The Kiddush Ladies

by Susan Sofayov

“What was that for?” he asked when she finally loosened her grip.

  She shrugged. “Just because.”

  They cooked and listened to Steely Dan music. It reminded her of the old days when she and Jake worked side by side to prepare Shabbat dinner. There were a lot of fun times. He was a good husband until the end. As much as she hated to admit it, she loved him even as he walked out the door. She shuddered off thoughts of Jake. “Put on something nice tonight. Sarah’s coming.”

  Naomi watched Ezra’s face redden. “Same to you. So is Aaron.”

  “You got me with that. But what’s going on with you and Sarah?”

  “What’s going on with you and Aaron?”

  Naomi smiled and shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I don’t know what’s going on with me and Sarah either.”

  “Ha ha, that means something is going on. Did she let you kiss her yet?”

  Ezra clasped his head.”Uggh. You drive me crazy. Let’s change the subject.”

  “Why? That’s no fun,” Naomi said, enjoying watching him squirm.

  “Fine, just to let you know, I told Dad that I’ll go with him to visit Grandma over Passover. You already know that Josh is going.”

  She was surprised by her reaction--pleased, bordering on happy. Jake had stepped up since the kitchen sprayer incident. He kept his word and sent money for repairs, took Ezra shopping, and bought him school clothes, a suit, and a pair of expensive sneakers. And to her surprise, Josh called, excited about a big check he received from his dad. The memo line on the check read “spending money.” Jake also asked for his loan information. He told Josh that he would pay them off.

  Jake went back to being a father and arrived on time for visits. He even took Ezra to a hockey game. The one mistake he made was asking her to dinner. Naomi told him that it would take at least a decade before that would be a possibility.

  “That’s great, Ez,” she said now, “but don’t change the subject. I want to hear about Sarah.”

  Ezra continued chopping cucumbers. She stood behind him, smiling. Fortunately, the ringing phone replaced her need to wait for his answer.

  “Naomi, I just opened my mail,” Miriam choked out. “She photocopied the letters. I read a few.”

  “Calm, down. Those letters were written a long time ago.”

  “I’m not crying about those letters! It’s the horrible one she included in the package. She said that if I show up for the wedding, she’ll walk out. This is insanity.”

  Naomi held the phone to her ear and stared at the refrigerator. Miriam’s voice was so loud Ezra heard it across the kitchen and stopped chopping.

  “This is unreal.” Naomi said the words, but her mind retreated to the scene, in front of the restaurant, when she said goodbye to Becky.

  At that moment, she believed everything was moving in the right direction. Becky’s anger level cooled, and she walked away with a smile on her face. Naomi really believed the happiness would spill over to the Miriam situation.

  The sound of Miriam blowing her nose broke the silence on the line. Naomi didn’t need to see her friend’s tears. She felt them drip out of the phone.

  “Miriam, listen to me. I know you’re having Shabbat dinner at the rabbi’s house tonight. Please, go wipe your face, fix your make-up, and forget about this until tomorrow. We can talk at the synagogue.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But, Naomi, I’ve had enough of this. It’s bullshit.”

  “You’re right,” In spite of the seriousness of the conversation, Naomi covered her mouth with her hand. Miriam never swore and hated when others did, so hearing her say “bullshit” sounded funny. “Try to enjoy the evening and tell everyone at the rabbi’s house that I said Shabbat Shalom.”

  She set the phone on the countertop, looked at Ezra, and shook her head. “I’m really starting to believe Becky is going crazy. Not the slang kind of crazy. The inpatient kind of crazy.”

  “Maybe she should call Dad’s therapist,” he said.

  They both cracked up.

  ***

  The group around the table agreed to not discuss the Becky/Miriam situation during dinner, but the ban broke down during dessert.

  “Look,” Esther said. “The way I see is simple. We sit her down and tell her to snap out of it. Just like those interventions they do on TV for alcoholics and drug addicts.”

