The Shiva, 1955

The Shiva, 1955

For the rest of her life, the smell of pickles and pastrami would be the smell of death.

Irene was 13 years old, and her mother was dead. Even after everything – the ambulance, the hospital, the horrible evidence of her relatives taking turns shoveling dirt onto the coffin, Irene couldn’t believe that her mother was really gone. Now there were all these people (so many people!) gathered back at the house, nibbling on plates of deli meat and coleslaw, talking about Mama in the past tense. For a moment, she wondered if it was all an elaborate joke they were playing on her. Maybe Millie was just outside, returning from an extended trip to the market, and she would suddenly burst through the door, arms full of grocery bags, shouting “Sorry I’m late!”

But no, that couldn’t be right. Irene pictured the men, lifting the pine box out of the hearse, and she knew the truth. She slumped at the buffet that had been laid out on the dining room table, the stench of raw onions and stale cigarettes scorching her eyes.

On the sofa, Irene’s sister Frances sat like a princess, crying softly into her tissue as she refused another plate of food. A throng of her swim team friends, balancing paper plates on their knees, surrounded her like royal courtiers, nodding and sighing sympathetically.

Everyone adored her sister. They always had, even when she was a baby. Whenever Mama took (had taken?) out the photo albums, she would rave about how much attention Frances had garnered as an infant. “People would stop me on the street to tell me how beautiful she was… …Everyone wanted to hold her. Everyone wanted to touch her hair…Complete strangers asked if they could take her picture! A man at the May Company asked if I wanted her to be a baby model! I wonder if I still have his card?”

Then, as an afterthought, Mama would add, “… Irene, you were adorable too. See those cheeks? And so smart! You did everything early – walking, talking, reading. Why I remember, by the time you were four years old, the preschool teacher had you reading full storybooks to your classmates.”

Irene had always kept a close, admiring eye on her big sister. Frances was born with a kind of regal bearing and charm that people found, if not benevolent, exactly, then nevertheless irresistible. People were drawn to her, as if she was the sun, dispensing heat from a faraway star. They felt compelled to follow her lead, and they fell over themselves trying to win her approval. Other children always seemed to be orbiting nearby, warmed by her presence and just waiting to be drawn in by the gravitational force of her fire and light. For when her light shone upon you, you were blessed. She would bat her eyelashes at you, appearing to hang on every word you said, or she would suddenly grasp your arm and confide her plans to you in a breathless, conspiratorial whisper. And as she did so, you could feel your own face flush with excitement. You could sense the envious eyes of your friends, wondering what made you so special, what magical words you had spoken to be the recipient of this great gift of Frances’ attention. Now, with the added potential to soothe her in her grief, the girls and boys jockeyed for position around her sister. Irene watched them, and, feeling charitable today after all she and her sister had endured, she was glad Frances had the support.

Back at the table, Irene’s rather large and fragrant Great-Aunt Sylvia squeezed herself into the chair next to her. Sylvia had become hysterical at the funeral, and her grown children had to usher her out of the service when her crying and wailing had become disruptive. Now, her eyes were puffy and her skin was blotchy, but at least she had gotten her crying under control. She smelled of lilies and tar. As she sat, the ashes from her cigarette dripped onto the white tablecloth, and they remained there, quietly smoldering. She put an arm around Irene’s shoulders. “How’re you doin’ hon?” she said.

“Better, thanks.” Irene didn’t know what else to say. She noticed a small caraway seed, stuck to Aunt Sylvia’s blouse. Irene swiped at some breadcrumbs on the table, tactfully ignoring the ash, and thinking about how caraway seeds looked like tiny ants. Aunts eating ants. Pleased with her pun, she made a note to tell Mama about it later. Then just as quickly, she remembered Mama wasn’t there. Would never be there again. She drew in her breath and felt her stomach cave in on itself.

“Your Mama was so proud of you girls,” said Aunt Sylvia. But she didn’t elaborate. She only shook her head and stared down at her plate.

Irene knew the polite thing to do was to sit with her aunt for a few minutes -- maybe say something nice -- but nothing came to mind. After a while, Irene said, “I’m going to see if I can help with anything in the kitchen.”

