Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chava isn't blind, and she isn't stupid. She knows Levi is having an affair.

At first she wasn't sure; his job (which was suspicious in its own right, but she didn't question it, not with the money he brought home) was strange enough to cover wide swath of sins. Coming and leaving at odd hours? Nothing unusual there. Taking strange calls from strange people? Just another day for him. Being away for hours, sometimes days, without telling her where he is? It just comes with the territory. He was never the most invested lover, but he tried, didn't he?

Chava tried very hard to make this marriage work. Sometimes she felt like she was the only one, when Levi was staring out the window at nothing, barely even listening to her. He often seemed to be lost in thought, always thinking about something else.

Or someone else.

No, she hadn't been sure of any adultery, not before Levi's friend (boss?) had taken ill.

Levi had called her in a panic that night. His voice was stranger than normal, words clipped and edging on out-of-breath. There was an edge to him that scared her.

"Ignazio's been badly hurt," he tells her. "I'm gonna stay with him until the doctor is sure he's okay. Tell the children I'm fine."

Chava couldn't even be mad at him. Caruso’s girl came to her house to explain and her hands were shaking so bad that Chava put aside her distaste and made her come in for tea.

"It's bad," she told Chava in a thick Italian whisper. Her dark eyes were stretched so wide. Chava felt vaguely sick. "He was very badly hurt. The doctor was worried he had lost too much blood, but he survived. Now it's just infection they are worried about."

"Whatever happened to him?" "Whatever happened to him?" Chava tried to ask, but the girl just shook her head. It was too bad to speak, apparently, or else she had been instructed not to speak of it. Either way, the severity of the situation was clear. Mr. Caruso had been injured, nearly died, and as his close friend and employee, Levi was tasked with keeping vigil.

Chava couldn't be mad at that, even if she found the man unpleasant. Mr. Caruso had never liked her, that had been made that clear at their first meeting. She had tried to be cordial, but no matter what she did, he glared at her like she had stolen his next shipment of alcohol. Mr. Caruso avoided her like the plague. If it wasn’t for how fond he clearly was of Levi, she would think he was antisemitic.For a while she thought maybe he, being unmarried as he was, he had some sort of grudge against wives. But then one day Chava was introduced to a Mr. Bovina, one of Caruso’s “friends,” and his wife, who seemed to get along with Caruso swimmingly.

Regardless, he was in a bad way and Chava respected Levi’s need to care for his friend and employer. She truly did.

Days came and went, and Levi along with them. He faded through the doors in a haze, mind always stuck on Caruso and his health. Chava was patient; she waited quietly, didn’t push, didn't complain about his absentmindedness. Just made him dinner and listened to him fret in a roundabout way that never made it any clearer what exactly had happened. Like a good wife.

And then a month passed. And something changed. Mr. Caruso had healed, or healed enough, but Levi was still acting strange. Stranger than ever. It was then that Chava started to let her suspicions voice themselves.

He was always staying out, now. Before he always tried to at least come home at the end of the night, and tried to see the kids to bed when he could. But suddenly he was ringing the house one, two, three times a week: "Zay mir moykhl, dear, there's just so much to do. I'll see you in the morning. A gute nakht." And then he'd show up in the morning, kiss her cheek chastely, greet his children. Eat breakfast. Leave again, for the whole day. Chava would clean the house and wonder if she would see her husband that night, or if he would be off "working" again.

His alibi was Mr. Caruso. The two had always been good friends, and had only grown closer since Mr. Caruso’s injury. Apparently, "Naz" (as Levi called him) had a spare room in his fancy house he let Levi spend the night in. How kind, Chava thought none-too-kindly.

And that was only the first month. After that, they started getting lazy.

Levi showed up with his wedding ring on the wrong hand.

Levi wore new cologne, as if to cover up the smell of perfume.

Levi blamed the scratches down his back on slipping and falling into a brick wall.

Levi had makeup on his collar from where he covered up the bruises on his neck.

Levi barely looked at her anymore. He didn't touch her.

