Passover

by Aphrodite Anagnost

There was a chorus of “yeses” from the boys.

  “Well,” said the sheriff, folding his hands behind his head, “I guess blood is blood.”

  “Blood is blood,” said Rachel. “Sacrifice or not.”

  Rachel’s mind was overactive, racing through scenarios. But the burden seemed to fall on Lev full force. He was worn out. The scar at the corner of his lip got deeper. He began scratching out words on loose leaf in red pen, squinting, face pinched, like he was exhausted by all this need to remember. She studied him and thought of the human disasters, like this one, in the name of religion. Only when she unfolded her napkin and put it on her lap did she realize her hands were shaking.

  Rachel, willing her tremor away, struck a match and lit the five wicks in the dented silver candelabra that stood between the Seder plate and a glass of wine for Elijah. She leaned over Beatricia’s scraped-up captain’s chair and balanced the match on the edge of a saucer.

  Her mother flipped open the Bible to a dog-eared page, highlighted yellow, and pushed it out to a perfect presbyopic reading distance.

  “For the Prophet Elijah!” Lev repositioned a filled goblet on the white cloth, pressing so hard he made the table’s legs squeak. “Open the door to let his spirit in.”

  “No,” said Dave.

  “Bad idea,” said Creed.

  “You’ll let in the wrong spirit,” said Rachel, nodding.

  “Isabel says to keep the door shut,” said Zack as if listening to distant whispers.

  Leo picked up his silverware and played a flam tap on the table’s edge.

  “Leo!” said Rachel. She glared first at his utensil-bearing hands, then into his iron-skillet pupils.

  “According to legend,” Lev said, raising his glass in salutation. “Elijah takes a drop of wine from every Seder, then bottles it for the poor. The cup of Elijah, the promise of a messiah.”

  “You remember a lot,” said Wise, clinking his goblet with Lev’s.

  “Not really.” His voice was flat. Rachel noticed one eyelid was twitching.

  The bleating outside resumed from every direction. Like a band of sheep. What wonder of nature was causing the cries? Why not meowing, humming, purring, or growling? A bleat was the sound a goat or sheep made due to its unique vocal cord anatomy. These ghosts, golems, scarecrows, whatever they were, seemed to have human anatomy, or at least shadows of it. Where did the endless bleating come from?

  Beatricia nodded to her son-in-law. “And you shall tell it to your son that day, saying, ‘Because of this, God did for us, when He took me out of Egypt.’”

  Fingering the top of his wine glass, Dave was slouched at one end of the table. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “Time for wine,” Creed said.

  Rachel blocked her mind from the sounds surrounding the house just like she’d blocked her hand tremor. She shut her eyes and saw the green balls outside again, like tiny planets of fireflies. Flattening, deflating, and quivering in the grass like eggs about to hatch.

  “I believe…I believe…I believe,” she said under her breath. She pinched her own thigh to see if she was truly awake. She looked at Dave and felt the edges of her lips turn up as she thought of Socrates. “I believe… I believe… I believe,” she whispered to herself as her mind flashed to the Cowardly Lion, who, unlike her, was trying to believe a negative: “There’s no such thing as ghosts! There’s no such thing as ghosts!” That was one stupid lion.

  Lev handed Dave the sheet of paper, notes scratched out in red ink. He squinted and cocked his head, deciphering the scrawl. “Uhhh… welcome to our Seder.”

  Rachel squeezed her eyes to shut out thoughts about green eggs and their hatchlings. “We were slaves in Egypt.” Dave faltered, took a sip of wine and read on.

  Rachel stared through the window at the empty house across Burnt Chestnut, eyes scanning the lawn for the illuminated hands of specters that seemed to have vanished. Did the pouring of the wine have something to do with their disappearance? Or perhaps it was the fumes of the grapes released into the air in the decanting. But what about Nuno? She searched the branches of the crape myrtles at the road’s edge for any newly arrived dark form distinct from scarecrows or little green spheres. But she didn’t see one. Not yet.

  Dave cleared his throat, lifted his glass, and nodded at Rachel. “But now we’re free.”

