Masha meandered down her leafy block, her own private fly perched on her shoulder. Her chest was still clear of pain, but she felt altered. The oddest thoughts had been filtering through her head since she sang in front of the men last night. It had been humiliating, yet she couldn’t help wanting to do it again. It was like an itch you weren’t allowed to scratch. Why had Hashem given her a nice voice if she wasn’t allowed to use it freely? She knew asking why was a fruitless undertaking. There were so many rules, likes and dislikes the Creator simply had, the way some men don’t like blueberry muffins. And, if you love that man, you don’t serve him blueberry muffins. It was simple. And yet.
As for me, I was thrilled. My girl had made an enormous leap by singing in front of the men and breaking the Law of Torah. As I saw it, she had crossed over to my side. The sky was the limit now. She wandered up Beach Nineteenth Street past Kitov Hebrew Bookstore, Kosher World Supermarket, Chapines Bakery, the library. She had never been inside the public library, with its panoply of secular novels, and wondered what it was like in there. Who went. She kept walking, past the nursing home, past Heddie’s Dry Cleaning, the last outpost of her own turf. There she paused. The next neighborhood was a ring of uncertainty. She had never walked it before, though she had passed through in a car many times.
It was a beautiful day. The shining sun made her feel brave. She walked on. Here, the strangers stood around chatting, or sat on front steps in aimless lassitude, devoid of her neighborhood’s bustle. Uneasy but determined, Masha walked close to the side of the buildings, past a sign advertising live chickens. Two tall men in colorful knit caps loped by her, laughing in shrieks, as if the street were their living room. They turned their eyes to Masha with disinterested curiosity as she passed them, their minds on the joke. Her throat constricting, Masha lowered her eyes and kept walking. Pearl would have died to see her walking down this block. The smell of fried meat, sweet and fatty, seemed to ooze from a graffitied doorway. A young woman in a red leather jacket, short caramel-dyed hair, big hoop earrings, tight jeans on wide hips, marched by, holding two tiny children by the hand. The woman’s eyes traveled down Masha’s long black dress. A few blocks later, a yellow Volvo marked the beginning of yuppie territory. That was where she saw it, next to the pharmacy: Bridget Mooney School of Acting. The building also housed a tuxedo rental place and a podiatrist, both on the second floor. Masha stopped and peered into the plate-glass front of the acting school. A young girl with a flame-shaped thatch of white hair was manning a large wooden desk. Masha pushed the door open and entered.
“Hi,” said the white-haired girl.
“Hi,” said Masha. “I … was interested in maybe … taking a class.”
“Sure. We have a new term starting next week. Here’s a schedule.” The girl stood up, sliding a folded orange pamphlet across the desk. Her torso was very long and narrow. Masha thought she looked like a Q-tip.
As Masha perused the schedule, she heard a door shut. She looked up and saw a woman traveling down the hall thoughtfully, her head down. She walked with a slight limp and used a cane. Her free hand hung loose by her side; it was in the shape of a claw. Thick-waisted, immaculately coiffed, wearing high-heeled boots and a fitted skirt, a pair of reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, she looked up, saw Masha, and stopped. The skin around the woman’s eyes was swollen up like puff pastry. She peered out from under the doughy lids, her gaze curious, penetrating, covetous maybe. Then she turned and stalked into one of the rooms off the hallway.
“That’s Bridget Mooney,” said the Q-tip girl. “This is her school. My name is Shelley.”
“Hi. Can I keep this?” Masha asked, holding up the brochure.
“Sure,” said Shelley. “You should come. She’s a fantastic teacher. She’ll change your life.”
Outside, Masha sat down on a bench in the weak sunshine and read the schedule. I settled on the splintered wood behind her and tried a little internal ventriloquism.
Masha: The classes are at six p.m. on a Tuesday, and at eleven a.m. on Saturdays … I definitely couldn’t do it on Shabbos.
Me: That leaves Tuesday nights.
Masha: No way could I tell Mommy and Daddy.
Me: But why not just take the class, who would it hurt?
Masha: I’d be with guys all the time … and performing in front of men …
Me: There’s nothing wrong with just taking the class. It wouldn’t be performing, it would be learning.
Masha: But there would be guys there. They’ll think I’m weird ’cause I won’t shake their hands …
Me: Or just shy …
Masha: How could I possibly get out of the house at night?
