You knew it. It is your fault. You wish your parents were here.
“Yes,” you say slowly.
“With the typewriter?” he says, leaning closer.
You look down at your lap and notice a little stain on your navy pants, some dried milk from breakfast. You scratch at it and look back up. “Um, I guess so.”
“Miss Field requested that you spend your lunches typing? Some of the other kids say you also do a lot of typing during class.”
“Well, I,” you say and swallow. “Maybe my parents should come in?”
“Ariel, you’re not in trouble. We just want to know the facts. So is that true?”
“I did type during lunch. Typing is easier than handwriting for me. I was practicing. But I wanted to. She didn’t make me.”
“During lunch,” he says. “The other kids type, too, during class?”
You nod.
“Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
“Is Miss Field in trouble?” you ask. “Because she’s helping me a lot.”
“No one is in trouble. But teachers aren’t supposed to request extra time with students without going through the proper procedures.”
It sure sounds like she’s in trouble. You both sit for a few seconds. Then Chris Heaton’s words play in your ears.
“I also want to talk to you about something,” you say, sitting up straighter.
“Okay,” Mr. Wilson says, looking surprised.
“I’m being bullied by a classmate. He’s always picking on me.”
Mr. Wilson clasps his hands behind his head again. “Is there anything you’ve done to provoke him?”
“Something I’ve done?” you ask, pointing to yourself. You wish you could be Wonder Woman right now and lasso Chris into this room, making him confess.
“Yes. I find that these conflicts are usually a two-way street.”
“Oh,” you say and think for a second. You should probably just leave. What made you think that telling the principal about Chris would do anything? But then you think about everything that’s happened. You think about how brave Leah has been. And Raj.
You clear your throat. Then you look at Mr. Wilson. “There is something,” you say.
He smiles. “I’m glad you’re taking responsibility,” he says. “So what do you think you’re doing that’s bothering him?”
“Being Jewish,” you say with the straightest face you can. “That’s what I’m doing to bother him.”
How to Swallow a Bag of Rocks
That night, the phone rings after dinner as you help Ma clean up.
“No, that can’t be true. Are you sure? How awful,” Ma says and sits down, as pale as the white table. She puts her hand on her forehead.
“Sylvia,” Daddy says. “Who is it?”
She puts her hand over the receiver. Leah, she mouths.
“Is it the baby?” he asks with a panic in his voice you’ve never heard.
Ma shakes her head. “Martin Luther King Jr. was shot,” she says. “Leah just heard it on the radio.”
After Ma hangs up, you all hurry over to the television and watch Walter Cronkite on the CBS evening news. He announces that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated that evening at his hotel in Tennessee and died in the hospital.
“This world is sick! Just sick!” Ma says, yelling at the television. She puts her hand over her mouth and shakes her head as she watches.
“What kind of person would want to kill him?” you say. It makes you feel as if you’ve swallowed a bag of rocks.
“First Kennedy, now Dr. King. Who’s next? There are going to be more riots, I tell you. All over this whole farkakte country. And why shouldn’t there be? This is pure evil. It’s madness,” Daddy says.
“Really, riots all over?” you say, your stomach twisting.
“Shush,” Ma says to Daddy. “Don’t frighten her.”
You think of when Jane quoted Dr. King: Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Maybe there just isn’t enough love. Maybe there never will be.
Daddy answers Ma in Yiddish, and then they go back and forth mostly in Yiddish, too. You can’t tell if they’re arguing with each other or the news, but there’s no stopping them when they get like this. You don’t know what to do, and you don’t know how to feel, so you go into your room and take out a piece of paper. You grip the pen and stare at the paper, but no words come.
The next evening, Ma insists that you all go to Friday-night services, and before sundown, she lights the candles for Shabbos. She motions you over to stand with her and lets you light the first one. Then she lights two more and waves her hands over the light. You watch the way she waves the flames toward her, the way she puts her hands over her eyes and recites the blessing. You used to feel annoyed by how dramatic she looked when she did this, but it also made you ashamed because it didn’t mean the same thing to you. Now you understand it doesn’t matter anymore what it means to you, because you can see what it means to her.
At the service, Rabbi Ackerman talks about Dr. King and says he was a friend to the Jewish people and that we all must continue the fight for equality and justice together. He says Kaddish, the mourner’s prayer, for Dr. King. People hang their heads. You’ve never seen so many grown-ups crying.
On the drive home, the news announcer on the car radio says riots are happening in many cities because of the assassination.
“What about New York City? Are Leah and Raj okay?” you ask. Daddy says there was some unrest in Harlem and Brooklyn last night and a big march today through Times Square, but things have quieted down.
“What are riots, exactly?” you ask your parents. That’s the word you’ve been hearing on the news for a long time, that Black people are rioting.
Neither of your parents say anything at first. Then Daddy clears his throat.
“Well, people are very upset. They’re angry.”
“Who exactly is angry?” you ask.
“Well, Black people are angry.”
“At white people, right?”
“Well, yes, but—” Daddy says.
“Because they aren’t treated equally by white people?” you say.
“Yes,” Daddy says. “And they’re angry because Dr. King was trying to change things, and now he’s been killed, and it’s very tragic.”
