For the Relief of Unbearable Urges: Stories by Nathan Englander Page A

play together in Tzippy’s room. They tried on clothes and dreamed of marriages—to brilliant scholars flown in from Jerusalem, handsome princes who would sit in the back of deep studies while Jews the world over came to their doors begging wisdom, advice, a blessing in exchange for a kiss on the hand.
    They do come from around the world. But not for Shlomi, not for her husband. They circle the globe to see Ruchama, because they are trapped in their modesty and want to feel, even as illusion, the simple pleasure of wind in their hair.
    Menucha, the littlest, is splashing in the tub next to Ruchama. Ruchama begs quiet when Menucha squeals. She quizzes the child on body parts while taking off her makeup, testing to see where the girl has and has not scrubbed. “Ears?” she says. “Elbows? Belly button. Toes.”
    Shlomi is home from the study hall making noise in the kitchen. Cabinets slam. A pot hits a countertop, a pan strikes a burner. The new rules of her home. Six children, and for the first time all are out of the house during the day. Menucha in first grade and Shira, the oldest, in tenth. For once Ruchama can work uninterrupted, and her taste for independence has spread. She has instituted small chores for Shlomi. She asks now that he heat his own dinner and wash his own dishes, as well as the stray glasses and spoons that accumulatebetween the children’s dinner and bed. Over this he makes a production.
    To take off her makeup slowly, to look in the mirror and be sad, that’s all she wants. Shlomi calls out questions, makes comments to reiterate his helplessness. “Where is the dairy sponge?” “This soap is no good!” Ruchama doesn’t respond, does not care where the soap falls short in his eyes. He trayfs up her kitchen to spite her. He is forever putting meat silverware in the dairy sink.
    He calls up: “Are there any dry dish towels?”
    She screams so that Menucha stops splashing, her little arms frozen in the air. Ruchama screams with murder in her voice, her own hand checked in midmotion, a dollop of face cream on the pads of her fingers. “Reach down,” she yells, “pull open the towel drawer, and look.” She spreads the cream under her eyes. It is nice and cool. “When the drawer is open,” she screams, “bend over and open your eyes.”
    She waits for him to ask where, in their house of sixteen years, is the dry-dish-towel drawer.
    When Louise arrives there are kisses and hugs. She peels off her gloves, undoes a silk scarf with a pull. Tzippy and Ruchama have a crush on her. She is their only secular client, the only one to traipse down the stairs in plunging necklines and smart man-tailored slacks. She reminds Ruchama of the pretty ladies who stand in department stores spraying perfume.
    Louise has a daughter their age, yet, Ruchama thinks, she looks younger than Nava. It is only the thick, tired veins on the backs of her hands and the carefully organized hairline that give her away. Louise takes Ruchama’s arm and kisses her again.
    “I’ve done it,” Louise says. “You’ll both be furious, but don’t feel bad. I couldn’t tell my husband—not about the wig and not about the money.” Louise unzips her pocketbook.“Our thirtieth anniversary. My present from Harold. A stunning necklace he picked out himself. Pawned. I sold it away.”
    “You didn’t,” Tzippy says. Her expression is embarrassingly happy. She is a fan of intrigue.
    “I did,” Louise says. “A purchase must be paid for.”
    “Credit,” Ruchama says dryly. “I offered you credit.”
    “I know, dear. But it’s not right. I went and pawned it and told Harold that the clasp broke and that I had put the floater on my to-do list but hadn’t let the insurance man know. ‘Off premises’ doesn’t cover it, and Harold would never fake a claim.” She takes an envelope from her purse and extends her arm with impelling force. “Here,” she says, passing off the envelope, thick with fifties, to Ruchama.
    When