Chani
Chani spent Sunday afternoon helping her overwhelmed sister Mindy with her children.
It had been a long afternoon. First Mindy had called her in a panic, needing an extra pair of hands with her rambunctious children and claiming another migraine. Chani was a little skeptical of Mindy’s migraines, which came and went like summer squalls. She suspected Mindy simply lacked the patience and grit to force herself to deal with her little boys on her own. If she wasn’t calling Chani, she was calling her 24- and 22-year-old single sisters-in-law, Hennie and Lieba, to give her a hand, or dumping them at her mother-in-law’s.
Chani truly loved her adorable nephews, although it was hard to interact with them without feeling a pang of envy and wondering if and when she would have her own husband and children. Twenty-seven wasn’t old, but it wasn’t young either. Most of her high school and seminary friends were married with a few kids. The shadchan hadn’t been in touch for a few months already, and now she found herself wondering if she shouldn’t call Mrs. Lowy to give her a gentle reminder.
How she longed to move on in her life already! Sure, by living at home she saved money, and she felt some obligation to stay there to keep her father and sister company. But since the three of them weren’t on the same wavelength, communication remained superficial at best. Her father did his man-about-town thing, while Zahava had no patience to listen to the vicissitudes of Chani’s social work clients. It seemed to Chani that Zahava was so consumed by the blows life had dealt her, claiming her beloved mother and refusing to substitute a husband, that she had precious little empathy left over for anyone else. “Or maybe it’s just her nature,” Chani mused. “After all, I’m in the same boat, yet I feel for my clients’ pain. Or maybe it makes me feel better to know that other people have had things as bad—or worse—than me.”
Her job kept her centered, gave her a reason to get out of bed in the morning. If she didn’t have children of her own (yet!), at least at the agency she had children who depended on her help. And if her father and sister didn’t hold her in high esteem, at work she could reliably count on her supervisor, Tammy, and colleagues to appreciate her efforts and proffer praise and support. Tammy, a down-to-earth, seasoned social worker who had already married off a few children and commuted in from Far Rockaway, had become a treasured mentor.
“You know so much, and you work so well with these kids,” Tammy had said last year as they finished a productive late-afternoon supervision in Tammy’s lightly cluttered office. “Why don’t you consider going for a Ph.D. in social work? Or a Psy.D?”
Chani had been taken aback. “Do you really think so?” she said.
“Of course!” Tammy said, nodding so enthusiastically her feathered brown wig bobbed. “Look, I want nothing more than for you to get married and have family responsibilities. But now, while you’re free, why not acquire more credentials? You’ll make more money and be even better equipped to help your clients.”
Chani stared at her. “Um—I’m flattered! But how come you never went for a doctorate?”
Tammy laughed. “Baruch Hashem, I never had the time,” she said, pulling out her purse and rummaging for her car keys in preparation for leaving. “There’s more than enough on my plate! But you should definitely go for it. We’d be proud to have you on staff with those extra letters after your name!”
Chani had been deeply flattered by the suggestion, and her curiosity piqued. With the help of Tammy and a psychologist on staff, she began checking out potential programs. The result was that she had recently been accepted into a Psy.D. program at Yeshiva University, which could mostly be done remotely but required the occasional travel to the city for a class.
Tonight, she remembered, she had some reading to do for a class on trauma. After an afternoon entertaining little boys she would really have preferred to put her feet up and indulge in a good novel, but then again, her course readings were often just as dramatic as any novel she could read.
She had just put her feet up and opened the book when Mrs. Rosner called. “Chani, would you like to join me for supper?” she said. “I made too much for one person, and I’d love the company.”
This was tempting. Chani always enjoyed spending time with Mrs. Rosner, and supper would probably be a tasty piece of salmon with grilled vegetables and salad, much more appealing and restorative than Zahava’s uninspired Shabbos leftovers. The trauma case studies could wait. She closed her book and went across the street, glad she didn’t need a coat in the mild spring air and wondering if there was anything in particular that had prompted this seemingly-spontaneous proposition.
It didn’t take too long for the reason to become clear. After a pleasant half hour of catching up—tucking into dinner around the glass-topped table of Mrs. Rosner’s immaculate kitchen—Mrs. Rosner confided, “Chani, you know your father is in serious financial trouble, don’t you? Mr. Shapiro has been on his case to take steps to resolve it. Do you have any idea how he could get himself back on track?”
Chani sighed. She thought it lame, if sadly typical for her family, that a 27-year-old single daughter had to be asked to help manage the finances of her 55-year-old father. But out of filial respect she kept that to herself. “I have lots of ideas where we could cut back!” she said. “My father could trade in his Lexus for a Honda, and so could Zahava. We don’t need Lucia to come in every single day to clean the house for three adults. We could cook more and rely less on Pomegranate takeout.”
Shulamis nodded appreciatively. But now Chani was on a roll. “My father and Zahava could eliminate their overseas vacations and decline to participate in all those charity events and yeshiva dinners,” she said, knowing how much her father loved shaking hands with big shots and occasionally being honored. “We could spend Pesach and Sukkos at home instead of in fancy hotels. The two of them could buy clothing in regular stores instead of those exclusive boutiques they go to!” She speared a string bean with a bit more aggressiveness than the tender vegetable called for. “I’m sure it would be better for them to tighten their belts than face disgrace in the community because we owe money to everyone and are basically bankrupt!”
Heaven knows her paltry social work salary and Zahava’s sporadic earnings as a party planner wouldn’t be enough to salvage the situation. And she recalled with shame the nagging calls they’d gotten from everyone from the dry cleaners to a yeshiva promised money, wanting to know why Mr. Elman was remiss in paying his obligations. “My family is just going to have to face reality, and stop acting like they’re billionaires when they’re drowning in debt,” she said firmly.
“You’re 100 percent right,” Shulamis said. “I’m going to call Izzy Shapiro and forward these suggestions to him. I hope he can talk some sense into them!”
To be continued
