The Tenth Song Read online

  The Tenth Song

  Also by Naomi Ragen

  The Saturday Wife

  The Covenant

  Chains Around the Grass

  The Ghost of Hannah Mendes

  The Sacrifice of Tamar

  Jephte’s Daughter

  Sotah

  Women’s Minyan: A Play

  The Tenth Song

  Naomi Ragen

  St. Martin’s Press New York

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE TENTH SONG. Copyright © 2010 by Naomi Ragen. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ragen, Naomi.

  The tenth song / Naomi Ragen. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-57017-0

  1. Jewish women—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 3. Life change events—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. 5. Psychological fiction. I. Title. II. Title: 10th song.

  PS3568.A4118T46 2010

  813'.54—dc22

  2010029213

  First Edition: October 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Alex

  There is nothing so whole as a broken heart.

  Rav Nachman of Breslav

  Acknowledgments

  The writing of this book took place during one of the most challenging experiences of my life. That this experience resulted in the writing of a book, rather than depression, alcoholism, or gaining ninety pounds, is due to the help, love, and guidance I received from many wonderful people.

  I would like to thank those whose lectures helped me not only to envision and express the wisdom of Rav Natan, but to stretch and grow instead of breaking: Rav Yechial Michael Yosefi, Rabbi Natan Ophir, and the Rav (who wishes to remain anonymous) who taught me about the miracles that lie in our ordeals, about the Tenth Song and the days of the Messiah. In addition, I would like to thank Hannah-Sara Zeller, for sharing her late husband David’s remarkable book with me: The Soul of the Story, from which I have taken the quote from Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach.

  My thanks to Steven Emerson of the Investigative Project on Terrorism (http://www.investigativeproject.org) for putting me in touch with a federal prosecutor who provided invaluable information on how terror suspects are investigated and tried.

  My thanks to Stuart Fund for answering my questions about the accounting profession and to Talia Siman-Tov for the camp stories.

  Many thanks must also go to Dr. Asher Ragen, whose valuable insights on the entire manuscript were extremely helpful.

  My heartfelt thanks to Rabbi Aaron Rakefet-Rothkoff, who showed me by his personal example what generosity and true spiritual greatness look like. Heartfelt thanks must also go to Professor Emily Budick of The Hebrew University of Jerusalem for her priceless support and encouragement, which allowed me to continue writing. To my dear friend and marvelous fellow author Yehudit Rotem, I give my deepest appreciation for her unending kindnesses.

  I thank Mibi Moser, Tamir Gluck, and Yaron Hanin for being my knights in shining armor and for teaching me many valuable lessons about the legal profession. In addition, the following books were very helpful in forming my understanding of what it’s like to be a student of the law: Ivy Briefs by Martha Kimes and Law School Confidential by Robert H. Miller.

  I thank Daniela and Yehuda Cohen, founding members of beautiful Kibbutz Ein Gedi, for showing me the miracles of making the desert bloom. My thanks also to Dr. Gideon Hadass for a fascinating private tour of his archaeological sites in the desert.

  A very special thanks must go to my editor, Jennifer Weis, who helped me to realize my vision of what this book should be. Thank you, Jennifer!

  And last, but not least, my deepest thanks to my husband, Alex, who has made this book, and my life, possible.

  The Tenth Song

  1

  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 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, she felt the word “sexuality” echo 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, Abigail 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, and 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, thrown the farthest, Abigail 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 Mazal 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 hora” 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 Antonia, or Steinbeck’s 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 were 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 expe
nsive 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.

  She smiled to herself, waiting on the corner for the light to change.

  The Body Shop window had cranberry-scented candles in little straw holders. But might it be too obvious to use a fall decorating scheme for the party? Pumpkins and squash, cranberries and apples? Adam would love it. Orange was his favorite color—any shade. The kids often poked gentle fun at him for wardrobe disasters that could be chalked up to this enthusiasm. Since he never shopped unless forced to by dire necessity—like running out of socks—his purchases were often spontaneous impulses that overtook him when passing outlet stores with signs that read EVERYTHING REDUCED 70%. Inevitably, those drastic reductions included some article of men’s apparel dyed a shocking—and consequently unsalable—shade of unbelievable orange: jackets, shirts, vests, ties, raincoats, even boots.

  She shook her head. Goodwill always had a supply of excellent high-quality items in those shades courtesy of Adam Samuels. They hardly ever sold. Even poor people had some standards.

  She walked into the shop, fingering the waxy shapes, breathing in the spicy smells. There was still time to make these decisions. So far Kayla had been very breezy “whatever” about the engagement party, except for defining the absolute parameters: Evening. Black tie. Top-notch catering. And one-twenty to one-fifty guests, max.

  “Abigail?”

  She turned her head. It was Sandra something, a woman she knew vaguely from synagogue functions; someone who wore strange, baggy designer clothes and had her hair cut brutally short. She and her husband were the kind of people who always wanted something: free tax advice, investment tips, donations for obscure causes, or to enlist you in time-consuming volunteer schemes that would make themselves look good. She smiled.