“So does that mean things won’t change now?”
“Well, it’s up to us to continue his message,” Daddy says.
“His message of peacefully protesting. Nothing is solved by violence,” Ma says.
“But what if we don’t continue his message?” you ask.
“We will,” Ma says. “Max, let’s turn off the radio. I’ve had enough.”
Daddy shuts off the radio, and you ride in quiet, but after a minute you have another question. “So is a riot when a protest gets violent? Like when people get so angry because nothing is changing and they don’t know what else to do?”
“I suppose so,” Daddy says.
“But why does the news always say riots? Why don’t they say protests?”
“Please, Ariel! That’s enough questions for one day,” Ma says. “Things will be okay; let’s just get home.”
You bite your lip, feeling angry at Ma. Leah always said Ma liked things with clear answers, but nothing seems to have clear answers anymore. You think about the word anger. Then you think about the word hate. They seem like different things to you.
Back home in your apartment, the smell of stuffed cabbage and the sight of Daddy’s challah and honey cake make you feel safe, but you know lots of people don’t feel safe today.
The three of you sit down, and Daddy pours some wine for himself and Ma and gives you a little grape juice. He says kiddush and you all drink. Then he uncovers the challah and says another blessing. He passes the plate to you, and you twist off
a golden-brown piece of challah and sink your teeth into the cakey bread.
With everything going on, you’ve put the sale of Gertie’s in a faraway corner of your mind, but it comes rushing back as you taste the challah. “Daddy?” you ask, your mouth full.
“Finish first,” he says.
You chew and swallow.
“Are you going to still make challah for us on Friday nights? After Gertie’s closes?”
Ma looks at her lap. Daddy reaches out and tousles your hair.
“Sure, Ari,” he says. “I’ll try.”
“When do the other people take over, again?”
“Hoping to close in three weeks, but they’ve moved the date twice already,” Daddy says.
“Maybe it’s a sign,” you say.
“How do you mean?” Daddy asks.
“A sign telling you not to give up on your dream.”
“Ari, darling,” Ma says. “Let’s try to have a nice dinner and not think about difficult things.”
You cross your arms, feeling frustrated at Ma again, but before you can think of what else to say, the phone rings. Ma and Daddy stiffen. Normally Ma doesn’t like to answer the phone during Shabbat dinner.
“It could be Leah,” Daddy says. Ma nods. You hold your breath. No more bad news, you pray.
“Hello,” Daddy answers. “No. No, thank you.” He hangs up and sits down.
“Sales call,” he says. Ma rolls her eyes.
You eat. You eat more challah. You eat the stuffed cabbage. You eat the mashed potatoes. Then the phone rings again.
“Leave it. They’re just harassing us,” Ma says. It rings ten times and stops. No one says a word. You take a sip of grape juice. Daddy has some more wine. Ma wipes her mouth and sighs. You look at her plate. She hasn’t eaten much, only a few bites of potatoes.
“What if I worked more after school? What if you raised the prices or closed earlier? There must be more you can do,” you say.
Daddy wipes his mouth and looks at you over his napkin. “I know the bakery has been a second home to you, but we don’t want to be in debt forever. Maybe we’ll own another bakery someday. A better one.”
“A better one?” you ask. “There isn’t a better Gertie’s. Gertie’s just is. Like me. Like Leah.”
“Ariel, Gertie’s isn’t a person. It’s just a shop,” Daddy says.
“Not to me,” you say and cross your arms.
Daddy starts to say something, but then the phone rings again, and rings and rings.
“Oh, I can’t stand it,” Ma says, but by the time she reaches the phone, it stops. “These salespeople, ruining our dinner like this. If they call again, I’m going to tell them a thing or two.” She starts clearing the plates. The phone rings again, and Ma leaps on it in the middle of the first ring.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves, calling at this hour,” she says. Then her face changes. She looks panicked. “What? I’m sorry, I thought it was a sales call! Now?” she says. “Are you sure? Oy, let me get a pen. NYU Hospital.”
You and Daddy stare at her. Ma mouths to you as she grabs a pen, The baby’s coming.
After she gets off the phone, she moves so fast, you just stand there, holding your plate, frozen in place. She takes it from you and dumps the rest of the dishes in the sink. She wipes down the counter and the table. She covers the bowls of food with plastic wrap and sticks them in the fridge before you and Daddy even know what’s going on.
Then she runs off to her bedroom and tells you and Daddy to be ready to leave for the hospital in five minutes. She comes back, hair in place, lipstick on, and grabs her purse.
“Let’s go,” she says.
“Maybe Ariel should stay with Jane,” Daddy says. “The city could be dangerous.”
You don’t want to wait for them to come home, not knowing what’s happening. You need to be there.
“I’m going with you.”
They don’t say anything at first.
“I don’t know,” Ma says.
“Leah needs me there. And you”—you point at your parents—“also need me there.”
You don’t wait for their response. You just get your coat, and they don’t stop you.
In the car on the way to NYU Hospital, you stare out the window. As you’re coming down the bridge onto the FDR Drive, there are police cars with lights flashing, stopping all the drivers. They ask Daddy to stop. He does, and a policeman comes to the window.
