Chapter Four
But three hours and two glasses of wine later, I find myself reconsidering.
“You know the person that takes your ticket at the movie theater and tears it in half?” I announce at the Shabbos table. “That’s going to be me.”
The room falls silent, which is really saying something because it’s full of people. There’s Leah, her husband Isser and my niece and nephew; Zevi and Jack, plus my two closest friends, Miri and Sissel.
And Caleb, whose presence no one had thought to warn me about.
But it’s . . . fine. Totally fine.
I tip my head back and drain my glass.
“I think you should set the bar a little higher for yourself, Auntie Ashira,” my nine-year-old niece says, her brown eyes shining sympathetically.
Golda sets down her five-pound PDR—a Physician’s Desk Reference book that was written in the eighties— onto the dining room table.
It lands with a thud and disperses a blanket of dust. She bought it with her allowance at a garage sale and has been diagnosing herself and family members with random diseases ever since.
Golda has a special place in my heart. She’s just so very Anne of Green Gables. Right down to the red hair.
“Yes, but the lower the bar, the more likely I am to excel,” I explain.
“Have you had any head injuries lately?” Golda opens the PDR and starts flipping the pages. “You might have a concussion. Unless of course,” she adds, pursing her lips, “it’s because of your high emotions.”
“Eat your chicken, Golda,” Leah commands. Golda acquiesces, but closes the book with a heavy, melodramatic sigh.
Zevi tousles Golda’s hair. “Auntie Ashira is just being silly. Right, Auntie Ashira?”
“Hmm?” I glance up, belatedly realizing people are waiting for my response. “Sorry, was that my cue to lie?”
Zevi chokes on his drink, and his husband Jack gives him a hard slap on his back.
“Listen, Ash,” Miri says to me in a serious tone. “Blue Moon Basherts isn’t going anywhere. You’re the best matchmaker in the world, and we won’t let some evil woman dictate your future.”
“And that is why you’re my best friend,” I declare, pointing my fork at Miri.
“But you should still brush up your résumé,” Caleb says, peering at me between the flames of the candelabra. “Just to be on the safe side. And again,” he adds, before I can even open my mouth, “I’m sorry for causing this mess.”
“I’m not saying it’s your fault,” I sniff. “But I am blaming you.”
The corners of his lips twitch. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“You could be an airplane!” Four-year-old Mordy says, bouncing up and down in his seat.
“Airplanes are inanimate objects,” Sissel explains. Sissel is a chemical engineer and tends to see things through a very black-and-white lens which causes her to unintentionally insult people on a regular basis. But I love her anyway. At least, seventy percent of the time.
“I could be.” I tap my chin, pretending to think about Mordy’s suggestion. “But only if you were the pilot.”
“Yeaaa!” Mordy shouts, and knocks over his sister’s glass of water.
“Now look what you’ve done, Ashira.” Leah sighs and gets up to grab a pile of napkins.
“Me?” I point to my chest. “I’m just sitting here.”
“You’re getting the children riled up.”
I roll my eyes. Leah has a habit of blaming me when she’s annoyed. But she’s my sister, so I love her anyway—at least, fifty percent of the time.
“Personality changes are common with concussions,” Golda flips a page and looks up. “We must be patient with her. Stress interferes with the brain’s ability to recover.”
“What did I say about diagnosing people, Golda?” Leah scowls as she starts collecting people’s plates. “Tell her, Isser.”
Isser scratches his head. Their marriage is the kind where Leah tells him to jump and Isser responds, “How high?” She wears the pants and every other item of clothing.
“Golda, please listen to your mother.”
“But Tatty—” Golda starts.
“Your father said no, Golda,” Leah snaps, taking Miri’s plate just as Miri pops a forkful of Yerushalmi Kugel into her mouth. Miri glances down, startled that her plate has disappeared.
“Or I could clean dead women,” I muse, pouring myself another glass of Bordeaux. I turn to Zevi. “Remember how Bubbe worked for the Chevra Kadisha?” Our paternal grandmother was a sweet, albeit quirky woman, but I suppose you’d have to be to do that sort of job.
Jack blinks. “The Hevra whowewho?”
“Bubbe also had a gambling and liquor problem,” Zevi replies. “I’m not sure following in her footsteps is the best idea.”
“Wait,” Jack says, waving his hands. “What is the Hevra?”
“It’s a society of Observant Jewish women who prepare deceased women for burial,” I explain.
Jack tilts his head. “Like a Jewish mortician?”
“Sort of,” Zevi says. “But without the embalmment or makeup. It’s cleaning the body, then dressing it in special shrouds, interspersed with praying.”
“Sweetheart,” Jack says to me after a pregnant pause. “I think you should stick to the movie theater.”
