They the arrived late ask altogether, Are we early? or only one or two of them do, of the women, that is, and how it just sounds that they speak for their husbands, as well — and foreheads are slapped…even that of the moon, a gestural smack at the glass, into night. When we don’t know what to do or say or even if, we ask, instead — if you’re uncomfortable in that, why don’t you take it off, change the subject — after the opinion of weather: It was warm today, unseasonally, but we’re in for a coldspell, I’m told…as some assemble as if into fronts themselves around the islands of kitchen, the counterings, a mass of grays and black, already arguing and with lightnings of vein in the eyes that say not that they’re angry, just tired; others begin noshing on what food’s left out, sip water cupped directly from the tap; as some remain in the kitchen and offer to help prepare if just to get away from their husbands, their wives; as others go to hang their Homburgs or their husbands’ in the hall where is the rack: mine’s the third from the left, don’t get any ideas; there are those who take their seats already in the diningroom, which is presumptuous enough though it’s not like they’d sit well with denial: seating themselves down in order of increasing age and infirmity, that would make sense, though not in terms of the actual arrangement of chairs to the right and left of their host at the head, but merely in relation to who’s able to sit first as none of them are much help to those for whom it’s a challenge: their napkins already tucked into their collars loose of a button, or up if weakly atop their irritable laps; their knives and forks held erect, at the ready.
Theirs has been an aliyah, though of a weaker species, a pilgrimage if oppositely directioned: in a distancing turned around at a deadend, before becoming stuck in a loop — a strangers’ sojourn, made to a strange kitchen in a strange house set amid a Development that has been designed so that nothing within it seems strange, which intention feels as if inspired by the divine chance of convenient location, amid a township that — if estranging to many too confused with the materiality of this world that confines them in its tile and grout to ever live freely themselves — was created complete with an excellent school system, too; how we live for our kinder: with its property values nothing to fault save the taxes, how ten cents of every dollar’s been allocated to educating our youngest in the various historical manners by which guests like ours have arrived here alive, if burnt badly; an emergence accounted for, approved, and even financed by the reparate banks of rivers never forgotten through even the unquenchable fire.
Theirs is a life remade, as if a recipe critically revised, secondchances for the not yet overseasoned; a spoil saved what with the mold scraped off with the challahknife of the woman at whose pleasure they’re hosted, these survivors, surviving — only at the indulgence of her slaving, that is, though she’s not letting on how exhausted, especially this week, despite the fact that with that kind of kvetch you run the risk and in slippers of misunderstanding, they all do, and even she herself every once in a while: she’s happy to oblige, though, that she doesn’t have to tell them about slavery.
And so the smile, all pep and pantry rearrangement, it says: we’re so pleased you’re alive, it’s a miracle you finally made it!
Call me Hanna, she asks when Feigenbaum calls her Misses Israelien to ask her whether it’s fine with her for him to sit where he’s already sitting and that without demonstrating any real intention to get up and move, and how she asks it of him sweetly…Hanna’s enough; not like she’d just been made to feel old, even worse: one of them. No problem, please — just stay where you are.
And then how Feigenbaum says, I had a grandmother named Hanna, I think — I think I remember.
I don’t know, it’s my head. You have any aspirin?
O, the queen of this kitchen, the bride who’s married this house into home, the Development’s mother, matriarch of Joysey just an hour’s commute from New York — she’s flushed, hot; worry about yourself, though, it’s only this, which she’s used to by now as if the condition’s become a daughter itself: a moon always full whose light’s to be doted upon, cradled as if a basket she’s hoping to lose to a distant river that runs dark and thick monthly…
Feigenbaum asks, Since it’s bad luck to ask, sometime when we’re not expecting it can you just say him or her so we’ll know. I hope I live long enough to meet, which is it again…I forget.