Chava didn't know what floozy he was meeting under the cover of "working at Ignazio's", but she wasn't sure if she wanted to meet her or not. She was almost certainly younger—probably a dancer, like Mr. Caruso's girl is. Probably works at a speakeasy ( maybe a brothel, she thinks bitterly). Maybe they met when he was drunk, or maybe she was. Maybe they danced together, the type of lewd dances that barely-adult girls did with grown men in illegal clubs. Chava wondered what kind of dress she wore; something short, above the knee, probably. No sleeves, collarbones exposed. Her hair was most likely cropped short by the ears. Painfully American, then, just how Levi tried to act. Painfully modern. Thin as a stick with small, perfect breasts and a high, giggling voice, perfect for throwing a loose arm around her husband and asking him to drive her home. Dainty hands, perfect for climbing into his lab and undoing his tie, because they had never been cut or burned by bleach while cleaning. Maybe she cried on his shoulder about a missing brother or a mean father, something tragic and poetic—like all his favorite fairytales—and he puts his strong arms around her and dries her tears, and kisses her like he loves her. Like he truly wants her. Maybe she feels like an escape to him.

Chava's hands are bright red from the hot water, and she puts down the plate she was scrubbing vigorously. She breathes slowly and pretends her hands are the only things that are burning.

Part of her tried not to be angry with Levi. She knew that his job was criminal, even if they never talked about it outright. And that kind of stress got to a man, after a time. Maybe this new girl was what he needed to deal with it. It wasn't like her family was starving; the one thing Levi never faltered in was making sure they were well fed, well housed, well taken care of. Maybe it was just about keeping her off his back, but regardless, he was the perfect husband and father in that regard.

But the rest of her was bubbling like a pot of oil. She did everything asked of her. She was a good wife. She gave him three children—two sons, one daughter—and they were healthy, smart, everything a father could ask for. She kept the house in perfect condition, cooked delicious food to remind him of home, washed his clothes, didn't nag him with questions about the guns around the house or the blood on his shirtsleeves or where all his money came from or what business he was in with his Sicilian "friends.” She kept her mouth shut and obeyed. Just like she had always been taught a wife should.

And what did Levi do for her? He gave her all the money she could ask for, of course (not that she asked for more than she needed, she wasn't one of those vain wives), but did he listen to her worries? Her emotional needs? Did he ever care for his children, aside from hiring a nanny? Did he ever spend time with her, take her out for a night, ask her about her day? He never laid a hand on her, and that was to his credit—Levi wasn't a mean man, he wasn't cruel, and he didn't ever beat her or even yell at her, or the children. But Chava had wants, too. She had desires. She had married a handsome man, and had hoped she would get some pleasure out of it. It wasn't as if she was a hag, after all. And yet while she laid at home wanting during the long nights he was away, she never sought out another man. Even when he slid her hands off of him, "I'm tired, Chava, not tonight,” (probably because he had already gotten his, hadn't he?), Chava never so much as thought about touching anyone else. She was a good wife. And yet here they were.

And yet here they were.

Chava did everything, and got hush money and a nanny. Levi did nothing, and was spending his nights drinking Italian wine and fucking some flapper in his friend's castle. How could she be anything but angry with him?

Chapter Text

Perhaps Chava had miscalculated, slightly.

She had been so sure Levi was having an affair with some dancer or whore. So sure that Mr. Caruso was being used as a cover, so that he could sneak out and spend the night with his girlfriend while she sat at home taking care of his children. So sure, in fact, that she got Levi to organize a dinner with them and Mr. Caruso, and his girl—who was apparently named Rose, or something like that. 

The dinner went fine, all things considered. Mr. Caruso had made a big deal about cooking for them, and Chava had to begrudgingly admit that the food, while foreign, was excellently made. His Yorkville house was admittedly less gaudy than Chava had anticipated. Rose or Rosie or Rosalia or whatever-her-name was fine enough company, although she found the way she and Mr. Caruso would slip into Sicilian in front of her quite rude. She and Levi didn't speak Yiddish around them, knowing they couldn't understand it; but then again, Levi did know Sicilian, apparently. Apparently Mr. Caruso also spoke Yiddish, because when she asked Levi how work was going in their language in an attempt to prove a point, Caruso answered for him. 

But then again, Levi did know Italian. Apparently. And apparently Mr. Caruso also spoke Yiddish, because when she asked Levi how work was going in their language (in an attempt to prove a point), Caruso answered for him. Which made Chava feel just splendid.

Work was going fine, according to him. Levi was a very good worker. He was so lucky to have met him. Levi smirked and told “Naz” to stop flattering him. Rosalia giggled behind her hand. Chava felt as though, despite this dinner being her idea, they were somehow playing a prank on her. It wouldn’t surprise her, to be honest; Mr. Caruso has a good poker face, but she can still see the way he’s looking at her when he thinks she doesn’t notice. He still radiates that peculiar bitterness, simmering below his otherwise calm appearance. Part of her wants to make a clever comment about the large, ugly scar that now splits his face—something about Sicilians and violent dispositions, but even the most bitter parts of her recognize that would be a little too cruel. And possibly dangerous. And besides, it wouldn't help with any of her real goals.

