OyMG (14 page)

I grabbed Zeydeh's arm. “All right. We're going now.”

“What does
farkakte
mean?” Devon asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Of course it means something,” Zeydeh retorted, standing fast as if he'd put down roots. “It's a little Yiddish.” He grinned. I hadn't seen him this happy in weeks. Zeydeh, this happy, was trouble.

“Do not say it,” I warned.

Now Devon was grinning. “Say what?”

“
Farkakte
means sh—”

“ZEYDEH!”

“What?” He rocked on his feet, grinning ear to ear. “It's such a terrible word? I should say doo-doo? Poopies?” He winked at Devon. “Where's the dignity in that? I'm a grown man.”

Devon burst out laughing.

“I like him,” Zeydeh said to me, as if Devon wasn't there. “He's got a nice laugh.”

“He's not laughing,” I said. “He's clutching his stomach so he isn't sick.”

Zeydeh ignored me. “It's a day for laughter, Ellie. A day to celebrate.”

“Great. Let's go and we can celebrate.” I glanced down the corridor. Still empty.

It was like he hadn't heard me. “You won't believe what happened,” he said to Devon. “I took a nap this morning. I never nap, but today I napped. And who should I see in my dream, but my dearest departed wife, Miriam—Ellie's bubbe.”

“You always see Bubbe.”

“Not like this.” He shook his head. “You remember your bubbe, before the cancer? Her silver hair, her cheeks like red apples, always so round, but soft and puffy like fresh dough?”

“I remember.”

“Well, this Bubbe looked like a fashion model. Not a single roll of fat under her chin, and cheekbones like a young woman. Thin. I've never seen your bubbe so thin.”

“That sounds nice.” I glanced back down the empty hall.

“Nice?” he retorted. “Who dreams they starve you in heaven?” He shuddered. “I couldn't shake the vision. I woke up. I sat in the chair and wrapped myself in Bubbe's afghan, and then it came to me: fat! Not enough fat in the soup!” He clapped his hands with a loud smack. “That's been the problem. A little schmaltz—a little chicken fat—to give the soup some depth.”

“That's wonderful, Zeydeh.”

“It's a miracle is what it is. I already made a pot this afternoon. Even without time for the broth to settle overnight, it's ambrosia. My heart is singing, Ellie. Even my liver is doing a dance.”

Then he pulled out of my grasp and started stepping side to side, in a Jewish dance step. I glanced at Devon, but he stood there, watching and grinning. Encouraged, Zeydeh snapped his fingers, lifted his elbows like two chicken wings, and sang nonsense words in his off-key voice.

“Devon?” A sharp call from the end of a hallway stopped us all, even Zeydeh. Doris Yeats was locking the door to the Admin offices, but obviously wondering about the crazy man in the lobby. “Is everything okay?”

Is this what a heart attack felt like? I couldn't breathe, and red spots flashed behind my eyes. “We have to go, Zeydeh.”

“Everything's fine,” Devon called back.

Zeydeh squinted down the hall. “Is that your grandmother? I'd like to meet her.”

Of course he would
, I thought in a panic. He thought she knew all about him and our Jewish roots.

“Yeah, uh …” Devon swallowed. “She's really busy locking up.”

“Nonsense. How busy can she be?”

“Zeydeh, please!” I yanked at his arm, pulling him a step toward the door.

“Careful,” he snapped. “Or there'll be two of me.”

Devon's eyes widened as if he'd just had an idea. “You can meet her tonight. At the performances.”

I shook my head, still tugging on his arm. “Zeydeh's going to services tonight.”

He squinted from me to Devon. “Perhaps I will come.”

“But you always go to services!”

“I'll go in the morning.” He pulled his arm free and straightened his shirt sleeve. “I'll tell your father you'll be out in a minute.” He walked stiffly out the door.

I watched him go, then buried my hands in my hair. “What are we going to do now?” I hissed. “He'll meet your grandmother tonight.”

Devon shook his head. “She's not coming tonight. She has another event she couldn't get out of. She's videotaping the performances.”

My shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank God. But we have to figure out something for next Thursday—for our tournament. He's going to insist on meeting her.”

“We'll think of something,” Devon said. “If we don't, the
farkakte
will hit the fan.”

