Okay, Benny reasoned, so maybe they didn’t have rich fathers-in-law in the US paying their bills. But they had an inner resilience and grit for Torah learning that just wasn’t part of his modern upbringing. This was all they’d ever known and wanted. They were fish and the beis medrash was their water.

It was silly to think he could do this too.

He walked up Rechov Ha’Ameilim and stopped outside the aluminum workshop. A swarthy guy in a Columbia-logoed T-shirt was operating an electric saw, muscles bulging as he maneuvered the blade through a metal bar. Crack! The bar sliced in two, and the guy gave a single satisfied nod.

One afternoon during winter zeman, Benny had brought the Ner Olam guys here. He had taken them through the narrow streets, watched their eyes widen as the low workshops and humble stores gave way to the proud stone buildings where fresh Americans like them had come to learn at age 20 — and were still sitting on those benches, still pounding their shtenders, decades and many gray hairs later. He had motioned toward the workshops and talked about “anu ameilim,” hoping he could get through to his guys.

Wait, his guys at Ner Olam.

They could help him. They owed him! They, more than anyone, needed Benny to stay put in Ramat Eshkol, with his open door and ready table. This could really work!

Benny straightened his shoulders. He was the man and his house was the place. He’d have to present it right, of course…and food would definitely make the deal sweeter…and he’d have to make sure he looked super-relevant, the type who really got the boys of Ner Olam.

He turned toward the beis medrash, then pivoted away. Borenstein was waiting with those oatmeal cookies, but there was a shoe store on Rechov Yaffo that he wanted to check out.

“B’kerev ha’aretz,” Benny brought the song to a close, patting Miriam’s hair gently. “Good night, Miriam. Sleep well. Love you!”

“Good night, Tatty,” Miriam murmured. Her eyelids were beginning to droop.

Benny lingered by the door a second, watching her breathe. Then he walked to the kitchen. Tziporah was setting the table.

“Here, let me do that,” Benny said. He laid out the plates, napkins, and cutlery, and took the water pitcher out of the fridge. “Why don’t you sit down, Tzip? You look tired. I’ll get the food.”

Tziporah sank into her seat. “Thanks,” she said. “I am tired. I had a hard time sleeping last night.”

Benny set the pan of ziti and bowl of salad on the table. “You’re worried about the rent, huh?”

She nodded. “I just don’t know how we can do it.”

Benny spooned some ziti onto both plates and made a brachah. Tziporah followed with a half-hearted brachah of her own and gingerly ate one noodle.

Benny wiped his mouth. “So, I was thinking,” he said, “and I think I might have a solution.”

Tziporah raised her eyebrow.

“I realized,” Benny went on, “that maybe my parents and your parents don’t feel any need to help us stay here, but there are people who do need us here in Ramat Eshkol. My guys! This is their second home, and I’m sure their parents realize that. We feed them, we help them, we take care of them. So many of them come from these mega-rich families, and for sure their parents appreciate that they have this safe place here with us.”

Tziporah threaded a noodle onto her fork. She arched an eyebrow. “Grateful enough to pay part of our rent?”

Benny nodded fervently. “Totally. These guys would be lost without us. I’m sure their parents realize. So I’m thinking, I want to make a big Melaveh Malkah, something really special. And then after they eat, and sing, I’m going to explain to them what we’re dealing with, and how much I want to stay here for them. I’m sure they’ll get their parents on board. Parents these days are very into making sure their kids are taken care of.”

Not like ours, she heard the unspoken words.

“So, you want to make a big Melave Malkah?” Tziporah asked.

“Yeah, like, massive,” Benny said.

Tziporah rubbed her eyes. “Like” she pulled the noodle off her fork and dangled it in the air. “like bagels and ziti type?”

“Not only. We should have a few types of pasta, not just ziti. And I thought we could do a make-your-own pizza bar, with a bunch of toppings. And then for the lo-carb guys, we’ll do fish. Your garlic-dill salmon is amazing, but Shimmy Borenstein told me he makes homemade gravlax — that sounds much more their type. I’ll get the recipe. And the desserts need to be major. Maybe we should order from one of those places that do miniatures?”

Tziporah lowered her fork. “How much money, exactly, do you want to spend on this thing?”

Benny clenched a napkin. Why was she always so stingy? Here he had this big idea to solve their problems and Tziporah was pinching him, constricting him. Why couldn’t she trust him and just let go for once?

“I just…” Tziporah faltered as she took in his clenched jaw. “I want it to be amazing, but I just want to make sure we can do this and still buy bread and milk the next day, you know? And beyond that, Benny, there’s something else.” She paused and swallowed hard. “Do you think you’ll be…umm, comfortable relying on other people? Because that’s not really our style, right?”