  Lev cleared his throat, pressing his thumbs into his temples. “What are the four kinds of children, Dave? It’s on your paper.”

  Dave flattened the paper out on a small, unoccupied spot on the table and dabbed with his napkin at a dribble of wine that had stained the page. “The wise child, the silent child, the wicked child, and the simple child.”

  “How do we deal with those children?” Lev’s eyelids had the loose, wet look of a tired animal’s.

  Dave glanced at Zack, then at Leo, who seemed to be monitoring the time it took to answer. “I have no idea.” The lines on his forehead grew deeper.

  Lev raised his glass. “First, drink more wine. Blessed are you, Lord our God. Ruler of the universe, creator of the fruit of the vine.”

  Everyone raised his glass and took a swallow. Leo made a face.

  Dave looked at the clock, then at Lev. “Do I need to come up with answers to these questions, Lev?” asked Dave, eyes red and dry. He looked back at the clock.

  “You don’t have to come up with anything. They’re on your paper.” The room around Rachel seemed to be growing pale.

  “To the wise child, explain Passover.” Lev looked straight at Zack and selected a stalk of celery. “We dip this karpas in saltwater because our tears taste salty. Our people cried in Egypt when we were slaves.”

  “To the silent child,” said Dave, drumming fingers on the arm of his chair, “explain Passover loudly.”

  “To the simple child,” said Lev, pointing to himself, “explain Passover slowly.”

  Dave dropped the paper. It fell to the floor like a leaf, carried by the draw of the wood stove. “I, uh, can’t do the next one.”

  Zack rose and picked up the Four Minute Haggadah. He placed it on the table before Dave, then set the wine glass on it like a paperweight.

  Lev coughed. “To the wicked child…show him your evil eye and intimidate him in front of the relatives. Dave, keep reading.”

  “Blessed are you,” recited Dave. “Lord our God, ruler of the universe, creator of the fruit of the earth.”

  Lev lifted the white cloth from the matzoh plate. “We take half of the middle matzoh to be the afikomen, which means dessert.”

  “That’s Greek, children.” Beatricia emptied the second bottle into her glass, keeping a pinky extended. She held the wine up to the candelabra, swirling the ruby liquid in the dim candlelight.

  Rachel frowned as her mother sniffed the cabernet. Oh well. Perhaps Beatricia’s “grand etiquette” would help. There were, after all, scarecrows with flaming palms circling their home intermittently.

  “We’ll hide half the afikomen, eat the rest, and say a blessing,” said Lev. “Matzoh represents the suffering of our people when they were slaves.”

  Rachel turned to be sure her children had food in their mouths, then put a matzoh in hers. “Now we ask four ceremonial questions,” said Lev. “But I don’t remember what they are and I don’t remember the answers.”

  “Just pretend,” she suggested.

  “All right,” said Dave, glancing at the window. “I’ll ask the questions.” He cleared his throat. “Why are we doing this?”

  “To save our lives, Dave?” said Rachel.

  He shrugged. “That might not be the answer.”

  “Let’s hope those things out there don’t care,” said Rachel. “Listen, if we’re going to do this, let’s say something smart.” She lowered her head for a moment. “To give thanks for God leading us to freedom.” She looked at Dave. His pupils reflected the bowl of purple cabbage in front of him.

  Purple. A holy color.

  “Why do we eat only unleavened bread on Passover?”


  “The Jews were in a hurry,” said the sheriff. “And so are we. Not enough time for the bread to rise.”

  “I think that’s right,” said Dave.

  “It is,” said Lev.

  “Okay,” Dave said. “Last question. I always thought tradition said to eat the Passover meal lying down. So why are we doing it sitting up?”

  “That’s a good question,” said Beatricia.

  “Because we don’t know what we’re doing and we don’t have any place to stretch out.” Lev put his lettuce-speared fork down and suddenly glanced at the window as if he expected the ghouls to come crashing through.

  Rachel followed his gaze. A cold pasty sweat plastered her jeans to her thighs. The tops of her socks felt tight, as if her toes were being strangled.

  The boys looked at each other, then at Lev.

  “Why can’t we just lie down?” said Leo. “Like, on the floor.”

