It is said that the death rate slightly increases every year around the Jewish New Year. Some speculate that it is part of the “Who shall live and who shall die” theme of the high holidays. Monty Finkelman understands this. He lost his wife, Minna, to cancer three years ago, four days before Rosh Hashana. Then, last year, his twenty-nine-year-old daughter, Steph, was crushed under the weight of a garbage truck that hadn’t seen her bicycle turning on to Bloor Street. She died of her injuries two days before Yom Kippur.
This eve of Rosh Hashana, Monty stands alone in his kitchen, chopping carrots for his chicken soup. He tries to chop them like his wife did, on an angle, so that they are oval shaped. The tap tap of the knife against the wooden cutting board fills the quiet of the kitchen, but soon Monty’s arthritic fingers grow clumsy and sore, and he gives up chopping. He scoops the already cut carrots into his hands and plops them into the soup. Then, he returns to a bowl of matzah ball mix he’d left earlier to set on the counter. He rolls up his sleeves, wets his hands and scoops a chunk of pasty mix from the bowl, rolls it into a ball and drops it into the soup. He repeats this scoop, roll and drop motion twenty times, until the bowl is empty and matzah meal crumbs cake his fingers. He gently brushes them off, flicking bits of eggy batter into the kitchen sink.
Monty doesn’t have anyone to share the holiday meal with this year. His sister, Lil, lives in Winnipeg and his only nephew lives in England. His friends (really Minna’s friends) are all busy with their own families. None of them thought to invite him, and he didn’t bother asking to be included. He peers across the street through his kitchen window and watches a young couple exit a parked car and walk up his neighbor’s driveway, one holding a cake (must be a honey cake), the other some flowers. Two small children in party dresses follow behind them. The neighbor’s door opens and a crowd of three children stand at the door greeting the new arrivals. Monty can hear their faint cries of “Shana Tova! Happy New Year!”
He pulls the cord shut on the blind and the snap of the slats jolts him. Next to him on a floating shelf by the door is a photo of himself, Minna and Steph from five years ago. They had been on a picnic in Algonquin Park. Monty picks up the photo and gazes into the beaming faces of his wife and daughter. He looked much younger, he thinks, his hair was more black than silver, his muscles more defined, and his six foot frame a little less stooped than it is now. The photo was taken in the fall, just after the holidays, when the leaves dropped noiselessly from the trees, leaving thick, exposed branches like outstretched arms connected to grey, wrinkled trunks. Monty runs his fingers over the glass that covers the photo. Then, he places it back on the shelf and sighs.
“What’s the point?” Monty wonders out loud.
He rubs an ache in his lumbar spine, stretches his hands out on either side of himself and lets out a long moan. A soft tapping at his front door stops him. He debates whether to bother answering it, since everyone he knows is busy celebrating the chag with their own families and friends. The knock comes again, this time a bit more forcefully and with a rapid beat. Monty walks across the hall and looks out the small window of his front door. Standing on his porch is a young woman wearing a shmata tied around her head, some cotton rainbow-coloured pants that look like two balloons and a pair of those German sandals with the cork on the bottom.
“For Chris’sake” Monty says under his breath and opens the door. “Can I help you?”
“Hi there. I’m part of an organization called Forward Go, a not-for-profit that tries to do social justice, you know, like, good deeds, in the community. Care to make a donation?”
A bright ray of sunlight has flooded his front hall. Monty scratches his head in irritation. He’s about to apologize and close the door, but the woman’s cheerful smile catches him, and he looks into her green eyes. He freezes. Something about her reminds him of Steph. He squeezes his hand hard around the metal door handle.
Just then, there’s a thud, and a small bird falls between the young woman and Monty.
“Ahhh!’ she screams.
Monty bends down. A yellow warbler is struggling with a broken wing. Through its tiny body you can see its little heart thump thumping. The woman bends down, places a hand on her own heart, and with two fingers of her other hand, she strokes the bird’s soft feathers.
“Hey little guy. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,” she reassures the bird. To Monty she says, “We should find a box for it.”
Monty opens his door wider and motions her to come inside. She steps into his front hall leaving one foot perched protectively next to the bird.
“Wait one minute,” he says.
From his hall closet, he reaches far up and retrieves an old shoe box off of a high shelf. He returns to the door, hands the box to the woman and sways awkwardly from one foot to the other.
“We need to wrap it,” the woman instructs him. “By the way, I’m Stephanie.”
Monty feels the colour drain from his face. He wobbles and the woman grabs his arm to steady him.
“Are you okay, sir?”
Monty wipes his brow with the back of his hand and nods.
“Shall I call someone for help?” she asks, but Monty shakes his head.
The woman looks into the closet and sees a pale blue, cotton scarf.
“Could we use this?” She points.
Monty hesitates, but then nods again. It’s Steph’s scarf she is pointing to, the one she wore with that grey wool coat of hers. He got rid of the coat some time ago with most of the rest of Steph’s things. He must’ve forgotten about the scarf.
He watches Stephanie carefully wrap the bird and place it inside the box. The bird’s tiny, black, dotted eyes blink. Monty looks down at it. It is perfectly still, only its dark eyes and beating heart assure him it’s still alive.
“It’s probably in shock,” Stephanie says.
Monty nods. His eyes grow moist, and he squeezes them shut before wiping them dry.
“I’m not sure it’ll make it, but it’s worth a try. I’ll hop on my bike and take it to the vet down the street. Precious little creature. We might have saved its life,” Stephanie says. She smiles a wide, hopeful smile at Monty and his shoulders loosen and drop. The sides of his mouth turn up ever so slightly.
“Well, I better get going then. Thanks for the box,” Stephanie says.
Monty nods and watches Stephanie walk down the stone path outside his front door. At the end of the path, he notices a red bicycle parked on the sidewalk. There’s a bike helmet hanging off of the handle bars and a mesh wire basket in the front decorated in a bouquet of giant, plastic purple and pink hydrangeas strapped to it. Stephanie gently places the box with the bird inside the basket.
“Wait,” Monty cries. He waves his arm and motions Stephanie over with his fingers. She walks back towards him, the setting sun glowing brightly behind her creating s sort of halo effect around her.
Monty digs into his pocket and retrieves a worn, black leather wallet. He fingers a few of the bills inside and hands Stephanie a fifty-dollar bill, a large sum for anyone and especially a retired man.
“Here.…Forward Go,” he says.
Stephanie squeezes his arm. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Monty holds her gaze for a long moment.
“Ride carefully, Steph,” he finally tells her and, then, he gently closes the door.
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Elana Shira Segal is a writer and a social worker living in Toronto, Canada. She studied creative writing at the Humber School for Writers and the Sarah Selecky Writing School. She greatly enjoys thinking about the narrative of people’s lives be it in her therapy work or her writing.