The beginning, once you get past that rock-jamming intro to when I’m already a black-and-white yeshivah bochur, is when I met Miriam. Miriam was everything I never believed I would be lucky enough to get in a wife. She appreciated the holy, but had the knowledge, skill, and confidence, not to mention emotional backing of a family long secure in its place in the community. Why she wanted someone like me I didn’t dare ask, just thanked Hashem for creating me the luckiest guy in the world, and walked down to that chuppah floating on a swirl of song.

A year later, I was a father — the most glorious feeling in the universe.

Something about becoming a father grounds you like nothing else can, and while my new BT friends were still in the beis medrash, I suddenly had my sweet little Devorale to think of, a tiny precious life depending on me alone to provide for her. From the moment she came into this world, Devorale’s chubby chin and cheeks and, oh, that little smile! resonated deep in my soul, and I knew I would do anything, anything in the world for this little girl, until the day I died.

Miriam laughed at my sentimentality, but urged me, if I was set on leaving yeshivah, to do something practical. I, who’d never done a blessed practical thing in my life. How my parents wept with joy when I told them I was becoming an accountant. “You’ve finally made us proud, David.” It almost made up for the crazy lifestyle I’d chosen to lead.

Truth is, I kinda felt proud of myself, too. Look at me, look how mature I’d gotten, while Ol’ Scar and Jimbo were still leading the lives of overgrown adolescents. And if, as the years went by and I started working, the music in my life became fainter, became choked away with the strangling columns of numbers and endless fine-print tax laws, well, that was to be expected for a practically middle-aged man laden with the responsibilities of responsible life. Besides, it was still there, playing in the background if I strained my ears to hear it, and sometimes it even burst forth into actual, living melody. Like at the births of each of my children, or at milestones like upsherens, bar mitzvahs, graduations.

And always, there was Devorale, sweet, precious Devorale, who’d caught the musical bug from her old Dad. From a young age, she would sit herself down in front of our semi-grand piano, the one Miriam never failed to grumble about for taking up half our living room, and pick out chords with the instinct of a natural-born. Together, we would play and sing, and the song we composed from those earliest sessions — a song about a father’s love for his daughter, about his deepest dreams for her — became our song, father and daughter, and filled me with something so profoundly pure and real.

But years do their thing, and the loving girl of four, six, and eight, who can think of nothing more supremely delightful than to play duets with Daddy, becomes a girl of 14, 16, 18, and Dad becomes relegated to someone you blush from, roll your eyes at, and finally — as teenage-hood begins to show blessed signs of fading — smile at fondly, and maybe even humor with a song or two, as your eyes dart sideways and forward to your next stage of life.

That’s not to say Devorale ever lost her love for music. But it was her friends she’d sing with now, her high school and seminary performances that carried the sweet strains of her song.

And then came the day that, deep in our hearts, fathers dread most of all.

“Mrs. Silver called this morning,” Miriam announced one deceptively ordinary day as I came home from work. Her eyes were dancing, and I knew Mrs. Silver’s phone call was supposed to elicit deep feelings of joy, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out who the woman was. A relative? Neighbor? Cautiously, I said, “Oh?” trying to hit the proper note of pleasure and curiosity.

But Miriam just shook her head at me. “The shadchan,” she explained, and her face was alight as she explained that this celebrated Mrs. Silver actually called to ask if our Devorale was going out yet. Imagine that.

I frowned and tried to make my voice sound steady and reasonable, though my insides were growling at this busybody shadchan — didn’t she realize my Devorale was still a young girl, barely past the doll-playing, chubby, hand-holding age? “You told her no, of course,” I said.

Miriam sighed, and when she sighs in that way, with the wind whistling through her gritted teeth, I know I’m in trouble. The thing with Miriam is, she’s tone deaf in the classic sense of the word, but she has a rhythm of her own that she runs her life by, and it’s a rhythm so completely different from mine, that it’s taken me years and years to pick it up. But as my own music has faded, I’ve learned not only to listen to her beat, but to march to it.

Which is all a fancy way of saying that my Devorale started shidduchim.

