That very night, Rachel waited up for her husband in bed, ready to implement Marcia Schiffman's advice. She had to admit, she felt rather s.e.xy in the red satin nightgown Esther had given her at her bridal shower, the same one she had worn on her wedding night.

Binny arrived home late, as was his recent habit. She heard him come through the front door, and then heard him rummaging through the refrigerator. For all she knew, it would be hours before he'd make an appearance in the bedroom, if at all. There had been more than one occasion on which she had found him in the morning, sleeping at his desk in the study. Not tonight, she told herself, getting out of bed.

She turned on the light and scrutinized herself in the mirror, teasing her hair, and adjusting her gown to make sure it hugged her body perfectly. She went down the stairs, into the kitchen, and sneaked up behind him.

"Binny," she said softly.

He turned around and looked at her. Instantly, a gla.s.s filled with milk fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. "Oh my," he said nervously, noting the mess he'd made.

"Don't worry about it," she said, walking over to him, pressing her body against him and pushing her thigh into his groin. She moved her hands up his chest and pa.s.sionately kissed his lips.

It was a long kiss, and when he finally came up for air, he said, "Rachel, what's gotten into you?"

"Come, let me show you," she said, taking his hand and leading him from the kitchen.

It was a torrid evening, surpa.s.sing anything either of them had ever imagined. Rachel delayed actual intercourse, trying other tricks she'd read or heard about instead. She explored every crevice of his body, and spoke to him softly of her desires. After an hour, he was begging to have her, and when she finally gave herself, cries of ecstasy echoed through the house.

When it was over, they lay together, kissing and holding one another. She touched him again, enticed him and tortured him again. He began to kiss her all over, and made love to her a second time. Afterwards, they rested for a while, but only for a while.

In the beginning of their marriage, they had often made love twice in an evening. It had always been wonderful, but nothing like this. The third time was novel, and the mixture of pleasure and pain accompanying their final release took them beyond paradise. Rachel could swear she hadn't had a single thought of getting pregnant. But now, lying apart, fading off to sleep, she couldn't help but believe that if this night didn't bring a child, nothing would.

Paul Sims sat beside his baby daughter's crib, watching her sleep, pondering what he had seen a few days earlier. Even now, during his most blissful of moments, he couldn't erase the image from his mind. He felt embarra.s.sed for having followed Rachel, but mostly he was enraged. He was confused about what to do with what he knew.

He had much to be thankful for these days. G.o.d had given him a wondrous gift, a soft, precious child with the face of an angel. He was going to be good to her in every way. She would have all the love of which he had felt deprived.

They had named her Sheindy, after his paternal grandmother, Sheindle Simenovitz, who had died just a few months earlier. He had always been fond of his grandmother, the only person who knew how to put Alfred in his place, and the only one who was proud of Paul's decision to attend yeshiva. Now, he had another Sheindle to make proud.

It was late in the evening. Chava was asleep in the bedroom. It had been six weeks since she'd given birth and she was still exhausted. Paul frequently sat up, watching Sheindy, still plagued by an inability to sleep.

He envied the way Chava slept, soundly and undisturbed. He knew she earned it, taking care of the baby all day while he studied in the yeshiva. Thank G.o.d, Rav Schachter had convinced his father to help financially, so he could continue studying for at least another year. He was concerned about eventually having to find a job, for he knew he didn't have any skills.

He figured he could always work for his father, a daunting prospect indeed. He would write to the Rebbe to seek council when the time came; there was no need to think about it now.

His thoughts returned to Rachel's tryst with Joshua. A few days had pa.s.sed, yet he hadn't told a soul. G.o.d works in mysterious ways, he mused; after all, what were the chances of discovering something like that?

He had been on his way to the yeshiva the morning he saw Rachel heading toward the train. He was across the street, and hid himself from her view. She was walking rather quickly, turning around frequently, as if looking to see if anybody was following her. He was struck by this, and wondered if she was up to something sneaky. He had always suspected her as a person with secrets, he had just known it, so he decided to follow, to see where fate might lead. A missed day in yeshiva seemed trivial at the time.

He rode in the car behind hers, standing near the door, watching for when she disembarked. He followed her through the streets of Brighton, staying far enough behind to remain unseen. It was an unlikely place for her to be; he was sure his efforts would prove fruitful.

