She wove her fingers through the baby’s warm hair. She was part of him and he of her. Through him she felt a strange, tenuous connection to a whole new world, vast and incomprehensible, that overflowed the boundaries of the neat grid in which she had grown up; a world in which you could not be certain that if you walked down Fourteenth Avenue, you would reach Fifteenth Avenue; in which you could not be certain you would not find yourself instead in some jungle or some tropical paradise—a place with new landscapes, new rules, and new ways of adding up good and evil on the ledger of Judgment Day.
In the stillness of her waiting soul, she felt a small movement toward the redeeming chaos of some hard-earned knowledge she knew must be wisdom. It allowed her to see beyond the small apartments, the narrow alleyways, the dark streets overshadowed by ugly man-made barriers to the soaring, shining glory of what was possible on this earth among all human creatures.
A Reading Group Guide
1. The social code of the ultra Orthodox world serves not only as the background for
The Sacrifice of Tamar
, but as one of its most controversial elements. How would you define that code, and in what way is it a catalyst for the behavior of the characters?
2. In discussing this book, the author said portraying Tamar sympathetically was extremely challenging. In what way does Tamar’s behavior evoke antagonism in the reader? What events and information does the author supply that help evince sympathy for her decision and her plight?
3. Describe Josh. What do you think his reaction would have been had Tamar told him the truth immediately?
4. Tamar hides the truth. How would the community have reacted had Tamar let the truth about the rape be known? Her family? Was Tamar’s sacrifice in vain?
5. Tamar’s cousin Zissel appears only briefly in the story. Why is Zissel important to the story?
6. At the beginning of the book, Tamar has the simplistic belief that “God treated you the way you treated others.” What happens to this belief by the end of the book? Is it still intact? Has it changed? In what ways?
7. What, exactly, is the sacrifice Tamar makes? Or is it Tamar herself who is sacrificed? What does she gain from her behavior, and what does she lose?
8.
The Sacrifice of Tamar
has an important racial element. Is Tamar a racist? How does the book portray racism?
9. In Tamar, Jenny, and Hadassah, the book presents three models of religious adherence. What are they? How would you describe the positive and negative role religion plays in each of their lives?
For more reading group suggestions, visit
www.readinggroupgold.com
.
Read on for an excerpt from Naomi Ragen’s new novel
The Tenth Song
Available Fall 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Naomi Ragen
Chapter one
It happened, like all horrible things happen, at the most inconvenient time.
Abigail Samuels awoke as the sun streamed through the leaded glass of her beautiful French patio doors. Her eyes opened slowly, taking in the delicate lace of her curtains and the polished wood of her antique canopy bed. Her husband’s gentle goodbye kiss lingered on her lips, a faint, sweet memory. It was Tuesday, her day off, and he had tried not to wake her before leaving for work.
I’m so lucky, she thought, humming her most recent download from iTunes—a catchy paean of love and longing written and performed by a sixteen-year-old. She might be getting old, but her taste in music hadn’t changed; she still loved anything that made her want to dance. That, too, made her happy.
The water was hot enough to burn you, she thought with pleasure, adjusting the temperature controls on the frighteningly expensive mixer faucet. She remembered their leaner years, the first
apartment with the broken-down shower that only gave you lukewarm water until noon, and then only enough for one.
She reached for a thick, fluffy bath sheet, catching a glimpse of her nude body in the mirror. Staring at her overlarge breasts, her rounded stomach and thighs, she wondered where her own body had gone. She looked like a Renoir painting,
Baigneuse,
or
Bather Arranging Her Hair
, unfashionably heavy, but not unattractive. To her surprise, instead of being depressed, the word “sexuality” echoed in her head. She wondered what that meant at her age with a husband who had been her boyfriend, and who loved her—with this body and the original—and whom she had loved back now for forty-odd years?