And it was just about that time that Scar and Jimbo walked back into my life.

Song of Miriam

I have never met a man as head-in-the-clouds as my husband. If I weren’t here to plant his feet on the ground, he’d probably be floating someplace over Greenland half the time. I’m always astounded at how long he’s managed to keep his accounting job — Heaven knows, in those early years he threatened to quit often enough, and that was when they weren’t threatening to fire him. But, baruch Hashem, something convinced him to plod on — not to say it was me — and today he’s still with Mr. Bart. His salary could be better, of course — my friend Rivky’s husband is making triple David’s income in his own CPA practice — but I’ve learned not to complain. Complaining doesn’t put food on the table or get the laundry folded or the kids to school on time. It gives you no benefit in any practical sense, and I’m nothing if not practical.

Heaven knows, we need someone around here who is. I shudder to think what our house would look like if David were in charge. Singing kumzitzes and playing, who knows, Tchaikovsky half the night. Funny that two such different people should end up married. But, boy, does he need someone like me. And I’m honored to serve my role.

Take this whole shidduch business, for example. David thinks it’s utter nonsense. He thinks we should leave things up to Hashem rather than, as he puts it, force His hand by rushing to shadchanim and doing what any normal person would term proper hishtadlus. Of course, if you ask me, what he really wants is that Devorale should live the rest of her life playing piano with him right here in our house, Daddy’s little girl for all eternity. But what he says, whenever I bring up the topic, is that his daughter is not for sale, and that he’s not willing to mortgage his life away paying for some entitled spoiled brat who thinks marriage is a business transaction, and that any young man who can’t appreciate Devorale’s priceless value without thousands of dollars of support thrown in isn’t worth the dirt she stands on — and on and on. As you can imagine, it’s a subject he has a lot to say about, once you get him started. And so I’ve learned not to, and to just quietly do my own thing. Devorale and I have been going to shadchanim, trying to get the ball rolling, and I see what my dear, head-in-the-clouds husband refuses to see: that there are so many beautiful, priceless girls out there, and a lot of them are having a hard time getting dates. Devorale included.

Over the years, I’ve put away some money in my own private account — David, bless him, doesn’t know how to hold two coins at a time in his pocket. You’d think being an accountant would’ve trained him in saving, but I guess that’s not if you’re a mediocre accountant.… Anyway, I do have some money saved up, which I plan to offer for Devorale’s support, but it’s not nearly enough, not enough to get any decently serious learner, which is what she wants. And I’m tearing my hair out over this, trying to come up with ideas, while David goes around whistling his pop Jewish songs like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

And then, one day, he comes home, and he has a funny look on his face.

“You’ll never believe who I met today,” he tells me, pausing for drama.

I’m in the middle of folding laundry, and have no patience for games — if you want to tell me something, then tell me — so I say, “Nu?”

“Jimbo, my old buddy from before I became frum. We used to play together, had a little rock band thing going in his parents’ garage.”

“Jimbo?” I ask.

“Well, his real name was James, but, you know, he wanted to take on the rock star persona. I had another buddy, Scar, whose real name wasn’t Scar, of course, either — I don’t remember what it was — and back in high school the three of us would jam away on afternoons and weekends, making a lot of noise and pretending we were headed toward superstardom.”

David laughs as he says it, but he has a faraway look in his eyes, as if he’s yearning for those carefree days of childhood. I don’t like what I’m seeing, and so I clear my throat briskly and say, “What was this Jimbo fellow doing at Bart’s accounting firm?”

David blinks. “That was the wild thing. I’d had a meeting set up today, new client, named James Egbers, and, of course, the name doesn’t ring any bells — why should it? And then, suddenly, in walks this guy, dressed exactly like your idea of a slick Hollywood man, and I blurt out, ‘Jimbo?’ He’s totally shocked — does, like, three double-takes — but at last he says, ‘Davey, is that you?’ And a second later, we’re giving each other bear hugs, right there in my office.”

I feel a tightness growing inside. I don’t like the sound of this.

