From Within and Without

by Rivkah Goodman

 “Ruthy, did you hear the mazal tov?” Leah, from down the block, shrieked into the phone. “Simi’s engaged!”

Ruthy pulled a turtleneck out of the laundry basket and folded it with unintentional force. “Yes,” Ruthy said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm, ignoring the ball of fear growing in her stomach.

“I’m so happy for Gila,” Leah continued, oblivious to Ruthy’s bland reaction. “So, who’s the boy? Where is he learning?”

Ruthy answered all the forthcoming questions with whatever information she knew.

“Did you speak to Gila yet, is she thrilled?” Leah babbled. Ruthy pulled out a towel and folded it in perfect rectangles.

“I spoke to her briefly; she called me last night on the way to the lechaim,” Ruthy stated carefully, leaving all emotions aside.

*  *  *

The night before, the temperature had plummeted and large snowflakes fell, blanketing the streets of Flatbush. Ruthy peeked out the living room window, happy she wasn’t outside in the cold. When the phone rang, she was reluctantly pulled away from the pristine, white scenery.

“Hello, Ruthy?” Gila’s voice came over the line breathlessly. “We’re on the way to Simi’s lechaim! Can you believe it?”

It took a moment for Ruthy to find her voice. “Uh, wow,” she winced, “Mazal tov. Who’s she engaged to?”

“Dovi Cohen, from Queens. The lechaim is there so that his grandparents can come,” Gila spoke quickly.

And because you’d never want anyone to see what the inside of your house looks like, Ruthy thought.

“Can you call the neighbors and the Rav to tell them? Thanks.”

Ruthy started to say something, but Gila cut her off, “My battery is going, so I can’t really talk now. Bye. Thanks!”

Left staring at the phone, Ruthy tried to assess her feelings. “Is this going to work out? How in the world is Gila going to pull this off? And is Simi ready to get married – or maybe she just wants to get out of the house?”

Ruthy slowly sank down onto the couch. Her eyes scanned the leftover Purim paraphernalia and the pile of lists for the fundraiser she was arranging. But Ruthy was peering much further than the confines of her home.

*  *  *

The call a few weeks earlier had taken Ruthy completely by surprise. Deep into shalach manos preparation, she propped the cordless onto her shoulder as she unsuspectingly answered. “Hello.”

“Is this Ruthy Gutmacher? I’m calling about your neighbors, the Paultmans.”

Ruthy froze in horror. This is it. The call I’ve been dreading for 18 years.

“Is this a good time?” the voice asked politely.

“I guess so,” Ruthy stammered. That wasn’t very smart. You should have said no, so you’d have time to call a Rav and find out what you’re allowed to say.

“How does their home function?” came the first pointed question.

It doesn’t. That’s the problem. The house, the parents, the children; they’re all dysfunctional. Out loud, Ruthy spoke slowly, choosing her words. “Gila often doesn’t feel well, which means the house doesn’t run the same.” Was that vague enough?

“Of course, and with so many little ones around,” the woman laughed good-naturedly.

Ruthy was silent.

“We’ve heard such nice things about the girl.” Ruthy still made no comment.

“Tell me,” the voice persisted. “Is the mother’s illness hereditary?” 

“Um, I don’t think that it’s hereditary.” Ruthy tried her most professional sounding voice. How could Gila’s lack of strength and dislike of anything domestic be hereditary? All her imagined problems, which were mainly psychological – all that couldn’t be passed down, I hope.

“Can you tell me the names of other neighbors who know her better?”

Ruthy thought of the few women who knew Gila’s situation and gave their names. She hung up and took a deep breath. After slowly exhaling, she closeted herself in her room and called Tzipora.

“It happened. Remember the meeting we had a few years ago about how to help Gila and her family? I said that I wouldn’t know what to answer when asked about any of the Paultman children.”

“Someone called you about Simi?” Tzipora asked.

“What was I supposed to say?”

