***

Devora’s been upset. Plenty of times. It usually takes about a day and a half for it to blow over. If she’s really mad, it can take four. But five full days had passed, and she hadn’t even texted.

Shabbos came. I have a standing invitation with Devora and Rafi, and usually eat at their place Shabbos day. Rafi makes a mean cholent, and it’s fun to play World’s Best Uncle to Shlomo and Rachel. But after our frosty week, I decided to stay out of Devora’s way. I found some cold cuts in the fridge and ate them on a stale roll. Some oneg Shabbos. At least I got a long nap.

The next week was no better. At least as far as family was concerned that is; business was booming, and my partner Zev was thrilled. Word got out that we could supply the best homemade suppers and chocolate chip cookie dough (dough was ordered twice as often as the cookies — I wasn’t sure if guys want to bake the cookies for the perfectly fresh effect or if they just eat the dough raw). Shmiel, our cook, was so busy we had to hire a sous chef.

Did you know that the average twenty-something-year old male will choose premium beef meatballs for supper over any other food a full 28 percent of the time? They usually want a spicy sauce, and they all want it with spaghetti, no one does rice. Well, except for some health nut who wanted turkey meatballs with a side of quinoa. What’s gonna be left for his wife to fix if that’s what he’s eating now?

We went far beyond food. I had some sixteen-year-old high school dropout picking up stuff for the cleaners several hours each day. We cut a sweet deal with a Chinese family who run a chain of cleaners in Manhattan. Guys wanted someone to pick up mouthwash at the drugstore, they wanted us to make reservations at restaurants for their dates, and yes, one fellow really did ask us to write a poem for his mother’s birthday. Shimmy wrote something so sappy, the fellow’s mother was bawling.

But Devora was another story. Radio silence for nearly a month. I had Shmiel make me a small pot of cholent yet again, and was setting up a hot plate when I got a text from Rafi. “Hey, Akiva, we’re expecting you at the seudah tomorrow. The kids can’t handle another week without their favorite uncle.” I sent back a smiley emoji and stuck the cholent in the fridge.

When I walked into her apartment, Devora gave me a tight smile. “Hey, kids, look who’s here?” she called out. If she thought I wouldn’t realize that she hadn’t even deigned me a hello, she was wrong.

Rachel and Shlomo came barreling at me, and soon I was giving Shlomo tickle torture and chasing Rachel around the living room. Devora sat on the couch looking wan. I tried not to stare. Devora is always in motion.

Rafi came home and the meal got underway. Devora was surprisingly quiet. And Rafi served the whole thing. Now, Rafi is the nicest guy in town, but this was extreme. I waited until the meal was finished and Devora had headed to the back for a nap.

“Is everything okay with Devora?” I asked Rafi. “She seemed a bit out of it.”

Rafi shifted in his seat, then started stammering. Understanding finally dawned in my thick skull. “So there’s another nephew on the way?” I asked.

“Or niece,” Rafi said, before his hand flew to his mouth.

I chuckled. “Don’t worry, I can keep a secret,” I said. “So this is just that morning sickness stuff?”

A shadow passed over Rafi’s face. “I wish,” he said quietly. “Things aren’t going so smoothly. The doctor said Devora really has to take it easy. She cut back her work hours a ton — thank goodness for that second assistant she hired. And she’s trying to stay off her feet as much as possible.”

“That’s a major feat for her,” I noted.

Rafi gave a weary nod.

Shidduch 258

Name: Hillary Kahn

# of Dates: 1

Who said no: Me

Why: Too many reasons to list.

Notes: The name Hillary should have been a tip-off.

You would not believe the things some guys want someone else to do for them. One fellow spent forever agonizing over what tie to wear on each date. We sent over Danny, former warehouse manager, now our consultant for the fashion-confounded. He went through all the guy’s ties, threw out the ones that were stained, too wide, too narrow, and too gauche. Then, they chose a first-date tie (classy, but subdued), a second-date tie (a bit bolder), all the way up to a potential l’chayim (Danny told him he needs to get a new tie for that). They took pictures of each one, and saved his tie chart on his laptop. It’s hard to keep my eyeballs from rolling out of my head when I hear stuff like that, but hey, it keeps me fed.