David continues, and I can see he’s really revved up about this encounter. “Wouldn’t ya know it, ol’ Jimbo has actually fulfilled the dream. He and Scar, they kept at the music, taking on new members after I left, and built themselves up to where they started getting small-time gigs, then big-time gigs, and now he’s producing records. Making serious money, from the look of his tax returns. He was looking for a new accounting firm, for whatever reason Bart was recommended to him, and there we were.”

I watch David carefully, as I wait for him to go on. I can tell there’s more.

“So we’re talking, and he’s laughing at me over the fact that I’m an accountant. ‘An Orthodox Jew, well, you always had that heebie-jeebie spiritual side to you,’ he says. ‘But an accountant? Not in a million years could I have imagined that. Tell me the truth,’ he says. ‘Was this, like, some sort of initiation requirement for joining the fold? You know, get a good Jewish job?’ ”

David picks up a T-shirt I’ve already folded and begins playing with it. “Miriam, I felt so…I can’t describe it. Ashamed. And I somehow found myself defending who I am, telling him that I’m still a musician at heart, that I’ve even been composing over the years. And he tells me to sing him one of my songs, and somehow — I don’t know what got over me, I think I just wanted to sing him my best, like I felt it was the honor of G-d at stake here, or some such meshugas of mine — and I found myself singing mine and Devorale’s song. You know, ‘Song to My Daughter.’ And Jimbo is sitting there listening, and he has his eyes closed, and before I know it, he’s offering to buy it, and quoting me a really nice figure, too.”

For the first time in this conversation, I perk up. “Whaaat? How much?”

David shakes his head. “What does it matter? Of course, I said no.”

“No? Why’d you say no? David, we need the money!”

He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Like I would ever defile the sacredness of that song by selling it to the entertainment industry? It would be like — like selling my soul!”

I roll my eyes. He can get dramatic, my husband. Especially when he’s being morally high-handed.

“I don’t know, it sounds like a real opportunity to me,” I say. “One could almost call it Hashgachah pratis. I mean, what are the odds, an old buddy who struck it rich suddenly turning up again in your life, by ‘chance’?”

He stares at me. “Miriam,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining something to a two-year-old. “You’ve lived your sheltered life, you have no idea what the entertainment industry is like. Jimbo wants my song, but I can bet you he’ll change the words, and it won’t be about praying to G-d. And, who knows, he might sell it to a movie or TV show — that’s the way the business works. How would you feel knowing my song — the song that I’d planned on singing under Devorale’s chuppah — would be the background for some Hollywood movie?”

“Singing under her chuppah?” I ask suspiciously. A painful image of David crooning his love for baby Devorale in front of hundreds of guests floats into my mind.

He squirms. “Well, you know, the tune at least, to “Mibon Siach” or something…that’s not the point here.”

“The point,” I say, deliberately, “is that there isn’t going to be a chuppah if we don’t somehow come up with some extra money. Just the other day, Mrs. Silver—” Too late, I realize my mistake.

“Mrs. Silver? What does that nudnik have to say? All she suggests are designer-label boys with hefty price tags.” He laughs at his own not-very-funny joke.

I sigh and fold silently for several moments. At last, deciding it is high time we have this discussion anyway, I say, “Now that we brought it up, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.…”

Song of David

Surprises are everywhere, I’ve come to discover, especially when you have women in your family, and while I only have two, between Miriam and Devorale I have more than my share, thank you. How like that pair, going behind my back, looking into this boy and that boy while old David just goes about his business, blissfully blind, plugging away at my numbers as if that’s all I need to bother my little head about in the world.

