“It’s like museum temperature in here. Cold just to keep people awake.”
I looked at my cousin. “I think it has more to do with keeping the food fresh, but I don’t want to argue with you.”
We were moping around near the cheese aisle because our aunt was trying to find orange juice with extra pulp across the way at the refrigerator cases and we had volunteered to come along. Anything to get out from under the needy hand grasps of our grandmother. It was as if by traveling for the holiday instead of hosting it she’d regressed from octogenarian to toddler. Nothing brings cousins together more than the shared awkwardness of constructed family tragedy.
“Why extra pulp?”
“Asks the wise son,” I mumbled, considering the two years of wisdom Ben was supposed to have over me.
“Me? Wise?” He laughed.
“Yeah, wise-ass,” I corrected.
He laughed again, too loud for being out in public and I wondered if he had already gotten at the vodka, kosher for Passover. “Your mother’s voice out of your mouth.”
I frowned and wanted to hit him in the shoulder like we used to do at seders when reading off each of the ten plagues.
“She wouldn’t use the word ass,” I said.
“Maybe not in mixed company.”
“She doesn’t like that you’ve got Cheryl’s sense of humor,” I explained, indicating our aunt with a flick of my chin.
“The things we inherit from relations who are not our parents.” Ben reached down to shove a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, and I knew he was checking that his lighter was still there.
Cheryl turned, a long-sought jug of Simply Orange in her arms, and headed back to join us.
“Success?” I asked.
“Only one type with pulp in the whole store.”
“Cause normal people don’t like pulp,” I said. “Juice and pulp are two things that shouldn’t go together but we put them together anyway. Like pineapple and pizza.”
“Like we’re normal people,” Ben smiled.
“What were you two laughing about?”
“That this one’s mother thinks you and I have the same sense of humor.”
“Well, someone has to have a sense of humor in this family, or we’d all kill each other.”
Cheryl was certainly correct, but I didn’t think it was her sense of humor that was keeping the family afloat.
“What’s my mom’s problem this hour?” I asked, as we trudged back toward the checkout lanes and Cheryl grabbed a pack of gum. You were only allowed out of the house on errands if my mother could no longer tolerate your presence during her festive preparations.
“I didn’t bring a hostess gift,” Cheryl replied. “She’s my sister not the queen of England.”
“You didn’t bring a hostess gift?” That seemed like one of the more obnoxious details for my mother to get upset over, especially when there were still so many legitimate reasons to choose from.
“I brought one, she just didn’t like it. I’m here. Look at me. Isn’t that present enough?”
This elicited a laugh from both Ben and me, and I understood why my mother detested that her sister and my cousin had the same sense of humor.
“Who would have thought we’d all be old enough to have full-time jobs and we’d still be getting exiled from the house for bad behavior?” Cheryl put the orange juice down on the conveyor.
I certainly would have. The holidays brought out the worst in people and, as a trio, it had always been very hard to compete with us. The spinster, the feygele, and the prude. Though, when the grandparents had hosted holidays in Florida it had always been easier just to toss us all into the backyard.
Passover at my parents’ house meant there was still snow, though the food was certainly better.
“How do you make eggplant parmesan kosher for Passover?” Cheryl rolled her eyes.
“By using matzah meal.”
“I’ve never put my head far enough up a chicken’s ass to see an egg plant,” Ben snickered. It was clear he was working on a slight high rather than any potato vodka.
Cheryl’s reaction was one of approval.
I smiled. But the eggplant was gonna go down much easier than grandma’s traditional tzimmes. Tradition could choke you just as easily as if could embrace you.
We piled into my dad’s C-RV with me in the backseat because, even at 27, I was still the youngest.
Cheryl stabbed at the brakes as we rolled over the most recent coating of packed snow, and I wasn’t sure if it would be better for us to make it home safely or not at all. The chaos of holidays made everyone want to kill each other, but a small accident and a reminder that we all, at some point, would die, might have softened everyone just enough for things to slide at least in the direction of enjoyable.
Cheryl flipped down the visor in an attempt to fight the glare off the white coated parking lot. I leaned forward and gestured toward the glove compartment.
“We have the emergency sunglasses,” I reminded her.
“Oh, hell no, I’m not that desperate.” She shook her head emphatically, aware of exactly what style the “emergency” glasses would be.
“You will be if that cloud moves two inches,” I said.
But she was adamant.
And still, we didn’t crash.
“Quite the combo,” Ben said, eyeing the plastic bag. “Orange juice and mint.”
I made a face in the backseat, but no one saw.
“They’re not going together,” Cheryl said around the piece of gum already in her mouth.
“Just sitting together,” I said.
Ben turned the pack over in his hands. “Spearmint. This is for women.”
“I don’t think flavors have those kinds of preferences,” I said.
“Foods aren’t for different genders,” Cheryl replied.
“Special K is for women,” Ben said.
“No,” I insisted again. “It’s marketed towards women, but it’s not for them.”
“Like bras,” Ben said.
I only shook my head.
“Cereal is all carbs and sugar, it doesn’t matter what kind,” Cheryl said.
I was functioning on Applejacks and ginger ale just then, as those were the only items I had found in the house without needing to brave the kitchen, so I was perfectly okay with carbs and sugar as they were doing just fine keeping me conscious and alert. And I would miss those Applejacks during the week of Passover food that awaited me.
