’t want to date you and you have to fight tooth and nail to get the things other people have handed to them. And just for the record, I don’t even like Diet Sprite. But it’s the only drink that won’t stain if it spills.”

“Isn’t part of being real dealing with spills and stains?” he asks.

I want to tell him that it’s easy for him to talk; he has a family that cleans up the spills before they ever set into stains. But I stop.

“You’re right,” I say, “in theory. It’s hard in real life.”

We’re silent for a minute, and all I hear is the roar of the kiln and the steady whirr of a pottery wheel at the other end of the room.

“Want to tell me about it?” he asks.

I think for a long minute, then sit down by the pottery wheel to my left. He slides behind the one across from me. We each reach for a lump of clay. And we finally meet.

 

(Originally featured in Calligraphy, Succos 5776)