After a respectable thirty minutes of hobnobbing, the opportunity arrived.

Rosalia had gone to the washroom, of which there was only one on the first floor. Chava, as prim as ever, asked if there were possibly another she could use. Mr. Caruso looked at her with an impossible expression before telling her that she could use the one on the third floor. So off she went.

It was quite thrilling, actually. Chava had never done anything like this before, having always prided herself on being a good girl. Perhaps this wasn't illegal per se, but it was illicit, which was enough to give her a rush of adrenaline as she crept up the carpeted stairs.

The third floor held a bathroom, a den, and two guest bedrooms. Peering into the den, Chava could see that the windows were covered in thick, heavy curtains. It was lit only by the lamps on either side of the room. The same curtains were on the windows downstairs, as well, although they had been drawn to let in light. Chava was reminded of a conversation she'd had with Levi, back when Caruso must have first bought the house: he'd complained that his boss was obsessing over getting special glass that could stop a bullet.

Chava shook her head lightly. As much as she wanted to get as much information as she could, it would not do to dally. She turned to the guest bedrooms which were, thankfully, unlocked.

The beds were perfectly made. Everything was, in fact; each room was set up with every detail just so. The blankets and sheets were neatly ironed and tucked, with fluffed pillows resting against the fine oak headboard. A pitcher of water sat patiently on the side table, an empty glass waiting next to it. The curtains were pulled back with neat bows. It even smelled nice; hints of flowers and freshly-washed fabrics.

It was too nice. Chava was a woman who knew a thing or two about keeping a home, and she knew instinctively that nobody slept in this room. Not with anything like the frequency Levi had been claiming. Chava updated her mental file: Levi was lying about sleeping at Mr. Caruso's, so he was probably going over to the girl's house or apartment. Or maybe they met in a hotel instead.

Just as she started thinking about examining the fourth floor, the sound of footsteps on the staircase sent an icy shock through her. Moving light on her feet, Chava dipped into the bathroom and gently swung the door shut. Pressed up against it, she held her breath.

Rosalia was chattering in Italian as she bounced up the stairs, the men behind her. Caruso's deep voice responded back, and everyone laughed. Then, Levi said something in the same language. His thick Yiddish tongue caught on the strange, rolling sounds of the language. The other two didn't seem to care, laughing all the way to the den. From the room there was the clinking of glasses and the pouring of drinks. 

The sounds were quite clear, actually. Clearer than she'd expected through these walls, and they sounded closer, too. Chava turned to her left and her eyes fell on a second door to the bathroom, one which led into the den directly.

One which was ever so slightly ajar.

Sending up a silent prayer of thanks, Chava crept to the other side of the bathroom. Her hand covered her mouth and nose to ensure that no sounds could slip out and reveal her unwittingly. With a single eye, she looked through the cracked door.

Rosalia walked past the door from the right next to the bathroom door, drinks in hand. She moved around the billiards table in the center of the den, heading towards where Levi and Mr. Caruso were standing next to each other in front of a gramophone. They were standing very close indeed, Levi's hand resting on his back, and then—it went lower. Lower than any man should ever have his hand on another man's waist.

But Caruso didn't pull away, or say anything. If anything, he leaned in, scarred face turning towards the entrance. His lips moved as he whispered something to Levi, who whispered back.

Levi's hand dipped lower. He grinned, leaning in so close their noses touched.

From somewhere Chava couldn't see, Rosie called, "You two better stop it." The two men huffed with great flair, and Levi withdrew his hand, picked up a glass, and walked with Caruso out of Chava's line of sight. He was grinning the whole time, like the cat who ate the canary. So visibly pleased with himself. With him.

Chava was barely breathing. She stumbled back until she collasped against the wall. If she had been holding something, it would've shattered on the floor the moment she saw her husband feeling up Caruso like he was—like he was Levi's girl.

Oh my god, she thinks to herself. Caruso is the other woman.

Suddenly the perfectly made guest bed makes sense. No, everything makes sense. She can feel all the pieces clicking into place in her head. Because Levi hasn't been lying at all, oh no—he's been entirely truthful. He has been staying the night with Ignazio, and with Ignazio alone, he just hasn't been sleeping in the guest bed, because he's been sleeping in the master bed, because her husband is fucking a man, a Sicilian, who is almost certainly a violent criminal, and who also hates her, and he hates her because he’s jealous of her. He didn’t just glare at her, he glared at the ring on her finger and the lack of one of his. That wasn’t anger in his eyes, it was envy.