“What business do you have in the city, sir?”
Daddy tells him his daughter is in the hospital about to have a baby. The policeman hesitates. “There have been several disturbances. You’re better off coming tomorrow.”
Then Ma speaks. “Are there any disturbances by NYU Hospital?” she asks.
“I don’t believe so, ma’am.”
“Well, that settles it, then, because I’m not missing the birth of my first grandchild,” she says. Daddy looks at her. “Sylvia,” he says.
“Don’t ‘Sylvia’ me,” she says to Daddy.
“Ma’am,” the cop starts to stay.
But Ma doesn’t let him finish. “It’s my daughter. We have to be there. Please,” she says and looks at him steadily in the eye.
The cop opens his mouth to speak, but then he stands back and waves you on. You feel a wave of relief, seeing how much Ma wants to be there for Leah, how much she loves her. Even though you’re scared, this calms you.
“Will the baby call me Aunt Ariel?” you ask after a few minutes as the police lights disappear from view.
Your mother turns around. “Aunt Ariel?” she says. Then her face softens, and she looks sad. “Right, I guess so.” She turns back to Daddy. “Oh, Max, she could have been at the American Ballet Theatre. She could have gone to Juilliard.”
“You don’t know any of that,” Daddy says, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Well, now I know she won’t be doing any of that,” Ma says.
“Leah still has her whole life in front of her,” Daddy says and pats Ma’s leg.
Ma doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride. None of you do.
How to Have No Choice
Daddy parks in the garage of the hospital, and Ma speaks to the woman at the front desk. Before you know it, you’re stepping off the elevator and heading into a waiting room, where Raj is standing, looking tired and very nervous. He’s pacing and wringing his hands. Two other people are sitting near him. A woman is wearing a sweater over a long blue dress with an orange-and-gold pattern sewn in. The fabric wraps all around her. A man is wearing a tan sweater and pants. He’s older and has a mustache, but he still looks a lot like Raj.
“Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg,” Raj says quickly. “These are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jagwani.” He forgets to introduce you.
Mr. and Mrs. Jagwani stand up. You move closer, then Daddy, then Ma. You watch as the four adults awkwardly shake hands, all staring at one another. After the hand shaking, Mrs. Jagwani sits down. Mr. Jagwani and Daddy follow. You, Ma, and Raj keep standing.
“How is she?” asks Ma after a few seconds.
“The contractions are two minutes apart,” Raj says and clears his throat.
“I’m going in, room 403, right?” Ma says without waiting for the answer, and you follow her whether she wants you to or not. She walks ahead and goes into a room a few doors down on the right. You watch her go in, but you stand outside the door. You hear Leah say, “Ma!” Then a doctor’s voice, speaking low. He walks out right past you. Then you hear Leah start to cry.
You peer through the door opening and watch. You think back to that first day Leah told you about Raj—back when everything seemed like a romantic movie.
Ma stands over Leah and holds her hand. Leah sits up in the hospital bed, looking pale and sweaty.
“I can’t do it,” Leah says, tears streaming
down her face. She looks really young, sitting in the bed with a hospital robe on. “I really can’t. I can’t be a mother. I can’t be a wife. You were right, Ma. It’s going to be too hard. I’ve made a huge mistake.”
“Listen to me,” Ma says, pulling up a chair right next to her.
“Why should I? You abandoned me. I wasn’t going to even tell you about the baby until after.”
Ma starts to say something, but Leah turns away. Then her face screws up in pain. She starts breathing fast and moaning. Ma puts a hand on her shoulder.
“Because I’m here now. Just breathe through it. The doctor will be back and give you something for the pain. Count while you breathe. Follow me. Don’t think about anything else.” They breathe, and Ma counts, and Leah starts moaning some more, but then after a minute, she stops.
Ma wipes Leah’s tears and places her hand on her forehead. Leah looks at Ma with wide, frightened eyes. She’s shaking her head no. You wonder if you should be watching, but you can’t turn away. You’re frozen.
“Leah,” Ma says in a firm voice. “Right now, you have no choice but to go forward. I promise you can do this. I was nineteen when I had you, and I wasn’t half as brave as you are.”
Leah’s shoulders fall. She nods slowly. Then she sees you peeking in. “Ari,” she cries out. But before you can say anything, a doctor and a nurse come rushing into the room.
“Sorry, but you both need to leave. We’ll take good care of her,” the doctor says. “We’re going to give her something for the pain. She’ll be fine.”
“Before you know it, you’ll be holding your baby,” Ma says to Leah, giving her hand an extra squeeze. “And then you’ll decide what you think about everything.” With that, she gets up and ushers you with her down the hallway. You look back for a second, but your sister is surrounded by the doctor and the nurse. You can’t even see her face anymore.
Back in the waiting room, Raj is still pacing. Mr. Jagwani is reading the paper. Mrs. Jagwani sits quietly, looking down at her lap. Daddy sits a little farther away, looking off to the side, rubbing his chin like he does when he’s nervous. Without even thinking about what you’re doing, you go up to Mrs. Jagwani and hold out your hand.
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