“Agreed.” Miri nods. “Less . . . creepy.”
“It’s not creepy, it’s holy,” I say. “And dead people don’t say things on the phone that could ruin your career.” I give Caleb a pointed look, and tear off a large piece of dabo that he made—the traditional bread of Ethiopian Jews—and stuff it in my mouth.
“I never said to give up on your dreams, Tinsel. I don’t think that at all. But,” he pauses, “this could be a long fight and it’s smart to have a backup plan until you get your company on its feet again. And,” Caleb adds with a barely there smile, “dead people don’t do much talking at all.”
“Eggshactly,” I say, not bothering to wait to respond until I’m done chewing.
“Enjoying the dabo?” Caleb says in a mild voice.
“I’ve had better,” I say, then pop another huge piece in my mouth.
Caleb’s pillowy lips curve upwards into a grin.
Pillowy lips? Have I gone insane? This is the worst Friday night ever.
I clear my throat and continue, “I was thinking about taxidermy too. It’s less holy, of course, but I like animals. I mean, obviously, I prefer them alive,” I clarify, waving my hand, with a cautious glance at the children who thankfully aren’t listening, “but beggars can’t be choosers, right?”
“Maybe you’ve had enough wine,” Miri murmurs and tries to take my glass, but I keep a vise-like grip on it until she surrenders with a sigh.
“Why do all your ideas involve corpses and death?” Sissel wonders aloud.
“They don’t,” I reply, a little defensively. “There’s the movie ticket idea.”
“It might as well be,” Leah says. “That’s where careers go to die.”
“Thanks, Leah. Appreciate the sisterly support,” I say, then throw another piece of dabo in my mouth.
“Ash, honey,” Zevi says, “let’s slow down on the carbs.”
I bite off another piece and stare at him defiantly.
Earlier this week, I’d gone in for my annual checkup, and my bloodwork showed that my cholesterol levels were high.
Nothing dangerous, but my doctor was a little concerned given my mother’s heart disease.
He gave me a speech about diet and exercise, and I had every intention of listening, but .
. . it turns out that eating vegetables and doing aerobics isn’t as much fun as it sounds.
“Don’t say that,” Miri says, turning to Zevi. “She’s way too skinny as it is.”
“But her doctor said . . . oomph—”
I clamp my hand over my brother’s mouth to keep him quiet. That’s the last time I tell him anything.
“What did the doctor say?” Caleb gazes between Zevi and me. The concern in his eyes is evident.
“Nothing,” I reply. I do however, put the rest of the dabo down and stare at it despondently.
He frowns. “It doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“Why did you tell Zevi what the doctor said and not me?” Leah demands.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Jack tells her.
Leah turns to me, accusingly. “You told him, too?”
“Jack,” I hiss. I cannot believe the number of loose tongues at this table.
“I don’t understand,” Miri says, glancing at Jack. There’s no mistaking the anxiety in her voice. “Why can’t she have carbs? She’s skinny,” Miri repeats, as if trying to make sense of a riddle.
“Mrs. Wernick was skinny too,” Sissel says to Miri. “But that didn’t stop her from dying of heart disease.”
The scraping sounds of cutlery against plates come to a pause.
“Well, it’s true,” Sissel adds defensively.
“It’s fine,” I say, trying to diffuse the sudden tension. “Everything is fine.” The silence grows and with it, my discomfort. “The doctor isn’t worried. And I’m going to listen to her advice.”
“Good,” Caleb says.
“To my health,” I say, lifting my wine glass. No one joins me. “The only thing that isn’t fine is my business. That’s definitely not fine. Could we focus on that for a minute?”
“What’s the point of having a business if—” Leah glances at the children who are playing in the living room, “you’re not around to run it?”
My heart rate speeds up. Hearing those words out loud causes a chill to run down my spine. What if I also die before my time?
“Should we skip dessert and go straight to bentching?” Isser suggests, glancing around the table nervously.
“Excellent idea.” Zevi jumps to his feet. “I’ll pass out the bentchers.” Zevi opens the door to the buffet cabinet that houses the after-meal prayer books, then shoves one at each of us like a stern schoolteacher.
“Kids,” Isser calls and waves them over. “It’s bentching time.”
“I’ve got it!” Jack exclaims, startling us. He points his finger at me. “I’ve figured out how to save Blue Moon Basherts!”
I perk up. “Really? How?”
“You need the Antichrist.”
“Language!” Leah says, and clamps her hands over Mordy’s ears.
Jack grew up Catholic, and although I’ve learned a lot about Christianity from him, I have to admit that this is a new one. “Pardon?”
“You need someone on your side that has just as much power and influence in the community,” he explains, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Although technically, that person would be the real savior and Mrs. Schwartz would be the false one.”