A million thoughts hit her head at once. When did this happen? Did it start after he was injured, or had they been involved before? Did Levi want to do this or was Caruso forcing him to, dragging her husband into his disease? What did two men even do in bed together? Would Caruso hurt Levi? Would he hurt her? Had Levi ever been attracted to her, or had her entire marriage been a sham? And what did Levi find attractive about Caruso—not that she didn't get it, Caruso wasn't hard on the eyes, but what did a man find attractive in another man? Was Rosalia involved in this, or was she to Caruso what Chava was to Levi? A clever distraction to keep people from looking to close at the two men's partnership?

Most importantly, what does she do now?

Before, her plan had been to find evidence of the affair and confront Levi. To make him explain himself, demand an apology and an end to the affair, and then try to fix their marriage together. It would be quiet, but if word got out, so be it.

But this... was so much different. This wasn't a man's indiscretion. This wasn't the type of thing you read about in the papers or in books. This wasn't what they made movies about, no, and this wasn't the kind of things mothers and sisters and friends advise new brides on, no- this was sodomy, and this could get Levi arrested. Or far worse.

This could very well ruin his life. Both of their lives perhaps. An affair with a younger woman was one thing, but having word get out that she had lost her husband to a man...

There wasn't going to be any solution that afternoon. So Chava steeled herself, breathed deeply, and walked out of the bathroom and into the den. She ignored the way Levi and Caruso passed a cigarette between each other. She ignored the way Rosalia studied her. She told them that they really must be getting home, they had four children to get to bed after all, and they needed their mother and father. Levi tensed his jaw and looked like he wanted to argue, but he relented. They said their goodbyes. Chava couldn't stop measuring how close Levi got to his boss as he bid him goodnight.

The ride home was silent. The nanny had put the children to bed by the time they were home, so they only peeked into their room to say goodnight before going to bed themselves- which was also a silent affair. That wasn't unusual itself, but Chava couldn't stop thinking about Levi's hands on Ignazio. The way they leaned into each other, just as the Earth is drawn to the Sun. His smile as they walked away. Even on their wedding day, Levi never smiled like that at Chava. It was more than a little sharp, a bit scary, but also so blatantly loving and full of adoration that it shook her to her core.

Levi fell asleep quietly beside her without a word. Chava laid there in bed, wide awake, for God knows how long. She laid there and looked at Levi, his back turned to her, and wondered how she possibly got into this situation.

Her mother had wanted her to marry a good, well-off Jewish man, have plenty of children, and be happy (in that order).

She had the children for sure, at least. Levi was certainly well-off and Jewish, and his goodness was...

She wasn't happy, though. It came both as a shock and without surprise. Chava wasn't happy, and clearly, Levi wasn't either. But that didn't mean they couldn't be, with some effort. They already had two out of three, didn't they?

Chapter Text

She takes a week to prepare herself for The Talk.

During that week, Levi sleeps in their bed for three out of seven days. Two of them are even in a row. It's not for Chava, of course—their daughter Miriam comes down with a fever on Tuesday. Levi doesn't stay home, but he does call regularly throughout the day to ask about her, and arrives on-time for dinner that night. She watches her husband bring their daughter soup in bed, gently stroking the wisps of blonde hair stuck to her forehead. Levi kisses that little head, wraps his arms around her, and whispers softly: "How are you feeling, hertzele ? I'm sorry everything hurts. Hear, try to eat a little for me, Mirele. That's a good girl. Tate’s here. You'll feel better soon, and then I'll take you out for something special, yes? Whatever my little girl wants.”

God, Chava wishes it didn't make her so bitter. It shouldn't. This whole scene should, if anything, reassure her of her new plan's fruitful potential.

Yet she can't help but grit her teeth. For Chava, it's all empty apologies and empty beds and empty platitudes about having a headache or being too tired or too busy to even look at her naked. Yet the minute Miriam gets a cough, suddenly he's got all the time in the world to dote over her like the perfect picture of a husband.

Oy, she needs to get a grip. Even Chava realizes this jealousy is absurd and useless.

So she refocuses her priorities. It's good that Levi cares about his children. It's proof that, underneath his confusion, there is a real man who wants a real family. He just needs a steady hand to guide him back on track.

