Naomi Ragen The Tenth Song: A Novel

ISBN 13: 9781400169948

The Tenth Song: A Novel

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9781400169948: The Tenth Song: A Novel
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When life is at its best, the unimaginable can shatter everything you think you know... Abigail Samuels has no reason to feel anything but joy on the morning her life falls apart. The epitome of the successful Jewish American woman, she is married to a well-known and respected accountant and is in the middle of planning her daughter Kayla's wedding. Kayla, too, wakes up that morning with the world in the palm of her hand. Having lived the charmed life of a well-loved child from a happy family, she is bright, pretty, a Harvard law student who has never really questioned the path she found herself on. With a shocking suddenness, all that is smashed to pieces in ways they could never have dreamed. When a heartbroken Kayla runs away to a desert commune run by a charismatic mystic, Abigail rushes to save her, only to find that there is nothing more whole than a broken heart.

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About the Author:

Naomi Ragen is the author of an award-winning play, an influential and widely read Web site, and several international bestsellers, including Jephte's Daughter, which was listed among the one hundred most important Jewish books of all time.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1It 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 professi...

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