Passover

by Aphrodite Anagnost

  “Those will do.” Lev took one out of the torn package and ate a piece. “No chametz.”

  Using the blue glow from her cell phone, Rachel rummaged through the crisper and retrieved a head of lettuce and a droopy cucumber, its skin beginning to shrivel.

  “Appetizing,” said Zack. “That cuke’s seen better days.”

  “It’ll have to do.” Lev grabbed a potato from behind a big sack of Granny Smiths. “Oh! Cocktail sauce. Has horseradish in it. Maror.”

  “Been in there for months, maybe years,” said Zack. “The only person who ever ate that was Great Aunt Sylvia. She died last summer.”

  “We’ll have to eat it anyway.” Lev laid the half-empty jar of Emeril’s Red Hot Shrimp Sauce, a Yukon Gold potato, the lettuce, two apples, a sad bunch of limp parsley, and a dozen eggs on the quartzite counter. “Twice.”

  “Zack, we got it handled here.” Rachel slipped her cell phone into one pocket, jerked her finger off the refrigerator button, spun, and leaned against the door, shutting it quietly. “Would you open the drapes in the dining room?”

  “Why? Those dudes are scary. Like flesh-eating zombies.” Zack’s forehead tightened, accentuating his widow’s peak.

  “Just do it,” said Dave.

  Rachel hugged Zack, pressing her nose into his salty neck, then let him go.

  He crossed into the dining room, where Leo was standing on a stool collecting white candles from the tansu. She watched her oldest hurry to the window and tug at the heavy crimson brocade panels.

  Footsteps sounded up the steps and across the patio of the back porch toward the kitchen.

  “Creed’s come back.” Dave lunged for the latch and turned it counterclockwise, using his body weight for leverage. He opened the door and a blast of wind and rain swept into the kitchen, dropping Creed inside.

  Wise knocked over a saucepan that clattered to the pine floor as if to announce the arrival of a prodigal son. Creed was soaked; a sheen of wet triumph lit his face. He laughed, settling the rustling sack of chickens on the maple butcher block, which rocked on uneven legs.

  “You made it. You little devil,” said Wise. Rachel flipped on the pendant lamps.

  Dave slammed the kitchen door and forced the stubborn lock shut again.

  “Hot damn, Creed.” Wise slapped his leg. “You’re some kind of a man, you are. Balls the size of a hog’s!”

  “I had to let the horses out of their stalls as a distraction.” Creed slipped out of his wet coat and hung it on an iron peg on the back of the door. “Those damned spooks are out there stampeding them all over the north pasture. Can’t catch ’em either.”

  “The horses won’t go far,” said Rachel.

  “Did you get the chickens?” the sheriff said.

  “Got the chickens in the bag,” said Creed.

  “Oh, no,” said Leo, running in from the dining room carrying a white tablecloth. Three candles settled into a sling made by the fabric draped between his arms. “Not our chickens!”

  “What,” called Zack from the dining room, still wrestling with the heavy cotton drapery. Leo poked his head into the bag. Tears filled his eyes as he crumpled to his knees. “You can’t kill Fluffy and Powderpuff. They’re tame. Nicer than people.”

  Rachel knelt and collected Leo in her arms.

  “We have to,” said Dave.

  He sobbed. “Why, Dad?”

  “We need blood for the doorways,” Dave said.

  “Nobody is gonna kill our chickens,” yelled Zack from the dining room.

  Lev took the quivering plastic bag from the butcher block and put it in the sink. A cry of despair escaped Leo’s lips.

  “Just calm down, Leo,” said Dave. “Leave the chickens there.”

  “We’ve got to set the table for the Seder,” said Lev.

  Rachel sighed. This is hell day. She imagined Lev’s childhood Seders had been as convivial as Chanukah, blessed with joyful children and solemn elders with their peaceful benedictions. Tears of children were inconsistent with a Seder, therefore dangerous to its effect. What ghosts would be fooled? None, she thought. Absolutely none.

  “Let’s go into the dining room,” Dave said, attempting to distract Leo. “Everyone should help with the plates.”

  Rachel turned and looked through the doorway. Zack was unwinding a tangle at the top of a traverse rod while perched on a radiator.