CHAPTER 26

We were going to be late.

“Mom!” I yelled. “Dad!” I flipped off the bathroom switch and headed for the kitchen. I'd tried curling my hair—complete disaster—and then had to wash it again. Having a boyfriend added at least twenty minutes to the minimum time needed to get ready. I'd worn a deep purple V-neck tank, a white skirt I borrowed from Megan, and platform sandals that showed off my newly painted purple toes. Another reason I was late.

“Mom?” I yelled again.

“Wardrobe malfunction,” Mom yelled back from the direction of their bedroom. “Give me five minutes.”

“We don't have five minutes.” I strode toward their room, pushed open the door, then stopped. Dad had his face pressed in Mom's armpit. “Ew!”

Dad looked up and grinned. “I'm trying to fix your mother's zipper. It jammed.” The green dress had a long side zipper. An inch from the top it had stuck and I could see the material on one side jutting up. Dad tried sliding the zipper side to side.

“Careful,” Mom said, “don't pinch my fat.”

“What fat? You're thin as a rail.”

She puckered her lips. “Oh, honey, that's so sweet.”

I made a gagging noise.

They both laughed.

“Can't you wear something else?” I asked. “We're already late.”

“I would if I could get this dress off, but it jammed too high. Besides, it'll take me as long to change as it will for your father to fix the zipper.”

I sighed and leaned against the door to wait.

“Why don't you walk over to Zeydeh's,” Mom suggested. “Make sure he's ready. We'll drive down as soon as I'm unhooked.”

It was a short walk, even in two-inch heels, but I walked fast so the heat couldn't melt off my makeup. A few minutes later, I was knocking on Zeydeh's door. He hadn't said anything else about this afternoon, but he still wanted to come with us to watch Megan. Benny, on the other hand, had arranged to play hoops at a friend's house so he wouldn't have to tag along.

“Zeydeh?” I knocked again.

“Come in,” he called. “It's not locked.”

I pushed open the door. “Mom and Dad are running late. I came to see if you were—” I choked on my own breath. For a second, I just stared, my brain not believing what my eyes were seeing. “Zeydeh?”

“You were expecting Moses?”

He stood proudly in the center of his living room, arms held wide as if to say, “Look at me.” And I was looking. In horror. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.” He flicked a speck of nothing off his coat sleeve. “I'm ready.”

“Ready for what?” I sputtered. “An audition for Rabbi of the Century? It doesn't even look like you!”

He wore his usual white shirt and dark pants, but tonight he'd added a long black coat that must have been a thousand years old. Dangling from his waist were the knotted threads of his
tallis
—a prayer shawl I'd only ever seen him wear in synagogue. On his curly hair, a small round yarmulke was pinned into place.

“Of course it looks like me,” he said. “I am a Jew. I look like a Jew.”

“From two hundred years ago!” I said. “That's not how you dress.”

He peered down at himself. “What? You don't like the coat?” He tugged proudly at the collar. “I bought this coat in Brooklyn fifty years ago. Two dollars and fifty cents—can you believe it? I've been saving it for a special occasion.”

“What occasion is that?” I snapped. “Ruining your granddaughter's life? You can't go like that.”

“How else should I go?” He gave me his innocent look. “Should I wear a cross and pretend to be a Christian?”

My stomach coiled into a fist. This was planned. Of course this was planned. My teeth clenched, holding back a scream of anger and fear and frustration. “Why does everything always have to be about you and religion and what you want? Can't this one thing just be about me?”

“This
is
about you,” he said. “About who you are—a Jew, Ellie, a Jew! And yes, I want everyone there to know it.”

His jaw jutted out, and I could tell I wasn't the only one who was angry. Well, too bad. This was
my
life, not his!

“Mrs. Yeats, you mean.”

He shook a finger at me. “She shouldn't need my old coat to tell her what she should already know. But somehow, even though your mother assured me the truth had come out, it seems that Mrs. Yeats is still in the dark. How you managed that, I don't want to know.”

“Please, Zeydeh!” The heat of helpless tears gathered behind my eyes.