At first she thinks The Talk will come Sunday. She’s gleaned that Caruso is, somehow, a devout Catholic. How he squares his violent life of crime with that is an enigma to Chava, but also not relevant. The point is, that man wants to be in church, so he doesn’t work if he can avoid it. Which means Levi can't just run off first thing in the morning because “Ignazio needs me.” But then she realizes there is an excuse: if Ignazio is off eating crackers for his God, Levi can claim he’s being a reverse Shabbos goy.

This ends up working perfectly, though, because it gave her time to call her mother and ask if she wouldn’t like to have a sleep-over with her grandchildren, as long as she makes sure they get to school on time.

And she lies in wait till Monday morning. 

Levi often gets up early, so Chava makes sure she gets up even earlier. Her eyes spring at 6:27, mind already running. When she rolls over, Levi is still there, chest rising and falling softly beneath the blankets. She extricates herself from bed, careful not to wake up, and goes to the kitchen to get a jump-start of breakfast.

Chava runs through her talking points in her head as she cooks up the eggs. She really wants to get this right. She’s angry, and God knows she has every damn right to be. But this is a sensitive topic, and Levi is a sensitive man. It’ll do them no good for her to jump down his throat first thing in the morning. This is the type of issue that needs the tender, caring touch of a devoted wife, ready to do whatever it takes to help her husband right himself in the eyes of the Lord. 

And maybe there will finally be some pleasure for her in this whole marriage business.

She hears the shower running while she plates everything, and a few minutes later, her husband wanders into their kitchen. He’s in his undershirt and boxers, still rubbing a towel over his damp hair. Drops of water make his muscles shine beneath the kitchen lights. Chava can understand why Caruso is always making him stay the night. Levi cuts a striking figure first thing in the morning. 

He’s still her husband.

“Dream of cooking last night, Chava?” Levi asks her with a huff of laughter. Chava smiles, setting his plate and cup down on the table.

“Something like that, dear.” 

Levi folds up his towel and drapes it over the back of a chair, looking around. “The children still asleep?”

“No. I thought it would be nice for them to spend the night at their bubbe’s house.” 

Levi tilts his head, frowning. “You didn’t ask me about that.”

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d mind.” Chava knows she’s being a bit of a trick here, but she can’t help it. See how he feels having someone else do whatever they want with his life.

Levi doesn’t respond to that, just clicks his tongue and sits at the table. Only then does he seem to notice what exactly she’s prepared.

“You made… kashe un varnishkes?” He asks, his voice softened with surprise. A smile rises on his face as he stabs a noodle with his fork.

“And bagels and coffee, of course,” Chava adds with a smile of her own, setting down another plate before preparing one for herself. Behind her back, she can hear Levi’s happy hum as he takes a bite—bingo. There were few better ways to get him in a good mood than making food from his homeland.

Chava sits at the table across from him. “I did well, then?” she asks, taking a bite of her own bagel. Levi nods his head vigorously. She sips her coffee, quietly preening.

They eat breakfast mostly in silence. It’s not unusual for them, but this time there’s no bitterness rising up in Chava’s chest. Honestly, she barely eats herself, too full of nervous energy. She's content watching Levi enjoy the meal she made for him. His free hand moves erratically, twisting back and forth as his fingers dance. He sways in his seat as though there's a gentle breeze. A quiet, senseless humming reverberates from deep in his chest. It's his way of showing he's pleased, and Chava drinks it up like a woman wandering the desert.

Once he’s finished, she gathers his plate and goes to wash it in the sink. She hears the chair scratch against the floor as Levi rises himself.

“That was very good, Chava. Thank you.” 

“It’s my pleasure, dearest. You know that.”

He makes a little noise of acknowledgement. She hears his footsteps trail away. Chava huffs out a shaky sigh she didn’t realize was building. 

This is it.

“Levi?” she calls through their house. He calls back to her that he’s getting dressed. Her nails dig into her palms as she steps into the doorway of their bedroom.

He’s buttoning up his shirt when she arrives, and only looks up briefly before turning back to the bed to grab his suspenders. “Did you need something, Chava?”

“Well,” she starts, suddenly tongue-tied. Get a grip, woman.  

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” 

Levi slips his suspenders over his shoulders, then grabs his tie. “Will it take long? I want to go soon.”