His curiosity peaked as she climbed the ramp to the boardwalk; his heart pounded as he watched her embrace the black man. And then he saw the black man's face.

He had heard about Joshua's rescue of Rachel and Esther a few years earlier, and had known that Joshua had been a guest at Rachel's wedding. But this was unfathomable.

His mind turned, once again, to his little Sheindy. She slept soundly, her breathing heavy, as if she were sucking in every ounce of life. It felt strange being a parent, the responsibility, the angst, the joy. He wondered what his baby would grow up to be like, what kind of man she would marry, what sort of life lay ahead for her. And he remembered how Rabbi Weissman used to talk about Rachel. It seemed so long ago. Pleasant memories, painful memories; for him, the past was always confusing.

He realized that what he knew would destroy the rabbi, and that was something he didn't want. Unclear of his religious obligation-whether Jewish law required him to tell the husband or not-he was, however, certain of the danger in asking the question. For he would most definitely be pressured to reveal the reason for his query. So for now his conundrum would have to remain unresolved.

For now.

One Friday afternoon, Binny Frankel arrived home just before candle lighting. He had been delayed in the yeshiva because of an argument with another student concerning the interpretation of a difficult Talmudic pa.s.sage. He felt bad for his tardiness. Lately, he'd been spending more time around the house with Rachel, and had been making a point to arrive early on Friday to help with the pre-Sabbath ch.o.r.es.

As he entered the house, he was immediately captured by the Shabbosdik aromas-home baked challah, chicken soup, potato kugel, gefilte fish, and a marinated brisket, the recipe for which his mother-in-law had generously bequeathed to his wife. It was a typical Friday night menu in the Frankel home, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Rachel," he called as he hung his coat in the foyer closet.

"In here," she answered from the kitchen.

He walked into the kitchen and saw the candles, already placed in the candelabra, waiting to be kindled. He felt even worse, for it was he who customarily set up the Sabbath candles for Rachel to light; it was the husband's job, a sign of his partaking in the preparation for the Sabbath.

"Sorry I'm so late," he offered, looking as disappointed as he sounded.

She turned to greet him with an unexpected smile. "That's okay," she answered, "sometimes being late can be a good thing."

He gazed at her curiously, catching the gleam in her eye. She was not one to speak in riddles.

"You mean you're..."

"I think."

Neither of them wanted to actually say the word, for fear of casting an ayin hara, an evil eye, on such a delicate matter.

"I'm pretty sure," Rachel added. "It's been a few days."

Binny crossed the room with open arms. Rachel broke into tears at his touch. "I didn't want to tell you until I knew," she said, crying and laughing at once.

"I love you," he replied softly, running his hands through her hair.

"I love you too," she answered, believing her own words. I do love him, she told herself, as if she needed convincing. I will love him, and our child, and our family. I will love my life.

"Oh my," she exclaimed as she jumped away, "it's time to light."

It was actually a few minutes past the time, but neither noticed. Binny ignored the clock and watched her kindle the candles, wave her hands over them, and bestow blessings of peace for their home, observing intently as if for the very first time.

He took a quick shower before heading to shul. He rarely took advantage of the legal dictum allowing men an additional eighteen minutes after candle-lighting to prepare for the Sabbath. He was uncomfortable with the dispensation, regarding it as proper for husband and wife to start the Sabbath together. But tonight there had been unforeseen circ.u.mstances, wonderful circ.u.mstances. He could make exceptions; he could be late for shul. Nothing would bother him.

He stood in the shower, warm sprays of water and rising steam easing the day's tensions. An indulgence, he thought, while pondering his new fortune. His wife was pregnant, and because of that she would be permitted to him without interruption until the baby was born. He would start tonight, on Shabbos, when it was a double mitzvah. He would make burning love to her-just for the fun of it.

He began to hum one of his favorite melodies. He only knew Hasidic tunes, and it was expressly forbidden to sing them in the shower. Singing was a sacred rite, a form of prayer and supplication. To perform such an act in the bathroom was sacrilege, but he couldn't help himself. He needed to sing.

CHAPTER 34.

