It wasn’t what’d transpired the last three months of engagement, or during the six months prior, which her parents weren’t aware of, anyway; it wasn’t even the audacity of the two of them, or the invitations into my home, how her mother had put it, he was a guest in my house, ate my food off my plates, drank from my glasses then my daughter, it wasn’t even the pigheadedness of his parents, how they’d never understand that, that, her mother had said, even she understood, it wasn’t even that he’d asked her, or that she’d ever accepted, or that she — mother, hers — had attempted then out of ritual obligation to stick her greased head into an oven preheated to the temperature of the last war, or that they actually went through with it, wasn’t even the wedding itself, or that she looked, again her mother, sooooooo gorgeous, it wasn’t even the possibility of an entire life together, lives, entire futzed generations exploding forth from one lone smashing of want against need; wasn’t even that night or what was to happen that night, she’s an adult now and yadda, she has to make her own decisions, her own decisions to make her — no, it was most perfectly that that was made that night, the result, the issue that irked; it was, very simply, the Kid. That’s how He, every he in His family — the sprout of an estranged seed, watered with a mixed drink — that’s how they were talked about, if only initially, until they, too, could talk, consciousness with a creditcard, platinumplus and the silence around you it buys: the Kid, the Kind, and just for the sake of argument, devil’s advocate and with what he’s charging I want you should forget about the fathers before, they who’d been born pure, you introduce a foreign element and, nu — what about the Kid, think about the Kid; they even thought themselves mature enough to kid around about it, the whole process, secretly thinking it an instantaneous evolution is what she did, him, also, doubtless, with regard to himself, a next rung on the ladder, ascended just like that, snap! and she’d snap her fingers, just like that! and he’d the goyim say guffaw, nudge her with an elbow recently moisturized and joke, I last longer than that, don’t I, then who knows, she might even in her laughing at him, beside him, feel enough of a new person herself to attempt a guffaw of her own, whatever that is and right along with him, that’s how they’d survived; and this is every woman, every marriage down the Senior line until now, after those twelve, this surviving, fullsized thirteenth — the litany Hanna and Israel could recite in their sleeps, which had always been without trouble, ergonomically sound.