As she rose, she saw that Frances’ swim team friends had been replaced by a circle of her parents’ friends. They were nodding and talking, some of them even laughing softly at a memory Frances must have just shared. Irene felt a surge of love for these grownups, grateful that they could console her sister in this small way. It was easier for them to talk to Frances than Irene. When they talked to Frances, she seemed to know what was expected of her, and she always had the right responses. For this, the adults thought they understood her.

But it wasn’t just that. The adults truly adored her -- just as much as the kids did. Frances was a girl who stood up straight and always said please and thank you; she always looked you in the eye; she smiled. She was a good student, but not so good that she was a threat to their own, straight-A offspring. And she seemed to be a great influence on their children, too. Mothers encouraged their children to invite Frances to their birthday parties, and when Frances arrived at her friends’ homes, impeccably groomed and bearing a neatly-wrapped gift, she doled out compliments like penny candy – remarking on how much she loved your cookies, your new dress, or a new paint color in your kitchen. Being careful not to overdo it, she might cheerfully mention to your husband how well his lawn was growing, or how happy she was to hear that your son had made the basketball team. And for this, Frances was universally beloved.

Yes, everyone adores Frances, Irene thought, as she made her way through the swinging door to the kitchen. Even me.

She was relieved to find that, for the moment, the kitchen was empty. Hanging on the wall next to the icebox, Irene noticed the small blackboard they had used when they played school together as kids. When she was little, Irene was content to be the student, squeezing into a tiny, doll-sized wooden desk in the playroom, while Frances directed the classroom lessons from the blackboard hanging on the wall. It was an honor just to be included in her older sister’s games, and there was always the chance that the “teacher” would call on her to recite her times tables or the dates of the Great War.

Later, when the girls had outgrown their game, Mama had co-opted the blackboard for her own use, hanging it in the kitchen, where she could jot down notes for her perpetual grocery lists. Now, chalked in Mama’s careful white print, Irene saw the words, listed vertically like a culinary epitaph: “Milk, Ovaltine, Chicken, Paprika.” The half-used chalk sat quietly in its tray beneath the board. Could it only have been 48 hours since Mama held this chalk? Using her index finger, she swiped gently at the bottom of the middle “p” in paprika, then held up her finger to inspect it. How long could I make the dust last? Hedging her bets, she swiped through the “k” with her pinky, thinking that if she avoided just one finger when she washed her hands (how dirty do pinkies really get?), maybe it would stick for a few days longer.

An uproar from the other room interrupted her thoughts. She peeked around the kitchen door and saw the group of men around her father, belly laughing as if they were guests at a celebrity roast. Irving had positioned his wooden box seat near the front door, and was holding court there. Although according to Jewish tradition, he was supposed to be sitting, Irving couldn’t help popping up each time the doorbell rang, as, one by one, old friends and family came in to pay their respects. For each guest, he offered a giant hug, and, once the preliminaries were taken care of, he asked, “did you hear what happened at the service?” When the newcomer shook his head no, Papa launched into his story yet again, delighted to entertain a fresh audience:

“Well, you know how Temple Beth David has this new Cantor? Have you met him?” Irving didn’t bother waiting for the answer. “Good guy, but he’s a real stickler, I’ll tell you. Kind of a nervous fellow. A little sickly too. Always has this kind of shocked, pale-green look on his face.” Irving pulled his lips down at the corners, raised his eyebrows, and opened his mouth in mock surprise. His audience nodded their approval.

“Anyways, we’re chatting with him before the service, and I say to him, look Cantor, we really appreciate all you’re doing for us here. We don’t really know all the ins and outs of the prayers and the rituals, you know what I mean? And he just looks at me with this blank stare.” Papa made another face to illustrate. “So Frances, she says ‘yes, Papa’s practically an atheist.’”

“And the Cantor, you can tell he’s getting kind of hot under the collar. We’re not really sure if it’s the atheist comment or the heat, but you can see him start to sweat…. But it was warm in there. Really hot in that little Family Room they put you in to talk about the service and tear the ribbon and all that mishegas… So anyway, the Cantor’s trying to look like he’s got it together, but you can tell, he’s getting a little paler, and he’s wiping his forehead, and he’s looking like he’s not so thrilled that he’s got this particular job on this particular day.”

