“Here, Rebbetzin, do you have a garbage bag?” Akiva asked.

Tziporah handed over two garbage bags wordlessly. Akiva and Chaim began clearing off one table while Benny and Yitz tackled the other one. Tziporah began shifting around the contents of the fridge. There had to be some way to get all the perishables inside.

As she shuffled the pans and trays, she heard Benny talking in low tones. He sounded strained. She gently closed the fridge and listened to the hushed conversation.

“So in a way it’s good that the rest of the guys left,” Benny was saying. “I want to talk to the three of you straight. You know how much I love hosting you guys, being there for you — Shabbos, Yom Tov, even during the week when you need it.” He paused and swallowed.

Akiva kept stacking used cups, but his eyes were fixed on Benny.

“So the thing is…” Benny paused again. “The thing is that, our baal dirah wants to raise our rent. Drastically. Much more than we can afford. But my wife and I really want to stay in this apartment. We want to continue being here for the guys at Ner Olam.”

Tziporah wondered if cynical Chaim was suppressing an eyeroll. She stole a peek through the open kitchen door. Wait, Chaim didn’t look cynical at all. His eyes were big and bright and they mirrored Benny’s pain.

“So, this is what I was thinking,” Benny said in a sudden rush of words.

Tziporah knew that he had rehearsed this speech a million times, reviewed the numbers over and over, figured out the most palatable way to package his big ask. That still didn’t make it easy.

“I was thinking that if we could split up the difference between the guys — I mean, obviously not all of the guys, but there are enough whose parents would understand and appreciate the value of having me and my wife stay local — then we could cover the increase, and maybe even step up the meals, the support. It wouldn’t be a lot every month. Your fathers probably wouldn’t even feel it.”

Akiva put down the stack of cups. His shoulders sagged. That wasn’t a good sign.

“So,” Benny ignored Akiva’s defeated posture and kept his voice light. “What do you think? Sounds doable?”

The room was silent.

“Hmm?” Benny tried again. “What do you say, guys?”

Yitz cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, Reb Benny,” he said softly, staring vaguely at a crack on one of the floor tiles. “My father’s a fourth-grade rebbi and my mother is a dental hygienist. They barely make it through the month as is. Whatever spending money I have is my own — I work every Pesach bein hazmanim cleaning kitchens and cars so I can buy a falafel now and then. I would hate to see you leave Yerushalayim, but no way can I ask my father for any more money than he’s paying Ner Olam already.”

Benny bit his lip and turned his head imperceptibly toward Chaim.

Chaim cocked his chin truculently. “Listen, no one knows this, and no one’s allowed to know it,” his words came in a torrent. “My father, the big businessman, the one who gets honored at all the dinners? His business is crumbling. Bad investments, dumb decisions. We’re not allowed to talk about it — we need to keep up the show, my sister’s starting shidduchim soon. My grandfather and my uncle are covering things up, paying tuition and the cleaning lady. But that’s the story.” He folded his arms in defiance. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

Benny placed a hand on Chaim’s shoulder, but found it stiff and unreceptive.

The foursome continued clearing the tables, filling their garbage bags with terrible efficiency. From the kitchen, Tziporah watched the shame spread up her husband, stooping his shoulders and staining his ears red.

Finally, the tables were clear. Benny and the guys rolled up the ridiculous green tablecloths, folded the tables, and stacked the chairs.

There was nothing left to do, no reason to prolong the show.

“Why don’t you take some food back with you?” Benny asked weakly.

“Nah, we’re stuffed,” Chaim said.

Benny didn’t fight.

“Thanks for everything, Reb Benny,” Yitz said. It was a sweet sentiment, but the words rang hollow in the empty room. “Thank you, Rebbetzin,” he added, ducking his head toward the kitchen. “Coming, Akiva?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Akiva mumbled. “Just need the bathroom. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Only after Chaim and Yitz had left did he address Benny directly.