“Well, yes, Levi, it’s—”

“Chava,” he starts in that tone. False-light and patronizing. He gives her a fleeting glance through the mirror as he fiddles with the tie. “You know I’ve got to work to afford the things we—”

“Levi, this needs to happen.” The sharpness in her voice takes Chava for surprise. Levi pauses for a second, before pulling up his tie and turning around. 

“Is everything alright?”

Chava takes a big breathe, lets it out, and looks her husband head-on.

“We need to talk.” 

His face twitches and he steps forward.

“The children, are they—”

“They’re fine, Levi. It’s not– not that kind of serious,” she says. That kind being their unspoken, unaddressed code for it’s not something to do with the criminals keeping you on their payroll for the acts I pretend I don't know you do.

“Alright. Then can’t it wait?”

“No, Levi.”

“Chava, I need to—” 

“ Levi. Please,” she blurts out, arms wrapping around her torso. “It’s not that serious, but—but we need to talk, and we are going to do it today and now.” 

She half expects him to fight her on this. To tell her off for nagging him, or reprimand her for spending all his money and then bitching about him needing to leave her to get that money. Chava braces herself for it, all muscles tightening, mentally preparing herself to stand her ground.

But none of that comes. Levi’s face goes soft (as soft as it can, he’s never been the most expressive man), his shoulders fall, and he asks, just above a whisper, “Okay. Here, or... where do you want to talk?”

As they walk back to the kitchen, and as Levi sits back down at the table, Chava is reminded why she married this man in the first place. It was like this: he never acted like other men. She met him in shul. He was fresh out of the Russian army; an odd little man with a thick old-country accent, constantly hanging off his older brother’s arm like a lifeline. Simultaneously wild and docile. He was jarringly blunt, more than a little off-putting, but kind without fail. He was friendly and eager to chat, but not in a way that made Chava feel preyed upon. If anything, it was a relief, after the way everyone in her community had been treating her the past few months. Married only a month before her husband died suddenly—that on its own was enough to give her the stink of tragedy. It only got worse when it became apparent her late husband had succeeded in getting her pregnant.

But Levi never treated her like something too sad to touch. They ended up talking for hours about Torah and the folktales they heard growing up. Chava told him about growing up in England and meeting her late husband. Levi told her about shtetl life and Kiev and the War, how he went from eager soldier to deserter overnight. He was unlike anyone Chava ever knew. When he proposed (and told her firmly that he would raise her unborn child as his own with pride), she felt as though he was sent from God. That feeling didn’t waver even when the police showed up at her house and told her that Levi and his brother had been arrested for car theft. It didn't waver when she testified on his behalf. She had never doubted his love for her.

Chava stood in the kitchen, back to the sink. Levi sat across from her, hands folded over the table, waiting quietly. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. Opens them. Meets his.

“I know you are having an affair.”

She watched as every muscle in Levi’s body freezes perfectly still. Only the slight widening of his eyes betray his shock.

“What. Makes you say that?” He asks, voice stilted. Chava suppresses a snort.

“If I list out everything, we’ll be here all day,” she retorts. “The important thing is this—”

She strolls over to the table. Leans over, hands braced on the wood. 

“—I saw you groping Carsuo at dinner the other night. I saw you with my own two eyes.”

The blood drains from Levi's face. Now, he moves—he swallows, runs his tongue over his lips, and blinks a few times for good measure. Something burns in Chava's stomach.

"Okay," he says. "Okay," he repeats, and Chava registers a waver in his voice. It sounds like he's trying to calm a spooked horse. "Okay, Chava, let's talk about this."

“That’s what we’re here to do, isn’t it?”

Levi nods, and quickly glances down at his hands. Chava follows, and sees how they’ve gone white-knuckled.

“This isn't how I wanted you to find out."

"So you were planning on telling me?"

"Well—at some point, yes." Levi has the dignity, at least, to look askance and flush. "I, er, admit I hadn't really... it was more a future thing, you see. I was, um. Going to get around to it... eventually..."

“Oh, you were, were you,” Chava replies dryly before she can reign herself back in. It’s a struggle, but she reminds herself that she isn’t doing this for her. This isn’t about her getting back at him. It’s about them and saving their marriage.

“Chava, I want—”

“Look, Levi, obviously I am upset about this,” she starts. She pulls out the chair across from Levi and sits down. “But I am not here to yell at you. That’s not what I want.”

Levi seems to relax a bit at that. “That’s good. I just want to—”

“What I want, dear, is for us to get this marriage back on its right tracks.”

Chava’s husband pauses, mouth open. His head twitches to the side like a curious dog.

“Excuse me?”

