Love for Scale

by Michaela Greene

  Stepping around the table from place to place, Rachel carefully arranged the cutlery in order of course beside each plate. She positioned the napkins on the top plates, each wrapped neatly with a bow of dyed blue raffia. A chocolate coin sat on each side plate, and several colorful dreidels were scattered around the table, just for fun. The table’s centerpiece was a sterling silver Menorah that had been her grandmother’s prized possession until she had given it to Rachel, saying that it would ensure that Rachel would have a bright Jewish home.

  She smiled at the Menorah as she placed alternating white and blue candles in it in preparation for the evening’s festivities. It was a beautiful piece, heavy but not too ornate, and one day she would be proud to place it on her own dining room table.

  If she ever moved out of her parents’ house…

  * * *

  Dinner was called for six p.m. which came and went without a soul having knocked at the door. Rachel stood in the kitchen, arranging the latkes on an aluminum foil tray for reheating. She glanced at the clock. It was already ten after; how was she supposed to know when to have them ready for? No one was ever on time for these things.

  Screw it, who cares? She said to herself, grabbed a cold latke (unfortunately, they tasted just as good cold as they did hot), stuffed it into her mouth and shoved the tray into the preheated oven. A part of her hoped they got burnt and dried out: then she wouldn’t be tempted to eat any more of them. It was a sick joke to have Chanukah dinner fall on the day before her Weight Watchers weigh in. And, she would be missing her Monday night Aquafit class. A double whammy working in polar opposition to her diet. And if no one showed up, she’d have to eat all the food herself.

  As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Rachel wiped her hands on her apron and jogged to the door. “Hi Uncle Morty,” she said to the grizzled old man in the doorway.

  “Nice boobs,” Uncle Morty said in greeting. “They seem bigger than last time I saw you.”

  “Thanks,” Rachel said automatically, unaffected by her great uncle’s obnoxious comments. It was to be expected: no holiday would be the same without the old man making his trademark un-PC comments. She considered herself lucky; last year he had copped a feel of her mother. Amazingly Pearl had just laughed as she smacked Morty’s wrinkled and liver-spotted hand away as Rachel watched in horror.

  Apparently Uncle Morty had been leading the caravan of family cars pulling up to the Stern house. Rachel stood, allowing herself to be turned into a coat rack as each family member arrived, greeting her and draping their coat over her outstretched arms.

  “Where’s Mom?” Aaron whispered as he entered, alone.

  Rachel nodded her head toward the back of the house. “They’re still getting ready.”

  “Did you say anything?” Aaron was tense. He ran his hand through his hair.

  Rachel snorted. “Duh, no.”

  “Okay, well as far as you know, Lily’s sick. Got it?”

  “Whatever,” Rachel said. She was beginning to buckle under the weight of the coats that hung over her arms. “Can you take these coats and put them onto my bed?”

  “Sorry,” Aaron said, walking past her into the house.

  “Schmuck,” Rachel hissed.

  By the time Rachel deposited as many coats as she could possibly hold onto her bed and returned to the living room, the entire crowd had arrived. Pearl had materialized in her new outfit of matching glittery gold and black top and pants, fresh lipstick and Aqua-Netted hair. She was introducing the guests like the good hostess she was as Rachel busied herself in the kitchen, trying to avoid the rabbi. She still had a good vantage point and watched in amusement as her mother schmoozed her company.

  Standing in front of Pearl was her oldest son, Jeffery, and his new ‘friend.’ The girl was pretty, tall and thin, just the way Jeffrey liked them. She seemed shy, a nervous smile on her pretty face, her knuckles clearly turned white as she clutched her purse tightly like it was a life-preserver. They must be serious, Rachel surmised, for Jeffrey to have brought her all the way from Seattle to meet his mother at a family Chanukah dinner.

  “Hello, Jeffery, please introduce me to your lady friend,” Pearl’s voice dripped sugar from her lips like a pour of maple syrup over a plate full of matzo brei.

  Even from almost twenty feet away, Rachel could see Jeff’s face turning a deep crimson. “Uh, Mom, this is Christina.”

