The Family Markowitz

by Allegra Goodman

  “Because these dishes aren’t Pesach dishes.”

  Estelle looks at the table, set with her white-and-gold Noritake china. “This is the good china,” she says. “These are the Pesach dishes.”

  “But you use them for the other holidays, too,” Miriam tells her. “They’ve had bread on them and cake and pumpkin pie and all kinds of stuff.”

  “Ooo, you are sooo stubborn!” Estelle puts her hands on her tall granddaughter’s shoulders and gives her a shake. The height difference makes it look as though she is pleading with her as she looks up into Miriam’s face. Then the oven timer goes off and she rushes into the kitchen. Sarah is washing lettuce at the sink. “I’ll do the salads last,” Estelle tells her. “After Ed goes to the airport.” Miriam is still on her mind. What kind of seder will Miriam have next year after she is married? Estelle has met Miriam’s fiancé, who is just as observant as she is. “Did you see?” she asks Sarah. “I left you my list, for Miriam’s wedding.”

  “What list?”

  “On the table. Here.” Estelle gives Sarah the typed list. “These are the names and addresses you asked for—the people I need to invite.”

  Sarah looks at the list. She turns the page and scans the names, doing some calculations in her head. “Mommy!” she says. “There are forty-two people on this list!”

  “Not all of them will be able to come, of course,” Estelle reassures her.

  “We’re having one hundred people at this wedding, remember? Including Ed’s family, and the kids’ friends—”

  “Well, this is our family. These are your cousins, Sarah.”

  Sarah looks again at the list. “When was the last time I saw these people?” she asks. “Miriam wouldn’t even recognize some of them. And what’s this? The Seligs? The Magids? Robert and Trudy Rothman? These aren’t cousins.”

  “Sarah! Robert and Trudy are my dearest friends. We’ve known the Seligs and the Magids for thirty years.”

  “This is a small family wedding,” Sarah tells her mother. “I’m sure they’ll understand—”

  Estelle knows that they wouldn’t understand.

  “I think we have to cut down this list,” Sarah says.

  Estelle doesn’t get a chance to reply. Avi has arrived, and he’s standing in the living room with Ed, Miriam, and Ben. She stands next to him: Amy, his friend from Wesleyan. Estelle still holds back from calling her his girlfriend. Nevertheless, there she is. She has gorgeous strawberry-blond hair, and she has brought Estelle flowers—mauve and rose tulips with fancy curling petals. No one else brought Estelle flowers.

  “They’re beautiful. Look, Sol, aren’t they beautiful?” Estelle says. “Avi, you can take your bag to the den. The boys are sleeping in the den; the girls are sleeping in the sun room.”

  “I don’t want to sleep in the den,” Avi says.

  “Why not?” asks Estelle.

  “Because he snores.” Avi points at his brother. “Seriously, he’s so loud. I’d rather sleep in the basement.”

  Everyone looks at him. It’s a finished basement and it’s got carpeting, but it is cold down there.

  “You’ve shared a room with Ben for years,” Sarah says.

  “You’ll freeze down there,” Estelle tells him.

  “I have a down sleeping bag.”

  “You never complained at home,” Sarah says.

  “Oh, give me a break,” Ben mutters under his breath. “You aren’t going to have wild sex in a sleeping bag in the basement.”

  “What?” Ed asks. “Did you say something, Ben?”

  “No,” Ben says, and ambles back into the den.

  “I don’t want you in the basement,” Estelle tells her grandson.

  “Can I help you in the kitchen, Mrs. Kirshenbaum?” asks Amy.

  Estelle and Amy make the chopped liver. The boys are watching TV in the den, and Ed and Sarah are lying down in the back. Miriam is on the phone with Jon.

  “Did you want me to chop the onions, too?” Amy asks Estelle.