Wrapping the towel around her, she looked into the mirror, combing her wet hair. It had retained its thickness and its sheen, although the days when it flowed down her back like a dark river were long gone, along with her natural mahogany color. It was short and honey brown now, a color that came from bottles and tubes, and was applied with plastic gloves. And while her face had retained its lean shape and had surprisingly few wrinkles—testifying to a calm, pampered, and, for the most part, happy, life—her eyelids had begun to droop, and her forehead crease. Only in her eyes—large, dark brown ovals that still flashed with amusement and curiosity—did she sometimes glimpse the person she remembered as herself.
Impulsively she threw open the patio doors, stepping out onto the veranda. “
What a lark! What a plunge! . . . Like the flap of a wave… the kiss of a wave
,” she thought, remembering the words from
Mrs. Dalloway
she had just taught her eleventh-graders. The pungent scent of damp fall leaves rose up to meet her, the crisp Boston air like chilled cider, intoxicating.
She loved the fall, all the sun-faded colors of summer repainted by vivid reds and golds still clinging fragilely to branches that would soon be covered with snow. What a wonder! My lovely home. My marvelous garden as big as a park, tended by meticulous
gardeners. My daughter’s engagement. Planning her party. The blue Boston sky. She pirouetted around the room. It would not rain today, no matter what the weather report predicted. Today would be perfect, she thought, slipping on clothes that were unseasonably light.
Walking down the hallway, she could already hear the buzz of the vacuum cleaner as the household began its day without her. No matter how many years she had employed cleaning help, she still hadn’t gotten used to it. Perhaps the housekeepers could feel her discomfort. They never stayed very long.
Esmeralda had been with them for six months now. She was in the dining room, working on the carpets. When she saw Abigail, she turned off the machine, her round face, creaseless as a fall apple, looking up warily.
“No, don’t stop! I just wanted to say good morning, and to tell you I’m going out for a while, to make some arrangements for the party.”
“The engagement party. For your daughter. Miss Kayla.” The woman nodded and smiled politely, pretending to care. Abigail smiled back graciously, pretending to believe she cared.
Lovely to be walking down the street in the early part of the day, instead of stuck in a classroom! She exulted like Clarissa Dalloway, loving
“. . . the wing, tramp, and trudge; . . . the bellow and uproar; . . . the motor cars, omnibuses, vans… the triumph and jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead”;
life, Boston, this moment of September.
She smiled at her shadow as though it were a companion, delighted at the kindly angle of the sun that had airbrushed all the sordid details of aging. But then she noticed the little tufts of hair that stood up waving in the wind—another expensive hairdresser’s experiment gone wrong. Ah, well, she smiled to herself, patting them down. What was such a whisper of annoyance next to the ode to joy resonating loudly throughout every fiber of her being?
She raised her face to the sky, beaming at God.
So perfect!
The words had become almost a mantra over the last month, beginning the moment Kayla—her hand clasped tightly in Seth’s—announced: “We’re engaged!”
She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the memory: her youngest child’s shining face, her big, hazel eyes full of glint and sparkle, like well-cut jewels, revealing their many facets. She recalled clearly the pride and triumph, but somehow the happiness and love were more elusive, like water in sand, absorbed and swallowed. But those things were a given, were they not?
For what was there not to be happy about? Even Kayla, used to golden fleeces falling into her lap without any long quests, must appreciate the answer to every Jewish mother’s prayer, who would soon, God willing, be her husband. Congratulating them was like making the blessing over a perfect fruit that you hadn’t tasted for a long time, she thought: two Harvard Law School students, both Jewish, both from well-to-do families, members of the same synagogue in an exclusive Boston suburb.
But even as she exhaled gratitude like a prayer, she acknowledged it wasn’t all luck. I had
something
to do with it, she told herself, almost giddy with triumph. What
hadn’t
she done to nurture Kayla? The bedtime stories, the elaborate birthday parties, the shopping trips, the decorator bedroom, the private tutors, the long talks, the faithful attendance at every class assembly, play, athletic event… . And Kayla had repaid her beyond her wildest dreams. Straight A’s, valedictorian, youth ambassador to Norway… and now, soon to be a Harvard Law School graduate.
