“But why secular music? You couldn’t find an Avraham Fried tape? Yaakov Shwekey?” Her eyes lit up. “Or Lipa Schmeltzer? He’s very freilich, they tell me.” She never listened to music, except at weddings and bar mitzvahs when she had no choice. A person had time for such things? And anyway, her hearing …

“I got a little tired of playing the yeshiva boy choir tapes. And you know what? Maybe I also needed some cheering up! It’s sometimes not so easy for me either, Bubbee Fruma.”

The elderly woman straightened her back, her hands suddenly gripping each other. “Something is wrong between you and Yaakov?”

“No, of course not. But it’s not easy,” she repeated. “I have all this work to do”—she waved toward the computer—“and there is no money left over for a cleaning girl. And I need to shop and cook and take the children to school and pick them up … and sometimes, the children need me at the same time my computer needs me. I’m trying my best.”

So this was a different story altogether. She had come to chastise and warn but found herself aching to comfort and protect.

“I will talk to them, Leah-le, find out which one of the yentas is spreading these lies. God watch over us, they should be so ashamed, so ashamed!” She shook her head. “Just wait,” she fumed. “Wait until I get my hands on them. Keiner zet nisht zein eigenem hoiker. People who see dirt everywhere except on their own faces! The sin of gossip is worse even than the music of shkotzim.” She stood up unsteadily. Leah jumped up to offer her an arm. She took it gratefully.

“Don’t feel bad. It’s a big mitzvah, Leah-le, what you are doing for Yaakov, for the children. To make them a clean home, a kosher home. To bring them happiness. There can’t be a bigger mitzvah in the world, my child. I wish I could help you more.” She shook her head helplessly. “There was a time in my life, not so long ago, when I was a real balabusta. You wouldn’t believe! Shabbos dinners for twenty-four. Cholent pots as big as potato sacks! And the challahs I’d bake! Twenty challahs for every Shabbos, hand kneaded with the finest flour and oil. And now…” She shrugged. “What am I good for? I can’t even lift little Mordechai Shalom anymore; he’s too heavy for me. The Aibishter should only bless his shaine kepelah. My eyesight is not good.” She didn’t continue her litany of woes, somehow ashamed of admitting how swiftly the floodwaters of age were rising over her head.

The latest disaster was her hearing.