I’m sorry, Mister? What? A representative calling from the firm of Baggenhatz & Shirtzenpantz. Mister Farbenlint, here for a Mister Boxenbrief…Mister Lispstein, Fallenwallet, or Sloppenputz.
Matzahsock, or was it Latkerot?
Is here Nitz, he says, and what, please, is your name? reaching in to pinch Hanna’s bounty, one of infinite cheeks, oy his eyes.
I regret, Mister Witz…
Nitz, just Nitz, please and only…
I regret that my husband isn’t home, then nods at Israel standing behind her.
So another time I’ll call, he says.
Don’t, please. I can assure you my husband’s not interested in purchasing your pants.
This I can hear from him, he’s cupping his ear into a phonographs’s bloom. A cricket cacophony. Might I interest you, while we’re waiting, in the world’s smallest violin? A pity, you won’t be able to hear it, it’s Shabbos.
Israel has many pairs of pants, is how Hanna goes on, Israel shamed with his silence amid womanly worry — too many, more than he even knows himself, fine pants I can assure you, the top quality finest, though I’m sure yours are fine, too, in their own way…
As if to say, if God Himself can make one fine pair of pants, then why can’t He make many?
Israel’s wardrobe is virtually exploding with pants, we have closets both regular and walkin, I’d take you upstairs, but…of pants in every size skinny, lean, and not so much older, the widening of the thirties the age and its waist, the fall of the abdominal wall — and all of them the basement, the closets and drawers all stuffed fatter than I am, but with pants, I assure you. We’ve even given away so many pairs, charity, tzedakah, you wouldn’t be interested, would you (he’s shaking his head, not declining as much as in disbelief) — though, admittedly, Israel ends up always wearing the same two or three pairs, out of habit, you can understand, though I’m sure that…
So then you should tell me when’s maybe a good time.
Sorry, no thank you, and Hanna goes to shut the door even if it means mangling his foot then the lawsuit.
So maybe dinner’s not so great a time. A hint I can take, a hint even I can take. Shaking his head so much he’s nauseous.
Or it’s the food that’s doing it to him, asking, is that something paprikash I smell?
Please understand, Mister…
Nitz, Rubina says, her voice high and clear, it’s Nitz only.
Understand that we make these decisions, these decisions regarding pants, together, Israel and I, and so if you’d please…
Nu, I can’t see so well but I’m not also deaf. So no pants but what about dinner?
I don’t think…Hanna staring Israel down under the matching interior mat of the entry.
Or, hymn, some chicken for takeout? in a little box you could make up for me maybe? If it’s no trouble. I’ve got some string saved somewhere to tie it all up with, pats himself down.
No, no dinner, sorry, and no pants either, no maybes…Hanna turning away in sour withdrawal, nodding let’s wrap it up at Rubina, let’s not let the next course get cool.
We’re not interested, Mister Vitz or vatever, come back never, don’t let the door hit you on your, Shabbat Shalom.
Whispering to himself another prayer, underrecognized, underrated, another supernumerary blessing of curse and that while tonguing a tooth loose, Nitz steps his three steps retreat, minced, then bows at the knees before turning tush. Rubina shuts the door lightly, her hand feeling the seam, the scarred lining. All disperse, return to the table and guests, with what’s new to talk about with them, where should we begin, and who should. Josephine’s left alone at the door, her face flattened against the spectral stain of its glass. She presses herself to the cold, presses herself barelipped to kiss…the glare from the lights outside, the round belly lamps of the street, thinskinned, brilliant — the membrane of home keeping everything out, so very fragile.