Chava smiles her best, and reaches out to place a gentle hand over Levi’s.

“If Caruso has something on you, is forcing you in any way, darling, we can—”

“God, Chava, no!” Levi shouts, face twisting in horror. He shakes his head. “First of all, you know me. If Ignazio was trying to force me to do something I didn't want, I'd shoot him in the stomach and we'd be in Florida by the next morning. He's not..." Levi closes his eyes and sighs. "I have always been a willing participant in everything we do, Chava, I promise you that.”

Chava won’t deny her disappointment, but she wasn’t counting on the easy solution to this problem. She came prepared. 

She notes that he hasn’t taken his hands away from her, and gives him a sad smile. “That’s alright. I knew that might be the truth.”

For a moment, they stare at each other in silence. Chava doesn’t let her lips fall. She can tell Levi is examining her face, eyes squinted. His lips don’t rise from the frown they’ve set in.

“Chava, there’s a lot you deserve to hear from me.”

“I know. But we’ll have time for that later.”

“Um, I really think—”

“Levi, dear, right now I don’t need to hear anything from you, other than that you are going to work with me to get through this problem as partners.”

Levi freezes again. Chava feels his hands clench tight underneath her own.

“What. Problem.” He asks. His voice has turned cold and stiff. Chava hears her heart beat a little faster. She widens her smile.

“You have impulses, dear. That’s not your fault. It’s like with the cars, back when we first got engaged. You get ideas and just go for them. That's alright. You just need a little redirection—"

Levi jerks away his hands, falling back in his chair. "What are you saying, Chava?"

Chava swallows, her throat feeling tight. Somehow, this conversation feels like it’s spinning wildly out of step with her careful plans.

"You need help, Levi. You aren't well."

Levi stares at her, eyes wide. Face stiff. His lips twitch.

"The fuck do you mean, Chava," he growls. Her body goes cold.

“Levi—”

“No.” He shoves the chair back and rises out of his seat. He doesn’t go for the door (baruch Hashem), but he turns his back to her. One hand goes to his hip, the other running through his hair. 

“Chava, you do not understand what you are talking about."

"Of course I don't!" She says, a bit louder than she means. Chava leans back in her chair. "I have not a single clue about any of... this. But, Levi, I love you and I know you, and if we work together, we can overcome this."

Levi growls again, spinning around and throwing both hands up. "Good god, Chava—there's nothing to fucking overcome!" 

This time, Chava doesn’t suppress her snort of derision. If Levi wants to act like this, then fine. Maybe she needs to use a firmer hand to knock some sense into him. For us.

“You’ve been groping men, Levi. You can hardly say that isn’t unusual.”

He laughs, but it's rough. “Unusual, sure. A problem, I beg to differ.”

“You know as well as I do—”

“I swear, Chava, if you bring up Vayikra, I’m gonna scream. You know damn well I don’t believe in God.”

“But you still care about our culture, Levi. Not believing in God hasn’t stopped you from—from taking our children to shul on Saturday and making sure they keep kosher!”

“That is nowhere near the same thing!” Levi shouts before running both palms down his face. He pinches the bridge of his noise and huffs. “Chava, I do that because I love our people and there’s a lot of valuable lessons to learn from our culture. Including the Torah. But there is—is miles between not eating pork and saying some prayers every week, and denying myself the right to the love of my life because some rabbi a thousand years ago told me a God I don't believe in says no.”

The love of my life.

Oh. Chava is about to start crying.

“You don’t mean that,” she says. More like mumbles. Her voice seems to have suddenly taken its leave.

Levi seems to soften a bit when he hears that. He sits back down and reaches for her hand, gentle all the way through. She takes comfort in those kind blue eyes, finally looking at her how she always wants.

“Chava, I know what a shock this all must be.” He smiles, just slightly, thumb rubbing against her hand. “But none of this is your fault. It’s just how I am. I know you two don't get along, but I love Ignazio. I just didn't think I could have him until after he got hurt. He told me he was queer, and it all just—"

"But you don't love him."

"Huh?" The thumb against her hand freezes. Levi's eyebrows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"You don't love him. You can't." Chava laughs a bit, despite herself. She meant to be more careful, more genteel, but she lost her ability to compose herself a few minutes back. "Love... what you feel for him isn't love. Not like the love we have. That's not something two men can have. You just—"

"What? I just what?" Levi’s upper lip curls. Chava shakes her head. Please, God, let him hear me.

