Leah struggles with Tzorty’s chalk markings, trying to decipher what she had in mind for the sleeve’s delicate fit. Tzorty’s loose dashes and squiggles are so very different from the tight triangles and dots she marks her seams with.
“I hate pushing this on you,” Mrs. Grunwald had said, handing her the bag stuffed with fabric. “Tzorty Geller agreed to sew the dress for me, but there has been a misunderstanding. She can’t have it ready for our bar mitzvah. Can you? The parts are already cut.”
Leah had held out her hand. “No worries, Mrs. Grunwald. You’ll have it for the simchah and you’ll look zeyer shein.”
Pinning the sleeve to curve of the shoulder, Leah lifts her foot off the sewing machine pedal. Time to baste. Tzorty. The only other seamstress in the neighborhood. Funny, that. What are the odds they would live so close, all these years later?
Leah lets the needle advance smoothly along the edge of the satin. Tzorty had always appeared to be a cut above. Wearing impeccable outfits sent by her Amerikanisher cousins, she was always enveloped in a haze of perpetual sunshine. And with her father a dayan, there was hardly a school assembly or class party in which Tzorty wasn’t asked to speak. Oy. So dreadfully perfect. But antipathy was never an option. Tzorty was too nice.
Today, with Leibel the Tzaddik’s righthand man, it’s easy to forget. Few get through to the Tzaddik without her Leibel’s help. Not even Mordche Geller. As a melamed, he’s the best you can get. Leah’s own Yankel did so well in his class. But, well. The Dayan must have been hoping for more. She wonders what Tzorty thinks about her husband’s suggestion for Baila. The Rav’s son… Leah holds the basted sleeve up to the light and checks the way it billows gently outwards. Perfect. Even Tzorty would have to agree.
She is overlocking the hem of the skirt when Leibel turns up with a brown paper bag sporting a picture of a leaping, blue-eyed cat.
“I told Yankel about our new houseguest. He asked what we’re feeding it.” Leibel dumps the bag on the table next to Leah’s neat pile of patterns. Leah shudders and pushes the bag, with the tip of her fingers, onto the floor. It’s a mega-pack.
“Are you sure we’ll need all that? Such a pitzele ketzaleh… I’d just give it some breadcrumbs.”
Leibel snorts and pats his tallis katan. “You asking me? We didn’t learn about cat food in yeshivah. How would I know?”
Leah drops the satin and leans back in her chair. She looks at Leibel with a deadpan expression. He looks back. Like a volcanic eruption, the laughter just happens. A precious celebration of nonsense. Piled-up tension from the last few days rolls off Leah’s shoulders and she shakes her head with a wry smile. “So, who went to buy that…. that cat food?”
Leibel shrugs.
“You? You in a pet store? Where did you even find one?! And what will people say… The Tzaddik’s shamash in a pet store?”
“It’s fine! Yankel went for me to Machaneh Yehudah. If it makes this girl happy, it’s worth it, don’t you think?”
“Pssssh.” Pursing her lips in admiration, Leah lifts the fabric presses down on the pedal.
“Listen.” Leibel sits down and drums his fingers on the laminated upholstery, in rhythm with the humming machine.
“Something else. Much more important.” Leibel isn’t smiling now.
“Give me a moment, I have to finish this hem.”
Leibel forges ahead. “Mordche Geller got back to me.”
Leah flashes him a look. “Aaaaand?”
“They’re not interested.”
Leah presses forcefully on the pedal, sending the seam on a furious tangent halfway up the skirt. She drops the fabric and switches off the machine.
“Why?!”
Leibel shrugs again. A bewildered shrug this time. All laughter has gone out of the room.
(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 622)