Page 57 - WTP Vol. IX #9

could relax. I wanted her to be in a good mood. Even Emil cooperated by taking a long afternoon nap. When I saw my father walking home from the bus,
I raced to meet him. He didn’t say “Shalom Sharon,” like usual. Maybe he was tired. Spring was a busy time at the store.
My mother lit the candles but instead of smiling and blessing the wine, my father looked like he had a stomachache. In a quiet voice, he announced, “The accountant was arrested this morning for embezzle- ment.” I didn’t know that word, but the double “z” sounded bad.
Mom, sitting across from Dad, swallowed. “How much did he take?”
“I don’t know. Enough that the store may have to close. Mr. Cole told us before it made tomorrow’s paper. Poor man almost cried. The store is his life. It was started by his grandfather.”
“Your job?” My mother looked at me and Reva, then Emil in a basket on the tiled floor.
Dad shrugged. He filled her wine glass and his to the brim, then poured a little for me, without diluting it. Even Reva got a trickle, although Mom added water to hers. Dad finally said Kiddush. The sweet wine tasted sour. Mom served the soup, which tasted as sour as our mood.
Hoping to cheer them up, I raised my glass. “Here’s some happy news.” I told them I’d won the school spelling bee and would be its delegate at the state bee this summer.
“That’s nice,” said Dad. Mom wiped Reva’s soup- smeared cheeks. No one proposed a toast. I low- ered my glass. My mother put away the gefilte fish. Hungarians are superstitious that fish are unlucky
because they take good fortune with them when they swim away. She did serve the blintzes, an- other tradition, which she fills with chopped nuts, the same way Dad’s mother did. We usually gobble them up, but the platter was nearly full when Mom cleared the table.
Everyone went to bed soon after, even my parents. There was no Al Jolson, but I heard my parents talk- ing late into the night. As I listened to my sister snore, I was sorry I’d told them about the spelling bee. If I’d instead said nothing, I could have secretly congratu- lated myself.
~
A week later, at the end of May, there was an early heat wave. On the last Saturday of the month, my father was still working. Mr. Cole was keeping the store open during the investigation, hoping to re- cover enough of the stolen money to stay in business. My parents warned me not to say anything to Mrs. Sullivan, who might worry that they wouldn’t be able to pay the rent and not renew our lease. It was bad enough Bubbe might have to help feed us if Dad lost his job. It would be worse if we had no place to live. But I never talked to the landlady anyway.
The shades were down to block the sun. We’d gotten new ones so I couldn’t look through the slit any more, but I peeked around the edge when I heard the land- lady pull into the driveway. She was wearing a pale yellow sun dress. She marched into our apartment and said, “Missy, I have two flats of annuals in my trunk. Help me carry them to the porch. Tell your mother to tell your father to plant them in front of the hedges tomorrow.” Then she marched back outside.
I went to my room to change into dungarees. My mother, who’d just put talcum on Emil’s prickly heat rash, came in and asked why. I told her what Mrs. Sullivan had asked me to do and said I didn’t want to get my new pedal pushers dirty. “Tell her to pay you,” Mom said. “With Dad’s job iffy, we need every penny.”
“If I win the state bee, I’ll get twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five hundred pennies.” I would give the check to my parents, who’d hug me between them and toast me as “the family savior.”
“That barely buys half a week of groceries.” My mom repeated, “Tell her to pay you.”
“Won’t she get suspicious? I’ve never asked her to
pay me.”
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