Naked in the Promised Land by Lillian Faderman Page B

and English, "
Shadchen,
Matchmaker," it said. "I will find you Your
Besherteh,
Your Destined Mate. Reasonable Rates!" It was signed "Mr. Yehuda Cohen."
    My mother had sent me to get a quart of milk, but I almost forgot. I stared at the wrinkled piece of paper with the shaky handwriting for a long time. My mother needed rescuing, and as hard as I'd tried, I hadn't been able to do it. What if I gave her into someone else's loving hands now—like a poor woman who couldn't take care of her baby might give it to a rich woman who'd be so happy to have it? A few days later, I went back to the grocery store after school and wrote Mr. Cohen's telephone
number on the inside cover of my geography notebook. For a week or more I kept looking at it as I sat in my classes. By now, though I could scarcely admit it to myself, I knew there was another reason too that made me want to call Mr. Cohen: I'd begun to understand that if I were all she had in the world, I'd never be able to live my own life. Someday I'd want to do things, to travel places ... like Chicago, maybe ... or France. With my mother in tow, how far could I travel? I wouldn't even be able to go to college if I always had to take care of her. I hated my selfish thoughts, but I couldn't help them: I needed to give her to someone else—a husband.

    My mother sat on the milk crate looking out at nothing, her face blank, as if she were a million miles away. She wore a torn plaid wrapper—her weekend uniform these days.
    "Mommy? I've been thinking a long time about something." I knelt at her feet, pausing dramatically, to impress on her the seriousness of what I was about to say. "You can't keep working in the shop. We need to find you a husband."
    "A husband?" She jumped as though I'd waved something noxious in front of her nose. "What do I need a husband for?"
    "Mommy, listen to me," I kept on: "I don't think I'll ever get my break in Hollywood; I can't help you." I came back to it every hour; I dogged her. "We don't want to live in a furnished room at Fanny's forever." "Your spells are worse when you get so tired out by your work. It's killing you!" It was all true.
    "Who'd even want me now?" she said that afternoon in front of the dresser mirror, turning her head at different angles to scrutinize the extent of the wrinkles on her face, the extent of the sag under her chin. I could tell she'd started thinking seriously about it, though she was still far from convinced.
    That evening she poured borscht from a Manischewitz bottle into two bowls for our supper. "Moishe..." she began.
    I didn't want to hear it. "Mommy, he'll never want us. And I hate that bastard! I hate him!" I screamed.
Slam
went my hand on the table, and my mother cringed, and the red liquid jumped from the bowls and puddled on the oilcloth. I didn't care. I had to convince her!
    I searched the kitchen counter for a rag to sop up the spilt borscht. Finding none, I wadded old newspapers from the stack Fanny kept to put on the floor after she mopped on Friday afternoons. How could I make my mother understand? I blotted and rubbed at the spill, but my efforts left red streaks on the table. I threw the newspaper wad down, defeated, and sank onto a chair, covering my head with my hands. "I want a father in my life!" It popped out of my mouth as if I were Charlie McCarthy, and I stopped, shocked. Did I really, after fourteen and a half years without a father, feel that I needed one now? I'd always been happy there'd been no man to come between us. Then why had I said it?

    "You want a father?" she cried.
    I looked my mother in the eye. I couldn't back out now. "Yes. I need a father."
    She sipped at her soup, taking quick, nervous slurps. I stared at the red liquid in my bowl. After that day, I always hated borscht.

    Mr. Yehuda Cohen had a long white beard like the ones I'd seen in pictures of biblical patriarchs, and he wore the same long black overcoat in all seasons. He came to Dundas Street to examine us and set