  Aaron snickered and Esther shot him an arched eyebrow reprimand. “Sorry, Esther,” he said. “But cornering Becky elicits the same reaction as cornering a wolverine.”

  “Fine,” Esther said. “Do you have any ideas?”

  “Break her knee caps?” Aaron suggested with a meek shrug and a smirk.

  “That’s what you would write in a novel? The main character has a huge problem and you would break her knees?” Esther asked.

  “Actually, I don’t create protagonists with stupid, self-imposed, irrational problems.”

  Everyone at the table stared at Esther--waiting.

  “You’re right,” she finally replied.

  The group let out a collective sigh of relief. Esther rarely--never--conceded an argument. Normally, she went in for the kill and left her opponent bloody and stunned.

  “A fiction writer creates conflicts that a human being with a reasonable amount of intelligence and logic can overcome--that is, unless it’s supposed to be a tragedy. But here, we really don’t have a conflict, just a made up battlefield in her mishegus head.” Aaron lifted his wine glass. “To the end of mishegus--craziness be gone.”

  “L’chaim,” the group responded in unison.

  “We’ll crash into her office and tell her she’s crazy.” Aaron dramatically pretended to bust open the door. “Then give her a menu.”

  Everyone looked perplexed--a menu?

  “Anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, or she could go old-school and just smoke a joint.” As Aaron said this, rays of mischief emanated from his eyes. It didn’t take long for the conversation to break down into college marijuana memories.

  They lingered over dessert and coffee until the clock on the buffet read midnight. Laurie rose from the table. “Thank you for a lovely evening, but we need to find our daughter and head home.”

  Naomi opened the door to the basement and called down to Ezra and Sarah. Laurie’s eyes widened when Ezra reached the top of the steps trying to wrestle his curls back into place. Sarah looked at her mom and dropped her eyes. Naomi fought hard to stifle a snicker.

  Aaron lingered after the rest of the group filed out into the cold. “I’m sorry, but I won’t make it to shul tomorrow. I have to take an early flight to New York. My agent wants me to make an appearance at another boring soiree.”

  She hugged him and kissed his cheek. “No problem. Just so you’re back for the wedding on Thursday.”

  ***

  Becky

  Becky woke at 6:00 a.m. Outside the bedroom window, she could see the sun sitting low on the horizon, not shedding enough light to dispel the darkness. David continued his low snoring as she climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Nausea gripped her stomach. Today was Noah’s aufruf. The day he would be called to the bimah to read from the Torah as the chatan--the groom. She and the other ladies began cooking and preparing the kiddush luncheon on Wednesday. The double door refrigerator held enough food to feed an Israeli Army battalion.

  It didn’t escape her that under normal circumstances, she would be out of bed, bouncing with joy. Now, she focused on the bile rising into her throat. She flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and reached for the towel, hanging on the door hook. She stopped. On the second hook, hung the jeans she took off last night. She grabbed them and slithered them up under her nightgown.

  As much as she wanted to believe what Naomi told her, she couldn’t find any evidence to verify it was true. Maria still looked as Catholic as ever and today, her entire Christian family would be sitting in the sanctuary for the service. What a nightmare--the bile bubbled up again--Maria’s mother talking to Rabbi M
orty.

  Becky stepped inside her closet and grabbed the first sweater she saw, wondering when the cold winter would end.

  A question had gnawed at her since the Rosh Hashanah engagement announcement and no matter how she wrestled with it, the answer eluded her--where did she go wrong? She and David made sure he attended synagogue every week. They sent him to expensive Jewish summer camps and, like all good Jewish parents, forced him to suffer through years of Hebrew school. Maybe they should have shuttled him to Squirrel Hill for a good Jewish day school education. In the beginning, her inability to answer the question angered her. Now, she felt crushed by a sense of utter failure.