“Reb Benny, I would do anything to help you stay here,” he said. “I don’t know how I could stay in Ner Olam without you, your house, your family… It would be a disaster. I would never make it through the zeman.”

He sighed, then went on. “But you know that things are, um, complicated at home. My dad has the money, he could solve your rent problem in a second. But he never wanted me in yeshivah to begin with. It was my mother’s idea, not his. Part of her ‘extreme religious fanaticism’ — at least that’s what he told the divorce lawyer.

“He would be fuming if I asked him.” He closed his eyes tight. “Fuming. You understand, Reb Benny, right?”

Benny nodded. “I get you, Akiva,” he said.

Akiva closed the door softly behind him. Tziporah resumed filling the fridge as quietly as she possibly could. There, she had managed to stuff all the pasta in, and to stack all the dips in their containers on the bottom shelf. Now she had to find a spot for the iced coffee and the pizza toppings — the dough could go into the freezer, it could be a good supper for the kids one night.

She heard Benny’s footfalls entering the kitchen — those stupid Blundstones — but kept her gaze fixed on the fridge. She couldn’t, wouldn’t look directly at her husband’s shame.

“Why don’t you go to sleep, Tziporah.” His voice was gruff. “I’ll finish cleaning up here.”

Tziporah fled.

Tziporah wasn’t sure when she finally fell asleep. She knew that she lay in bed for hours, replaying every disastrous moment of the Melaveh Malkah on repeat, feeling the nausea sweep over her each time anew.

What could she have done differently? What should she have done differently? What was her role here?

She had known this whole thing was wrong, that Benny’s plan made no sense. There was no way the guys could cover their rent increase. It was silly and immature to expect it, and you didn’t have to be an accountant to realize that.

Should she have been the responsible adult, puncturing Benny’s bubble of hope and sparing him the shame? Or was she meant to support him despite her misgivings?

She imagined Gitty Lederberg going home and telling her super-serious husband about the fiasco. Yaakov Lederberg would probably snort and say something dismissive about silly people with uber-cool glasses who make wild parties instead of shteiging.

He would probably be right.

When Tziporah woke up, it was to Momo’s soft crying. She hurried with half-closed eyes to pull him out of the crib and then, holding him, stumbled back into her bed. Her head was pounding; maybe she could still get some more sleep. But wait, the light filtering through the trissim was harsh, bright. She looked at her watch. It was 7:50 already. Oh, no, she had to get the kids moving!

Tziporah hurried back to the kids’ bedroom, woke up Miriam and Yehuda, and got them dressed as quickly as she could. She headed to the kitchen to set out breakfast — and did a double take. There, sitting on the couch and staring into space, was Benny. He was still wearing the new shirt and booties from last night. His eyes were dry and red.

“Good morning,” she said tentatively.

“Hey,” he said. “I’ll take them to gan as soon as they’re ready, okay?”

Tziporah nodded. “Thanks,” she said to the stranger sitting on her couch.

She wrote mitzvah notes and packed up lunches while Momo took his bottle and Yehuda and Miriam negotiated between cornflakes and Cheerios. She discussed snacks and friends and projects while she poured cereal and drinks. And she tried her best to ignore the trays of miniature cheesecake trifles that mocked her every time she opened the fridge.

Finally, the two older kids finished eating and slipped on their knapsacks. Then she pulled a chair over to Momo’s highchair and sat down. “Tell Tatty you’re ready,” she instructed them. “I’m going to feed Momo his breakfast, okay?”

Yehuda and Miriam obediently relayed the message. Soon Benny was standing silently in the kitchen doorway, holding their little hands.

Tziporah kept spooning baby cereal into Momo’s mouth, averting her eyes from Benny’s face, pretending it was normal to ignore her husband. That it was normal to ask 20-year-old yeshivah guys to pay your rent because you served them cheesecake trifles.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’m taking them to gan. And then I think I… I might take a ride on my bike. You know, to clear my head a little. Okay?”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 935)