  “Oh no. Just put them there and I’ll take out the liver, and then we attach the grinder—” She snaps the grinder onto the KitchenAid and starts feeding in the broiled liver. “And then you add the onions and the eggs.” Estelle pushes in the hard-boiled eggs. “And the schmaltz.” She is explaining to Amy all about chopped liver, but her mind is full of questions. How serious is it with Avi? What do Amy’s parents think? They are Methodist, Estelle knows that. And Amy’s uncle is a Methodist minister! They can’t approve of all this. But, then, of course, how much do they know about it? Avi barely talks about Amy. Estelle and Sol have only met her once before, when they came up for Avi’s jazz band concert. And then, suddenly, Avi said he wanted to bring her with him to the seder. But he’s never really dated anyone before, and kids shy away from anything serious at this age. Avi’s cousin Jeffrey had maybe five different girlfriends in college, and he’s still unmarried.

  Amy’s family goes to church every Sunday. They’re quite religious. Amy had explained that to Estelle on the phone when she called up about the book. She wanted Estelle to recommend a book for her to read about Passover. Estelle didn’t know what to say. She had never dreamed something like this would happen. If only Amy weren’t Methodist. She is everything Estelle could ever want. An absolute doll. The tulips stand in the big barrel-cut crystal vase on the counter. The most beautiful colors.

  By the time Ed goes off to the airport, everything is ready except the salad. They dress for dinner while he is gone.

  “Do you have a decent shirt?” Sarah asks Ben, who is still watching television. “Or is that as good as it gets?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to do my laundry before I got here, so I have hardly any clothes,” Ben explains.

  “Ben!” Estelle looks at him in his red-and-green-plaid hunting shirt. Avi is wearing a nice starched Oxford.

  “Maybe he could borrow one of Grandpa’s,” Miriam suggests.

  “He’s broader in the shoulders than I am,” says Sol. “Come on, Ben, let’s see if we can stuff you into something.”

  —

  They wait for Ed and Yehudit in the living room, almost as if they were expecting guests. Ben sits stiffly on the couch in his small, stiff shirt. He stares at the silver coffee service carefully wrapped in clear plastic. He cracks his knuckles, and then he twists his neck to crack his neck joints. Everyone screams at him. Then, finally, they hear the car in the driveway.

  “You’re sick as a dog!” Sarah says when Yehudit gets inside.

  Yehudit blows her nose and looks at them with feverish, jet-lagged eyes. “Yeah, I think I have mono,” she says.

  “Oh, my God,” says Estelle. “She has to get into bed. That cot in the sun room isn’t very comfortable.”

  “How about a hot drink?” suggests Sarah.

  “I’ll get her some soup,” Estelle says.

  “Does it have a vegetable base?” Yehudit asks.

  “What she needs is a decongestant,” says Ed.

  They bundle her up in the La-Z-Boy chair in the den and tuck her in with an afghan and a mug of hot chocolate.

  “That’s not kosher for Pesach,” says Miriam, worried.

  “Cool it,” Ed says. Then they sit down at the seder table.

  Ed always leads the seder. Sol and Estelle love the way he does it because he is so knowledgeable. Ed’s area of expertise is the Middle East, so he ties Passover to the present day. And he is eloquent. They are very proud of their son-in-law.

  “This is our festival of freedom,” Ed says, “commemorating our liberation from slavery.” He picks up a piece of matzo and reads from his New Revised Haggadah: “ ‘This is the bread which our fathers and mothers ate in Mitzrayim when they were slaves.’ ” He adds from the translator’s note: “ ‘We use the Hebrew word Mitzrayim to denote the ancient land of Egypt—’ ”

  “As opposed to modern-day Mitzrayim,” Miriam says dryly.

  “ ‘To differentiate it from modern Egypt,’ ” Ed reads. Then
he puts down the matzo and extemporizes. “We eat this matzo so we will never forget what slavery is, and so that we continue to empathize with afflicted peoples throughout the world: those torn apart by civil wars, those starving or homeless, those crippled by poverty and disease. We think of the people oppressed for their religious or political beliefs. In particular, we meditate on the people in our own country who have not yet achieved full freedom; those discriminated against because of their race, gender, or sexual preference. We think of the subtle forms of slavery as well as the obvious ones—the gray areas that are now coming to light: sexual harassment, verbal abuse—” He can’t help noticing Miriam as he says this. It’s obvious that she is ignoring him. She is sitting there chanting to herself out of her Orthodox Birnbaum Haggadah, and it offends him. “Finally, we turn to the world’s hot spot—the Middle East,” Ed says. “We think of war-torn Israel and pray for compromises. We consider the Palestinians, who have no land to call their own, and we call for moderation and perspective. As we sit around the seder table, we look to the past to give us insight into the present.”

