One Sabbath the Sabbath arrived already and he was stuck, going from work to home he was stuck in the tunnel out of town, under the river, the Hudson — the tunnels Lincoln or Holland, depending. And so he arrived home from work only after the sun had set, after the start of the Sabbath. When asked by the kinder how their father could travel on the Sabbath, Hanna answered that a miracle had occurred: that night, behind their father was the Sabbath, before their father was the Sabbath, above him Sabbath, below him Sabbath, too, but wherever their father was, when, stuck in rushhour, in traffic upon the Turnpike or Parkway, there it was not the Sabbath, not yet.
Aha, Shabbos. Father ordains, mother explains. Also, she cleanscooks, sews, comes & goes, pays the cleanerhousekeeper, the tailor, the sitternanny. Wanda.
Today again, it’s Friday, a week until Xmas…the year winding down as if a ribbon unwrapping what present, a question, how many shopping days left — and which is it, anyway, questions: day the fifth or seventh, depending upon which calendar you might believe, which Sabbath’s yours; or else, nu, it might still be the sixth day, as the sun hasn’t yet set to begin the seventh with night and its moon.
Almost the Sabbath, then, Shabbos they say, Shabbos is what we say and have always said every week — Hanna preparing herself and her kinder, the house, too; all must be always prepared.
Hands unwashed crowned by tiny miraculous thumbs part the kissing tips of the tablecloth. Still in schoolclothes, kinder stand facing each other across arborvitæ, place of placesettings, polished to a diamond. One remembers, and so they kiss again the tablecloth, leave it lie. A heap of white to sweep. Another daughter returns, sponge in hand. The floor is dripped upon, there are drips upon the floor, Flood upon the face of the hallway — its mouth a drop, dip your shoe.
A mess, the two of them stare at each other.
One tries to embrace the other and the other runs away squealing, returns as yet another, bearing no gifts and yes grudges, and a rag, too, and so they sponge and rag, they wring and squeeze — they flap the tablecloth once, twice, three times to catch air, bounce angels and archangels into the heavens to bump their heads if heads they have or halos upon the ceiling or chandelier. Glass in tinkling strands. One leaves, returns with a pad for protection: the pad goes under the tablecloth, over the table on its legs on the floor. Order, these daughters are always reminded. And so the tablecloth is swept to the floor, the pad placed, arranged, straightened, rearranged, again the tablecloth flapped, begins the bounce again. The angels of archangels are crumbs, they’re granules of salt, they’re the apologies for spilled wine.
Next is that chairs are counted, check, one to threed on gnawed fingers, the ten seats of the limited hand.
Might not be enough.
They yell to their mother, to their mother in the kitchen as they seem to have a different mother for each room of the house: happy and sad and cooky and cleany but constantly busy, depending.
How many we having tonight?
There’s no answer, they haven’t heard before, what, they yell again, they’re always — we didn’t hear you!
A woman enters the diningroom; what Ima she’ll be they’re waiting to daughter accordingly.
Two Tannenbaums, she answers the last time I’m telling you, plus two Rosenkrantzes, two Singers makes six, then the fourteen of us and the Cohens, the Dunkelspiels, the Kestenbaums, the Lembergs, the Friedmans, the family Weiss and the Feigenbaums make, you tell me — thirtyfour…and then, maybe your father invited his new partner, he never tells me.
Make it, what’s that? Thirtysix.
We need more chairs, they yell once she’s left and they’ve counted again, we’re too short.
There’s no answer, they haven’t heard her, what, they yell, what’d you say!
A voice from the kitchen mouths slowly and tightjawed, enunciating as if each sound a loosed tooth.
And my feet.
Stop. Shout. Ing. Come in here if you have something to say, comes the voice.
Issuance of the drain, a ram’s horn stuck in the garbage disposal.
They stick tongues though they’re warned they might stick there, in the air, at each other and her they roll eyes, toopeopled planets that might be stilled, too.
