She moved down the row of women who stood like phalanxes on either side of the linen-and-flower-bedecked wicker chair in which sat the bride, staring at the little book of psalms in her lap, her lips barely moving in recitation. Only the slight furrows around her eyes revealed the turmoil and sincerity in her heart. When the bride finally raised her head, her eyes looked directly into Shaindele’s. For an instant, Shaindele blinked, terrified her thoughts might be leaking out of her eyes. But to her relief, the bride smiled warmly, reaching out to her and grasping her hand with a gentle squeeze of encouragement. Despite all the young girl’s efforts, the forbidden tears now overflowed. She smiled through them, hoping that would be enough to dispel any misinterpretation.

But soon the bride’s eyes left hers, focusing with joyous intensity on the man moving slowly down the aisle, flanked by his brother, Abraham, and his Talmud study partner, Meir. A light sheen of sweat coated his handsome face beneath the heavy, dignified black hat. His blond beard had been neatly combed, his golden payos hidden behind his ears.

His face gave nothing away, thought his daughter anxiously, failing to notice the upturned mouth, the slight overbite as he attempted to quell the rising tide of his hilarity, his eyes like the ocean dancing in the morning sun. Dazzled by her own overwhelming sense of doom, of looking down from a precipice with a mad desire to jump and get it over with, almost relishing the suicidal release that would accompany the long fall, the crash, and oblivion, she was blind to the extent of his utter rapture.

What if right now, a person—respectable and not insane—stepped forward and firmly demanded that the whole thing be called off, the hall cleared, the guests dispersed? Oh, oh, the horror of it! Oh, oh, the sheer relief of it! she thought with panic and strange joy. She waited, forgetting to breathe, hoping, dreading. But it was not to be, she understood, as the band picked up the tempo and everyone around her smiled, caught up in wedding happiness. They all seemed so … so pleased, so normal. She exhaled in resignation.

The weight of a soft, heavy hand suddenly fell upon her like an admonition, draping her shoulder. Shocked and filled with guilt, she looked up. Bubbee. Her rotund and elderly body was clothed in the utmost of sumptuous yet subdued and modest Boro Park finery. Shaindele felt herself clasped in sure hands like a wailing infant put to the breast. “Ich farshtey,” her grandmother breathed into her ear, so low Shaindele wondered if she’d imagined it. I understand. The girl exhaled, her body suddenly limp as her heart slowed with relief and a strange acceptance. She squeezed her bubbee’s hand gratefully.