“So then I turn around to help Irene pin on her ribbon, and Frances keeps trying to lighten up the whole damn depressing situation. Can’t blame her, really. So she turns to the good Cantor and she says “yes, if it were up to Papa, we’d be serving bacon at the shiva.”

“And the next thing I know, I hear this big ‘thump!’ I turn around and the poor Cantor’s flat out on the ground. I mean flat,” Irving swiped his palms in through the air. “He slid right down and fainted! Yes, fainted! Dead on the floor!” Irving paused for dramatic effect. “Can you picture it? The Cantor – he’s out like a light. He’s supposed to be running the show, and we’re all just standing there for a minute, looking at each other. We’re thinking, ‘what do we do?’”

“Irene – God bless her -- Irene jumps into action. She whips open the door to the family room and runs to see if there’s a doctor in the house. And can you believe it, with all the Jewish doctors in our family, not one of them had gotten to the Temple yet!” He laughed at his own joke.

“So Irene finally finds a phone and calls the doctor. Meanwhile, back in the Family Room, the good Cantor is starting to revive. Frances and I are kneeling with him, but we don’t know what to do. So we just sort of prop him up, and just as we’re getting him to a sitting position, my cousin David, the internist, walks in, cool as a cucumber.”

“By this time, the Cantor is sitting up and talking to us, and we all start to calm down a little. Then David checks his vitals. ‘Probably just a little overheated,’ David says. ‘He should still go to the hospital, just to get checked out, of course.’”

“And what about the service?” someone shouted from across the room. “Who led the service?”

“Hold you horses, I’m getting there!” Shouted Irving, getting even more laughs. “Before he leaves in the ambulance, the Cantor has the good sense to ask the secretary at the Temple to call in another Cantor, who’s been singing at a wedding or something or other that morning.”

“The guy shows up half an hour later, just as all the mourners are taking their seats. This new Cantor,” Irving winked at the assembled group “…he was a much stronger looking fellow, I have to say…” They were eating it up. “…he ends up leading the service instead. And in the end, thank God, everything turned out okay.”

Irving took a breath. He was working up to his big punchline.

 “But seriously, who would have thought a little pork could cause so much trouble?” Irving’s audience erupted into another huge roar.

Irene shook her head, chuckling softly at the story she’d already heard four times in the three hours since they had returned from the grave. With each new telling, Papa had stretched the truth just a tiny bit more, adding a few details here and there, working the audience for a good laugh. But the basic story was true: the Cantor had indeed fainted, and it may well have been in response to the mention of traif meat at a funeral gathering. Already Irene knew the story would live on in family lore for generations.

She sighed. Only Papa would find Mama’s shiva a good time to work out his comedy routine. He was a perpetual showman. And yet, his story was undeniably a welcome relief, lightening the mood of the somber occasion, and giving everyone permission to laugh. Her big, loud Papa knew just how to put people at ease, even in the midst of their sorrow.

She realized now that Papa had passed down his love of performance to Frances. It reminded her of the time, in ’51, when Frances recruited the neighborhood kids to perform Peter Pan in their basement. Irene landed the role of Nana, the dog/nurse. She had crawled around on all fours and barked with gusto for her two big scenes, panting cheerfully at the feet of her charges John, Michael, and Wendy. Frances, for her part, had been a magical, mischievous and stylish Peter Pan, and the show received glowing reviews from all the neighborhood parents, naturally.

Irene pictured her mother’s face in the audience that day, laughing along with the others. Irene’s chest tightened and she bit her lower lip to keep the hot tears from spilling over. She checked her pinky finger. So far so good. The chalk was holding for now. She wondered what would happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, when all the people went home and Frances and Papa still needed their loyal audiences to buoy them up. Will that be my job now?

And, she realized, there were other jobs that would need to be filled, too. Who would do their laundry? Who would track Frances’ swim times? Who would check Irene’s grammar homework and who would teach her how to make brisket? Who would be there to pick them up when they fell? The family’s future was all off-kilter, now that one member of the May clan had simply disappeared. Who would teach them how to reassemble their family, now that it had been torn to pieces?

And, perhaps most important, who would buy the paprika?

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