  Christina? Are there any Jews with Christ in their names? Rachel wondered from her vantage point in the kitchen. She put the lid back on the soup she had been stirring and ambled over to the doorway, ladle in hand. Her dad stood in the hallway behind Jeffrey, a tight expression on his face. This was not going to be good.

  Christina, who looked terrified, but attempted a smile, nodded at Pearl. “It’s nice to meet you Mrs. Stern.”

  “Likewise. What’s your last name, Christina? I have some friends who are congregants at the Beth Israel in Seattle.” And there’s the test, Rachel thought.

  Christina opened her mouth to speak, but before any sound came out, Jeff interjected. “Christina’s last name is MacDonald. She’s not Jewish, Mom.”

  Rachel dropped her ladle, the metal clanging loudly on the tiled kitchen floor. Quickly she bent down to grab it. No one had noticed.

  Pearl’s face froze. She stepped back, the smile gone from her face. “Oh, I see. MacDonald as in the restaurant?”

  Christina, who suddenly looked like she was in need of a transfusion, just stood, her arms at her sides, her right hand clutching her purse while the fingers of her left rubbed the fabric of her pants. She looked like she was going to burst into tears. Rachel could hardly blame her. Poor girl.

  Jeff spoke for her. “They don’t own restaurants Mom, her parents are teachers.”

  Pearl scowled at her son. “I’m not a jackass, Jeffrey, I was just asking so that I might get the correct spelling of your lady friend’s last name.” She looked back at the girl. “So glad you could come to our celebration of the miracle of lights.”

  Jeffery turned to his girlfriend. “What my mother means, Chrissy, is that she’s not glad you’re here, but since you are, she’ll be shoving our Jewish traditions down your throat.”

  Christina just stared at Jeff, her lip beginning to quiver.

  Pearl leaned close to her son, the wide, toothy smile only thinly veiling her fury. “Don’t you dare embarrass me in front of my guests and the rabbi,” she hissed, loud enough for Rachel to hear.

  Thank God it’s not me, thank God it’s not me, Rachel thought as she rinsed off the spoon she had dropped.

  “Enough Mother, I’ve just gotten off a plane. Can we call a truce for now?” Jeff grabbed Christina’s hand.

  Pearl nodded, her lips still pursed tightly together.

  Jeff had been smart, though, Rachel realized. If you were going to introduce a non-Jewish boy/girlfriend to Pearl, you best do it in public where there wouldn’t be as much of a scene. Jeff would get an earful later, but at least the initial shock of his transgression would have worn off.

  Tucking her scorn away for later, Pearl dismissed Jeff and poor Christina as she moved on to her other guests, the wide smile back on her face as though it had never left. “And Rabbi, you must know the Feldmans…”

  Shaking his head, Rabbi Rosen stuck out his hand toward Mrs. Feldman first. “Nice to meet you.”

  “No? You haven’t met?” Pearl was shocked, her gaze turned toward Mrs. Feldman.

  “We haven’t joined the synagogue yet,” Mrs. Feldman said, tilting her head, a weak smile on her face.

  “Well I look forward to seeing you both at shul,” Rabbi Rosen said, nodding enthusiastically.

  Rabbis had to be salespeople, Rachel thought, always on the lookout for new dues-paying congregants. A good dose of guilt didn’t hurt to seal the deal either. She smiled to herself as she turned to tend to the meatballs.

  Mrs. Feldman quickly began to explain their absence from the synagogue congregant list. “We’ve just been so busy settling in
, and with my practice at the hospital…”

  Uncle Morty sidled up behind Mrs. Feldman, so close that his chest almost touched her left shoulder. “You a doctor, sweetheart?” he asked, practically blowing in her ear.

  Mrs. Feldman looked somewhat uncomfortable with Morty’s close proximity, but smiled politely. “Yes, I’m an orthopedic surgeon.”

  “Maybe you’ll look at my hip later. And I don’t mind getting naked for you, either.”

  Mrs. Feldman’s face drained of all its blood, not that there had ever been much to begin with, Rachel noted to herself.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Feldman took a step toward Uncle Morty.

  “Morty!” Pearl yelped. Quickly she turned to Mrs. Feldman. “I’m so sorry, Barbara. Please don’t take him at all seriously.”

  “What are you talking about, Pearl? Anytime I can get a woman to look at me naked I’m all for it.”

