Seven Blessings by Ruchama King

Author:Ruchama King
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Chapter Eight

Binyamin sprawled on his bed, facedown, and listened to his phone messages for the second time. Two Shabbat invitations, an artist who wanted to collaborate on a show in the Old City, a rabbi from his yeshiva who wanted to discuss his Talmudic progress (or lack thereof, he thought, wincing), a call from his bank. That was it. No call back from Etti, the matchmaker he had phoned the other day. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand this dry spell. Not a single date—or even a phone call—in over three weeks. Well, what other matchmakers could he call?

He began to dial Mrs. Bartosky but stopped after the fourth number. She’d seemed slightly miffed at him, he recalled. About Talya the nurse. The spunky, witty, pretty one. No, Talya couldn’t be called outright pretty. Nice looking, cute, was more like it. She did have something to her in the looks department, just not enough to inspire him toward marriage. In his olden, pre-religious days, she would’ve made perfect filler till someone more compelling turned up.

He flipped through the little black book he kept on his night table under the answering machine.

“Mrs. Vunder? It’s me, Binyamin.”

“Hello, Binyamin.”

He stared at his painting of the Ten Commandments while he waited for her to say something more.

“How are you feeling?” Binyamin asked, awkwardly. He had never had to ask before.

“Fine, thank God. I’m a little tired, but it will pass.”

Binyamin yawned into his hand. Why didn’t she begin with the names already? He didn’t want to be doing this, making these calls in the first place. And now she was going to force him to ask: Do you have anyone for me? Well, he wouldn’t. It was too much like being a beggar. “Well, I hope you get some rest,” he said finally. “I’ll be in touch later.”

“Fine. Good-bye, then.”

He grimaced at himself in the mirror. That was an odd call. But Mrs. Vunder, she had her odd habits and moments. He’d been a guest at her house a few times and had observed her—small things like blinking frequently, scratching at her knee. Once he caught her pulling out an eyelash. Little things that would’ve driven him crazy had he been forced to be in permanent close contact.

He began to dial Shani Applebaum’s number. Shani was young, blond, petite and energetic, and she usually bombarded him with so many names he couldn’t help feeling flattered. Sometimes she’d joke and say, “Binyamin, your problem is, you need someone like me.” He’d call Shani. She’d make him feel good. She’d have someone on her fingertips. Other matchmakers sometimes lagged between the idea and the execution, but not her.

“Shani? It’s me, Binyamin.”

“Binyamin! Hi!” He held the receiver an inch or two from his ear. Her pert blond energy crackled through the phone. “Got a million things going on right now! Just made two successful shidduchs in the past week, can you believe it? I’m busy with the engagement party and the parents and you wouldn’t believe.

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