by Joshua Cohen
Simple enough, he thought: the instructions had been to buy bread, those were the rules, his engagement, the vows.
She asked, buy some challah—ceremonial bread.
For motzi, the cerement of our hunger—the burial in the mouth of the loaves, two of them, one for each language—and how he repeats this to himself, the request’s order, silently but still in the voice of his wife: on your way home, if it’s no trouble, she’d said, no trouble, she’d added, but not a conditional.
Not too much.
Still, it’ll make him later, this stopping here, twenty minutes out of his way and then shul, don’t forget.
She hadn’t baked. She hadn’t baked? There are fish in the sea and chickens in the air, and she hadn’t baked—it’s unnatural, not normal, it’s not like her, what’s wrong. There’s a kid in the womb, flyingthings in flight and things that swim swimmingly, and then what, nothing at all in the oven, the stove, cooling atop the counter, what gives. And so the order, the request as if for his complicity in a shirking that’s only hers if companioned: buy challah, she’d said, don’t forget as I don’t forgive as thoroughly or as quickly as you; after his shower, while he was dressing, suiting, tying his tie, before he left for work in the morning, before work, at work she’d left with Loreta a message she’d left him before she left for home for the day, the week, the year, before early evening, approaching the dark that’s only as constant as him, he’s flattering, as sure as the sun in its nightly crash to the pavement—stopping outside the storefront, the window display, arranging in its reflection his hairs left, wilted weeds like at the trunks rooting the sidewalk landscaped. He browses past the baskets empty of bread so late in the coming—through to his image, thinking an olderyoungish middleaged: hope, there’s still a little crust left for me yet.
Inside, behind the counter, an aproned mensch about to untie, fold, sweep crumbs, close up, and head home—just a moment, though, wait up, a mitzvah Israel’s asking, lawyerly arguing the Closed for Business he’s earned it, telling and tsking his merit, all these long years a loyal customer fast with exact change and his wife, how he should know him by now and this late, he’s just saying, Mister Baker with the apron and hat and three doughy chins, the floury cheeks, it would pay to know him here every week, and so why not a dozen egg kichel thrown in for free, every once in a while, just asking just asking, two loaves, if you have them, I’m in too much of a rush.
I’m sorry, the baker’s saying, I don’t remember you, Mister…
Israelien, he says, I’m just saying is all, having my fun—and now as if in apology: my wife, she usually bakes.
My wife, he says, doesn’t even know how to cook. I should tell you—feel lucky; except that I’m sorry, all I have left are two loaves.
I’ll take them, how much?
But they’re for me, my wife and my—tell you what, I’ll break with you bread.
Here’s a loaf, one of mine. You can always cut it in two.
Israel blushes the blessing, can’t find the thanks this harried and sanctified in surprise, and so he cleans out his wallet, hands to the counter too many bills.
The baker nods as he takes one of the pair out of their bag to bag it separately now, paper in plastic, the braided better and larger and wider and more goldeny done one, a single loaf challah, honeyglazed fresh, hands it over.
Have a wonderful Shabbos! he smiles Shalom, and he waves, while with his other hand scooping up the money then shoving it all down into the full box for charity positioned alongside the register, which is empty and anyway broken.
Give my regards to our God!
Israel leaves the store to the shrill disapproval of bells, a jingling that reminds him of the phonecall he never made to tell his wife, sorry.
To console: at least I’ll get home before Shabbos the next, but he’d used that the Shabbos before. And so to blame: whether Loreta, which client or car trouble, my shadow’s always making me late; him to tell Hanna later: I only wish it’d come along Monday mornings, there’s barely a minyan at shul.