  “Zack. Get down from there!” said Rachel.

  “You told me to open the curtains. Now they’re stuck.”

  “Just use the banana tiebacks,” said Dave.

  “Get down before you break your neck,” said Rachel.

  Leo wailed again. “Not my chickens!”

  Dave picked him up and carried him into the dining room. He set him in front of a quadrate of old Greek trivets of butterflies from Rhodes.

  “Now listen to me.” He let Leo climb out of his sagging arms. “This is a very, very serious situation. You’ve got to help us. Everything depends on our family working together. We can’t have tears or frowns or talking back.”

  “Leo,” said Lev, snapping his fingers and pointing to the hutch. “Get me the biggest bowl and biggest pitcher you can find.”

  Leo stomped to the kitchen. After the crashing of stainless steel against cast iron, he went back into the dining room with a pitcher and a bowl.

  Zack looked down from his post on the radiator at Dave. “Now you’re telling us we can’t frown?”

  “Yes. And I’ll tell you why,” said Dave. “Turn around and squat, and take a good look out that window.”

  Zack climbed down onto the oak floor, planted both elbows on the sill and took a good long look. Rachel stroked his back. She felt her face go taut, as if paralyzed with curare. Where there had been two flames hovering over the front lawn, there were now four. Like the tips of lit matchsticks, they were themselves luminous, but illuminated nothing.

  “Holy…holy fuck.” Zack’s eyes grew wet and red.

  “Leo,” said Lev. “Put water in that pitcher. Come on, I’ll help you.”

  “Here,” said Rachel. “Help me with these.” She handed Zack a stack of dishes. He set the plates at the table, head low, saying nothing else.

  Sheriff Wise carried nine goblets and set them to the right of each place. Creed brought out four bottles of Covenant Cabernet 2005. Leo carried out a full pitcher of water, Lev behind him with a bowl the size of a turkey platter.

  “We really need all this wine?” said the sheriff.

  “We each need to drink four glasses during the meal,” said Lev, “even the children.”

  Beatricia looked up from her crinkly old black-leather bound Bible. Letting her readers slide down the tip of her hooked nose, she looked over the top of the purple rim. “At least we’ll be drunk.”

  “We might as well tie one on, like old times.” Wise snickered. “Remember those Canasta nights with the Daughters of the American Revolution?”

  “We can’t eat off those plates,” interrupted Beatricia.

  “Why not?” said Rachel.

  “She’s right,” said Lev. “Got any paper ones?”

  “Paper plates?” Rachel threw her hands in the air. “But—”

  “We’ve got some leftover from the Fourth of July picnic,” said Zack. “I know where they are.” He stepped over Wolfie who was scrunched into a little caramel ball on his pillow in the pantry, like a giant canine Milk Dud. “Good boy, Wolfie. You’ll be all right.” Scrounging around in the pantry, Zack scraped walls like a rat.

  Rachel cringed at the sound of crinkly wrapping paper and cardboard boxes filled with old tax forms falling off shelves.

  “Zack,” she said. “Have you got them?”

  “Yeah, Mom.” He tripped over Wolfie, who yipped, then bent down and patted the dog’s head. He handed the paper plates to Lev.

  Lev walked around the table and placed one plate on each drabware setting. “Look, nothing we’re doing here is the way I remember it. But just because it isn’t right, does
n’t mean it won’t work. The dishes have been used for non-kosher foods. I’m putting new paper plates on top so the food doesn’t touch them. I don’t know about these glasses and I don’t know about this wine. But we’re doing the best we can. Maybe we’ll have some kind of divine intervention.”

  Beatricia took off her glasses and set them on the table next to her book. “That’s our plan.” She closed her eyes and pressed her palms together in the praying position, then took several deep breaths.

  “Dear ones, may the spirits on the other side guide us to do this ritual well enough to satisfy the dybbuk. And may the ghost be freed from his burning pain and be guided to the light which will emancipate him.” She sat a moment, mumbling prayers, then opened her eyes. “Well, back to Exodus.” She returned the glasses to her nose and read in a different voice, as if she were inhabited by various beings for different tasks.

  Rachel ushered each person to his place while Lev poured wine.