That night, after dinner and the boys have been tucked away, I sit down at the piano in the living room and invite Devorale to come join me. I need to figure out how to broach this topic just the right way, as if I’m a cool Dad in the know, though both of us know that I’m as out as out can be. But I’ve always had my girl’s confidence; at least, I did before I started being — what were Miriam’s words? — “stuck in a time warp, unreasonably trying to prevent her from growing up.” Well, you ask me, there ain’t nothing unreasonable about it, but I hear it, and so I sit down and begin playing that song, our song, just to create the right ambience, and ask Devorale, ever so casually, what’s this I hear about a certain Shimon Schild. I smile as I say the name, and, okay, so maybe I get carried away, but it’s the alliteration that does it — I mean, Shimon Schild, did his parents do it on purpose? — and before I know it, I’m playing random chords on the piano and singing some wacky tune about Shiiimooon Schiiilld, he’s got a home he wants to buiiiild. I don’t get much farther than that, partly because the only other rhyme that keeps popping into my head is “killed,” and partly because Devorale is blushing like mad, and Miriam has stuck her head into the living room and is shooting me an extremely exasperated look, as if to say, “And you wonder why we don’t include you in any of this?”

But the upshot is that Shimon Schild has agreed to go out with my Devorale, and, barring any objections from my unreasonable self, we have agreed to go out with him. The big night is set for Thursday, and I tell Mr. Bart that I’ll be leaving the office early that day (despite Miriam’s scathing, “What do you need to do? Get your hair done?”). A daughter’s first date requires a whole lot of intense preparation, and I decide to divide my time between learning, saying Tehillim, and pacing the house nervously. Probably mostly the latter.

Devorale, to her credit, looks less obviously jittery than me, though I can tell that she’s anxious from the way that she’s singing to herself. But she manages to get through it, and so do I, and by the time she comes home from the date she’s fairly floating.

Which just increases my own anxiety.

I soon discover that if I think a first date is torture, it’s nothing to a second, third, fourth, and — gulp — fifth date. Each time Devorale’s smile gets wider, my own heart sinks just a little more into my stomach (and, as Jimbo kindly points out when we meet in the office, my stomach already has plenty enough in there). But it’s a father’s job to remain strong and steady, to be the supportive rock for his daughter no matter what life throws her, and I try to swallow my dislike of this young man who threatens to take my Devorale away. Miriam says I sound like a clichéd television father character when I talk like that. She loves throwing my secular past at me in that way; maybe that’s why she keeps asking me about Jimbo, and whether I’ve met with him again, and what we spoke about. We speak about his taxes, I tell her. But that’s not the whole truth, because we do a lot of catching up, too, and maybe that’s why Jimbo comes down to the office a lot more than any of our other clients do, and brings Scar with him, too. Childhood nostalgia is a powerful thing, even when you’ve moved on to bigger and better things in life. And I’m talking here about both of us.

But nostalgia or not, there are some lines you don’t cross, and, G-d forbid, I’m not saying I regret my life choices for an instant, so for that reason, when Jimbo makes tantalizing reference to my music and offers to reunite the old gang, I am not even tempted for a second — really. Which is why I don’t know what Miriam is thinking with her frequent references to my old buddy. Doesn’t she realize the price, the heavy price, if I were to do what she wants?

However, as the flush on Devorale’s cheeks and the twinkle in her eyes gets more pronounced, so do the lines on my wife’s face. I see her getting drawn and anxious by the day, until I’m fairly tempted to throw back her own line to her about clichéd mothers, only that in Miriam’s case it wouldn’t sing, on so many levels. So instead I play the good, intuitive husband and ask her what’s wrong.

I get an earful in reply.

Do I have any concept of how much money we’ll be expected to lay out, should this shidduch go through? Any sense of what normal wedding expenses are, aside from the extras? Any idea where in the world I’ll be getting this money? And, at last, the real truth comes out: Miriam had pledged a certain level of support, before the Schilds would even agree to consider our daughter. And now it’s time to cough up the dough, if we want to finalize this shidduch.

I feel utterly sick to my stomach.

“So our future mechutanim are money-grubbing materialists,” I growl.

“Now, David, be fair. They know what they can get for a good boy like Shimon. It’s natural for people to look out for their own best interests. When it’s our Sruli’s turn—”

“—I wouldn’t dream of asking for a penny,” I declare.

“You wouldn’t,” Miriam agrees tiredly.

“My son is not some money-making commodity!” I’m warming up to one of my favorite topics.

“Is there anything in your life that is?”

I ignore that.