In the synagogue’s lot, he parks himself over the three spaces of the Rabbi, the Cantor, the Building Supervisor, and leaves it there, the car, to be pickedup come motzei, that Sunday or Monday with Hanna dropping him off or Wanda, more plans, ever more preparations, who knows, maybe he’ll walk, even run, please God and his doctors at once—in a rush, just a duck for a daven, putting in an appearance; after all, he’s the president, too. Arriving only for the last lines of the night, the chazzanut cluck, the salty warble, he speeds his prayers silent then shakes all around hands, fins and wings, distributes free legal advice. Problems solved. Call me later this week, that shouldn’t be difficult. Consulting with the drumsticks and scales: the poultry knobby, the slippery fish, gathered to pray for the grace of a soul. They slither and stomp, they flop and squawk. It’s a commotion, a crowd, how he feels much the same way with his kinder: removed, held high above their messes and fits; the bestial consuming the oneg—he’s tired, so tried. And desirous of quiet.
The street: eternally lamped, but an unholy emptiness, not so much superiority as the need for its silence, him wanting to be left, if only for a moment, by himself, alone…Godless though wellmarked, turns reft and light familiar, then a detour Israel knows isn’t any shorter through the huddling woods, scrubby shrubs and hedgerows, through yards of happinesses (and sadnesses, also, he tries not to think of) he can’t claim, hopes rickety swung see to saw, junglegym to sandbox, to garden and herbplot, steps over scattered toys, the dispersal by wind of deflated balls, the dashed heads of dolls, then up the slate path toward the broad cedar door that guards them inside—suddenly, skirting around, past the enclosure for trash then to the door at the side, he knocks at it softly, as if testing, then opens.
Aba’s home. Bramblebound from the walk. There are steps over the threshold. He shuts the door behind him and locks.
A daughter descends, Isa he thinks, Asa she is, Israel drapes his coat over her head: the coat gray and old and wet a little and hot with him to be hung in the closet and not draped on the pillows of the bed, the foldout, the couchbed, the sofa convertible, in any spareroom whose hospitality has been furnished exclusively for the coats of the guests. He takes off his suitjacket, drapes it on a kitchencounter, then loosens his tie from underneath his collar unbuttoned, leaves it in its knot to remind: the day no longer strangling, not yet forgotten, never freeing; still complex, still coiled, prepared for the tightening come what may the next week.
How was your day? Hanna not waiting for an answer to the both of them asking; her nudging a trunk with a heel then examining, resentment, the damage done to her manicure while he greets his guests, whoever’s arrived. Though with not all of them yet and her not telling him that, letting him search and find only the regulars, the usuals and not his new partner already with his wife or the girlfriend, what’re their names, he comes back down the hall to embrace her—though her hands, without hug, are only held out to take the challah from him, and her mouth, which refuses his kiss, only tells him, instead, in a whisper: go upstairs, get thyself changed.
Hanna sits on this trunk as a handful of the oven’s guests gather, the wives just standing around, loafing, examining Israel’s purchase, passing it around for inspection—the single loaf he’s halved while at shul she hefts in her hands again then puts back in its bag to hand to Rubina who takes it to table.
How it’s unspoken, all of it—obvious to every guest that these trunks have been sitting here forever, for months, for years, incurring feminine disapproval, raised brows, the forcing of coughs; that there’s about as much possibility of them moving them as them moving themselves, though Hanna would explain, smoothing her dress folded around her as if she’s a package, merely wrapping, a box or container herself, short and breasty—her legs dangling, calves white above the veins, their skein’s twine:
We’ve been meaning to move them, but you know how things are…telling them they know, and, as if mystics or prophecy, the
y know: what with my philanthropic activities, thanks for reminding, how much I volunteer, the tzedakah, the charity with which I chair the meetings of schoolboard and then with the kinder: two of them aren’t in school yet and one, she goes only halfday. Nat.
I’ve got to drop them off then pick them up then drop them, the activities afterschool, extracurriculars, the clubs and the sports, tennis and swimming, enrichment, the study groups and all the projects, the labs and ballet, painting, piano lessons in violin and voice, tutoring, college applications and visitation, the cancer hospice and the old peoples’ home, the youthgroup and shul and, our Wednesday schedule’s the worst…as she leans to pick at the trunk, at a wig’s hairs from a wrinkled length of tape, gray duct that’s lost much of its stick.
