And there beyond the mat that says
One of them, he’s the smallest, the littlest of them all with it makes sense the largest, roundest head: he heads the group, his hands in mittens in his pockets, that head a conceit beaked freakishly high…you haven’t been introduced yet, my apologies — then the rest still massing impatiently behind him, so many now, it seems that they’re thousands and more seething from slat to slate up through His frontyard from the fence and its tiny sidewalk strip, the slabs poured only yesterday and already frozen dry: boys uniformed in thick down coats and woolen hats, mittens, gloves, and scarves — they’re here to pay a courtesy call, we were just in the neighborhood.
From them that smallest one steps forward onto the mat, wipes his feet, shakes from himself the fallen snow.
He offers out his mitten with a smile — and Ben, He can’t help it, grips and pumps.
Shalom, he says.
What I mean is, good morning.
Behind him, the boys jape quietly to themselves but together it’s a roar, an avalanche. And soon, they’re heeling up the snow and hissing smoke…yelling Over here louder, each time more willful, dropping flies and pants and pissing from their snips their names and other cursive curses into the whiteness underfoot: the culprits are soon smacked down with shovels to collapse, to make their angels in the day’s light, young and yellow; others, they’re tossing balls and sledding on their shovels back down toward the fence, through its opened gate and further sloping over asphalt toward the Great Hall: a few snowballs hit the siding, spangle windows, around the opened door, and the kid still standing there turns from Ben, glares back at his friends with a yarny finger to his lips, shrieks for quiet, silence; almost immediately, they all turn whispering and sullen mulling: their faces redden, nip blushed, though that might only be the cold. Another moment stilled, and one taller, skinnier kid, him more mature than the others, or only more obeying, respectful of authority, it’s said, or only open to suggestion, he sighs and with its coughing end kicks his shovel down. At this, they all fall in, arrange themselves and with only scattered moans and demonstrative grunts stoop to their first load, tossing the snow to the lawn’s edges, over the picketfence the length of half a block and off the curb, begin their disordered clearing.
I’m Adam, the kid begins again, turning and straining up to face His lean against the scrollmarked jamb, Adam Steinstein…your name I already know, who doesn’t — Israelien, it’s nice to meet you.
Ben waves him come in, come in, what else to do…it’s the birthright of Hanna’s hospitality, an apology for the mess inherited — He leads him inside, asking feel like a bite of brunch?
Thoughtful but no.
Just dropping by to check in, Steinstein begins babbling, how you’re getting along…as if he’s trying to remember how he is himself — that’s wonderful, everything to your liking, and my what a beautiful robe…from down the block, you know, I’m new in town and yadda; it’s painful, this kid trying so hard, and why. Help me out, Ben, I’m supposed to be your friend. He follows Him in through the hall past the coatcloset, then to the kitchen’s nook, the table where Hanna had always received her guests informal, though today more like sloppy, slobby, filthing; them taking their seats opposite each other, across the round — the kid’s still in his coat and boots, has tracked in dirty snow over the mat without wiping, then over the tile to melt the frozen mud in tiny prints, where’s Wanda?