  Beatricia intoned like a holy roller: “For I will pass through the land of Egypt this night and will smite the first born in the land of Egypt, both man and beast, and against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment: I am the Lord.”

  “What about the horses?” Zack said. “They’re all boys. Except Queen Maria. What if they’re first born, too?”

  Dave opened his mouth, but no words came out. Lev held his silence.

  Creed lifted his arm, showing the soft side of his wrist. “I smeared blood on all the stall doors. When they go back into their stalls, they’ll be alright.”

  “I’m not worried about the horses…they have ways.” Rachel turned to Creed. “George. Did you think of that when you smeared the blood, or are you just lucky?” She looked down at her paper plate. “No matter. Don’t answer. Lucky is good.”

  “To be wise is lucky,” said Lev, looking at Creed.

  “To be brave is lucky, sometimes,” said the sherriff.

  “And the blood shall be to you for a token upon the houses where ye are: and when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and the plague shall not be upon you to destroy you.” Beatricia sighed. “I think that’s about the crux of it.”

  Leo had a fork in one hand and a knife in the other as he drum-rolled the edge of the table.

  “Stop that.” Rachel plugged her ears and sank back into the chair. “We don’t know what we’re doing. Should we have the Seder meal first or paint the doors with blood?”

  Leo threw down the utensils and buried his head in his arms. The knife and fork bounced off the table and onto the floor, taking a hard-boiled egg with them. Wolfie scurried to scarf it down.

  “We should put the blood up first,” said the sheriff. “That’s our best protection. It helped Creed out there. It’ll help us.”

  “Look,” said Lev, “I’m not an observant Jew, but I do know that no one has done that for a thousand years. The larger point is to have a meaningful ceremony.”

  “We need the blood,” Dave said. “I don’t think I can relax enough to eat before it’s done.

  I might throw up.”

  “Me, too,” said Rachel. “I can’t take it.”

  “Nonsense!” Beatricia slapped the Bible shut. “Nuno Sievers left his cellar but he’s not strong enough to fly all the way here. I can feel him resting in a tree top, gathering energy. We have plenty of time. Let’s do it right.”

  “We’re doing our best,” said Dave.

  “Okay,” said the sheriff. “I obviously don’t know what the hell to do. I’m a Methodist. But I’ll tell you this. We should probably go with Lev. He’s the one who knows, at least a little bit.”

  Lev shook his head. “No, I don’t. Not really.”

  “Let’s have a vote,” said Rachel.

  “Wait a minute,” said Dave. “This is not a democratic issue. It’s a spiritual issue.”

  “Let me make something clear.” Lev frowned, his scar crinkling. “I haven’t been to a Seder since I was ten. At temple I flirted with girls and read comic books. I never had a Bar Mitzvah. Now, I’m dating a Catholic.”

  “But you’re still a Jew.” Creed cleaned his fingernails with his pocketknife and looked up. “Ethnically, I mean.”

  “Stop arguing, all of you.” Rachel said. “Go wash your hands. Everyone.”

  “They’re washed,” said Dave.

  “Yeah, but…” Lev shook his head and sighed. “You gotta do it again. We walk to the bowl at the end of the table. One by one. Pour water on the right hand first, then the left. Let’s do it.”

  He walked across the dining room and drummed his fingers on the top of the two boys’ heads, his signal for them to copy him.

  Lev dribbled water three times on each hand held over the bowl. “And don’t say any prayers while you’re rinsing.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” said Zack.

  “Me neither,” said Leo.

  When it was Leo’s turn, Lev helped him lift the pitcher. “One, two, three,” he said. “Now give me your left hand.”

  Everyone else circled to the end of the table. “Thank God you’re Jewish,” said Creed.

  “I’m not.” Lev shook his head. “So drop it.”

  “Don’t say that at the table,” said Rachel, holding a finger to her lips. “They can hear you.”

  “How do you know?” said Lev, whispering.

  “I don’t really know how,” said Rachel. “But I do.”

  “Now you sound like your mother,” said Dave.

  She squirmed in her chair and eyed the scalloped edge of her paper plate. She was beginning to sound like Beatricia. She tilted her head toward the door. “I hear a pulsing of primordial, gelatinous grunts. They’re smoky green. Trying to squeeze through the astragals of the house. But they’re turning into balls. Bouncing off the doors and getting stuck in the grass.”