Of course, three weeks later, the guy calls me nearly in tears ’cuz his laptop crashed and he lost his precious list. I know the type — we had the list backed up on our computer. Before I e-mailed it to him, I convinced him to use our All Things Tech service and have Zev get him a good deal on a new laptop and reinstall all his programs. I even threw in our Finally Backed-Up service for free.

As more and more of these lost souls found their way to us, we expanded our services.

We hired more cleaning staff as more guys signed up for our “keep this place livable” service (one hour of cleaning twice a week); many even upgraded to “keep this place pleasant” (two hours of cleaning three times a week). We had Shimmy working full-time on our Ring to Ring service, dealing with all things engagement from choosing jewelry to writing mushy notes to getting that knock-her-socks-off hostess gift when you went to the future in-laws for Shabbos.

On the family front, things weren’t doing as well. Devora was on full bed rest, a nervous wreck that her assistants would ruin the stellar name she has in the sheitel world. She did try to cut a sheitel while reclining — apparently, it’s one of those things you only try once.

I came over every Shabbos, playing with the kids all afternoon so Rafi could get some sleep. I gave Shmiel a list of the kids’ favorite foods, and every evening, the supper delivery guy started with Devora’s house — her kids need to eat at 5:30, long before any guy is thinking about supper. I put her permanently on the “help, my mother is coming for a visit” cleaning roster (four hours three times a week).

She tried to protest. “We don’t need WNW, we just need a single woman — me,” she told me with a touch of her old acidity. “I can arrange my own help if I can’t do it myself.”

“Just wanted to give you a taste of the professionalism of our services,” I said, and then quickly changed the subject. Rafi was more graciously grateful. And the kids just wanted me to send poppers each night.

Shidduch 263

Name: Zahava Weinstein

# of Dates: 3

Who said no: Me

Why: This career woman doesn’t need a husband, she needs a personal assistant. And that’s not a job title I want.

Notes: Don’t date anyone who spends most of their day managing people — they’ll just want to manage you too.

Shidduch 274

Name: Shiffy Feld

# of Dates: 1

Who said no: Me

Why: If you’re 28 and still dating like an 18-year-old, there’s a problem.

Notes: Hate to admit it, but I miss Devora’s involvement. Shimmy just doesn’t have her nose.

I know they always say to never mix business with pleasure, and I’ve always been really scrupulous about that. Maybe I was starting to see dating as business, not pleasure, and that’s why I was dumb enough to let Zev talk me into dating his sister. He’d only been trying for six years.

Shani sounded like a great girl: a pediatric oncologist in New York General, which meant she was both smart and kind — or so I hoped — good sense of humor, outgoing, and fun. I said yes. And the first date was amazing. Better than any first date since Mimi Schwartz (date #124, ended up marrying my roommate and they already have two kids).

We joked about the shidduch scene, pondered the state of frum society, compared challenging stories from work (hers were a whole lot more wrenching than mine; dealing with sick kids is worlds away from dealing with a sick pet hamster, our most recent job). The first time I glanced at my watch, four hours had slid by, and I was sorry to have to wrap things up.

The second, third, and fourth dates were even better. For the fifth I took her to the restaurant that’s so fabulous our dating advisor shares it with only the most loyal customers. It was funky fabulous, not upscale about-to-get-engaged fabulous. Which was perfect for now. Although something told me that I might be headed to the upscale fabulous place in the not-too-distant future…

We ordered the twelve-course tasting menu and laughed our way through the wild names and flavors. Things only started going downhill as we ate dessert — Peruvian mazamorra morada and Turkish dondurma. Shani suddenly got all serious.

“I feel kind of guilty having such a good time,” she told me. “We lost a patient today.”

It was like a pin in a balloon; the buoyancy of the evening deflated, and I searched desperately for right response. “Must be hard,” I finally settled on. “How old was he?”

“Just two years old, the most adorable kid. Deep blue eyes and dark brown hair — well, until he lost it that is…” She dropped her fork, and suddenly her eyes were filled with tears.

“Don’t cry,” I nearly pleaded. “I mean, I know it must be awful, but that’s what’s going to happen if you work with cancer all day, isn’t it? It’s not like it’s your fault or anything.”

She waved her hand, as though my words were pesky flies. “This isn’t about guilt,” she said. “It’s grief.”

“Got it,” I said.

She looked at me, waiting for something. I had no idea what. The silence between us stretched as the dondurma melted.

“Want me to take you home?” I said finally.