Like an athlete standing on a podium about to hear the national anthem played before the world because they had jumped the highest, run the fastest, threw the farthest, she exulted in her motherly triumph. Her nerves rock steady, her hands and feet swift and unswerving, she had run all the hurdles of modern motherhood
with this child, if not with her older brother and sister, perfecting her mothering skills. Too bad they didn’t give out medals. With Kayla, she had certainly earned the gold.
She heard a car honking and turned around. It was Judith, the rabbi’s wife. She had a huge smile on her face as she mouthed the words “Mazel tov!” behind her windshield.
There had been no official announcement yet. Still, everyone had heard through the grapevine.
“Thank you!” Abigail mouthed back. At just that moment, she saw Mrs. Schwartz walking across the street in the opposite direction.
“Abigail! Just heard about Kayla! How wonderful!” She cupped her mouth, shouting.
Abigail waved, delighted. “Thank you! Thank you!” she shouted back. “Are you coming to the party?”
“I wouldn’t miss it!”
She felt almost like a celebrity, as if she owned the town.
A motorcycle roared past, shearing the air and cutting off her thoughts. She looked up at the swaying old trees, suddenly feeling afraid. Her grandmother would have said “
kenina harah
,” meaning, more or less, “may the Evil Eye keep shut.” In the Middle Ages, all good fortune would have routinely filled the recipients with dread, she comforted herself. One would have had to bang pots or compose and wear amulets to ward off the furies set loose by such joy as hers.
She took a deep breath, exhaling all bad thoughts, focusing. The caterer, then the florist. Check the hotel reservations at the Marriott for the out-of-town uncles and Adam’s sister- and brother-in-law. Check Printers, Inc. for place cards and probably Grace After Meal booklets with a photo of the young couple, although Adam might be right in thinking that would be overkill, since they’d have to be reordered for the wedding. But she wasn’t feeling frugal.
They’d moved up far in the world, from the salary of a lowly junior accountant to the earnings of their own accounting firm whose clients headlined articles in
Fortune
magazine. It had taken a long time. Their eldest, Joshua, had just gotten into high school when they’d finally bought their dream house, a historic colonial on a block of sought-after homes a short commute from downtown and Harvard. The renovation had taken years.
She turned the corner into Harvard Square. The students who rented out the smallest apartments had already taken up residence. They crowded the streets, their trim figures still in shorts and sleeveless tops, as if their defiance was enough to keep winter at bay.
She had been teaching high-school English for close to thirty-five years now. She liked young people. She liked looking at them: their bright, smooth, open faces, their supple, shapely bodies, their smiles. She liked their intelligent rebellion against forced compromises with conventional wisdom, often thinking that she learned as much as she taught. That, perhaps, had been her greatest fear about her profession: the
bloody-mindedness
as D. H. Lawrence—that rebel against hypocrisy—had called it; the repetitiveness of it all. The need to “cover material,” dulling the senses of the fresh, enthusiastic human beings who for the first time were about to encounter a world of infinite wonders.
That had not happened, at least not too often. When she assigned Willa Cather’s
My Ántonia
, or Steinbeck’s
The Grapes of Wrath
, or
The Diary of Anne Frank
, she felt like a bystander to a thrilling event about to unfold before her very eyes. Sometimes, she admitted to herself sheepishly, she even felt a little like she’d coauthored the book, deserving part of the credit for its wondrous qualities.
The kids were always such fresh challenges—not unlike the books themselves. At the beginning of each new school year she felt as if she was peeling back the covers from their stiff bindings, each one a unique and fascinating story. She’d begin her relationship
with each one hopefully, hanging in there, looking for the good things until forced to admit otherwise. That did not happen often. If you looked hard enough and refused to give up hope long enough, you could always find something.
How lovely to be young and unwrinkled with so many unspent days and months and years ahead! How lovely to have strong bones and white, glistening teeth straightened to perfection by expensive orthodontia. Her tongue navigated her own less-than-perfect smile. Some women her age got them straightened—there were invisible braces nowadays, and porcelain veneers… . But it seemed so vain and extravagant, not to mention bothersome. Besides, she had a man who had been telling her for the last forty years she was the most beautiful woman in the world.