“I’ll give you the number for the shmiras halashon hotline. Explain the situation and get clear guidelines for the future.”

Later that evening, Ruthy was on the phone again. This time she was on hold, nervously listening to music while waiting her turn. She looked down at her list of questions for the Rav. A deep voice suddenly answered.

“I’m calling about a very dysfunctional family in the neighborhood,” Ruthy began anxiously. “People are starting to call me about shidduchim for their daughter. How can I answer their direct questions, and what shouldn’t I say?”

The Rav explained that obviously the caller knew something, which accounted for the straightforward questions. Ruthy probably hadn’t ruined the shidduch by answering in a general way. “Try not to give any specific examples,” the Rav told her before adding that Hashem would help the children get good shidduchim.

How could anyone want a child who grew up in such a house? Those kids don’t even know what a normal home should look like. Though she now had the halachic guidelines, Ruthy felt guilty about giving responses that could make or break someone’s future, whether Simi’s, or that of the innocent boy and family in question.

*  *  *

Now, a few weeks later, Simi was engaged. I sure hope that boy and his family know what they’re in for, Ruthy thought morosely. She considered all the different angles: Gila’s difficult childhood, her penchant for always needing help – in childcare, errands, and everything else that needed attention. Gila tended not to live in reality but on her own plane of existence. Her husband escaped all day to work and at night to learn, keeping out of the house as much as possible. The only thing that Gila enjoyed was shopping. She liked to dress well and bought top quality clothing for herself and her family. Though Ruthy wasn’t sure if Gila could be classified as a shopaholic, her addiction often left a strain on their family’s budget.   

Ruthy felt that she couldn’t talk about the Paultmans’ news. She still felt stung by Gila’s reaction that morning, after the engagement. Ruthy had called to give a proper mazal tov, but Gila had been too pressured and sharply told Ruthy she had to hang up. Doesn’t Gila know the definition of a friend? I do almost everything for her, Ruthy seethed bitterly.

It was late morning when Ruthy knew she had to speak to the one person who could understand and help her work through her feelings. Chana was Gila’s first cousin. Though she lived in Monsey, she was one of the women involved in trying to get appropriate help for Gila. Ruthy had spent numerous hours with Chana discussing different ideas about organizations, rabbanim, and life coaches. Usually nothing panned out, as both Gila and her husband were in denial that anything was wrong. They were insulted by any comments or advice that hinted to a problem.

Chana’s ever-patient voice answered, “Hello.”

“Hi, it’s Ruthy,” she stated flatly.

“Hi. Mazal tov. You sound stressed out about this engagement,” Chana left an opening for Ruthy to unburden her fears and concerns.

“Of course! I have to make the vort right before Pesach. And then sheva brachos, when I’ll be already over-extended for the school fundraiser that I’m organizing.”

“Ruthy,” Chana corrected. “This is not your child. Why do you think that you have to make the vort?”

“Because I made all of Gila’s brisim and bar mitzvahs!” Ruthy tried to keep her tone even. Is it Gila’s fault that I’m so dependable and loyal? Why do I feel so resentful of Gila? she censured herself.

“Ruthy, if Gila engaged her daughter, then she must take care of the arrangements herself.”

“Chana,” Ruthy slowly clarified, “Gila thinks that ‘taking care of it herself’ means getting on the phone and delegating everything to other people.”

“This is not your responsibility. I keep telling you that you have to pull back. Anyhow, she always finds someone new to help her when the rest of us tell her we can’t.” Chana thought for a moment before adding, “You really seem burnt out by all of this ‘Gila-care.’”

Ruthy knew that she should be cleaning something, anything, for Pesach, but she sat down on her bed to contemplate Chana’s last statement. It’s true. Shabbos probably was the last straw, Ruthy remembered. The Shabbos clock had already gone off when I heard knocking at the door. This wasn’t the first time Gila had come on Shabbos, late at night. She often escaped and complained about whatever was too hard to deal with. Ruthy went through the scene in her mind. Gila asked my husband, who had just returned from learning, to go over and reprimand their son who was hitting his younger siblings, since her own husband isn’t big on discipline.