She looked up sharply, then her face shuttered closed. “If that’s what you want,” she said quietly.

Shidduch 281

Name: Shani Lemberg

# of Dates: 5

Who said no: Her

Why: According to her brother, I’m “emotionally blocked and unable to connect with the deeper emotions and realities of life.” When pushed, he admitted that she’d had a great time on our dates, and would love to be friends if I were a girl, but she needs more from a spouse.

Notes: What makes women tick??????????????

“Do you realize we currently have twenty-one people on the payroll?” Zev asked one morning, in far-too-cordial tones. Since the dating disaster, we’d been on our best behavior around each other.

“Whoa — more than triple our initial staff,” I said. “Good, bad, or indifferent?”

“Could be any of the above. We should really meet with that business coach I told you about. We need to figure out when we say no.”

“No?! We never say no! The whole point of WNW is to help guys with whatever they need.”

Zev raised one eyebrow. “Sounds pretty. You may feel differently after you look at this intake sheet.” He handed a paper over gingerly.

I quickly scanned the lines. One Moish Weissberg called at 9:18 a.m. He wanted schnitzel — made with lots of breading, lightly crisp but not overdone — every Monday night along with roasted potatoes; lasagna every Tuesday night — with roasted garlic pasta sauce and only ricotta cheese, no cottage; meatballs and spaghetti on Wednesday — it was crucial that the meatballs be really small so they’d be super saucy. So the guy was picky, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. I read on.

He wanted his shirts picked up every Monday and dropped off on Thursday. He wanted our “keep this place pleasant” service, but in addition to cleaning, he wanted the cleaner to hang up all the clothing that was on the spare bed, and to check if he was running out of clean socks. If he was, he wanted to alert our laundry service. This was starting to sound obnoxious.

It got worse. He wanted someone to sort his mail into business, personal, and junk, and pay all his bills. He also expected us to find someone to attend the monthly meeting his apartment building had, summarize the meeting, and get marching orders for what he wanted raised at the next meeting. He even wanted us to find someone with a voice similar to his to call his grandmother every Friday. She told the same stories and had the same complaints every week, and he was sick of it.

“Okay, the phone calls to Bubby ain’t happening,” I told Zev. “But can’t we handle the rest of this stuff?”

“It doesn’t make your stomach turn?” Zev asked. “Here’s an adult who basically wants zero responsibility.”

“Hey, don’t get all judgmental. Our job is to provide services, not to decide if people should be asking for them.”

“But what are we doing? Are we pandering to a bunch of immature narcissists?”

“It pays the bills,” I answered shortly, and turned back to my inbox.

Shidduch 282

Name: Temima Silverstone

# of Dates: 1

Who said no: Me

Why: She’s been out of seminary for ten years and she still asked me which of the seven sefiros my middos most align with. Seriously?!

Notes: I can do the seminary talk, too: Comparing her to Shani is like comparing the sand of the earth to the stars in the sky.

Shidduch 283

Name: Emily Silber

# of Dates: 2

Who said no: Me

Why: no chemistry

Notes: I may have liked this one if I’d never met Shani. Bummer.

It was 3 a.m. and my phone was ringing. And ringing. I tried to ignore it, letting the sound furl through my dreams. But it persisted. I pried open my eyes, tried to focus on the screen. Rafi.

“What’s up?”

“Akiva, come now, right now.”

“What happened? Is everyone okay?” I asked, before realizing how stupid that question was.

“Devora. The baby. It’s coming.”

“Now?!” I said, panic bubbling in my stomach. “But she’s only in her sixth or seventh month! Doesn’t she have ages to go?”

“Apparently not. And that’s why we need you here right now.”

“’Kay, coming.” I pulled a coat on over my sweats, thrust my feet into socks and shoes, and locked up. I raced through the nearly deserted city streets, bounded up their stairs, and burst into their living room.

Devora was slumped on the couch, hands curled protectively over her stomach. Tears were streaming down her face. “The baby, the baby,” she moaned. “It’s too early, way too early, what’s going to be?” That last question came out in a wail as her face contorted in pain. She rocked back and forth.

I stood back in shock. Devora — my calm, cool, and collected perfect older sister — was falling apart. Rafi walked over to me.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I called Hatzalah, they’ll be here real soon.” Then he swiveled toward Devora.

