Chapter 17 Poppy #3
“Oh no!” said Sylvia, but Richard gave her a warning look. “I hope they can make it,” she amended. She did not say, But they’ll be killed driving down the mountain in the snow! She did not ask, Why aren’t they here already?
Sylvia’s grandson stirred in her arms. His little hand crept up to his ear. Richard was distributing flimsy paper plates with pieces of apple cake. He was talking about how there were no bagels to be had and caterers were booked. Hadn’t Sylvia warned him?
“But you’re an angel,” Sylvia told the baby.
—
The next day, snow blanketed New Jersey.
Sylvia and Lew could barely get a cab to the temple where the family was gathering, and when the cabbie did start driving, they had to make their way so slowly, Sylvia was sure that they would miss the whole thing.
Eight in the morning! Would there even be coffee?
Sylvia could have organized a brunch. She could have done it long-distance and had flowers delivered.
She would have chosen ivory roses and dark leaves and moss and pinecones.
She gazed out the window at the white road and thought, Now there will be nothing.
“It will be fine,” Lew said, reading her mind, as he often did.
She sighed because her grandson wasn’t fine. He was perfect. He deserved a celebration! Not a cold, barren chapel at the temple without a single bloom.
Lew helped her out of the taxi, and they picked their way through the snow into the building where they found a scattering of people who must have been Richard’s and Heather’s friends. And there was Rabbi Zlotnick.
“Let’s get started,” Rabbi Zlotnick said. “The gang’s all here!”
He led the way into the temple’s chapel, which was blond wood, and there, in the front pew, stood Heather in a tentlike purple dress. She looked tearful already.
“Her parents got snowed in,” Richard whispered to Sylvia.
“Oh, I’m sorry!”
“And her older sister is in LA.”
“Her older sister?” Sylvia sighed. She knew what it was like to be alone.
Richard said, “But her younger sisters are here.”
Sylvia watched as these young women, Amanda and Jamie, supported Heather, one on each side. Amanda’s hair was very very short, almost a buzz cut. Jamie had a nose ring. They looked like teenagers, but they stood with Heather in solidarity.
The mohel had arrived with his doctor’s bag. Bearded and dressed all in black, this gentleman named Moshe was both a rabbi and a urologist at CHOP. With all these credentials, he scarcely even glanced at the baby. “Cute!” he said in an offhand way.
Cute? Is that what he said to everybody?
“Hi, Grandma!” Sophie and Lily bounded in wearing bright sweaters and strategically ripped jeans. “Hi, Grandma! Hi, Lew!” they called out.
“Is anyone else here?” Sylvia asked Sophie. By anyone, she meant any other family.
“My mom is!” said Sophie.
And sure enough, there was Debra. Sylvia embraced her immediately. She was so glad—and so impressed. What a hero, attending the bris of her ex-husband’s baby. “You are wonderful.” Sylvia’s voice broke a little.
Debra said briskly, “Well, the girls couldn’t drive themselves.”
What do you think of all this? Sylvia wanted to ask.
How wonderful the birth seemed, and how strange.
How much had happened since the girls were born.
And how she wished she could go back to the way the family used to be.
But Sylvia did not say a word. She could only listen as the mohel welcomed everyone.
Music began. Who was that on the guitar?
Wendy! Helen’s younger daughter. Sylvia felt a rush of gratitude, knowing Wendy had braved the storm to come from Brooklyn.
Wendy, in her woven tallis, was playing softly.
She hummed a wordless tune, but Sylvia couldn’t make out what it was.
She was distracted, because Heather had given her the baby, who was sleeping on a pillow.
Oh, how darling he looked in his tiny jumper—the striped one she had bought him.
She could hold this baby forever. His eyes were closed, and he had no eyelashes yet, or eyebrows either. His ears were soft as velvet.
Unfortunately, the bris was happening. The mohel said, “We are inviting Lewis to be the sandek.”
Lewis? For a second Sylvia and Lew looked at each other and then they realized that Richard was giving him the grandfather’s special seat.
He would be the one to hold the baby on his pillow.
How lovely! Many years before, Richard’s father, Sylvia’s second ex-husband, had passed away, but Lew got the seat of honor.
The mohel set a stool under his feet. “This way your lap will be level,” he explained.
“Oh yes, I see.” Usually he was so poised and self-assured. Now Lew looked terrified.
“You’ll be great,” the mohel reassured him. “Just don’t move.”
“On this day,” said Rabbi Zlotnick, “the eighth day of life, we celebrate a covenant with God and with our people.”