  Rachel figured she’d better help her mother who was starting to panic: Pearl’s eyes darted from the shocked Feldmans to Uncle Morty and back. Though it served her right for not considering her invite list a little more carefully.

  Coming out of the kitchen, Rachel raised her voice. “Why don’t we all sit down,” she said. “Everyone’s place is marked at the table.” She held her arm out, pointing toward the dining room.

  Pearl gave her a silent look of thanks as the crowd disbanded and headed toward the table.

  Rachel turned back to the kitchen to get the challah ready to present to the rabbi so he could make the blessing over the meal.

  But something wasn’t right.

  “Aaron?” Pearl’s voice was loud over the chatter as she sought out her son. “Aaron? Where’s Lily?”

  Rachel froze, straining her ears.

  “She wasn’t feeling well tonight, Mom,” Aaron said.

  Chickenshit. Rachel shook her head.

  “Morning sickness?” Pearl sang, the hope in her voice thick and sweet like honey.

  Yeah, I doubt that. More like seasickness, Rachel thought as she envisioned Lily the skinny bitch in her fluorescent thong bikini dancing it up on a beach.

  Aaron laughed nervously, “No, Mom, I don’t think so.”

  “Oy, there’s a terrible flu going around,” Aunt Louise announced loudly. “It’s made my hemorrhoids flare up something terrible.”

  “Hemorrhoids?” Rachel’s Bubby Marion gasped. “How would a flu flare-up hemorrhoids?”

  Louise, always having been hard of hearing and having a tendency to yell, turned to Marion. “From the diarrhea. You know, the runs!”

  An awkward silence fell upon the room, except for Aaron’s snickering.

  Morty was the one to break it. “Oy, Louise, don’t you have anything better to talk about than your bowel movements?”

  Louise turned and glared at him. “Shut it, Morty.”

  Not one to be silenced, Morty returned the scowl. “Maybe if you got laid this decade you wouldn’t be so cantankerous. I’d be happy to oblige.”

  Really? As though senior citizens talking about bowel movements at the dinner table wasn’t bad enough, now they were talking about getting laid? Aaron broke into a loud guffaw, matched by his brother’s at the other end of the table.

  Pearl just stood, her silence evidence of her utter horror and embarrassment. This was why she didn’t normally invite the rabbi for dinner.

  Eager to provide some sort of distraction, Rachel darted out of the kitchen with the challah, aiming toward the far end of the table where she had set the rabbi’s place card. But instead of the finding the rabbi in his predetermined seat, her brother Jeff was occupying the spot. Her stomach lurched as Rachel looked up the table. She should have known. Somehow, the rabbi had ended up beside her vacant seat. Someone had switched the cards.

  She sighed, silently cursing her mother, and headed back up to the other end of the table to offer the rabbi the challah.

  The rabbi looked thoroughly amused by the sophomoric behavior of her great uncle. His eyes were fixed upon the feisty but grizzled old septuagenarian.

  Sure, what could be as charming as a dirty old man with bad breath and a penchant for embarrassing anyone within earshot? She held out the large egg bread, pointing it at the rabbi. “Would you do the hamotzi for us, Rabbi??”

  The Rabbi smiled up at her from his place next to hers. “Happy to, Rebecca.”

  She smiled back, not bothering to correct him.

  A hush fell over the room and all eyes fell upon the rabbi as he held the football sized bread. Praying silently that God saw through to give her the strength to get through the evening, Rachel stood politely listening to the Rabbi as he sang the blessing over the meal.

  At least he has a nice voice, she thought.

  As soon as he was done, she left the table and headed back to the kitchen to begin serving the meal.

  “Shall I do the brucha over the Chanukah candles? I see you don’t have them lit yet.” The rabbi offered.

  Rachel smacked her forehead; she had been responsible for the candles.

  “Oy, I meant to…” Pearl whined.

  “Don’t worry, I’m happy to do it, it’s nicer when everyone’s here.” The rabbi, despite his youth, certainly was good at public relations.

  Rachel listened as her intended (according to her mother, anyway) sang out the blessing over the Chanukah candles as she stood, ladling chicken soup out into bowls.

  Once the soup was served to everyone, she sat at her place.