“Devora,” he said, and there was a firmness I’d never heard. “Look at me.”

Devora slowly lifted a tear-streaked face. Rafi crouched down so his eyes were right opposite hers. “Devora, listen to me. It’s going to be okay. Whatever happens, it’s going to be okay.” His voice was low and intense, as though he were trying to imprint his words upon her mind, her heart.

“It’s not, it’s not, it’s not,” Devora sounded like little Rachel. “Rafi, I’m twenty-five weeks. Twenty-five. This baby will probably die.” She was weeping, eyes wild. “He’ll be gone. And if he somehow manages to live, who knows what will be wrong with him. I can’t do this. This can’t happen. No no no no noooooooo.”

Rafi leaned even closer to Devora, his face directly opposite hers. “Devora, whatever happens, you have me, I’ll always be here for you. And we both have Hashem. He’s taking care of us, of the baby. Whatever happens to our baby, we’re going to be okay.”

Devora stared at him; she seemed to be trying to pull strength from him. Her body stilled, her breathing became more even. She fell back against the couch.

Just then, three Hatzalah men burst into the room. Within forty seconds, they had Devora on a stretcher, and Rafi was rushing out with them. He turned around. “Take good care of the little ones,” he said, “don’t forget to give Shlomo his antibiotics.” And then the house was silent.

I started pacing the room, from the window, past the couch, to the mahogany table, and then back, window, couch, table, window, couch, table. Devora, Rafi, baby. I mumbled the same perek of Tehillim over and over. Shir Hamaalos, Devora, Rafi, baby, window, couch, table, mei’ayin yavo ezri. What would be?

As I wore a path into their carpet, my mind kept replaying the scene from before. Devora, the woman who’s always held everything together — her family, her flourishing business, our extended family — coming apart at the seams. And Rafi, sweet, laid-back, gets-along-with-everyone Rafi, he’d been her rock, he’d been able to reach her in a way no one else could.

Was this the neediness in marriage Devora was always talking about? Could it be that my tough sister was able to be strong because she had a loving, supportive husband behind her?

For a moment, I imagined myself in Rafi’s shoes. What if it had been me whose wife — the woman who sprang to mind looked an awful lot like Shani — had gone into pre-term labor? A slow flush traveled up my face as I envisioned the way I’d probably react.

Rafi wasn’t a mover or shaker, but he’d built something far more important. Could I? I shook my head, tried to shake free of these thoughts. Shir Hamaalos, window, couch, table…

I must have dozed off because when my phone jarred me awake two hours later, I was sprawled out on the couch.

“Akiva,” Rafi sounded drained.

“Rafi, what’s happening?”

“He made it, our baby made it.” Rafi’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat once, twice, then continued. “He weighs one pound eight ounces, kind of scary to look at. But he’s alive. They’re going to transfer him to New York General, they have a better NICU there. It’s going to be a long haul, but the doctors are hopeful.”

There was something wet on my cheeks. “Mazel tov,” I whispered.

***

I staggered into work late the next day, feeling jittery from three cups of coffee. I checked my e-mails — forty-six new messages. I started working through them methodically. The phone rang. No one picked up. I looked through the window to the outer office. Ruvi, our secretary, wasn’t there. The phone started up again. Reluctantly, I took the call.

“WNW, how can I help you?” I said, trying to sound pleasant.

“This isn’t okay!” some guy on the other end screamed. “I was very clear about what I wanted and your cook completely blew it.”

Oh, no, not today. “Sorry you were disappointed,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me all about what went wrong, so we can make sure it doesn’t happen again? What’s your name?”

“Moish. Moish Weissberg. I signed up for a whole bunch of services a few weeks ago. I’m paying you good money!”

“What seems to the problem?” I said, straining to remain civil.

“The lasagna. Look, if I say I want my schnitzel only lightly crisp, doesn’t that tell you that I don’t like well-done food? And your dumb cook sent me lasagna that was nearly burnt at all the edges! You call that service?”

Something snapped. “Moish,” I said, in a low, firm voice, “somewhere out there, people have real problems. Big ones. Crispy edges on your lasagna isn’t a national crisis. Don’t you think it’s time to grow up?”

“How dare you?” Moish yelped. I pictured a red-faced toddler’s head on the body of a grown man.

“I’ll have the food coordinator call you later. Have a good day.” And I gently put down the receiver.

Across the room, Zev stared.