  “That’s pretty far out, Rachel.” Dave rolled his eyes.

  “Yep. It’s way out west.” She glanced at her mother.

  “You’re doing well, Rachel.” Beatricia nodded. “Far out or not.”

  “Isabel says this is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to her in her whole death,” said Zack.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.” Dave snapped.

  Zack shook his head and glared down at the beet salad.

  Leo cocked his head, eyes boring straight into his father’s. “If you could talk to Isabel like Zack can, Dad, then you wouldn’t be yelling.”

  “I’m not yelling,” Dave lowered his voice.

  “Yes, you are.” Leo picked up his knife and fork off the floor, wiped them on his jeans, and played another drum roll.

  Rachel glanced over at Dave, whose head was lowered. She felt a vague backwater of guilt slosh over her. She was enjoying Leo’s backtalk on some level. She liked him defending his brother.

  “Isabel is telling me too, Zack,” said Rachel. “She’s whispering it.” Rachel felt her face flush, first with triumph, then with the heat of fear rising in her cheeks.

  A noise of bleating, like goats or sheep, emanated from the four cardinal points outside the house where the flaming specters stood their watch.

  “Did you hear that?” Wise laced his fingers together into a church steeple.

  “Yes,” said everyone in unison.

  “What’s next, Lev?” Wise tugged on the cuffs of his shirt, as if he were cold and trying to cover his hands. He looked at his watch.

  “Well, take it with a grain of salt.” Lev shrugged. “I feel like a full-blown lunatic. This is a faux Seder, one that may or may not fool Nuno Sievers.”

  Rachel was tired of Lev’s modest disclaimers. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Sievers is nuts,” Dave said. “With no direction, except to come here and exact vengeance—or so we think.”

  “Tortured,” said Rachel. “His soul’s fragmented.”

  “Now you understand,” Beatricia said. “I believe he’s a tempest. I say he’ll be fooled, and I also say he’s not ready to blow his way here yet. I say we should
have the meal.”

  “I say we should control what comes out of our mouths,” said Rachel, wondering if ghosts could hear mind chatter. “A thought will kindle a flame.”

  A moment of silence. Then Zack, who had been resting his forehead on the paper plate, looked up, tears in his eyes.

  “Isabel says we should take a vote.” Zack pressed the palms of his hands against his eyebrows. “I don’t need to be here. I want to be with Isabel. Forever.”

  Rachel felt tears burning the back of her eyes. “Isabel’s dead. You can’t do anything about that. She wants you to live.”

  He turned his damp face toward Rachel. His grief came rushing at her like a train.

  She touched his cheek with the back of one hand. “She needs you to live. That’s why she told you to leave the house.”

  Zack looked toward the staircase. “But—I miss her.”

  Beatricia patted his shoulder. “Let’s vote now.”

  “Okay,” said Rachel. The end might be hurling itself toward their home, an uncontrollable meteor. But maybe Nuno would lose power instead of gaining it. “Let’s vote. All those who think we should bloody the doors first, raise your hand.”

  Only Rachel and Dave lifted a palm. The boys shook their heads in disapproval. “Don’t kill Fluffy and Powderpuff,” Leo said with a sob.

  “Leo’s right,” said Zack. “Can’t we just use beet juice?”

  “This is not a democracy,” repeated Dave.

  “And not a vegetarian ghost,” quipped Creed.

  “Mean,” said Leo, under his breath.

  “All those who want to eat the Seder meal first,” Rachel paused, “tell me now.”

  Beatricia, Lev, and the sheriff raised their hands. Both boys flung their hands up, but Rachel counted over them.

  “Three votes for eating the Seder meal first and two for spreading the blood, now,” said Rachel, eyeing Creed. “George Creed, I insist you vote.”

  “I vote let’s eat,” said Creed. “I’m hungry. I’ve eaten under worse conditions.”

  “Worse conditions?” said Rachel. “Really? And what would those be?” She shook her head. “Forget it, George.”

  “And forget the chickens,” Creed said. “We can use my blood. I smeared it on the stall doors. It worked.”