But I can’t ignore the look on my Devorale’s face over the next few days, as she waits to hear from the shadchan. Apparently, there is some hesitation on the Schilds’ part, and my mind whispers that word has gotten to them of my angry refusals to support, or, in the realm of the more likely, of my just-making-it financial status. Devorale begins to droop, she looks anxious and unsure of herself, as if beginning to doubt her worth, his esteem, her esteem for herself, and it’s getting so that I can’t stand it, when, one night, she sits at the piano playing Chopin as if her heart would break. There’s a cliché if you want one, but I’m not thinking of that, not thinking of anything other than that this is my Devorale, and back when she was a tiny sweet newborn, I pledged to do anything in the world for her. Anything in the world.

And so, I hold my nose and dial the number of James Egbers, record producer.

Song of Devorah

Engaged, engaged, engaged! Who could imagine? It was a terrible scare, those days when I wasn’t hearing back from Shimon’s side and I thought maybe the shidduch was off. I was davening so hard, and then, like my teachers have always said, yeshuas Hashem k’heref ayin! Suddenly they called, they’re ready to move ahead, and before I know it, I’m engaaaaged! It’s as fun and magical as my friends have always told me. I walk around in a cloud, my brothers are teasing me more than usual about my airheadedness, and I even find myself singing that ridiculous song Daddy made up about “Shiiimooon Schiiild.”

Daddy, he can be quirky and wacky, but he’s so wonderful. I’ll miss singing and playing piano with him, and I know he’ll miss me like crazy, but he tries to pretend he’s just thrilled about all this. He’s so cute because, of course, anyone can see right through him.

He’s been making a real push to spend more special father-daughter time together. We go for walks, go out for pizza and, of course, sing our songs — especially all those special songs we composed together. One thing puzzles me, though. Ever since I was little, he’d always promised me that he was going to sing under my chuppah, to the tune of our special song. But when I asked him about it the other day, teasing him that now the time has finally come and he’d better tune those vocal pipes, he turned all serious and said he’ll leave the singing to the professionals.

Fathers — go try to figure them out.

The day before my chasunah, he’s getting so teary-eyed that I can’t stand it. Especially because it’s making me cry, and I’ve been weepy enough as it is at the thought of this whole transition, leaving my childhood and all. Mommy, it’s funny, she’s the most level-headed of all of us, but of course that’s always been Mommy, practical, just-get-the-job done Mommy. What kind of wife and mother will I be? Scary thought.

Daddy wants to go out, just the two of us, one last time. We go for a stroll and he suggests Slurpees at 7-Eleven. It’s the type of thing we used to do all the time when I was little, and it’s so like Daddy to suggest it now. We walk inside, and, suddenly, something strange happens. There’s radio music playing, and the song — it sounds eerily familiar.

Daddy and I catch each other’s eye in shock.

“What is our song doing on the radio?” I ask in astonishment.

Daddy’s face is white, literally, and he shakes his head silently. I listen more carefully, and, sure enough, there it is, our tune, only the words are so different, so grotesquely different, and after another few seconds, a voice comes on advertising some upcoming movie. It’s all so strange, but what’s even stranger is Daddy’s reaction. He still hasn’t said anything, but he quickly turns and leaves the store.

It’s only after we’re well away from the place that I muster the courage to ask, “How did they get our song?”

He keeps walking, keeps looking straight ahead, so that I almost don’t hear him mumble, “I gave it to them.”

I stop. “You — whaaatt?” This doesn’t make any sense. But he’s practically halfway down the block from me, and I race to catch up.

“Why in the world did you do that?” I pant. I’m totally, totally shocked. What in the world can Daddy have to do with that entertainment trash? I know he used to, in his past, but that was long, long ago, before he became frum…right?

Now he stops, looks at me with that special gaze that, no matter how old I get, will always remind me that someone in the world would do anything for me, and says, “It’s my own thing, nothing you need to worry about, sweetie.” He reaches out and ruffles my hair. “All I want you to think about is how tomorrow you’re gonna be the most beautiful kallah in the world.”

(Originally featured in Calligraphy, Succos 5778)