***

He looked nothing like the plump Gerber babies I thought were the only variety around; he was tiny, a strip of translucent skin, blue veins, too many wires. His minuscule chest rose and fell, rose and fell. I found myself holding my own breath as I watched him. Devora was sitting next to the incubator, her hand stuck inside, clutching whatever patch of skin she could find.

“Mazel tov, sis,” I said, trying for a light tone, but failing.

Devora gave a wan smile. “Thanks for coming. I know he looks scrawny, but he’s a fighter. We nicknamed him Bruiser. He made it through the first forty-eight hours, and that’s the most critical.”

I wanted to say something about how cute her new baby was, but he was far more freaky than cute. We stared at the slip of human in silence for a while, watching the little chest. “He looks tough,” I finally said. “He’s going to make it, im yirtzeh Hashem.”

“I hope so,” Devora said. Her eyes clouded over for a minute, then cleared. “The doctor is giving him a 75 percent chance. Rafi said we’re not ever going to think of the other 25 percent. He said we need to take this one hour at a time.”

The room was taut with longing and fear and tender love. I wanted to bolt. I balled my fists tight, and forced myself to look my sister in the eye. “That sounds like a wise idea,” I told her. “And now I’m going to give you another wise idea. You’re going to go home for a few hours. You’ll have something to eat, and sleep in a bed, and spend some time with two kids who miss you like crazy.”

“Akiva! I can’t leave the baby, I can’t—”

“You most definitely can. That’s why I’m here. It took me ages to get approved to come to the NICU. Usually only parents and grandparents are allowed. I had to give them a whole rundown of Mommy’s health conditions and your in-laws’ distant geographic location before they let me in. And now that I’m here, we’re not wasting the opportunity. You’ll go home now. And I’ll watch Bruiser.”

Devora opened her mouth to protest, but then seemed blindsided by a wave of exhaustion. “I guess…” she said. “But if anything — and I mean anything — goes wrong, you have to call me immediately. Oh, and touch the baby if you can, but not with rubbing motions, because his skin is too thin. Physical contact has been proven to help preemies.” She gave the baby one last pat and then stumbled out of the room.

I sat down gingerly in the chair she’d vacated and dutifully slipped my hand into the little slit in his incubator. There wasn’t much skin surface that wasn’t covered with wires, but I managed to find a spot on his leg. I pressed down softly. His bones were so tiny, it felt as if they could snap from a touch.

“Hi, there, Bruiser,” I said. “I’m your uncle.” It must have been my imagination, but he seemed to give a relieved sigh. And that made my chest hurt. But in a good way.

***

We fell into a routine. Every night, right after supper, I’d head over to the hospital. I’d relieve Devora, and stay for a couple of hours until Rafi came for the night shift. As the days went by, I started learning what each wire was connected to. I lived through the terror of Bruiser’s alarm going off, the nurse rushing over to see what was wrong. Usually, it was just a faulty monitor.

Once, though, the nurse looked grim and pressed a button. The room was instantly flooded with doctors, and I was pushed out. I dialed Devora with trembling hands. Then I davened harder than I ever davened in my life. Harder even than the night of Bruiser’s birth. I knew him now, loved him so much it hurt. We couldn’t lose him.

We didn’t. The crisis passed and he started making progress. By day twelve, he was taken off the ventilator. By day sixteen, Devora got to hold him. I’d never seen her look so radiant. By day twenty-three, he’d regained his birth weight and surpassed it by half a pound. It was on day thirty-one that I slipped my hand into his incubator — and his tiny hand grabbed my finger. Bruiser needed me, he wanted me. Again this feeling in my chest — tight and expansive all at once. This time, it traveled all the way up to my brain.

There was someone I needed to call. I waited until Bruiser drifted off, then slid out of the room, keeping my eyes on the bassinet. I turned on my phone and dialed the number I’d learned by heart.

“Hello,” her voice was guarded and suspicious.

“Hi, Shani. Are you at work now by any chance?”

“Yeeesss.”

“Can you come down to the NICU during your next break? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Shidduch 281/284

Name: Shani Lemberg

# of Dates: 5 and 3

Who said yes: Both of us

Why: Just ask Bruiser — he knows the whole story.

Notes: Ever notice that WNW can also stand for “We Need Women”?

(Originally Featured in Calligraphy Pesach 5777)