Rosh Hashanah

First Miriam devised a spreadsheet. Next she typed a grocery list. Then she tore up both the spreadsheet and the grocery list and Venn-diagrammed the meal. Of course, nothing in the circles intersected. Making dinner for the New Year demanded more logistics than the Mideast talks.

The basics:  twenty people who hated each other though they’d never admit it. And though they all required some degree of special attention, they’d never admit that either. One cousin was gluten intolerant. Another was vegan while Miriam’s brother Paul and his wife were on the Paleo diet. And Zippy, her best friend since high school, was schlepping her grandson. A grandson with peanut allergies no less.

For over forty years, over the phone they spoke. Never had Miriam seen Zippy so agitated. Yet she was spitting and sputtering, nearly choking on the words.

“Do you know how to use an EpiPen, Miriam? I’m terrified, truly terrified. If I ever harmed that child, I’d die.”

“I sent an email, Zipporah. Don’t worry. Everyone knows.”

Then suddenly an image popped into focus. An image as clear as a photograph. And there inside the frame were twenty heads yakking around her dining room table. Pointing and pontificating. She sighed and reassured her friend.

“I’ve got for you a dentist and a podiatrist. And Paul, don’t forget. He’s a colorectal surgeon. Any emergency, from top to bottom, we’ve got covered.”

As she had countless times before, Miriam reached into her desk drawer. Then shuffling through her papers, she extracted her recipe folder. The file was fat with newspaper clippings and index cards filled by relatives and friends.

Of course, her children teased her. Who keeps paper recipes? But as stained and splotched as her index cards were, each one held a memory. Aunt Lilly. Tante Rose. She spread them on the kitchen table. Then one by one her fingers traced the handwriting, loop after loop.  Some had passed. Some were people she once knew and could no longer remember. A neighbor? A college friend? And lastly, there was her mother.

She picked up the recipe for brisket, her mother’s writing a shaky print, a dog-eared tear in the corner.  Dead six months but still the woman loomed. Oh, how her mother slaved in the kitchen.  They had moved to Miami years before people had air-conditioning, the heat hovering, their skin oozing, the sweat bubbling like oil on a hot pan. Every Friday night their home would be a schvitz, their entire house sweating with onions and garlic and tomatoes, the fog thick enough to taste.

When it was time for dinner, she and her brothers would put on their best clothes. Then with napkins in their laps, they’d dutifully eat. As far as she remembered, her mother never dressed. Her housecoat was her uniform. Their father a fixture in his work slacks. A pack of cigarettes. A freshly laundered shirt.

Miriam refilled the folder then lined up the remaining recipes. Like tarot cards, the memories of her past always defined her present.

Brisket. Noodle pudding. Tzimmes. A round challah. A pound cake. Some mandlebreit. Done.

***

The day of, Miriam woke before sunrise. What food wasn’t cooked was sitting in the Frigidaire, tucked in Corningware and primed to go. Her friend Zippy hosted Thanksgiving. Her brother Paul and his wife the first seder, her cousin Marg the second. Not for nothing had she made this meal a thousand times.

The twenty place settings were a different story. Once again, the strategizing made her stomach cramp. Her dining table only seated ten. Ten settings of china, silver, crystal. All wedding gifts and though decades old, lovely.

To accommodate the rest of her guests, Miriam and her husband would set up a folding table and Samsonite chairs, plastic wine glasses and paper plates. The resulting table was like a poorly dressed relation, a little shorter, a little more slovenly than the rest.

The few who were good-natured joked.  You’re sending us to Siberia! The Hobbit table! We’re sitting at the Hobbit table! Of course, the children never complained. The head table with its pomp and its pretense and adult conversation always bored them.

Then another photograph popped into Miriam’s head. And there was her father, cigarette in hand, holding forth like a king. Miriam and her brothers would lean in saying yes papa yes papa as if every word were a gem, a pearl of wisdom just waiting to be gleaned. How ’bout dem Dolphins! That tricky Dicky, what’s he up to now?

No matter how close they sat, it was never close enough.