Unlike most of their friends, who were still waltzing back to America every Rosh Chodesh Nissan, Tziporah and Benny had made Pesach the third year they were married. The two Yamim Tovim spent in the US had been so tense, they’d figured it just made more sense to stay in Ramat Eshkol.

Benny still remembered that first Pesach. He and Tziporah had scrubbed, lined, covered, and kashered their kitchen while the kids slept and an old-but-classic Chevra album blasted in the kitchen. They had laughed at their mistakes as they figured out how to cut the thin Shammai-brand foil without shredding it. When the kitchen was finally ready, they had taken Yehuda and Miriam in the double stroller and stocked up on Pesach products.

After watching so many neighbors load their suitcases, strollers, and hatboxes into taxis heading to the airport, Benny had expected Ramat Eshkol to be a ghost town, but surprisingly enough there were still people in the stores and shuls. There was more space, though, less pressure. The neighborhood had felt open and welcoming, like a real celebration of freedom.

Most of all Benny remembered walking into the apartment after Maariv on Seder night and that sweeping emotion that had hit him as he took in the scene. There was their table set with matzah and wine, the hot plate laden with food they had bought and cooked, their house scoured and scrubbed with their very own hands. He had even bought Tziporah a new bracelet at some jewelry sale he’d seen advertised on fliers in the bus stops.

Nothing, it hit him, could come close to that feeling of working hard and paying your own way. Nothing was as sweet as the knowledge that all those blessings enveloping you came through your own hands.

Now he looked down at the pan of ziti and wondered. It was hard sometimes, not having the support system of those honeymooners on Paran or some of the guys in the Mir beis medrash. But did he really want to give it up, rely on other people, become a dependent?

Dependent. Tziporah used that word a lot when she was working. The tax code changed drastically when you had dependents. You were eligible for higher tax returns if you had dependents. An accountant had to calculate everything differently when a client had dependents.

Part of him recoiled at the word. And part of him craved it — someone to hold him through the uncertainty and say, “Benny, we value what you do. We got your back.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I want to do this,” he told Tziporah firmly. “Are we on for next Motzaei Shabbos?”

Tziporah closed her siddur and made another coffee. She set it down in front of her computer and punched in her password. Yesterday she had managed to finish most of the Excel reports, but there were still two that needed finalizing before she could tackle today’s to-do list from Maury.

Wait, what were all those tabs open on her screen? They weren’t Benny’s usual sports sites — she was used to those by now.

She maximized the first tab. It was a Google search for Blundstone men’s boots. Wow, that was a lot of money.

Another search with the keywords “Madison Lila Eddy.” What was that?

The next tab was a news item about some TV show. She scanned it quickly — it seemed to be some sort of talent competition — song, dance, gymnastics — where contestants got ranked and eliminated every week. The target audience was teenagers, and the vibe was most definitely not yeshivish.

What in the world?

The next three tabs had all been blocked by her filter. It looked like someone had been trying to access episodes of the show.

Tziporah closed her eyes and breathed in and out.

She trusted Benny. Of course she trusted Benny — their whole relationship was built on openness and trust. They were building this home together and they shared boundaries and values without any secrets. She would ask him about the show, he’d explain, and they would live happily ever after.

She clicked on Maury’s list and tried to focus. The numbers and calculations filled her mind and summoned all her concentration — well, most of it.

When the phone rang, she jumped.

“Hey, Tzip, how’s your morning going?” It was Benny’s usual midmorning check-in.

“Good, getting through my list,” she said.

“Great. I had a new idea for the Melaveh Malkah menu, do you want to hear?”

Tziporah sighed. “Sure, I’m happy to hear. But Benny, can I ask you something first?”

“You know you can ask me anything,” he said. She wished she felt that secure.

“Okay, I appreciate that. So, um, on my computer this morning there were all these tabs open — some TV show? Like a talent competition maybe?” She paused, then took the plunge. “Are you sure you want to be watching these things, Benny?”

“The talent show, right,” he said easily. “It’s my guys at Ner Olam — they’re all talking about it, it’s like their obsession. I just want to make sure I know what’s going on, so I can follow the conversation, you know?”

The silence stretched between them.

“That’s how it is these days, Tzip,” Benny tried again. “You want to be relevant, you have to know what’s going on with the guys. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” she said, but wondered if he was deluding himself. This was not why Ner Olam had hired Benny. She wanted to shake him out of it, tell him he was going to lose so much of what he’d gained.

Then she thought of Abba back in the house in Maine, shrinking into his seat as Ima reduced him to a crumb. “You think people respect you?” Ima was saying. “You think they look up to you? Even your wife doesn’t trust your judgment!”

Don’t do this to me, Benny, she thought. Don’t turn me into a needling nudgy negative woman trying to control her husband.

“So,” she said. “Tell me about your new idea for the menu.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 933)