Is’ schedule is packed, too, you understand: always running from one thing to the next, like a headless dinner; he knows this jeremiad well, rolls eyes from upstairs, news travels fast: that’s where the kinder get it from, my girls…they’re scared of the basement, and Wanda has today mostly off—explaining the arcane processes of packing and unpacking, of storage and steps, stairwells and ways, of narrow closetless hallways not enough space for all this, yardsale, rummagesale, waspnests in attics, of sumppump problems in the basement still partially unfinished as if to say, so shoot me and sue my corpse, this overworked, overtired body of mine and, nu, we’ve gotten sort of used to them here, patting, petting, the slow fall of dust moonlit through the windows.
We like the whole impermanence of the thing, like if we had to pick up and, you know, leave…like in the middle of the night.
By day, the house entire’s littered with trunks, suitcases and briefcases, boxes and cases, and the lawn, littered with life: a tricycle with leaves rustling through its spokes, a pair of discarded trainingwheels; rakes, some trashbags ripped through with branches, overflowing with clippings, some trashcans tipped to one side with neighborhood opossums and raccoons liningup amid the fleas and gnats gathering for their own feasts at the mouths; milk, how do they drink so much milk, and one of those big cylindrical waterdrums that goy in the black truck he delivers each week that he picks up the empty ones and so what’s this one doing out here with the trash. The mailbox hangs open, but there’s no mail inside and all of it’s bills. From the sidewalk, the house is white with gray shutters or maybe the reverse, three stories at least, too dim.
He stands in the street across from the path, the walkway up from the sidewalk’s street while she stands on the sidewalk itself, curbed at the lowest bend of the Circle she says, Looparound he says the Turnaround or About, taking the whole house in, its round plot. They’ve parked a length from the driveway of across the street neighbors, so as not to be found pulling up front and parking on the Shabbos he says, Sabbath she says, if she has to; there’re only three other vehicles, two so big they can’t be called cars, more like monsters these foreignmade mutations of steel and wheel in the we’ll go with loopabout or arounding (one, the Brooks’ new van, which’ll necessitate yet another garage reexpansion), and he hopes God how he hopes they’re not the last to arrive. Picking up the coat of his second new suit in a week (will Israel notice it’s the same he wore last Friday), draped over the driver’s seat, hunching it on, he shuts his door, stoops peering into the third car, that of a founding partner in another top firm he’d interviewed with that didn’t make him an offer, lives opposite with his wife the nonpracticing doctor and this, their midlife crisis convertible with its top up in winter, and, bareheaded and without scarf or gloves, he’s doing a little light accounting as she picks a stray thread from his pocket, unslit.
I think this is it.
You think?
Me.
Thirtythree?
Three three three…pointing to the numbers nailed once to the mailbox hanging open, then once to the siding its shingles hung off, one three in the latter display slung downsideup and so 3 3.
I’m looking good?
That a question?
She’s drying her sweater off, holding the dripping flowers away from her far while she wipes, like their smell’s sickening, like she can’t bear being near them.
All daughters, yes—how many they have at the least?
At the least, he says, I wouldn’t remember, realizing he’s never seen or met the same kinder twice.
How many times: there’d been that once at the office when the older attractive and the second he thinks were around, don’t think about it how old she is with the breasts and the breath and he’d been here once before her, without her, dropping Israel off because he had a car and Israel didn’t, had left his but where, he couldn’t remember; and there they were, playing in the yard, in the front. Who knows what games. All had the same look around the mouth and how they appeared to swap clothes. He remembers to her one in particular: one outfit not red or yellow, the other fired halfway to blue if blue was like a grandfather’s, what do you call it, he means techeles, that purplish on one or twoish of them. Running around, a dash, don’t get your clothes dirty, your suit you just bought it new. Here, now, in the frontyard, he’s mimicking them at their fun, trying to reenact for her enjoyment: she’s unhappy being here with him and thinks him weak and fearful, acting differently around others, how he’s rushing for props to cheer her, clown around smiles; grabbing them up, balls for baskets and bases and for soccer, mitts, a ripped pinwheel, a fractured kite tailed with a jumprope, a holed pail, rusted spade, making her even more impatient and angry, I can’t believe, a tossing of hair, what I’m doing for you, her walking up the path then the six steps of the stoop toward the doormat—a message there, obscured, dirt laced into itself, Shalom’s script interwoven—then the automatic lights light on and she jumps, stares at him, startled.