  “Beautiful,” murmurs Estelle. But Ed looks down unhappily to where the kids are sitting. Ben has his feet up on Yehudit’s empty chair, and Avi is playing with Amy’s hair. Miriam is still poring over her Haggadah.

  “It’s time for the four questions,” he says sharply. “The youngest child will chant the four questions,” he adds for Amy’s benefit.

  Sarah checks on Yehudit in the den. “She’s asleep. Avi will have to do it.”

  “Amy is two months younger than I am,” Avi says.

  “Why don’t we all say it together?” Estelle suggests. “She shouldn’t have to read it all alone.”

  “I don’t mind,” Amy says. She reads: “ ‘Why is this night different from all other nights? On other nights we eat leavened bread; why on this night do we eat matzo? On other nights we eat all kinds of herbs; why on this night do we eat bitter herbs? On other nights we do not dip even once; why on this night do we dip twice? On other nights we eat either sitting up or reclining; why on this night do we all recline?’ ”

  “Now, Avi, read it in Hebrew,” Ed says, determined that Avi should take part—feeling, as well, that the questions sound strange in English. Anthropological.

  “What was that part about dipping twice?” Amy asks when Avi is done.

  “That’s when you dip the parsley into the salt water,” Ben tells her.

  “It doesn’t have to be parsley,” Sarah says. “Just greens.”

  “We’re not up to that yet,” Ed tells them. “Now I’m going to answer the questions.” He reads: “ ‘We do these things to commemorate our slavery in Mitzrayim. For if God had not brought us out of slavery, we and all future generations would still be enslaved. We eat matzo because our ancestors did not have time to let their bread rise when they left E—Mitzrayim. We eat bitter herbs to remind us of the bitterness of slavery. We dip greens in salt water to remind us of our tears, and we recline at the table because we are free men and women.’ Okay.” Ed flips a few pages. “The second theme of Passover is about transmitting tradition to future generations. And we have here in the Haggadah examples of four kinds of children—each with his or her own needs and problems. What we have here is instructions on how to tailor the message of Passover to each one. So we read about four hypothetical cases. Traditionally, they were described as four sons: the wise son, the wicked son, the simple son, and the one who does not know how to ask. We refer to these children in modern terms as: committed, uncommitted, unaffiliated, and assimilated. Let’s go around the table now. Estelle, would you like to read about the committed child?”

  “ ‘What does the committed child say?’ ” Estelle reads. “ ‘What are the practices of Passover which God has commanded us? Tell him or her precisely what the practices are.’ ”

  “ ‘What does the uncommitted child say?’ ” Sol continues. “ ‘What use to you are the practices of Passover? To you, and not to himself. The child excludes him- or herself from the community. Answer him/her: This is on account of what God did for me when I went out of Mitzrayim. For me, and not for us. This child can only appreciate personal gain.’ ”

  “ ‘What does the unaffiliated child say?’ ” asks Sarah. “ ‘What is all this about? Answer him or her simply: We were slaves and now we are free.’ ”

  “ ‘But for the assimilated child,’ ” Ben reads, “ ‘it is up to us to open the discussion.’ ”

  “We can meditate for a minute,” Ed says, “on a fifth child who died in the Holocaust.” They sit silently and look at their plates.

  “It’s interesting,” says Miriam, “that so many things come in fours on Passover. There are four questions, four sons; you drink four cups of wine—”

  “It’s probably just coincidence,” Ben says.

  “Thanks,” Miriam tells him. “I feel much better. So much for discussion at the seder.” She glares at her brother. Couldn’t he even shave before he came to the table? She pushes his feet off the chair. “Can’t you sit normally?” she hisses at him.

  “Don’t be such a pain in the butt,” Ben mutters.