Me: What about a job that goes till eight or nine at night, and get Tuesdays off?
Masha: But what kind of job goes till eight o’clock?
Me: A pizzeria!
Masha: No way would Mommy let me work in a pizzeria.
Me: But if it’s Jewish?
I remembered having passed Mendel’s Pizza on the way over. We walked over there and peeked in. Everyone behind the counter was male, wearing a yarmulke. No way would they hire a girl. Then, as we passed the Jewish Care Nursing Home, Masha stopped. The nursing home! She could get a few shifts there. They were always looking for volunteers or low-paid staff. She walked over there and asked the lady behind the desk if they needed anybody to work the evening shift, from four to nine. They did! It was all arranged in a heartbeat. I was horrified at the idea of having to spend time with smelly old people, but Masha didn’t seem to mind at all. She ran home to tell her mother. But when she had almost reached the house, she stopped. Where would she get the money for the class? It cost three hundred dollars a term! She had a hundred and fifty saved up from babysitting. I suggested maybe they would let her man the desk at the school, like the fluff-haired girl, who was clearly a student. Maybe she got free lessons.
Pearl was delighted by the idea of Masha volunteering, and maybe eventually working for pay at the nursing home. It was a mitzvah to do volunteer work, and also she was convinced that Masha needed structure in her life, to keep her from being so moody until she could get her married. Then she would be too busy to be moody.
The next day, Masha walked over to the Bridget Mooney School of Acting and asked to speak to Bridget Mooney. It took a while, but eventually Bridget limped out in her high boots, leaning on her cane. She had the look of a grizzled demimondaine.
“What can I do for you, honey?” she rasped.
“Well, um …,” Masha began. Shelley was looking up at Masha curiously. When she met Masha’s gaze, she winked.
“Come into my office,” said Bridget in a low, smoky voice. She turned and walked with her unhurried, hip-swinging limp down the hall and through a doorway. Masha followed. Bridget’s snug office was cluttered with memorabilia. The walls were covered in photographs of theatrical productions and individuals. Bridget as a voluptuous younger woman figured in many of them.
“Sit down,” said Bridget, her chair creaking. Masha sat. Bridget scrutinized Masha, her head cocked, blinking her reptilian eyes.
“Are your eyes dark purple? Or am I seeing things?” she asked.
“They change in different light,” said Masha, feeling her cheeks go hot.
“You’re an amazing-looking girl. So. What is it?”
“I wanna join your class this term, on Tuesday nights, but I only have a hundred and fifty dollars. I plan to make more, but I, ah, I was wondering if you ever let people work for classes, or is that irritating? Like, I thought maybe that girl out there …” Bridget’s claw hand was resting ominously on the mahogany desktop. The nails, Masha noticed, were polished light pink.
“Have you ever done any acting?”
“I did all the productions in high school. I always got the lead … I dropped out of college after a year, so I didn’t get to act there.”
“Where did you go to high school?”
“The Torah Academy.”
Bridget paused, taking this in.
“Aren’t those productions all girls?”
“Yeah,” said Masha. “But they’re very good.”
“I’m sure,” said Bridget. “But … how would you feel about having a male scene partner? You’d have to rehearse, and …”
“It’s okay, I could …”
“I have a feeling for who you should be paired up with, but I don’t want to give him to you if you’re not going to be willing to do the work,” said Bridget.
“I’ll work,” said Masha.
“That’s not what I mean. I mean … how can I say this? I’ll be frank. From your outfit, I’m guessing … are you Hasidic?”
“No,” said Masha. “I mean, it’s similar, we’re Torah Jews, but we don’t, we don’t have a rebbe, we don’t speak Yiddish. We don’t, like, have a town in Europe we’re associated with, but we basically follow all the same rules—it’s less strict … I have cousins who are Hasidic. It’s hard to explain.”
“But you can’t, for example, wear pants?”
“No,” said Masha.
“Or be alone with a man who isn’t your relative?”
“I could do it if the door is open, like for work. Women work all the time, we manage.”
“Do your parents know you’re here?”
“No.” Masha blushed.
“Would they approve if they did?”
“I’m twenty-one. I’m allowed, right?”
“Okay,” said Bridget. “You’ve got me curious. Come here at six on Tuesday. We’ll work out the details down the line.”