“Some would say that’s precisely the reason to get a girl like that engaged.” Yoely doesn’t talk, he flutes. “Of course, that’s on condition that we’re sure of what’s right. What’s really good, and not a delusion.”

From the kitchen, a mixer whirs. The sweet aroma of caramel wafts toward them enticingly. In a little while, Yoely’s wife will return from the wedding she’s gone to and they’ll stay here, at his parents, until after Shabbos. Which makes Nechami very worried. Yoely has a lot of influence on Abba and Ima. On Chaya herself, too.

“A whole Shabbos with you could end in a vort on Motzaei Shabbos,” she says, frustrated.

“So come over on Shabbos, and make yourself heard,” Yoely suggests. “Counteract my magical powers, so Chaya won’t be biased.”

“We’re going away to my shvigger for Shabbos,” she says, indicating the suitcase, feeling sabotaged. She calls out a goodbye to Ima, who is still in the kitchen. Just before she leaves, Yoely waves at her affectionately.

“Calm down, Nechami,” he says, smiling. “You’re letting this get to you too much. You don’t need to think so much all day.”

• ••

But she thinks. All night, all day. On the way to her mother-in-law on the moshav, and while they’re getting settled in their room. She can understand why her family is so eager to push the shidduch through. They’re a simple family. Relatively speaking. On the distorted communal scale by which a family’s status is gauged, they wouldn’t rate more than a five out of ten.

The Shpinders are simple, too. But their son is something special. He’s a top-tier boy in the Mir, and all the scholars of Yerushalayim know him. They say that in 20 years, everyone will know him. His family’s yichus will start with him.

“They offered them daughters of big gvirim,” Ima whispered to her last night, between the flour and the cinnamon. “And they said no — would you believe it? The father says he doesn’t want to put his son in a rich family.”

Nechami can easily believe it. The Torah was given in the wilderness. In no-man’s land. Not in upscale neighborhoods.

“Nechami!” her mother-in-law calls her. “Come have some cake and fruit!”

The children are out in the yard, out of their crowded Jerusalem neighborhood and exhilarated simply by having the space to run around. Little Yossi is dashing back and forth, mad with joy. Her teenager, Chanochi, sits on the sofa in the living room with a sefer. Beside him on the armrest are strips of orange peel. And a tissue.

“Chanochi,” Nechami hints.

“Yes, Ima?” He looks up.

“Please throw those orange peels in the garbage,” she chides him gently.

They’ve talked about this so much at home! Close the package of Bamba that you opened. Wipe the counter after you dribble coffee on it. Put your cup in the sink when you’re finished learning. Don’t leave reminders of your presence all over the house.

“I’ll clear those away,” her shvigger volunteers. “No need for him to get up.”

“No, Savta,” says Nechami, tension creeping into her voice. “Chanochi can do it himself. If they get in the habit of leaving all their wrappers and things lying around, it makes a mess, and the sofa could get dirty and start smelling.”

Her shvigger laughs and says, “My sofa’s already beyond those worries.”

She gathers up the orange peels and the tissue. She’s right about the sofa. But a little flame of anger flickers in Nechami’s heart, and it’s fanned again later on that night during the Shabbos meal.

“Defillita fish,” Yossi says in delight over his Savta’s gefilte fish. Nechami feeds him patiently.

“The fish is delicious,” her shver declares. “Thank you, Ima!”

“I’d like some more of the tilapia, please,” Chanochi says politely. “Could I have?”

The mothers answer, both at once.

“Yes, of course,” says the shvigger. “Frumet, bring Chanochi more fish, please.”

“Yes, of course,” says Nechami. “Chanochi, go and get yourself some. It’s in the pan with the—” She catches her mother-in-law’s eye, and stops.

“Frumet can bring it to him.”

“He can serve himself,” Nechami insists. “Frumet’s been on her feet since we started the meal, Savta, and she deserves a little rest.”

“Frumet is happy to help us host our young talmidei chachamim.” Her shvigger is smiling, but there’s something tense in her expression.

After the meal, when Nechami accompanies Shua on his walk to shul, the incident still rankles.

“I won’t have Chanochi growing up to be a parasite,” she fulminates at the open fields. They’ve taken the long way, the path encircling the moshav. “He sat from the beginning of the meal, he ate challah and dips, salads, and fish… why shouldn’t he get up and serve himself if he wants more? Why does his 17-year-old aunt, who just sat down, have to jump up for him?”

Shua looks at her. He’s gentle as always.

“First of all,” he says, “the way I know Frumet, she had a good time chatting with her friends the whole time we men were in shul tonight. Am I right?”

“Yes,” she concedes. “And what if she did? That makes her his servant?”

“You’re speaking very sharply today.”

“I’m mad. I feel like your mother is interfering with the chinuch I’m trying to give him.”

“I think my mother felt that… you were maybe interfering with the chinuch she’s trying to give Frumet.”

“Your mother!” She’s so stunned that she can’t even complete the sentence.

He speaks in a low voice. “This isn’t the first time. You need to understand, Frumet was raised this way, to honor talmidei chachamim and help her mother. For her there’s no question that she’ll bring food to the table and clear it away afterward. She’s happy to do it. She doesn’t feel exploited or discriminated against.”

The fields around them return no answer, not even the howl of a cat. Silence.

“And when you say things like ‘she deserves to rest,’ ‘why should she wait on him,’ or ‘she’s older than him, and she should be allowed to sit for a while’ — that puts ideas into her head.”

“She was working too hard, Shua,” Nechami said. “She didn’t get to sit down for a second.”

“Don’t worry about Frumet. She has plenty of fun in school all week, and it won’t do her any harm if she helps at home a bit on Shabbos. She goes out with her friends all the time, and she gets hundreds on tests without studying. Just this week there was some big competition and she was chosen to sing a solo. She’s enjoying life.”

All the way back from shul, Nechami screams silently. She imagines Chanochi’s future wife. How she’ll feel, what she’ll say when she sees fruit peels, a peach pit, lying on the furniture, socks on the bathroom floor, his mikveh bag left forever by the front door, only to be joined the next day by another bag because “he couldn’t remember where he put” the first one.

She imagines the hapless, faceless wife cleaning up a trail of dripped coffee every morning, and washing tablecloths with brown, circular stains again and again. And one Friday night, when she’s exhausted from caring for the baby, Chanochi’s future wife collapses into bed without clearing up. In the morning, she gets up and finds the table just as she left it, with all the leftovers, the dirty dishes, and the flies. Why would Chanochi think it’s his job to pitch in, if he’s been trained to be waited on hand and foot?

Suddenly she isn’t screaming, she’s crying.

Yoely is right. She shouldn’t be thinking all day.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 854)