“Look, Ruthy,” Chana interrupted her reverie, “Gila is a lovely person. She has a lot of good traits. She just needs to agree to see a therapist. If she could straighten out her life, then her home would be more normal.”

Ruthy was quiet as she thought about Gila’s usual string of excuses: “Of course my youngest son’s rebbe says he needs a psychological evaluation; his brother attacks him all day. How do people expect the house to always look presentable? As soon as the cleaning lady leaves, the kids are already messing up the place. There’s so much to do in this house, how can I take care of keeping it neat, cooking, and making sure the kids stay out of trouble?” Ruthy, for her part, frequently asked Hashem for mechila (forgiveness) that more wasn’t being done to help the Paultman family, but they were all trying without seeing any tangible results.

 “Okay, Chana, you’re right. So what should I do now?” Ruthy inquired.

“Simply decide how you can, and can’t, help Gila with the simcha.”

Ruthy thought for a minute. “I can’t make the vort so close to Pesach, and probably not sheva brachos either. We’re still getting together raffle prizes for the school fundraiser, so that we’ll have most of the graphic work finished before Pesach.” Then Ruthy conceded, “I could make sheva brachos with other neighbors, and I could have the Paultmans for the first Seder, like every year.”

“Very good,” Chana said proudly. “Now you just have to stick to the plan and not get dragged into doing more than you can handle.”

Chana’s last words made Ruthy sigh audibly. “That’s the problem. Gila somehow manipulates me into doing much more than I originally had planned. Like, she’ll say, ‘Do you have the doctor’s number?’ Instead of writing it down, she’ll ask if I can just make an appointment for her. Thanks! Then she’ll hang up, while I spend the next half an hour trying to get through to the doctor.” Ruthy paused for a moment to take a breath.

“Oh, and Chana, how about this one? She was arranging a last-minute shiur and called me to find a projector to show a CD – for the shiur that ‘we’ were organizing. ‘We’ means that she suddenly drops it into my lap, so that I can pull it all together for her.”

“But…” Chana started objecting to Ruthy’s predictable behavior.

“Wait, I’m not finished!” Ruthy was off her bed, half smiling at the ludicrous story and began to clean the night table. “She called me three hours before the shiur. So, first I spent a while phoning different places that rent these things, and then I had to go pick up the equipment, a 15-minute drive away. Because of an accident, the police were rerouting traffic into a neighborhood I would never dream of entering. I was alone at night in the rain, davening to get out of there alive. I made sure the windows were closed and the doors locked. Then I said vidui.”  

Both women giggled together.

“At least you can laugh about it now. But really, Ruthy, getting Gila to change is not up to you. You can only change yourself. What you do and how you think are up to you,” Chana reiterated.

“Thanks, Chana, I feel much better now. I’m not going to offer to make the vort,” Ruthy grinned. Feeling as if a load had been taken off her shoulders, she now had the energy to start a major cleaning project. Her mind, though, replayed Chana’s words. I really have to take a step back and be more assertive with Gila.

*  *  *

Simi’s vort was scheduled for Rosh Chodesh Nissan, and Gila planned to have everything catered, since no offers for help had materialized. That afternoon, Ruthy was going through toys in the girls’ room, when her six-year-old handed her the cordless.

“Ruthy, I have to take a nap,” Gila sounded overwhelmed, as always. “There’s no way I can go to the vort without sleeping. I need someone to take care of my little ones, feed them, give them a bath, and dress them for the vort. Can you find some teenaged girl? Thanks.”

Oh no, not again! Why did they answer the phone?! Ruthy glanced at her wrist; it was 5:08. If I do this myself, I’ll never get to the vort tonight, and Gila will not be too forgiving. Besides, she needs as many friends there as possible.