  “Time for the Passover story,” said Lev. “Who wants to tell it?”

  “Who knows it?” said Dave. “Guess you’re elected.”

  Lev finished his third glass of wine and everyone followed suit, like line dancers learning the Electric Slide. Rachel pushed the doubt out of her head. “I believe I believe… I believe. We will live.”

  Lev’s voice seemed to purr. And by the time the plagues had released their venom on Egypt, she was on her third glass of wine of the required four. She focused on the sound of Lev’s velvety telling of the story, soft as the wine, and forgot for minutes the spooks outside.

  Then, disturbing the welcome fog that had risen from the wine and the words, she closed her eyes and caught a glimpse of some dark, feathered creature climbing down from a treetop at the west side of Ewell’s house. She blinked to shut out the clear vision, as if captured on a movie reel, of the burning, writhing ghost of Nuno Sievers rolling on soaked grass. He became invisible for a moment as if the rain puddles had squelched his flames, leaving only the blackness of the night. She breathed deep into her belly. For just a moment, her mind was free of him. But steam rose where the puddles had been. His embers reignited into red coals covering a humped mass that emitted a green glow. There rose a shape like an orangutan: furless, ashen, but winged, as if perhaps dipped in tar and set aflame. It scrambled to its stumpy legs and screamed in pain, staggering forward. The feathers of its blackened wings were growing longer. Soon it would be ready to fly.

  “And now for another glass of wine,” said Lev.

  Dave poured more wine in the glasses around the table. Everyone raised his or her cup.

  The children touched tiny sherry glasses with a clink.

  “Blessed are you Lord our God ruler of the universe creator of the fruit of the vine,” said Lev.

  From her seat, Rachel peered around the corner to the foyer and looked at the wandering clock as it told the wrong time.

  After the explanation of the Passover, matzoh, maror, and karpas, Lev stood. “Somewhere in here we need to wash our hands again,” he said. “I’m not sure but this feels right.”

  She rose and got behind him; everyone else lined up behind her.

  “This time, we pray. ‘Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to wash our hands.’” After the sharing of the afikomen, they ate the fruit and nut paste, the beets and the hard-boiled eggs.

  Rachel took a sip of wine, matzoh melting on her tongue into something like Holy Communion. She pushed her glass away and finished the unleavened bread, every crumb on her plate. What she really wanted was an Oreo.

  “I believe, I believe, I believe we will survive.” She whispered the mantra to herself as again the newsreel of some horrible collection of agony that was once Nuno Sievers projected onto the screen of her mind, exposing his lipless charred mouth, his skinless hunched form, emaciated, all the fat having melted from his muscle.

  Dave clinked the bottle against her glass, dribbling only a few drops into the bottom of the cup. He did the same for the children, then meandered around the table filling the rest of the glasses. “Do those things out there know how many glasses we’ve had? Can they count to four?”

  “No way,” said Creed. “Don’t worry. We’ve had plenty.”

  Lev walked to the window and stared through the wavy glass. “I’m worried. I don’t know the responsive reading we’re supposed to do now.” His voice deflated. “I don’t know any of the songs we’re supposed to sing. All I can do is conclude the Seder and I’ll have to invent some words. I’m sorry.”

  “Go ahead and make it up,” said Rachel. “It’s okay.”

  “I’ll try.” He leaned forward, still looking out the window. He cocked his head, pressed his forehead against the glass, then faced the others at the table. His face was pale and sweaty. He shook his head, biting his cheek. He sighed. “There are some little green shiny creatures in the grass. They look like moles.”

  Everyone but Rachel and her mother ran to the window. “We’ve seen them before,” said Rachel. “Ectoplasm.”

  There was a light knock on the porch door. It came again; again, faintly, then louder. “Shhhhhh,” said Beatricia, a finger to her lips.

  As if an order for dispersal had been given, everyone separated. Some went back to the table, others to various positions around the room. Creed picked up a rifle and pointed at the door. Rachel ignored Dave’s arm, which sought to restrain her, and went to see who was there.

  “Get away from there.” Dave’s command was punctuated by the cock of Creed’s rifle. Rachel looked through the large glass pane, seeing nothing but blackness. Then backed away.