  She tiptoed out of the bedroom and down the steps. The kitchen looked spotless--depressing, because cleaning always relaxed her. She walked straight to the coffee maker. Today, the shul would be packed with Noah’s friends, celebrating with l’chaims to the happy groom and bride. The final drop of coffee fell into her cup. It smelled good, and the cup felt warm in her hands. Her mother loved coffee. Not the fancy gourmet stuff like the kind Becky ordered online. Her mother only bought Eight O’Clock Coffee. As a small child, Becky loved grocery shopping with her mother, especially on the days she bought coffee. At the checkout, she felt her excitement grow because she knew what would happen after her mother finished paying. The cashier would dump the beans into the grinder and hold the bag under the spout. Even as a child, Becky adored the smell. Today, even the smallest whiff of the aroma reminded her of home and her mother. A woman, who like her son, Becky didn’t really know.

  She set the coffee on the table and sat down, after a few sips she realized that she didn’t want to go to the shul. She didn’t want to make small talk. And she, absolutely with every part of her soul, did not want to pretend to be happy. Why should she care about Noah? If he cared about her, he would cancel this marriage. That’s it. She pushed the mug away. I’m not going.

  She pulled a jacket from the closet, grabbed her keys, and headed for the garage.

  She slithered into the driver’s seat, reached up and pushed the button on the garage door opener, silently praying the sound wouldn’t wake David. A moment later, she backed out of the driveway, put the car in drive, and pushed the gas pedal. When she arrived at the stop sign on Beverly Road, she relaxed. David couldn’t see the stop sign from their front porch. She had made a clean get away.

  She sat at the intersection a bit too long, contemplating left or right? Did it really matter? She kept her foot on the brake, reached under the seat, and found what she wanted. Tucked against the track that the seat moved along was a small green change purse. Inside was evidence of a bad habit she’d picked up in college and hid from the world. She pulled out the cigarette box and the lighter. Within seconds, she pulled the first drag of the cigarette into her lungs. Why couldn’t cigarettes and twelve-year-old scotch be healthy? They were much better than exercise and those foul tasting juice concoctions Laurie tried to get her to drink--for her health--yuk.

  There was more traffic on Banksville Road than she expected. Every Saturday morning of her life had been spent in a synagogue. She never even thought about what other people did on Saturdays. Based on the number of cars in the supermarket parking lot, they did a lot of grocery shopping. When the light in front of a little strip mall turned red, she eased to a stop and noticed a line inside the Starbucks. It looked no shorter today than it did on Mondays. The car radio was tuned to WESA, the local public radio station, but she wasn’t in the mood for the jovial chatter of Car Talk. She shut it off and waited for the light to turn green.

  The distance between her and the synagogue grew. She envisioned Naomi, Laurie and Esther trying to help the waitress get the kiddush ready. Let the congregation and the guests celebrate this farce. She would be miles away.

  Becky flicked the cigarette butt out the window before she entered the Fort Pitt tunnel, which connected the South Hills of Pittsburgh to the city center. Pittsburgh, the city where you couldn’t go anywhere without crossing a bridge or going through a tunnel. When she exited, the giant green signs presented her options. Drive straight into downtown? Take the right ramp toward Squirrel Hill? But the sign that grabbed her attention was the one that read Route 279 North. She veered into the left lane, out of the city and away from home.

  This tree-lined road was beautiful in the summer--green and lush. Today, the scenery wasn’t worth turning her head--dead trees, dead bushes, everything just looked dead. The tension in her neck started to creep into her head. Great, all she needed was a migraine. No, she refused to think about the pounding in the back of her head. Instead, she let her thoughts drift to Miriam who was probably sitting in the synagogue acting like she was the mother of the groom.

  Becky pounded her hands against the steering wheel. Damn, Miriam. Of course, she would convince Naomi to take her side. Becky imagined the whining. “Naomi, Becky’s being mean to me--talk to her, pleeease.”

  She almost swerved off the road when she imagined Miriam, the son stealer, blowing her nose, honking louder than a Canadian goose, as Naomi consoled her.

  How could Naomi be so stupid to fall for Miriam’s poor-me-act? Miriam wore out that show when they were still in college.

  “Shit,” Becky said out loud, smacking the steering wheel again.

