Chairs are brought in from the kitchen. Four from there to six in the diningroom makes ten. All fingers, sucked. We need more! they shout, then bring them up from the basement — foldingchairs, contingencies of plenty, storaged for the makeshift of joy. They reach for one another, pass the chairs up the stairs from the basement, of which they’re afraid, it’s unknown. And rusty and flaking, smelling by old mold and the noise, they seat themselves out in creaks, blown joints, bad knees. As it is written: Chairs from the kitchen may be mixed with chairs from the diningroom, if the number of kitchen chairs does not exceed the number of diningroom chairs. As it is said: Verily it is permissible to place a chair within one to three cubits from a chair to its left and, it follows, one to three cubits from a chair to its right, no less than one cubit, nor greater than three cubits, which violations are impure. That is, if anyone knows what a cubit is anymore. A forearm’s span, from the finger’s tip to the joint of the elbow. Aha.
What’re we having tonight? Josephine yells through the hallway.
There are only two possible answers, one really for Shabbos.
Hanna finds herself screaming meat through the hall, through which Josephine runs, her mother’s shout spattering a blood blush on her face, anger and fear, vases of dead flowers shake upon low fluted pedestals, Old Master reproductions, prints, posters, and family photographs swing to unevenness on hooks on the wall. Fleischig! Flatware, plates, utensils. The cabinet to your left, a cupboard further. There are no such things as meat chairs or dairy, not yet. And then stemware, the glasses for water and pitchers and jugs, and then the cups, for the Kiddush, which is the blessing over the wine, breathing atop the counter opposite the sink, gleaming thirsty.
What? Josephine shrieks as she arrives at the kitchen, trips over the threshold, falls into the pit of her mouth.
Her sisters gather at the rim to throw at her matzahballs plucked from the burbling soup.
Hanna sighs tongue over lips to keep herself from a reprimand, turns from the face of her daughter sobbing, hulks her bulk into a drawer, opened, bumps it hard and high — the challahknife flies up and falls, twirls across the floor, its handle hits a leg of their brunch table, their daily, and stops, its sharp pointing west; bending over her belly she retrieves it, holds it in the sink, under the water that’s running, soap webbing her hands, over the knife, she rinses then runs a new handtowel across, drying fiercely as if to separate the serrations. Tap remains on, drawer remains opened, a meat drawer. Other drawers, the dairy, are closed, marked in white to benefit Wanda.
Staring at the opened meat drawer, at the assortment of utensils relatived with their difficult, always changing names for their callings, as improved spoons, modified forks winnowed of tines then sharpened to knives for the harvest — Josephine teardried, saved from her mouth having shimmied to safety up the rope of her voice, she’s getting breath, considering thanks. She’s trying to do right, remember the order: the knife for the butterless bread against the fork for the salad, next to the soupspoon (which is table for grownups, a tea for the kinder — for herself, she steals a tablespoon extra, hides it under her napkin), dinnerfork, knife (which is sharp for the grownups, less so for the kinder, sharpest of all for herself), dessertfork then the littlest spoon to stir sugar at the tea or the coffee to be served with the cake — everything Israel’s hair silver, Hannapolished last holiday to the shine of three moons, the New Year.
They’re featheredged, Hanna would explain, vermeil is ordained; the set was a wedding gift, an aunt and her second husband, on her side of course, she’d never thought of him as an uncle — or was it, though we’d registered with…
Josephine heaps the table with silver.