  The door slowly opened, leaving Tripper Enwright framed in the entrance like a grotesque artwork hung in a museum. He was dripping from the rain. His huge head bobbed on a scrawny neck that leaned this way then that.

  “Enwright,” Rachel muttered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good evening.” The district attorney took a step into the room and removed his hat. He stepped over to the table and took the empty seat that’d been left for the prophet Elijah. “Don’t stand on my account.” He gestured with a tiny hand for everyone to sit down.

  “That’s not your seat,” said Zack.

  “True,” said Enwright, “yet, I am availing myself of it. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

  “That door was locked,” stammered Rachel, her own words causing an icy flood of terror to course down her back. Again, she felt herself to be dreaming. The sensation so undesired, so bothersome, it caused a flash of anger.

  “Evidently, it wasn’t,” said Enwright. “I fear you folks have become disorganized.”

  “I’ve a mind to run you in,” said the sheriff. “Breaking and entering. Trespassing.”

  “Do sit down,” said Enwright. “Everyone, please. You can put down the rifle, Mr. Creed. Someone tell the Jew that this is no pogrom. In fact, judging by the obvious, it looks like a Seder. Is this a Seder? Who are you trying to fool with it?”

  “That’s none of your business,” said the sheriff, taking a seat, pointing a cocked finger between Enwright’s eyes.

  “That door was locked,” said Dave, taking a seat beside the sheriff. “How did you open it? And how did you get by those creatures in the yard—and the green balls.”

  “Creatures in the yard? Green balls? Are you all right?” Enwright frowned. “I didn’t see anything like that…no creatures, no balls…and I opened the door by walking up to it and turning the knob. How do people usually get into a place?”

  “He’s a liar,” said Lev, sitting down at the table.

  “You’re the liar,” said Enwright, “All Jews are. They lie to anyone not in their clan.”

  “Shut your mouth,” said Lev.

  “Since the time of Moses, your people have developed laws that are commendable…‘Thou shall not steal,’ ‘Thou shall not kill,” ‘Thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself.’ But never have you practiced them with any but your own kind. Your God has ordere
d murder, rape, and the pillage of Goyim.”

  “Get out of here, Enwright,” said Dave.

  “Who’s murdered innocent people as witches and embroiled the world in wars that have slaughtered millions?” Lev said, crossing his arms. “Look no further than your people.”

  “That’s enough,” snapped Rachel.

  “I checked the door earlier.” Beatricia made the sign of the cross.

  “So did I,” said Creed.

  “Maybe he picked the lock,” said Zack.

  “I think you have a lot of explaining to do,” said the sheriff, “What are those things out in the yard and what do you know about what’s going on here?”

  A slight smile came to Enwright, his neck tottering, head bobbing. When he smiled, white teeth shone in the black shadow of his stubble.

  “I don’t know anything about anything in the yard. Or what you say is there. All I know is that there’ve been some murders. And that you all are holing up here instead of getting out of Dodge.”

  “What do you know about Nuno Sievers?” Wise said.

  “Sievers,” mused Enwright, frowning. “That’s going back some years. He was an insane ex-writer who died in a shack fire about a mile from here, back in the woods.”

  “As I’ve discovered,” said the sheriff. “And you defended his killers.”

  “They were innocent, Sheriff,” said Enwright, “Good boys. Every one of them has made something of himself.”

  “That may be,” said the sheriff. “Now, let’s circle back a little bit. Tell me how you got past those things in the front yard. Let’s see. You pulled up in your car, got out…”

  Enwright raised both hands, palms upward. “Sheriff, I’m telling the truth. There was nothing out there but darkness, far as I could see.”

  Dave got up, walked to the window, and looked out. “There’s nothing there now,” he said. “I can’t account for it.”

  Rachel went over as well. She looked out. Nothing. This insect, Enwright, knew everything about what was going on—the specters, the slimy green balls, the murders, animal magnetism, Nuno Sievers playing out the role of the Angel of Death. She was sure of it. The little freak could save all their lives if he would only talk, but he wouldn’t. If she had the nerve, she would take a rifle and—