“I’ll see if I can find a girl to help,” Ruthy said hopefully, knowing intuitively she’d be on the phone for the next who knew how long. She was right. It was both last minute – typical of Gila – and not the best time of year for mothers to offer their daughters’ help. Ruthy was at her wits’ end and made an announcement like never before.

“Listen up!” she addressed the children around her. “No one is allowed to answer the phone if they see the Paultmans’ number. You must ask me first if it’s a good time. Understand?” Ruthy went through the house repeating her mantra to each wide-eyed child.

I can’t take it anymore!

Finally, a neighbor down the block agreed to care for Gila’s children herself. Ruthy thanked her sincerely and began preparing supper for her own family.

Not much later, Ruthy was on her way to the vort. The younger ones were in bed, the older ones babysitting. Ruthy wondered what the Cohen family was like and how the relationship would work out. Ruthy hesitantly opened the door to the hall and looked around. Gila was smiling at all the well-wishers, surrounded by out-of-town family. Simi was glowing like every other excited kallah. Ruthy located Mrs. Cohen and observed her for a few moments. She was warm and laid back, filled with laughter. Peeking through the mechitza, Ruthy spotted the chassan and his brothers. The chassan’s tie was slightly askew, and two of the brothers’ shirt tails were on their way out. They all looked easy-going like their mother, as if nothing fazed them. Wow, Simi looks like she really fits into the Cohen family!

Ruthy breathed deeply. Everything’s going to work out fine. Mrs. Cohen will take Simi under her wing and accept her. The Rav was right; Hashem is the One who makes a good shidduch for each of His children. Ruthy felt relieved as she made her way over to Gila to wish her a sincere mazal tov.

*  *  *

A week later found Ruthy perched on a stepstool, a rag in one hand, and a spray bottle in the other. One of her children handed her the phone, mouthing, “It’s not Gila.” As Ruthy took her cellphone, she felt a twinge of guilt.

Tzipora’s frustrated voice reached Ruthy’s ear as she adjusted the cell on her shoulder.

“Ruthy, I need a break! Where are you up to?”

“Kitchen cabinets.” Ruthy tried a bit of encouragement, “But don’t you love how clean your house looks when you sit down to the Seder?”

Tzipora wasn’t taking the bait, “Not when I’m exhausted after scouring the house from top to bottom.”

Ruthy abstractedly gave a mini-shiur as she reached into the back corner of a top cabinet. “We’re really just supposed to get rid of the chometz.”

She then repeated what she had read a while back in some sefer. “Besides, the chometz is compared to the yetzer hara, which we need to remove from within ourselves.”

Ruthy stopped and stood up straight, almost bumping her head on the ceiling. Ruthy, just who are you speaking to? You’ve got some serious inner cleaning to do yourself!

As Tzipora prattled on about finding a pretzel under the mattress cover in her guest room one Pesach, Ruthy barely listened.

Chana is right; Gila has many fine points. If you were stronger in setting limits, you would not harbor so much negativity towards her.

*  *  *

Seder night, Ruthy looked around her sparkling clean home and her full table. Both the Gutmacher and Paultman families were in their Yom Tov finery on this special night. Baruch Hashem, we did it again, somehow. Ruthy beamed at her children and knew that the “somehow” had a lot to do with each of them; from the oldest, who in his swimming goggles had shred the horseradish, down to her youngest, who had proudly set the gleaming table. Ruthy herself had pondered how to clean out the chometz within. She felt ready to try her new resolutions about Gila, who appreciatively heaped brachos on Ruthy for inviting them again this year.

“You know what was the hardest part of the whole shidduch thing?” Gila leaned toward Ruthy conspiratorially. “My husband wouldn’t let me tell you about Simi going out. He said I’m not allowed to tell anyone. ‘Even Ruthy?!’ I asked him. It was so hard not to say anything to you!”

Ruthy just smiled, the chometz had been removed – from