Sorry, he says, throws down a weatherworn, handling splintery slugger, rushes up the steps, next to her on the stoop, to behold the light suspended, the candles framed in the window.
They knock, ring repeatedly as if to get in sooner, almost to make as if they’ve been waiting a while. A single unlock, and a stranger opens the door, a woman with real presence, which means impolitely fat as not pregnant, Hanna, can’t be: her hair colored too brightly and the makeup reddening errant over lids and lips, Wanda sloppy in a shiftlike kimono and hurried along. They kiss her anyway and hug her surprised at how forward they are, how intense and excited to please; not stopping to kiss the mezuzah, they step inside by stepping around her, each to a flank and further to what has to be Hanna now next to Israel, his boss and bread changed into casual slippers but into new pants and a shirt, too, just as formal as the suit he’d been wearing; they’re holding each other, these guests, her head on his shoulder as if she’s suddenly tired, and how he tries to shake her hand off to shake Israel’s then say sorry to Hanna; apologies—that’s what I’m good for.
Wanda had Shabbos off, ostensibly, their Sabbaths and not hers, if and only if during the week she’d somehow or other satisfied Hanna, which satisfaction was often as difficult as proving to the most redoubtable of doubters the existence of an omnipotent God: though this can be done, God’s history tells us, there’s nothing impossible; Hanna’s particular brand of cacoethes carpendi, otherwise known as obsessive/compulsive not a disorder, an order, and that’s the idea, a mania known Developmentwide—tempered by only her optimism, her famous can do, oftabused.
On Friday nights, Wanda had to serve, that was it: upon Shabbos eves rare in Hanna’s happiness, her having plucked no fruited fault from the tree whose boughs, pruned daily, would overnight, over eves, branch into all species of tasks, errands, resentment. It was Hanna’s elected responsibility to prepare their family dinner—duty, the Schedule, just doing her part, hauling her own pregnant weight—and then, how she’d sit in the shade of accomplishment, accepting compliments heaped into her cups, bowls and plates, blushing the rose of an apple and eating all the courses from the challah on down to dessert even and drinking her wine, too, and Israel’s as well, though not while with kinder while Wanda would serve
. As for those cups, those bowls of fruit and plates—though it was always the responsibility of these kinder, rotating, to set the table, each week, they would groan to their mother, shouldn’t Wanda do this?
I mean, every Friday, what do you pay her for anyway?
As if, to decrease your inheritance.
In any defense, though, Israel offering his with professional husbandry to Hanna’s constant complaint—I might want to fire her but I can’t (I have my reasons), I’m not strong enough and how that calls everything else into question, I might not even want to at all—Wanda did offer to help do this setting as regularly as such offers would be refused, and so today, as every Friday in its late afternoon with the female half of her employment situation upstairs and clattering at cooking, Wanda would lie on her understuffed futon and smoke a filtered menthol or vanilla into her wardrobe, adjacent, her head pillowed listening to the dull slipper and sneakerfalls from the kitchen directly above her room underground, one floor up. Until called for—her smoking complained about despite how much she’d spray even sunscreen and insect repellent and scent with candles and burn incense for hours. After she served, which was a responsibility mostly for show, she would return to her room and sit listening to the kinder haul everything into the kitchen: three steps to a thud, four to a shatter. After Shabbos, a sink full of dirty pots, pans, dishes, and silverware would be waiting, plates and bowls, a pile of shards to be superglued. And leftovers, to scrape to the trash, the disposal, or else refrigerated or frozen for Sunday’s reheating.