  The rabbi smiled. “This soup is wonderful, Rebecca.”

  Rachel froze, her soup spoon halfway to her mouth. “Uh, thanks, but my mom made it, I’m not much of a cook.”

  Luckily for Rachel, Uncle Morty, who was conveniently sitting right across from her, had a fresh battery in his hearing aid and was feeling particularly frisky. “She may not be able to cook, but she sure can eat! Look at her, she’s a healthy girl. Too bad her chest wasn’t bigger to match her toochis.”

  Rachel looked into her bowl of chicken soup. If I stick my face in the soup, is it enough to drown me? She wondered, thinking there were worse ways to die.

  “Morty, keep it to yourself,” Pearl interjected. Rachel wanted to cheer thank you, mom. She smiled at her mother, but it was Morty who Pearl was looking at.

  “Pearl, not everyone was so blessed with the big jugs you were, I was just saying that your daughter is a big healthy girl!” Morty shrugged, obviously not understanding why he was being chastised.

  Oh my God, please kill me now. Rachel felt eleven pairs of eyes dart from Uncle Morty to her. Her face felt like it was about to explode, and she hoped if it did, it killed her quickly, unlike the slow torture she was enduring.

  “Morty, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Rachel’s been going to Weight Watchers and the Y and has lost…” She looked down at Rachel. “How much?”

  Rachel swallowed past the chalk that had materialized on her tongue. “Seven,” Rachel mumbled, shrinking down as far in her seat as she could without sliding onto the floor.

  “She’s lost seven pounds! We are just so proud of her, so much nachas she brings us.” Pearl beamed.

  A hum rose from the table full of nodding heads.

  “That’s really great, Rachel,” Rabbi Rosen leaned close to whisper his encouragement.

  Notwithstanding the fact that the rabbi had finally gotten Rachel’s name right, she still needed to get away from the table. “I have to help my dad with the turkey, please excuse me.” Rachel pushed her chair back and got up from the table with her soup bowl, avoiding all the eyes that were on her, eager to congratulate her on her weight loss. Once in the kitchen, she dumped the full bowl in the sink, no longer hungry.

  Her dad took his cue and followed her into the kitchen.

  He approached her and put his arm around her shoulders. “You okay, honey? Your mother’s very proud of you, you know. She really means well.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” Rachel said, sounding like a sulky twelve-year-old.

&nb
sp; “What’s bugging you, Rachel?”

  Are you kidding? “Nothing,” she said, trying not to pout. How can you tell your dad men find you fat and ugly and ditch you at the Chinese buffet? How can you tell him you have a secret crush on your best friend’s new boyfriend? Or that you want desperately to move out, but don’t because you’re scared of being alone?

  “Nothing’s wrong? I don’t believe you.” If he was nothing else, Harry Stern was very observant.

  Rachel looked up into her father’s eyes. “Well for starters, maybe Mom could lay off on setting me up with the rabbi? It’s really not going to happen.”

  Harry nodded. “Understood, I will have a chat with her. You want me to throw him out?”

  Rachel smirked. “No, I think we can let him eat. I’ll manage.”

  “Okay, honey. Are we good now? I have a surgery to perform,” Harry asked, pushing up his sleeves and reaching for his turkey-carving apron.

  “Well if you’re going to be talking to her anyway…” Rachel raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you let her know that although I appreciate how proud she is, announcing it at big dinner parties is a bit much.”

  Harry frowned. “Also understood, you want me to throw her out?”

  Rachel laughed, “Could you?”

  “I could try, but I’d be walking funny tomorrow.”

  Rachel chuckled again. “Fair enough then, Dad. Just have a talk with her.”

  He nodded and turned his back to her, looking over his shoulder. “Would you mind?”

  Rachel picked up the apron strings and tied them into a bow. “I guess we’ll just have to live with her. And Uncle Morty.” Rachel sighed.

  Harry turned back around and looked at Rachel. “You know he’s harmless, right?”

  Rachel nodded and smiled. “It wouldn’t be a family dinner without him.”

  Chapter 19

  Rachel ended up eating less than she expected at the Chanukah dinner: once her mother announced that she was on Weight Watchers, she couldn’t exactly stuff her face for all to see. A blessing in disguise, perhaps?