“Did you answer her?” Yoeli has an answer ready for every one of those rhetorical questions. Dr. Soroka isn’t experienced enough. And he doesn’t know how to open the hearing canal, which would leave Tovi still partly deaf and in need of more surgery later. The reconstruction procedure at Assaf HaRofeh is not what Tovi needs — they do a cartilage implant, and the results aren’t as nice as a biological implant. As for Tovi being traumatized by publicity, there is no publicity, no leaflets or pictures, only a discreet effort among friends by word of mouth.

But a point-by-point rebuttal won’t help now, with Leiky’s injured feelings filling the mirpesset. She pulls a 50-shekel note out of her skirt pocket.

“I got this,” she says, “for listening to that whole tirade.”

The money lies on the table between them. For a moment, Leiky wishes the wind would come and carry it away to the twin humps of Mount Meron. Let it fall into Nachal Amud. Let a hungry fox come along and eat it.

“Did you even ask her for money?” They’d already made a clear decision that Leiky wouldn’t approach anyone for donations aside from her close relatives.

“I didn’t ask her for anything,” Leiky said. “She heard from her husband that you were trying to raise some funds, and she made it her business to enlighten me, the first chance she got.”

“And what did you say to her?”

“Nothing. I tried to tell her that Tovi’s parents looked into all their options before they resorted to this. But she had so many facts and figures, and she was rattling off names of American insurance companies at me. And I was just… me.”

“Well, she can stop being so concerned that we’re doing it all wrong,” Yoeli says, reaching for the 50 shekels and making a mental calculation. This brings their total to 2,923 shekels. “This particular procedure that Tovi’s getting isn’t covered by any insurance, American or Israeli. Gedalya checked out everything. And it’s considered cosmetic surgery, which brings the funding possibilities down even further.”

“I don’t like talking about money,” Leiky says simply. She’s an elementary school teacher — it’s her mission, her identity. Her paycheck is just a piece of paper. The money enables them to buy bread, yogurt, fruits and vegetables, and clothing for the kids. It covers a bus ride to the shvigger in Yerushalayim for Shabbos, or to Meron, to daven.

“Let’s talk about something else, then,” he suggests. “Did you manage to order the girls’ dresses for my sister’s wedding?”

“Yes. I had a free hour at work, and the secretary helped me figure out the sizes and everything. We’ll have gorgeous dresses, b’ezras Hashem.”

•••

“Oy, poor Leiky!”

Nechami is bent over the long, marble-topped vanity in the bathroom, folding an endless pile of clothing, listening intently to Yaffa’le’s description of the day’s events in Tzfas. “Just a second, Yaffa’le. Beri, take away these socks, the ones without pairs,” she calls. “If you insist on being up at this hour, at least be helpful.”

Beri appears in the doorway. “Where should I take them to?”

“To the garbage.”

“To the garbage?” His eyes, gray like his father’s, open wide in astonishment. “Why throw out good, warm socks?”

“Because they don’t have matches. They’ve been missing for at least a month now, so these are useless. You want to wear half a pair of socks?”

“But maybe we’ll still find the missing ones?”

“Trust me, we’re never going to find them,” Nechami assures her worried son. “And if we do find one, we’ll realize it has no match, and we’ll throw that one away, too. Now please take the socks and go, because I’m in the middle of a private conversation here.”

“But each of those socks does have a match, Ima,” Beri says, still lingering beside her. 

“That’s right!” Chanochi calls from his room, a bit hoarsely. “They have a pair — we just don’t know where it is.”

“So then they’re agunos,” Beri says, picking up the three unmatched socks reverently. A light blue one of Yossi’s, a dark gray one of Yehudit’s, and a wooly bed sock. He strokes them cautiously.

“A sock isn’t a woman,” Chanochi announces. “It can’t be an agunah.”

Nechami can’t help laughing. “How do you boys know all this?”

“Abba learned Yevamos with us,” Beri says.

“About the woman who went overseas with her husband,” Chanochi elaborates.

Nechami gives Beri a hug and a push, and closes the door after him.

“You’ve got some jolly crew over there,” says Yaffa’le, who’s been listening to the entertainment while waiting on the line.

“Yeah, they’re really cute,” Nechami agrees. She refrains from adding, “Bringing them up was the most grueling thing I ever did.” She’s well aware that the whole family is sick and tired of hearing about it.

Yaffa’le picks up where they left off. “So basically, Yoeli’s Leiky came home wounded to the core, don’t ask. Too bad that woman ran into her instead of me. I would’ve given her a taste of her own medicine.”

“She never would’ve started up with you,” Nechami points out. “People like that have an instinct for choosing the right victims.”

They chat randomly for a few minutes and then remember they still haven’t discussed the dresses. “Avital’s dress came today,” Yaffa’le says. “It’s gorgeous — except it’s a bit long on her.”

In the name of all the taffeta and tulle in the world, don’t tell me you’re going to shorten it, Yaffa’le! Nobody wants another drama with Ima!

“What are you planning to wear?” Nechami asks politely, shifting the focus.

“I bought a stunning dress last month already, at Lots of Style. When I saw it, I almost fainted, it was so perfect.” Through Yaffa’le’s fog of rapture, Nechami hears a detailed description of color and style, and something about jewelry with wooden beads, and all that’s left is to consider whether to bring tranquilizers to the wedding for Ima. 

Quick, quick, get back to the previous subject.

“Everybody already put their orders in except for Shifra,” she finds herself saying. “Because Gedalya wouldn’t let me send him the catalog and the size chart to print and take home.” And immediately she chides herself: Why are you telling her this lashon hara? You want her to start saying what she thinks of Gedalya now?

“Because of the technology?” Yaffa’le’s grasp is quicker than hers. Or maybe it’s just what experience has taught her.

“Yes.”

“That’s nice,” Yaffa’le says.

“It’s ridiculous,” Nechami counters. 

“It’s very nice,” Yaffa’le doubles down. “So maybe his principles are different from ours, but he has principles and sticks to them, and I… I’m starting to like that.” 

Oh, sure. It’s easy enough to like someone else’s principles as long as they don’t constrain you, Nechami thinks.

And why do you think they’re constraining you, asks another voice — a new, confusing voice suddenly speaking up — why can’t you just appreciate them like Yaffa’le does?

Because… if he’s right, then… then I also have to…. She whisks away all those thoughts. “It doesn’t matter what we think of his principles. Bottom line, Shifra’s girls still don’t have dresses.”

Yaffa’le laughs. “Oy, Nechami, don’t make a big deal out of it. I’ll print all the stuff out for her. We have a color laser printer in the office. HaMehadhed isn’t the only place that has one.”

“But how will you get the printouts to her?”

“I, your faithful errand girl, will personally deliver them. Avital is still up, anyway, jumping all over the couch. I had to stay late at work today, and the babysitter put her down for a nap. Now she can’t sleep, so we’ll have a little outing.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 887)