“Zeydeh, it was delicious,” Dad said. He patted his stomach as if the bulge was all from tonight. Though, in all honesty, he had eaten like a pig—we all had. Except Zeydeh.
On Friday nights, to welcome in the Jewish Sabbath, Zeydeh always outdid himself in the kitchen. He baked fresh challah bread and cooked a huge feast. Mom and I lit the Sabbath candles, the men said the prayer over the wine, Zeydeh blessed Benny and me, and then we all said the motzei—the blessing over the bread. There was always an extra bounce in Zeydeh’s step and when he brought dinner to the table, he’d hum a Jewish tune: bim bom bimbimbim bom …
But tonight, no bounce. No humming. The rest of us shot worried glances at each other through dinner, while Zeydeh seemed half asleep. Was it low blood pressure again? He did look kind of pale.
He perked up a little when I told everyone about the surprise meeting with Mrs. Yeats.
“I knew you were better than that boy,” Zeydeh said, his eyes snapping open. “Didn’t I say she was better, Skip? Didn’t I say it the whole way home?”
“So you’ll have an interview next week with Mrs. Yeats?” Mom asked.
I nodded. “I already filled out the questionnaire—it’s due on Monday.” I’d slid the folder under the stack of newspapers on the counter. I wanted to get it signed quick so I could stick it in my backpack and forget about it. Plus, if I was lucky, Mom would be tired after a long week and she’d sign without looking. “Can you sign it after dinner?” I asked.
“Of course.” She laid a hand over her heart. “I’m just so proud of you.”
“We all are, honey.” Dad blinked, his eyes suddenly watery.
“Da-ad!” Benny groaned. “Crying is so not cool.”
“If a man can cry over a chopped onion,” Zeydeh said, “he can cry over his daughter’s good fortune.”
I smiled at Zeydeh. His eyes smiled back. “It’s no more than you deserve, Ellie. I told you, didn’t I, you would do great things in this world?” Then his gaze dropped back to his uneaten bowl of soup and his shoulders dipped.
Mom reached out and patted his arm. “You going to services tonight?”
Zeydeh shook his head. “I’ll go in the morning. I’m a little tired tonight.” He looked around the table. “If you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself.” He stood, pushing up with his skinny arms as if his legs were too weak to lift himself.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“Fine, fine. Just a little indigestion. I’ll use the john, and be back to help clean up.”
“We’ll clean up,” Mom said. “You sit down and take it easy tonight.” She watched him shuffle out of the kitchen, worry in her eyes.
Even Benny stopped chewing to watch him go.
“Dinner was delicious,” Mom called after Zeydeh.
“It was average,” he called back, not bothering to turn around. Mom frowned and dropped her napkin on the table.
Cleanup was quiet tonight. Benny usually banged plates and rattled silverware clearing the table, but not now. I think we were all listening for Zeydeh.
I opened the dishwasher and took the plate Mom handed me. Dad had carried his to the counter, and he stood there waiting for me to have a free hand.
Above my head, I could feel Mom and Dad looking at each other.
“Should I say something?” Mom asked.
“I don’t know what you can say,” he answered. “It’s the soup.”
“The soup was fine.”
“Fine, yes. Great, no.” Dad mouthed the word “no” and Mom and I both darted glances toward the hall. No sign of Zeydeh.
“But surely he can make a few adjustments,” she whispered. “He’s always adjusting.”
Dad leaned in, his voice a microwhisper. “I caught him this afternoon, standing over the soup pot with a pinch of herbs in his fingers.”
“So?” Mom asked.
“So he just stood there. I washed my hands at the sink, poured a glass of iced tea, drank it, ate two cookies, and he was still standing there with the herbs in his fingers. Frozen. He didn’t know whether to add them or not. I’ve never seen him like that.”
Mom clenched her hands over her heart. “Did you say something?”
“I asked if everything was okay.”
“And?”
“He said, ‘Just stewing over my dreams.’ ”
Benny pushed through the middle of us and set another dish in the sink. “I’m going to shoot some hoops,” he said, and headed for the back door.
Mom nodded, her eyes still on Dad. “That’s what he said? That’s … awful. You should have done something.”
“Done what?”
Just then, we heard the shuffle of Zeydeh’s shoes coming down the hall. Mom got out a rag and Dad pulled out some containers for the leftovers. I went back to loading dishes.
“Has anyone seen my glasses?” Zeydeh asked.
“On the counter, I think,” Mom said.
I heard him rummage around the bowl of car keys. He cursed low, under his breath. Then the newspapers rustled and crunched. I was loading the last plate when it hit me. Newspapers. Rustling. The application! I jerked up just as Zeydeh said, “What’s this?”
My heart frog-leaped into my throat. “That’s mine, Zeydeh.”
“What is it?” He held out the slim white folder that Mrs. Yeats had given me that afternoon.
I flung the dishwasher door up so fast, plates rattled. “Just a folder.”
“What kind of folder?” He flipped it open.
“Zeydeh!”
Mom and Dad stared at me, confused. I tried telling them with my eyes, but there was no way. No time. I had to get the folder out of Zeydeh’s hands. If he saw what I’d written …
I lunged across the kitchen island and grabbed for it. But Zeydeh turned at the last second and I ended up with nothing but air.
He held the paper at arm’s length and squinted at the words. “This is the questionnaire for Benedict’s? What’s so secret about—”
Then his voice broke and he leaned a hand on the counter.
“What is it?” Mom asked. “What’s going on?”
Zeydeh turned, his eyes bulging. “You want to know? Ask Ellie. Ask your Christian daughter.”
Then suddenly, he moaned and clutched his chest. His head dropped back and his eyes rolled shut. With a slight whoosh of breath, he collapsed into Dad’s arms.