"The Jews are not our friends. They pretend to be. They marched with Doctor King and started their Anti Defamation League-which they say will help us-but all this was rooted in self interest. The Jews stood by us in the South only because they themselves are afraid of the Klan; they themselves are scared of persecution and prejudice, not because they give a d.a.m.n about the black man.

"Take a good look at these Jews, my friends. What have they really done for us? Well, to start, they partic.i.p.ated in the slave trade, even owned some of the ships and companies that had transported our grandparents from their homes and villages in Africa to the so-called New World. These Jews have made a profit from our servitude, that's what they have done for us!

"And today, what does the Jew do for us? He is the slum lord, is he not? He owns our tenements; he does not fix the plumbing or replace the lights in the hallways and stairwells where our mothers and sisters are accosted; he does not repair the chipping paint our babies ingest; he does not provide heat in the winter, and does not replace broken locks on the doors to keep criminals out. All he cares about is filling his pockets, and that's what the Jew does!"

Joshua sat in the back of the cla.s.s, listening to Professor Thompson's final lecture of the semester. The professor had apparently saved the "best" for last, and Joshua couldn't argue. The comments about Jewish landlords rang true to his experience, and the statements about Jews having been involved in slave trading were not without some historical evidence. And as for the reason some Jews marched with blacks in the South, there was some truth in that as well.

Yet Joshua was bothered by the insinuation that all whites, and Jews in particular, were bad. What about Rachel, her father, or even Mr. Kimmel, the probation officer?

He was about to raise his hand, but lost his nerve. He knew he was copping out, doing exactly what Thompson had admonished him about, but it just wasn't worth it. Not at this time, in this place.

The cla.s.s concluded with a thunderous ovation. Joshua, too, found himself on his feet, applauding. Not because he was afraid of sticking out, but because there were things he'd learned from Thompson, and an intangible quality about the professor that he admired, despite the demagoguery.

A few minutes pa.s.sed before the room started emptying. Joshua gathered his belongings and was headed for the door when he heard his name called.

What luck!

He turned around; the notorious forefinger was beckoning.

He ambled over.

Thompson gestured for him to sit.

He obeyed.

Thompson looked at him. "So you never did speak up," he said.

"About what?"

"About anything."

"I guess I didn't have anything to say."

"You guess?"

"I mean, I didn't have anything to say."

"Or you would have spoken up."

"Yes, exactly."

Thompson waited a beat. "I'm sure you know that you received the best grade in the cla.s.s on the mid-term."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, you did. It's obvious that you're a smart fellow."

Joshua said nothing.

"Anyway," Thompson continued, "I was wondering what exactly it is that you plan to do with your brains?"

Joshua wasn't sure how to respond. "Well, I'm a pre-law major."

"Does that mean you want to be a lawyer?"

"I don't know. I guess so."

"You guess so. Well, you better be more convinced than that if you really want to be a lawyer."

Joshua nodded.

Thompson pondered a moment. "Perhaps you will be a lawyer. Perhaps you will do your people proud one day."

Joshua was dumbfounded.

"I could tell that you don't agree with everything I say," Thompson added.

"How is that?"

"Your face, it gives you away. You would be a terrible poker player." A chuckle.

Joshua vowed to work on his poker skills. "There are some things you say that sound too simple," he said, surprised by his own candor.

"And what might those things be?" Feigned curiosity.

Joshua offered some of his thoughts regarding Thompson's generalizations. Thompson sat, listening with extraordinary interest, silent, reflective, rubbing his cheek. Joshua was afraid he'd said too much.

"Tell me, Mr. Eubanks, where do you live?"

"Crown Heights."

"Ah!"

"Is there something wrong with Crown Heights?"

"No, not really. But it isn't exactly your typical black neighborhood, wouldn't you say?"

"If you mean that whites live there too, that's true. But things are changing. The whites are moving out fast. When we first came there, we were the only blacks in our building, and now there aren't any whites left in our building at all."

"And why do you suppose that is?"

"I guess they don't want to be around us, with all the crime and drugs and everything. They're scared, and to tell you the truth, so am I. I grew up in Bed-Stuy, and I've seen what can happen to a neighborhood."

"Bed-Stuy," Thompson said, pondering. "So you do know something about black neighborhoods?"

"Some." More than I'd like to admit.

"Tell me, Mr. Eubanks, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Yes." Tentative.