Mama to allow her to recite all four questions the first Passover she knew how to read. Sylviaâs stomach burned, though, when she thought about Goldieâs first Rosh Hashanah feast, and how sheâd schlepped to Saltzbergâs when she should have stayed in bed recovering from her miss. So much blood sheâd lost. Ten weeks, she figured from the womanly calendar she kept in her jewelry box. She had thought about telling Goldie, but how could she? Goldie was bursting with her own news; she was carrying little Simon. Sylvia was happy for her sister, but God strike her dead for not being able to bear Goldieâs big smiles over her perfect kugels and the new life growing inside her. Sheâd fasted for an extra hour that Yom Kippur for lying to her sister about Irving making her stay home from the lunch.
Rosh Hashanah used to be Sylviaâs favorite holiday. Mama and her sisters would begin planning the menu the minute Uncle Seymour wolfed down the last Passover macaroon. And then, the week before the first night of Rosh Hashanah, Sylvia would help her mother polish the silver, wiping the metal until it turned shiny. She loved presenting Mama with a sparkling kiddush cup or candlestick.
Sylvia caressed the slender handle of the spoon in her pocket; its metal ridge moved up and down against her leg as she walked. Goldie was expecting her second child on Thanksgiving Day, and Sylvia knew she should have given her sister Grandma Hannahâs baby spoon for Simon. Soon Sylvia would turn thirty, too old for babies.Besides, Irving said no more trying; two accidents, that was enough. He sent his girl Katie Flanagan from the office to teach Sylvia about the rhythm method. The nerve. She knew he used to shtup Katie before he and Sylvia got serious. She swallowed her humiliation, felt it lodge in her stomach, where Dr. Klein told her that an ulcer was forming.
âHeads up, Sammy!â The sound of Marshall Plotkinâs man-boy voice interrupted her thoughts. She watched him throw a baseball to one of his friends. So big theyâd gotten. Marshall would be embarrassed if the lady who used to wipe his tush bothered him when he was with his friends, although she did catch his eye and smile.
She glanced up through the elm trees, and sure enough Goldie was waiting at her post, her fancy chair, with Simon on her lap. Just to utz her little sister, Sylvia gave Goldieâs downstairs neighbor, Zelda Greenberg, an extra-warm smile, and poor widowed Zelda, whom Goldie had no patience for, climbed all over her. Zelda wasnât so bad. Sylvia wanted to offer to help her pluck her eyebrows; sheâd shaped one so oddly that it always looked raised.
âNu, Sylvia, that sister of yours got you running around town?â Zelda glanced inside Sylviaâs shopping bags and then snuck a quick peek at Sylviaâs flat belly, her questioning eyebrow arching further toward the top of her head.
âHappy New Year to you, Zelda.â Sylvia climbed up the steps to Goldieâs door, now wanting to be rid of Zelda altogether.
Goldie greeted her sister with an extra place setting for Zelda in her hands. âDid she at least offer to bring anything this year?â
âYou can invite her if you want.â Sylvia spoke without emotion. The last thing she needed was Zelda staring at her belly all afternoon.
Goldie gave her a look but said nothing.
âCome here, my little Simon.â Sylvia plunked down her bags and took her nephew in her arms. âI brought you a banana.â
Goldie rubbed her belly. âIâm going to put him down for his nap.â
âGo nap yourself. Tell me whatâs left to make.â
When Sylvia opened the Frigidaire to put away the groceries, she saw that Goldie had already prepared the cabbage rolls, kugels, and briskets. What was she trying to prove, that one?
Goldie reappeared in the kitchen and smiled sheepishly. âIn case the baby should come early.