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Authors: Naomi Ragen
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hadn’t spoken to his brother Reuben in five years, he hadn’t spoken to Sylvia in twenty.
“Not that I’m really in touch with her all that much either,” Reuben softened his tone hurriedly, by no means interested in assuming the thankless and tiresome role of family peacemaker.
Rita took Ruth’s hand, looking reproachfully at Dave. “Don’t be strangers. I…we…never wanted this…not talking…”
“Shh…forgotten already,” Reuben cut her short with an irritated and authoritative clap. “You live close by?”
Ruth shot Dave an anxious look.
“Not far, not far. But we plan to move soon. This is not a bad neighborhood,” he looked around appraisingly, “…and seeing how it’s near the family. If something comes up, you know, five bedrooms…”
Ruth swallowed hard.
“Something good, not just anything. Something like yours, you know? What do you say, Ruth? Five be enough? You know, one for guests. It’s good to have an extra room. For guests.”
Ruth’s eyes pleaded as she pulled him gently toward the door.
Just one more stop, Dave said as he started the car. He flew past florists and elegant boutiques to the next township where huge parks bordered each other and houses could only be glimpsed in the distance, behind hedges and gates, like palaces, and the silence was uninterrupted except for the endless rustle of clean wind through treetops and flowers.
He pulled up along the curb and stopped. Over the hedges, at the end of a winding road flanked by poplars and solid old oaks, they glimpsed the Gelt’s estate.
“Makes Uncle Reuben’s look like the servants’ quarters,” Jesse hooted.
Dave grabbed him around the neck, playfully squeezing. “Yeah,” his eyes sparkled. “Yeah.”
“How do people get that rich anyway, Dad?”
Dave released him. “Any damn fool can make money in America, unless you’re a dope like Morris…”
“Dave!” Ruth warned.
“…sitting on your can and watching it spread for thirty years. Afraid to make a move, to pee too long in case the boss should look at you funny…”
“There’s more to life than making money, Dave. Morris is a good father and husband…” She looked up sharply. “Dave, this isn’t about Passover, is it?”
“Well, honey…we don’t have to talk about it right now. But actually I did think we could stay home one year. That I could sit at the head of my own table. Read my own Haggadah…”
“You’ll break your teeth over the Hebrew,” she laughed.
“So, I could say it in English. Where’s it written it’s a crime to use English?”
“Listen. Between everyone we’re talking to and not talking to, we’ve got hardly anyone left! I want the children to feel they have some close family.”
He didn’t answer her, getting back into the taxi and gripping the steering wheel, looking out at the big house nearby, the smiling lines around his mouth sagging, hardening into uncharacteristic bitterness.
Ruth climbed in next to him. “I’m sorry I said anything. You have nothing to regret. You were such a good son.”
A good son, a responsible son, Dave thought, turning the key in the ignition. And his mother had clung to him like a life raft in a raging sea. He’d been the only one to take her part. Reuben had said that since the old lady had fought with the old man for twenty years trying to get him back into a skullcap and side curls he couldn’t understand why she wanted him back when he decided to leave. And Sylvia, who had introduced her father to the buxom, aging blonde who became his second wife after he divorced their mother, had said (and they were the last words she ever said to her brother Dave) that their father deserved better than an old greenhorn.
He had sided with his mother, but it was his father he understood.
You had to forget about the synagogue. You had to keep the store open, take the cab out Saturdays, holidays. You even had to change your name so it wouldn’t point a finger at your
“Not that I’m really in touch with her all that much either,” Reuben softened his tone hurriedly, by no means interested in assuming the thankless and tiresome role of family peacemaker.
Rita took Ruth’s hand, looking reproachfully at Dave. “Don’t be strangers. I…we…never wanted this…not talking…”
“Shh…forgotten already,” Reuben cut her short with an irritated and authoritative clap. “You live close by?”
Ruth shot Dave an anxious look.
“Not far, not far. But we plan to move soon. This is not a bad neighborhood,” he looked around appraisingly, “…and seeing how it’s near the family. If something comes up, you know, five bedrooms…”
Ruth swallowed hard.
“Something good, not just anything. Something like yours, you know? What do you say, Ruth? Five be enough? You know, one for guests. It’s good to have an extra room. For guests.”
Ruth’s eyes pleaded as she pulled him gently toward the door.
Just one more stop, Dave said as he started the car. He flew past florists and elegant boutiques to the next township where huge parks bordered each other and houses could only be glimpsed in the distance, behind hedges and gates, like palaces, and the silence was uninterrupted except for the endless rustle of clean wind through treetops and flowers.
He pulled up along the curb and stopped. Over the hedges, at the end of a winding road flanked by poplars and solid old oaks, they glimpsed the Gelt’s estate.
“Makes Uncle Reuben’s look like the servants’ quarters,” Jesse hooted.
Dave grabbed him around the neck, playfully squeezing. “Yeah,” his eyes sparkled. “Yeah.”
“How do people get that rich anyway, Dad?”
Dave released him. “Any damn fool can make money in America, unless you’re a dope like Morris…”
“Dave!” Ruth warned.
“…sitting on your can and watching it spread for thirty years. Afraid to make a move, to pee too long in case the boss should look at you funny…”
“There’s more to life than making money, Dave. Morris is a good father and husband…” She looked up sharply. “Dave, this isn’t about Passover, is it?”
“Well, honey…we don’t have to talk about it right now. But actually I did think we could stay home one year. That I could sit at the head of my own table. Read my own Haggadah…”
“You’ll break your teeth over the Hebrew,” she laughed.
“So, I could say it in English. Where’s it written it’s a crime to use English?”
“Listen. Between everyone we’re talking to and not talking to, we’ve got hardly anyone left! I want the children to feel they have some close family.”
He didn’t answer her, getting back into the taxi and gripping the steering wheel, looking out at the big house nearby, the smiling lines around his mouth sagging, hardening into uncharacteristic bitterness.
Ruth climbed in next to him. “I’m sorry I said anything. You have nothing to regret. You were such a good son.”
A good son, a responsible son, Dave thought, turning the key in the ignition. And his mother had clung to him like a life raft in a raging sea. He’d been the only one to take her part. Reuben had said that since the old lady had fought with the old man for twenty years trying to get him back into a skullcap and side curls he couldn’t understand why she wanted him back when he decided to leave. And Sylvia, who had introduced her father to the buxom, aging blonde who became his second wife after he divorced their mother, had said (and they were the last words she ever said to her brother Dave) that their father deserved better than an old greenhorn.
He had sided with his mother, but it was his father he understood.
You had to forget about the synagogue. You had to keep the store open, take the cab out Saturdays, holidays. You even had to change your name so it wouldn’t point a finger at your
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