The Matchmaker's Gift(81)
When Sara saw Marlene next, at Friday-night services, the young mother limped into the sanctuary. “What happened, dear?” Sara asked, but Marlene waved the question away. “Just a little accident,” she said. “So nice to see you again, Mrs. Auerbach.” A few weeks later, after Passover, Marlene Fishman’s arm was in a cast, and it was obvious that she had used a good deal of pancake makeup to cover the bruise on the right side of her face. “Klutzy me,” she said, when Sara inquired. This time, Sara was insistent. “I’d like you to come over for coffee,” she said. “On Monday, after your husband goes to work. Bring the children, I don’t mind. Come at ten—my address is in the membership directory.”
At 10:15 on Monday morning, Marlene Fishman knocked on Sara’s door. Steven was with her, but Annie was in school. “She’s in first grade now,” Marlene explained. “She loves her teacher and her friends.”
“How wonderful,” Sara said. “Please, both of you, come in. I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.” She set out a plate of oatmeal cookies, along with paper and colored pencils for Steven.
“Tell me,” Sara said. “How are you, my dear?”
It was over an hour before Marlene admitted it, and even then, she couldn’t say the words. “Artie begs me for forgiveness every time,” she said. “And he promises it won’t ever happen again. He always knows the right thing to say.”
Sara sighed and pointed to the bruise that was still in bloom on Marlene’s cheek. “When a man does this with his hands, you cannot believe what comes out of his mouth. Believe what you see, not what you hear. Eyn oyg hot mer globin vi tsvey oyern,” she said.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand Yiddish,” Marlene whispered.
“Trust one eye more than two ears.”
* * *
That Friday, the Fishman family did not come to services, so on Saturday, Sara looked up Marlene’s address. They lived in an elegant prewar building only a few blocks from Sara’s. Sara avoided the doorman by entering the lobby with a large group of women on their way back from shopping. In the rush, Sara passed by undetected and rode the elevator up to the Fishmans’ floor. She was about to knock on the door of apartment 9A when she heard the shouting.
“Who the hell are you to throw my whiskey away? I paid good money for that bottle!”
“Artie, please, I thought we agreed. When you drink too much, your moods—it’s not good for the children. It frightens them.”
“Now I’m not a good enough father either? What kind of ungrateful bitch—”
Sara knocked loudly on the door. She hoped to diffuse the situation, but Artie sounded too far gone to care. “We’re busy!” he shouted, as she knocked again. “Whoever it is, come back later!”
Across the carpeted hallway, the door to 9D opened, and a gray-haired man in his seventies poked his head through the opening. “He won’t let you in,” the old man said sadly. “He’s a drinker, that one. Not bad when he’s sober. But lately he’s been on quite a tear. If you have something for them, you can leave it with me. I’ll drop it off when things calm down.”
Sara told him she had stopped by for a visit. “Would you tell Marlene that Sara Auerbach was here? I want to help her if I can.” The man nodded before retreating back into his apartment.
The next few weeks were filled with whispered phone calls and the cautious but continuous making of plans. A suitcase was purchased. Train tickets were obtained. Marlene’s sister in New Haven pledged her support. On the twenty-ninth of April, while Artie was at work, Marlene picked Annie up early from school. She stopped by Sara’s apartment for her suitcase, as planned, before taking a taxi to Grand Central Station. A few hours later, Marlene and the children were on the train to Connecticut.
* * *
Sara told no one about the part she played or what she had seen at the Purim carnival. At first, she wondered whether her gift had been irreparably altered. She questioned her purpose going forward—what was it that she was meant to do now? She was a shadchanteh, after all—a maker of matches, not an enforcer of vows. She did not want to trade her occupation for the work of a bodyguard or a policeman.
And yet, Sara knew that if the sensation struck again—if she were ever moved by another menacing flash—she would fight to protect any woman whose secret pain was revealed to her.
TWENTY-TWO
ABBY
1994
When she finished reading through the first journal, Abby wandered into her grandmother’s kitchen. Sara’s presence was everywhere, from the bag of Zabar’s coffee on the counter to the recipe box on the windowsill. According to the clock on the stove, it was almost three thirty. Abby hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast, and despite the stress of being “almost” fired, she found that she was actually starving.
She was rummaging through her grandmother’s pantry when she remembered their last conversation. Mrs. Levitz is coming tomorrow at ten. I promised her I’d make the cinnamon babka, but I don’t like to rush around in the morning, so I made two of them this afternoon. I put one in the freezer for you.
Abby held her breath while she opened the freezer door. Her mother had probably thrown the babka away, along with the rest of the refrigerator’s contents. It was silly to get her hopes up like this, to imagine tasting Sara’s handiwork one last time.