  Ed speeds on, plowing through the Haggadah. “ ‘The ten plagues that befell the Egyptians: Blood, frogs, vermin, wild beasts, murrain, boils, hail, locusts, darkness, death of the firstborn.’ ” He looks up from his book and says, “We think of the suffering of the Egyptians as they faced these calamities. We are grateful for our deliverance, but we remember that the oppressor was also oppressed.” He pauses there, struck by his own phrase. It’s very good. “We cannot celebrate at the expense of others, nor can we say that we are truly free until the other oppressed peoples of the world are also free. We make common cause with all peoples and all minorities. Our struggle is their struggle, and their struggle is our struggle. We turn now to the blessing over the wine and the matzo. Then”—he nods to Estelle—“we’ll be ready to eat.”

  “Daddy,” Miriam says.

  “Yes.”

  “This is ridiculous. This seder is getting shorter every year.”

  “We’re doing it the same way we always do it,” Ed tells her.

  “No, you’re not. It’s getting shorter and shorter. It was short enough to begin with! You always skip the most important parts.”

  “Miriam!” Sarah hushes her.

  “Why do we have to spend the whole time talking about minorities?” she asks. “Why are you always talking about civil rights?”

  “Because that’s what Passover is about,” Sol tells her.

  “Oh, okay, fine,” Miriam says.

  “Time for the gefilte fish,” Estelle announces. Amy gets up to help her, and the two of them bring in the salad plates. Each person has a piece of fish on a bed of lettuce with two cherry tomatoes and a dab of magenta horseradish sauce.

  Sarah stands up, debating whether to wake Yehudit for dinner. She ends up walking over to Miriam and sitting next to her for a minute. “Miriam,” she whispers, “I think you could try a little harder—”

  “To do what?” Miriam asks.

  “To be pleasant!” Sarah says. “You’ve been snapping at everyone all evening. There’s no reason for that. There’s no reason for you to talk that way to Daddy.”

  Miriam looks down at her book and continues reading to herself in Hebrew.

  “Miriam?”

  “What? I’m reading all the stuff Daddy skipped.”

  “Did you hear what I said? You’re upsetting your father.”

  “It doesn’t say a single word about minorities in here,” Miriam says stubbornly.

  “He’s talking about the modern context—”

  Miriam looks up at Sarah. “What about the original context?” she asks. “As in the Jewish people? As in God?”

  Yehudit toddles in from the den with the afghan trailing behind her. “Can I have some plain salad?” she asks.

  “This fish is wonderful,” Sol says.

  “Outst
anding,” Ed agrees.

  “More,” says Ben, with his mouth full.

  “Ben! Gross! Can’t you eat like a human being?” Avi asks him.

  “It’s Manishevitz Gold Label,” Estelle says. “Yehudit, how did you catch this? Did they say it was definitely mono?”

  “No—I don’t know what it is,” Yehudit says. “I started getting sick on the weekend when we went to sing at the Jewish Community Center for the seniors.”

  “It’s nice that you do that,” Estelle says. “Very nice. They’re always so appreciative.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. There was this old guy there and he asked me, ‘Do you know “Oyfn Pripitchik”?’ I said, ‘Yes, we do,’ and he said, ‘Then please, can I ask you, don’t sing “Oyfn Pripitchik.” They always come here and sing it for us, and it’s so depressing.’ Then, when we left, this little old lady beckoned to me and she said, ‘What’s your name?’ I told her, and she said, ‘You’re very plain, dear, but you’re very nice.’ ”

  “That’s terrible!” Estelle says. “Did she really say that?”

  “Yup.”

  “It’s not true!” Estelle says. “You should hear what everyone says about my granddaughters when they see your pictures. Wait till they see you—maid of honor at the wedding! What color did you pick for the wedding?” she asks Miriam.

  “What?” Miriam asks, looking up from her Haggadah.

  Ed is looking at Miriam and feeling that she is trying to undermine his whole seder. What is she doing accusing him of shortening the service every year? He does it the same way every year. She is the one who has changed—becoming more and more critical. More literal-minded. Who is she to criticize the way he leads the service? What does she think she is doing? He can remember seders when she couldn’t stay awake until dinner. He remembers when she couldn’t even sit up. When he could hold her head in the palm of his hand.