"I know it feels like love, Levi, but it isn't. It's yetzer hara, making you think that lust is love and male is female. You need someone to help you learn the difference.”

Levi gasps like he's been shot. His blue eyes are wide and tight around the edges. Levi opens his mouth for a moment, but nothing comes out. His throat bobs in a harsh swallow before he tries again, shakier than before. 

"I thought you said you don't know what you're talking about."

"I know that this isn't natural or healthy, Levi." She tries rubbing his hand, but he tears it away. His body turns to the side, unwilling to meet her eyes. Chava tries to keep her breathing steady as she reaches out again, brushing his arm. "Please, love, we can work through this together! We've been having problems, yes. But now that I know what's wrong I can help! We can fix our marriage!"

"Our marriage? Is that all that matters to you?" He turns back to look at her, pulling his arm into himself.

"Yes! What else would be as important?"

"I don't know, my happiness? My dignity?"

Chava scoffs, rolling her eyes. “What is less dignified than sodomy?"

"Oh," Levi laughs, high and wet and cruel. "Oh, you bitch." 

Chava feels like a knife just went straight through her heart. She grits her teeth and ignores the tears welling over in her eyes.

"There's no need to talk like that, Levi."

"Oh? Oh, there isn't?" He shakes his head, lips twisted into a smiling grimace. He jumps up so fast the chair tumbles back behind him, banging against the floor. He throws his arms out wide. "Go on, then, Chava! Tell me all about how sick and disgusting I am—"

"I never said you were disgusting –"

"Oh, but I'm sick, huh? Just a delusional sodomite, ruining your perfect goddamn marriage. Go on! Tell me more about how you know what I feel better than I do, huh! Since you think you're so fucking smart."

Chava breaks. She puts her head in her hands and shakes it violently, sobs spilling out between her fingers.

“This isn’t how I—I wanted this to go.” Her weeping only seems to enrage Levi more.

"Yeah? Well congratulations, Chava! This is all your fault!"

And then Chava breaks again. Except this time, she breaks sharp. 

The tears keep falling, but something else wells up behind them. It tears through her stomach, clambers up her throat, and pours out of her mouth before she even realizes what she’s doing.

"That is not fair. You—" she jabs a finger at his face, voice rising shrill and scratchy out of her throat. "—are the man who couldn't keep his married dick in his pants. You are the one grabbing some dago’s ass while I am here, every damn day, taking care of your children and your goddamn house!"

Levi stares at her for a moment. Chava’s whole body is shaking, her face twisted in a snarl. She can see the tremors rocking through him just the same.

His nostrils flare, and he whips around, charging for the front door. 

Chava scrambles after him, sharp edges crumbling to dust. “Wait—Levi, don’t go. You can’t leave now.”

“Yeah?” he snarls, grabbing the door handle. “Just watch me.”

“Levi,” she huffs, grabbing his arm. “We are going to stay and talk about this—” 

His fist, viper-fast, snaps around her wrist and yanks it off of him. Levi holds it like that, fingers tight and eyes blazing as he stares her down.

"You know what I'm gonna do, Chava?" he spits her name like a curse. "I'm gonna leave this house. The one I pay for. And I'm gonna go up to Harlem, and fuck that dago nice and hard. And you know why?"

"Because for the last five years, every time you made me have sex, I’ve pretended it was him under me instead of you.” He leans in close to her face, panting breath hot on her skin. “Every. Time.”

He throws down her wrist and turns to open the door. Morning light pours into the foyer, blocked only by his body in front of her.

Right as he walks out onto the porch, she catches one last comment:

“At least I don’t wanna to kill myself after fucking him. That’s more than I can say for you. ” 

Levi slams the door like a period. Doesn't even bother with the lock. And then he’s gone. 

And Chava is alone.

Somewhere beyond herself, Chava watches her sink to her knees in the foyer. Their foyer. And then she watches herself crumple in half. She hears a keening wail echo through the house. Their house.

That's more than I can say for you . That's more than I can say for you . That's more than I can say for you .

Chava doesn't know how long she sits there. When she finds herself back in her body, her head is pounding and her face is dripping with tears and snot.

Eventually she drags her head up. The clock on the wall says 12:34. So Chava places a shaky hand on the wall and rises like a newborn deer. 

In the master bathroom, the tap rumbles. Chava cups her hands and brings the cold water to her face, splashing it over her burning cheeks. She stares, empty-headed, as the droplets drip down her face and plop against the porcelain sink. 

The children will be done with school in a few hours. She needs to get a meal ready.