Years later, her father begged her not to go away to college. And sure enough, the first year she was gone she got a phone call, one of those middle of the night phone calls that for the rest of your life endlessly replay. It was Paul, her oldest brother.

“Dad’s had a coronary.”

“What?” said Miriam. The phone in the dorm was on the wall, and as she twisted the cord around her arm she heard the strangest sounds. A girl crying. A couple moaning.

“A coronary,” said Paul. “He’s had a heart attack. A coronary.”

It took a few seconds for Miriam to recalibrate her thinking. At first, she thought of life as she knew it. Her schedule was jam-packed. A chemistry exam. Volleyball playoffs. A date with a guy down the hall. Then she looked at the phone. “I’ll come home. Right away. I’ll make it home tomorrow.”

Then Paul– the child who never left–spit out the words. “He’s dead, Miriam. Dead. No need to hurry now.”

Hours later, after agonizing over the seating, after switching the handmade place cards back and forth and left and right, Miriam took the little piece of paper with Paul’s name and put it at the folding table.  On one side would be Zippy’s grandson while on the other Marg’s twins. Her brother would be furious, of that Miriam was certain.

***

At five o’clock sharp Miriam’s doorbell started ringing.  While his wife was busy cooking, Harv greeted their guests. As usual, he followed Miriam’s instructions to the letter. Zippy was directed to the kitchen. The cousins sent to the family room. Paul, as always, was the difficult one. Both he and his wife carried smiles on their faces. In each of their hands were large totes.

“We brought our own food,” said Cheryl.  Hard of hearing, she practically shouted the words. “Considering our diets and all.”

Then it was Paul’s turn. What passed for an amicable conversation was in truth an Inquisition. Paul would ask a series of questions to which he already knew the answers. And knowing that he knew, Miriam’s husband wouldn’t bother to reply. How the insults flew! They’d be subtle but annoying. Like gnats or ingrown hairs.

“So how’s retirement treating you?”

Retirement? To even call it “retirement” was a joke.  For forty years Harv owned a plumbing supply, selling tubs and sinks and toilets. It was a decent enough income, he was proud to say. Bought a nice house. Sent three kids to college. But then the Internet happened and soon his bottom line wasn’t bottom enough.

Retirement?  Harv was too young to be idle and too poor to have fun.

“Are your kids coming?”

“Still hanging on to that old TV?”

Meanwhile, that boy with the goofy haircut and glasses, Zippy’s grandson, was darting from room to room. Jesus, thought Harv. Do six-year-olds take drugs?  And wow could that kid eat. Like a prisoner who’s just been released. Sampling everything and then some. Swinging from the chandeliers. Where the hell was Zippy?

It seemed like the doorbell would never stop ringing. And each person was hungrier and more irritable than the next. Harv directed them to the appetizers on the coffee table. But after five minutes the cheese balls vanished while the hummus and pita wedges were close behind. Miriam had thrown some vegetables together, but no one was going near that.

Harv, as always, felt a twinge of panic. If Miriam didn’t refill the platters, things could get ugly. Then Marg, blessed Marg, walked into the room serving bowl in hand.

“Did you taste my chopped liver? It looks like the real thing. Only it’s walnuts. Do you believe it? You grind them in the Cuisinart, add some green beans and onions…”

Harv glanced around the room. That kid, Zippy’s grandson, was still bouncing from wall to wall. But now he looked like a balloon.

“That kid,” said Harv. “Look, his lips are blowing up. And he’s turning purple, too.”

“He’s the color of an eggplant,” said Marg. “Is that normal? I mean, is that what he looks like?  Did he always look like an eggplant? Or is this something new?”

***

They used to go to the bakery on Friday afternoons. Miriam and her mother. It was their ritual. They’d buy a challah, a nice sponge cake, maybe some rainbow cookies. The lady in the bakery shop would always give Miriam a free sample. A little Charlotte Russe. A taste of babka. Then hand in hand, they’d leave the store.