Heather took the baby from Sylvia and handed him to Lew. The baby rested on his pillow in Lew’s lap, and Lew held still, afraid to blink.
Unconcerned, the rabbi kept talking while the mohel took out his instruments.
He dabbed a piece of gauze in wine and touched it to the baby’s lips.
But Sylvia’s grandson knew what was what.
As soon as the mohel started unsnapping his jumper, he began to cry.
Poor thing! Sylvia wanted to snatch him away.
“This will be quick,” the mohel said. Was he talking to his little victim? The baby wanted none of it. “They just don’t like to be cold,” the mohel told the assembled friends.
Of course, Sylvia knew it would be quick. She remembered Richard’s bris perfectly, and she had been to many others. The procedure took just a few seconds—usually.
She stood in the back with Debra, who had an arm around each of her daughters.
Smart woman. Debra didn’t think every life cycle event had to be a lesson in anatomy.
Sylvia and Debra and the girls could not see a thing, but Heather was hovering as the mohel took off the baby’s diaper.
Richard was standing at the mohel’s side, and this bris was not quick.
It was not as Sylvia remembered, the work of an instant, a flash of the knife.
For some reason, the mohel kept leaning over, while the poor child cried and cried.
Wendy played soft Hebrew melodies, but Richard’s friends shifted their feet. Why was the baby still crying? Heather was crying too. Huge tears were rolling down her face, and her sisters were comforting her. “It’s okay,” Jamie was murmuring. “It’s okay.”
“Heather,” Sylvia beckoned. “Come back here with us.”
But Heather shook her head. She was determined to stand up front, no matter what.
For at least five minutes, the mohel bent over the baby. And now Sylvia saw Richard turning white. It was too much! Heather’s tears and the crying baby. Lew sat straight, scarcely breathing. Only when the mohel stood up and nodded did Lew relax his shoulders.
Rabbi Zlotnick was naming the baby in Hebrew. Heather was wiping away tears as the rabbi said in English, “And the baby’s name in Israel shall be called Mordechai Yaacov.”
“Ahh,” said Sylvia, and now she began to weep as well. She felt such gratitude, joy, and regret. Richard had done it. If only Helen had been there to see. Mordechai Yaacov was their father’s name.
All the other prayers flew by. The rabbi’s words and Wendy’s mazel tov, as Heather retrieved the baby. A murmur went up and everyone relaxed. Wendy put her guitar away.
“Now Richard will say a few words,” said Rabbi Zlotnick.
Richard took a breath. He was leaning against the table. His face was drained of color. Fortunately, the mohel offered him a chair.
Richard sank down and spoke softly. “Thank you all for coming to our son’s naming. I want to say a few words about my Poppy. He was a good man who dedicated himself to healing.”
“True,” Sylvia murmured to Debra and the girls.
“He loved children, and he loved his family. He was generous and kind. He was a man of integrity.”
“A wonderful man,” Sylvia murmured.
“If anyone was in need, he helped them, no questions asked. We hope that our son will inherit some of these qualities.”
Is that all you have to say? Sylvia thought, because Richard made her father sound so bland.
What about his dahlias? What about the house in Kaaterskill?
The house no longer in the family. The apple tree there.
The black potbellied stove. Morris used to wake early to build a fire in that stove.
Sylvia had helped him, handing him pieces of applewood and then The New York Times for kindling.
What about the snapdragons Morris grew? And his little radio?
He sat listening every day, following the news, but he never traveled overseas.
He never left America after he arrived. He had seen what was coming in Europe and he did not go back.
There was no U.S. citizen more grateful.
And no better doctor. He worked every day so patiently. He always wore a coat and tie.
But Richard said none of this. Of course, he had not known Morris as Sylvia had. Grandchildren could never know. With a pang, Sylvia thought, What will this little baby remember about me?
“My Poppy was an immigrant, like so many others,” Richard said, as though his grandfather was a dot on a graph. “He used to say he came to America to be free. For this reason, we are giving our son an English name which means free man. We are calling him Charlie.”
“What was that?” Sylvia whispered to Debra.
“Charlie,” Debra whispered back.
Sophie said, “Oh my God I love that name!”
Sylvia said, “I don’t understand.”
“It’s such a cute name!” said Lily.
“But my father’s name was Morris,” said Sylvia. Of course, she would never say a word, but how did you get from Mordechai to Charlie?
“Charlie. Charlie,” Sophie murmured.