Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

The Rabbi’s Wife Stayed Home
By Debra H. Goldstein

I’m not your typical Rabbi’s wife. Oh, I bring chicken soup to the sick and meet with any woman who doesn’t feel comfortable talking to my husband, but most of Dick’s congregants have never viewed me as a true Rebbitzin. They think I spend too much time in the secular world rather than ministering to their needs. I do.

As a psychologist specializing in marriage and family counseling, my clients come from all walks of life. If I provided the same type of services only to Temple members, the people whispering behind my back might think of me as a perfect Rabbi’s wife. Of course, I’d probably go nuts.

The reality is that I enjoy being there for congregants, but I need a life outside of them. Besides, I’m pretty good at what I do. I’m also a good mother, loyal friend, ski fanatic, and klutz. Right now, klutz is at the top of my list.

Yesterday, I was coming down the cement steps outside my office when I missed a step. I guess I was distracted because I was texting Ann, my neighbor and early morning bicycling partner, to let her know I wouldn’t be riding next week because I’d be at Dick’s annual Breckenridge rabbinical conference. I tried to catch myself and save my phone, but I didn’t do a good job at either. It’s bad enough being stuck at home for the next few weeks in a boot, but I definitely could do without Dick’s comments about “being the poster child for the twelve step plan against texting and walking.”

Accidents happen. I’m not giving up texting. In fact, I’ve already texted our kids to let them know I’ll be home alone because their dad still insists on going to his study/ski meeting. I also sent one to Ann to see if she rode this morning. From the pings I’m hearing, I’m starting to get some responses:

Hal (mobile): “Hi mom! Sent you a book. Figured with you not skiing with dad this week, you might like something to read while you’re home. Feel better.”

Ann Roberts (mobile) “No. “Not quite. I went home last night promising myself I would try to be the dutiful wife, but as we lay in bed – him snoring and me seething, I had the urge to kill him. When I found myself debating whether to stab him with a kitchen knife, beat him with the lamp he insisted I turn off when I still wanted to read, or just wait until morning and put some type of poison in his oatmeal, I knew I should leave.”

Whoa! I read Ann’s message again. A cry for help or a threat? She and Tommy had a rough patch last year, but from what she’s shared on our bike rides, I thought that was behind them. Apparently not. This is serious. Tommy could be in danger. I’m obligated as a therapist to call the police if someone makes a homicidal threat, but how can I report Ann?

Knowing Tommy and some of his selfish demands, he might deserve anything Ann does. Slap my face, I can’t think like that. I took an oath to report things like this, but Ann isn’t my patient. Arguably, that makes my obligation to call the police moral not legal, but what kind of therapist or Rabbi’s wife would I be if I ignored her message?

Before I do anything else, I need to talk, or at least text, Ann. Ever since she got a new smart phone a couple of weeks ago, she reads and answers messages almost as fast as I send them. I think she probably sleeps closer to the phone than she does to Tommy.

Robin Goldblatt (mobile): “Got your message. Call me. I need to talk to you immediately. Remember, I’m always here for you.”

No response. I would pace around the house or clean my baseboards waiting for Ann to text or call, but I’m stuck in this chair with my foot propped higher than heart level. It hasn’t even been five minutes, but I glance at my phone again. What if she does something before she reads my text? I decide to revert to the old fashioned way of making contact – calling her landline.

Tommy answers. “Hello.”

“Uh, hello Tommy. May I speak to Ann?”

“She’s out running errands. You can probably catch her on her cell.”

“I’ll try that. Tommy, by the way, how are you feeling?”

“Fine thanks.”

“Would you like to come down here for breakfast?”

“No thanks. I just had a big breakfast.”

My heart pounds as my stomach flip-flops. “Oh, did Ann whip you up some eggs or make oatmeal?” As subtle as I’m trying to be, my voice sounds like I’m screeching.

“Nah, I didn’t want to be poisoned. I went to McDonalds.”

As much as I’m not fond of fast food, today, I hang up the phone muttering a prayer thanking God for the creation of McDonalds. I text Ann again. Nothing. Sitting in this chair, time seems to have stopped moving. I remember what Tommy said about calling her, so I again pick up my cell. Before I can punch in her number, my cell pings. What a sweet sound!

Ann Roberts (mobile): “What’s up? R U OK? Do you need me to bring you something? No problem, I’m out running errands.”

She sounds calm. I’m not as I type in my next message: “We need to talk ASAP. If you’re feeling a little agitated, I’ll be glad to listen. Want to run by for a cup of tea?” I don’t put the phone down as I wait for her to respond.

She really is taking way too long.

Ann Roberts (mobile): “OMG, I just scrolled up and saw the long message that’s getting you so upset. That stuff about the oatmeal isn’t mine. It’s Cynthia’s.”

Robin Goldblatt (mobile): “Cynthia’s? Let’s talk about this….”

Ann Roberts (mobile): “It’s part of one of her short stories. She asked me to read it for her and I read it on my new phone. I must have hit something wrong. You have to believe me. It’s from one of Cynthia’s crime stories!”

Robin Goldblatt (mobile): “I’m so relieved. I’d love to read her story. She always writes such realistic murder pieces. Why don’t you forward it to me or have her send me a copy? It would give me something to do while Dick is away. In the meantime, stop by so we can commiserate about whatever Tommy has been up to and how Dick is going skiing without me?”

Ann Roberts (mobile): “Will do. I’ll bring lunch over for you and I’ll call Cynthia to send you a copy of her story. BTW, Tommy may drive me crazy sometimes, but I’d never put something in his oatmeal ☺.”

Relieved and delighted that my lunch will be taken care of, I put my cellphone down. Maybe Ann wouldn’t put something in her husband’s oatmeal, but I would.

* * *

Bio: Judge Debra H. Goldstein’s debut novel, 2012 IPPY award winning Maze in Blue, a mystery set on the University of Michigan’s campus in the 1970’s, will be a May 2014 Harlequin Worldwide Mystery selection. Her published and award winning short stories and non-fiction essays include “Legal Magic,” “Malicious Mischief,” “Grandma’s Garden,” and “Maybe I Should Hug You.” She lives in Alabama with her husband, whose blood runs crimson.