And when they’d get home, as her mother was hovering over the stove, Miriam would find the wooden box filled with their good cutlery. Then she’d take out the silver polish and one by one clean each fork, each spoon, each knife. That was her job. Cleaning. And she’d rub and rub and rub until she saw her face in the reflection. A world with a whorl. A Milky Way. All in the palm of her hand. Then she’d line each fork, spoon, and knife on the table in soldierly progression and as the sun set, watch them gleam.

Then one day, just as they were pulling the car into the driveway, the heavens cleaved, and rain poured down. Hurry, shouted her mother. While her mother grabbed the desserts, Miriam grabbed the bread. They almost made it. But just a few feet from their front porch, Miriam’s foot slipped. Her saddle shoes flew out from under her, the challah sailed in the air, and she landed flat on her rump.

Flipping herself over, Miriam lunged toward the paper bag. But it only took seconds for the bread to be ruined. Soaked. Shredded.  Her mother took one look and beat her right on the steps, screaming with each slap of her hand. “The challah. You ruined the challah. The challah. Look what you did.” After that, Miriam never polished the silver again.

“Miriam, are you listening?” said Zippy. “I should bring out the brisket, no?”

Miriam blinked. Somewhere she heard a child crying. She quickly looked out the window. Had it rained?

No. The tumult was from the family room. “Quiet! Quiet! We need an EpiPen!” someone was screaming. “Is there an EpiPen?”

Instantly, she and Zippy froze. But instead of worry, Miriam felt something like relief. For it was moments like these that her family lived for. All the recriminations, all their frustrations and failings would be set aside. The gears would finally click. Paul would be the man her father wanted him to be. Harv would be the husband she once worshiped and adored.

Miriam took a deep breath. And for the first time in days, her lungs worked seamlessly. No bumps. No jumps. No glitches. If her family wanted drama, here it was! Served on a platter. She grabbed her friend’s arm, picked up her purse, and walked quickly into the next room.

***

The rest of the meal was unremarkable. Zippy’s grandson soon recuperated. Paul reveled in the role of hero. The brisket was neither too lean nor too fatty, and not a tad overcooked. The following day, the two of them went to synagogue, took a nap, called their children. But before evening settled, after Harv got comfortable in front of the TV, Miriam dressed herself once more. In her good wool suit and pumps, she packed up the remaining challah and headed to the car.

Only a handful of congregants were waiting by the canal as she drove up.  The moon sat low.  Curtains were drawn. The streets were quiet. Then finally the Rabbi appeared. The Tashlich ceremony was both symbolic and literal. First, they mumbled a prayer.

“Oh God of Abraham, let us cast our sins into the water.”

Then, as if on cue, everyone reached into their pockets and tossed whatever crumbs they had on hand. Bread crumbs. Cake crumbs. Cookie crumbs. In they went.

“For the sin of blind ambition,” intoned the Rabbi. “For the sin of envy. For the sin of selfishness. For the sin of indifference. For the sin of pride and arrogance. May we be forgiven.”

Miriam stood on the bank transfixed. Tiny needlefish skirted the surface. An ibis stilt-walked. In the distance an angry frog croaked. Her challah took six hours to bake, between the mixing and the kneading and the rising. She couldn’t believe that in just a matter of seconds it was gobbled up!  Funny how you could invest so much energy and effort, so much pain and heartache, and then– like the whoosh of a door– gone.

She threw one piece after another and watched the water bubble.  It was a miracle, really, all the little mouths she fed. Maybe time didn’t heal all wounds. But in time, maybe everything lessened. A flower wilts. A candle melts. And like an aging Polaroid, memories fade.

“Lord, hear my cry, heed my plea,” said the Rabbi.

A new year was beginning. There’d be scouring and scrubbing, sorting and straightening, primping and preparing.  Soon Miriam’s thoughts fluttered with anticipation. She’d better start cooking soon.

________

Marlene Olin was born in Brooklyn, raised in Miami, and educated at the University of Michigan. Her short stories have been published or are forthcoming in journals such as The Massachusetts Review, Catapult, The Baltimore Review, and Arts and Letters. She is the recipient of both the 2015 Rick Demarinis Fiction Award and the 2018 So To Speak Fiction Prize. Follow Marlene at @writestuffmiami.