“I'm at the school today and suddenly it's clear. You're embarrassed Mrs. Yeats should see me. Not just embarrassed, but worried. Crazed. And I ask myself—why? Suddenly, I know. My Ellie who speaks up about everything, suddenly says nothing.” He stepped forward, his eyes fiery. “I want to know why!”

“You know why,” I said. “For the scholarship.”

“Of course, the
scholarship
.” He rolled the word in his mouth like something bitter. “The scholarship offered by the nice Mrs. Yeats. She only asks religious questions in honor of her dead son. No big deal, you tell me. Except, why do you nearly break my arm shoving me out the door today?” He took in a long, broken breath. “I'll tell you why. Because she does not like Jews. And rather than stand up for who you are, you pretend to be someone you're not.”

“That's not fair, Zeydeh.” I grabbed the back of a chair and squeezed as hard as I could, an edge of panic building behind my anger. “You're not looking at this rationally.”

“Now you're saying I'm irrational?”

I blew out a hot breath, trying not to let my thoughts get twisted up in Zeydeh's words. “Even if she is anti-Semitic, why should I suffer for that? Why should I let her prejudice affect me and keep me from what I want?”

“This is your argument? Two wrongs make a right?”

“I'm not doing anything wrong. Isn't there a Yiddish saying, ‘You don't have to tell everything you know.' ”

“You can twist words to make them sound pretty, but it doesn't cover the ugly truth.” His eyebrows bunched up so his eyes were like shadowy pockets, deep and unsettling. “All your life we've talked about speaking up. About standing up for yourself. Now, when it matters most, you suddenly become silent. If you can't see this, you're not only lying to Doris Yeats, you're lying to yourself.”

“I'm going to tell her, Zeydeh. Next week, when the scholarship is mine. It'll mean more then because I'll be in at Benedict's. Everyone will know it. I can speak up then, when it really counts.”

“If you're silent today, you will be silent always.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Another Yiddish saying.”

“
My
saying,” he retorted. “And here's another: ‘If you're silent today, why should anyone bother to listen to you tomorrow? By tomorrow, it is too late.' ”

I let out an angry growl. “You're not listening to me now!”

“If you have something to say, I'll listen.”

“Then don't do this.” I reached out a hand toward him. “Don't wreck this for me—not when I'm so close.”

“Close to what? To denying yourself? To shaming your past?” He folded his arms over his chest, unmovable, unyielding, in every way.

Helpless anger boiled through my veins and flooded my head with red heat. Whatever was holding me together let go. I let go. “Fine,” I shouted. “You want to wear that? Fine. Mrs. Yeats isn't even going to be there tonight, so be my guest. Make a fool of yourself. She's not even going to be there.”

He drew himself up straighter. “Then I'll wear it again next week to your performance.”

My heart thundered with rage. I was nearly dizzy with it. “No, you won't—because you won't be there. You hear me? You're not invited. Stay home, Zeydeh—stay out of my life!”

He stepped back. At first, I thought it was the force of my words, pushing him, unbalancing him. But then I saw a sheen of sweat suddenly bead on his forehead. He raised a hand to his chest. His fingers shook.

But I'd seen this trick before.

“Don't try it,” I said. “I'm not going to fall for the same trick twice.”

“Miriam,” he said. His eyes blinked. “Miriam.”

Miriam?
Why was he asking for Bubbe? A trickle of unease lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. “Zeydeh?”

He blinked again. “Ellie,” he said softly. Then his eyes clouded, and he fell back. It happened in the time it takes to snap a picture. It felt like that in my mind. Like the snap of a camera. The flash of a bulb. Then, a sharp picture seared into my brain.

Flash.
One arm hitting the corner of a chair and twisting up.

Flash.
His head hitting the hard wood floor.

Flash.
His face tilted toward me, his eyes dead.

Zeydeh dead.

It all happened in the space of a breath. A single, horrible breath that screamed inside my head, and then fell silent. My ears strained for a sound. My heart, my soul, strained to hear the sound of a breath. The sound of life. There was nothing.

Nothing.

I had killed him. I'd killed my Zeydeh.

I started to scream. I screamed into the emptiness of the house, the emptiness of Zeydeh's slack face. I screamed—until the door suddenly burst open and my dad rushed in.

“Ellie!” he shouted. Then he saw Zeydeh.

And I collapsed, wishing I were dead, too.