So Rav Harriett was summoned. In the days leading up to her visit, Annamae had felt the burden of knowing she was the reason for the visit. But as soon as Rav Harriett actually arrived, the whole house seemed to lighten from her presence. Her curls had turned grayer since they’d last seen her, and although she still wore her low high heels, even Annamae stood taller than she did now. But her eyes were the eyes of an inquisitive bird, and she had a way of saying freely whatever came into her head, no matter if it was part of the conversation. And then there were her lovely, atrocious table manners: She blew on her spoon. She slurped. She reached freely and often into the salt cellar with her fingers. She got borscht and salt and bits of seedy cracker on the table, and then got whatever she spilled on the table on her sleeves. It was as if she had no shyness, no embarrassment.
The kids had to work not to catch each other’s eye, and even so Annamae could feel Danny biting his lip to hold back laughter.
If he thought he’d managed to conceal his mirth, Rav Harriett disabused him. “I may be lacking in neatness,” she said, wetting her napkin in a glass of seltzer and calmly rubbing at a spot of borscht on her sweater, “but at least I’m not lacking in lack!” And, giving up on the stain, she helped herself to another ladleful.
Danny, caught, colored and coughed. But Rav Harriett’s ease seemed to free his tongue, too. He said, “That’s a good thing?”
“You’d better believe it.” She stuck her spoon into the communal bowl of sour cream. “Just think”—swirling the dollop of white into the purple—“without lack, without hunger, I’d never know the pleasure of eating.”
“Hmm,” said Danny.
“Without hunger for knowledge,” Rav Harriett went on, “I’d never know the pleasure of learning.”
“Without hunger for adventure, you’d never know the pleasure of trying something new,” their mother chimed in.
They went around the table then, coming up with examples. It was a game invented by no one. It had no name and no rules. It had welled up like a spring from the ground. The kitchen seemed to grow spacious and at the same time to contract cozily around them. The overhead light burned bright as the shortest day of the year slunk to a close.
“Without loneliness,” said Annamae, “you’d never know the pleasure of company.”
Rav Harriett looked at her across the picnic table. She didn’t smile. The frown she was giving Annamae was better than a smile.
“Hey,” said the rabbi. “You guys ever hear the story of Adam and Eve?”