It seemed like a slow and painful form of torture to discuss cereal and carbs right before the holiday that restricted them most. But where my aunt, my uncle, and my mother were concerned, my mother (or I as her representative) would be the only one likely to complain.
“Why are Kesha lyrics so relevant to my life right now?” Cheryl asked over the radio, making it even more obvious why she was the only one of her siblings without children.
I shrugged where no one could see me. “I’ve got nothing,” I said. “Can I interest you in a witty comment?”
Ben gave me a very odd grin around the passenger side headrest without showing any teeth. It was hard to tell if he meant to make fun of Cheryl or of me.
“Loud noises and frantic hand gestures usually produce better results where music preferences are concerned,” Ben said, turning again to face forward out into the blindingly bright snow-covered spring world. It was like barreling into the unknown, except we knew exactly where we were barreling.
The drive was not nearly long enough for any of us to feel as if we’d had sufficient time away, or at least for everyone else to have had sufficient time away from us.
I slammed the car door particularly hard so that everyone inside would have a warning of our arrival.
Ben staggered on the ice, and it was hard to tell if he was faking or not, but he dropped the juice.
“Oh, clumsy me,” he laughed, grabbing the orange juice from its side on the asphalt.
“No. Maddy is clumsy, you’re just drunk,” Cheryl said through squinting eyes.
“High,” Ben corrected.
This made Cheryl smile.
“I’m not clumsy,” I said, motioning at the ground on which I had no problem walking.
“You’re adorable,” Cheryl said, kissing the side of my head before striding forward as if she had nothing to fear.
Still, I was the one with the house key.
The kitchen was deserted, which was both odd and lucky.
“No one to greet us?” Cheryl asked.
“We’re a supermarket success story,” Ben said.
“Well, it’s not like we’re returning royalty,” I shrugged.
“Only conquering heroes,” Cheryl pointed at the juice.
“Not royal, but presidential at least. And well dressed as Ken.” Ben dusted exaggeratedly at the shoulders of his too-light jacket.
“Ken?” I asked. “Who’s Ken?”
“Kennedy, the President. It’s shorthand.”
“JFK is a normal person’s shorthand.”
“Normal persons? In this house?” Cheryl smiled.
Where they drink orange juice with pulp, I thought.
“In this cold?” Ben motioned back at the door.
“The calendar says it’s spring,” I said.
“And your mother said she was happy to host us,” Cheryl reminded me.
“What is that?” Ben motioned at the kitchen counter beside the fridge.
The kitchen table was covered in serving dishes, each with its own handwritten label denoting what food it would hold when it came time for the seder and dinner. That organization was in direct contrast to the pile of boxes and plastic bags jumbled together on the fridge’s right-hand side.
“Chametz,” I said.
Ben walked over and picked up a half-consumed packet of club crackers between two fingers as if it was a particularly dirty sock. “Yum,” he said.
I moved to his side and grabbed a Ziplock bag full of gold tin foil-covered candy. “Who wants gelt?” I asked.
“Guilt?” Cheryl looked up from the phone in her hand. “Who wants guilt?”
“Gelt, not guilt,” Ben corrected, taking the Ziplock from me. “But they are both things you can get from your Jewish mother, so you’re on the right track.”
“Why do you still have that?” Cheryl asked, as if four-month-old candy was the same as having a dead mouse sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.
“Does chocolate even go bad?” I said.
None of us seemed to know. It didn’t make the chametz look half as appealing as the discussion of cereal and carbs had made it all feel in the car.
“Mom?” Cheryl called.
She’d worked so hard to find the pulpy orange juice she seemed to really want to show it off.
Cheryl was braver than I was. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I didn’t want to watch the kitchen fill itself up again with anger and anxiety and people. I didn’t want to be reminded of the trials, tribulations, and survival of my family and my people. I didn’t want to consider the body’s need for very specific things like fiber.
Cheryl and Ben were always so free with their words and their wisdom, but I couldn’t imagine talking to other people the way I talked to myself, so I just listened.
It was easy to hear footsteps, though the quick pace made me doubt it was my grandmother who was coming. The new combination of family members was not going to be what Cheryl wanted. We shouldn’t really have been together like that. We shouldn’t have been at my parents’ house. We shouldn’t have been without my grandfather.
“I need a nap,” I said, preparing an excuse to slip away.
“Sleep’s for losers,” Ben said. “Stay awake. Go without. You’re stronger than that.”
That’s why Ben and Cheryl got along; they courted danger. I was from a place where it snowed in the springtime, and I knew better than to tempt fate.
The steps grew close enough that I was certain we could all hear. We were already together so, whoever it was, it wasn’t someone who was going to have our backs.
Cheryl adjusted the collar of her coat.
“Fashion statement,” Ben told her.
“Me or the coat?” she asked with a smile.
“Both.”
Oh, family. “Some things are meant to go together,” I said. And some things just ended up that way. I looked toward the hallway.
___________
Jessie Atkin writes fiction, essays, and plays. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, the Jewish Women’s Archive, The Writing Disorder, Space and Time Magazine, and elsewhere. Her full-length play, “Generation Pan,” was published by Pioneer Drama. She can be found online at jessieatkin.com