  She drove far beyond the exits she was familiar with until a green sign on the right side of the road indicated an exit for a town called Zelienople. She had no idea where she was and where she was going, but she followed the exit sign, landing in a cute little town with an old-fashioned main street.

  People walked along the sidewalk, moving in and out of the small shops. She parked, got out of the car, and put fifty cents into the parking meter.

  A cold drizzle fell from the gray sky as she wandered along the quaint street, glancing into the store windows. A display in the window of an antique shop stopped her. Someone arranged the window around the theme of cups and glasses. Dainty china tea settings, Irish coffee mugs and German beer steins rested on a vintage sideboard covered with an Irish lace table cloth. But, it wasn’t any of these cups that caught her eye. It was the large, silver challis resting on a small silver plate in the middle of the arrangement. It couldn’t be.

  She pulled open the door of the shop and walked straight to the chalice, twirling it to ascertain if it was a fancy wine glass or what she thought it might be. Etched into the base of the cup were four Stars of David. She smiled, her suspicions confirmed. A hand forged silver kiddush cup, most likely originating in Germany or Poland before the war. She turned it upside down, saw the price and did a little snicker. The owner of the shop obviously believed it was just an old cup.

  Becky rolled it around in her hand...

  ***

  Her father lifted the large silver kiddush cup and began the chant. “Baruch ata Adonai...”

  The cup overflowed, and the sweet grape concord wine dribbled over his hands onto his silver ringed white Shabbat plate. Each week, he spilled the wine onto his dinner plate and made an elaborate show of wiping the purple liquid with her mother’s best linen napkin. It drove her mother crazy, but he was proud. “Hashem,” he always told Becky, “fills our cup.”

  Each Friday night, he became the king, presiding over the people seated around their Shabbat table, chanting the same prayers week after week. Tonight she just wanted to scream “enough already.” She hated sitting at the table through the gefitle fish course, the matzah ball soup, and finally, either brisket or chicken. It was always the same boring food, the same boring prayers, and the same boring conversation.

  Ugh, she silently screamed inside her head. Every one of her non-Jewish friends and even a few of her Jewish ones were at the homecoming football game.

  Her brother handed her the kiddush cup. As she raised it to her lips, she noticed her mother standing across from her, giving her what Becky dubbed the stop-now-or-you-will-be in-trouble look. She set the cup down and stomped toward the kitchen, passing her father in the doorway as he made
his way back to his chair, having completed the ritual handwashing.

  Her mother followed her into the kitchen and clenched Becky’s shoulder. “Stop rolling your eyes and making faces. You know you’re not allowed to go out on Friday night.”

  Becky lifted the ornate two handled cup and began pouring water over her hands. “I don’t know why. It’s the same thing every week. So what if I miss one night? It’s not the end of the world.”

  “First, I let you go one Friday night,” her mother said, “then you’ll want another one. It will turn into two Friday nights and then three. Eventually, you’ll forget the Sabbath. The Sabbath is a gift to the Jews from Hashem. When you lose the Sabbath, you throw away your gift--your heritage. Never, Becky, never put friends and the secular world in front of the Sabbath. When you lose your heritage, you have nothing.”

  ***

  Becky picked up the small silver plate that went with the cup and walked over to the checkout counter. The pregnant lady manning the cash register gave her a cheerful smile. “I can’t believe someone is actually buying this old thing.”

  “Really?” Becky replied. “I think it’s beautiful.”

  “So did my mother. She used to buy for the shop. She brought this old cup home when I was still in high school.”

  Becky handed the woman her Visa card. “Well, your mom has good taste.”

  The young woman set the card in one of those old fashioned machines that pressed the imprint of the numbers onto a paper receipt. She handed it and a pen to Becky. “She had good taste,” she said. “She died a few years after she found this cup. A year ago, my dad was cleaning out the house and brought it here.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Becky said, watching the young woman carefully roll the cup in tissue paper.

  “My mother said the cup reminded her of her grandmother. She was Jewish.”