Amid the familial clamor and warmth that follows the prayers, a couple of empty chairs stand out as painful reminders. David and Abigail, my cousins, are noticeably missing from the dinner table. It’s strange. Their voices, which used to harmonize with the rest of us during prayers, are now absent. David had studied here at Penn State, but after graduating, he shifted base to California. The distance feels even greater knowing he’s now on the other coast. And Abigail? She’s at Emerson, probably immersed in the same rituals as we are, but with her college friends at a local shul in Maryland.
I try to imagine the two of them, their Friday evenings unfolding in stark contrast to ours. David, perhaps surrounded by his techy friends, all engaged in animated discussions about the latest coding techniques or algorithms. And Abigail, amidst her journalist buddies, might be preparing for a late-night session to analyze and critique the most recent news articles. Or create some “agit-prop”, as she told it to me one day.
I like Abigail. She talks to me a lot more than Miriam does. She’s like my big sister that I don’t get to see that often.
Jake, with his usual zest, breaks my train of thought. His eyes gleam as he discusses David, clearly proud of his older cousin’s achievements in tech. “Did you guys know David managed to restore an old Super Nintendo from ’91? He sent me pictures. It looks brand new!” He’s practically bouncing in his seat, animated in a way that makes his youth starkly evident. “He sent me this video of him wiping it down and giving it a scrub with rubbing alcohol and stuff. Only spent ten bucks on it at a garage sale in San Jose, sold it with this old game called “Earthbound” he found at the same sale for like… I don’t know, like a grand? Blows my mind how he can resurrect those things.”
A soft laughter bubbles up in the room. My Aunt Rebecca, her eyes twinkling with nostalgia, says, “Oh, David and his video games. Even when we were just kids, he’d be so lost in them that mom had to shout to get him down for dinner. It’s kind of endearing, isn’t it? Now he’s channeling that passion into a business. I’m really proud of him.”
Uncle Shelly nods in agreement, a hint of pride evident in his eyes, “Always knew that boy had the touch. Much like how I felt about Moe and me in the hardware business. It’s a good thing he’s put his skills to such use.”
“Moe and me, Moe and me, don’t forget who taught you all you know, boychik.” Pop-Pop Moe replies, shaking a spoon at Uncle Shelly playfully.
Aunt Linda gently chimes in, her voice soft yet holding a weight of wisdom. “It’s beautiful to watch our children find their path, even if it takes them far away. Every parent wishes to keep their child close, but seeing them flourish on their own is equally rewarding.” She always sort of speaks like this – like a magazine article. I used to find it extremely annoying as an irritable little tyke, but now it’s kind of endearing.
The room is thick with a mix of pride, wistfulness, and the unspoken yearning for those absent. My gaze drifts to the window, the early evening light casting a gentle glow on everything it touches. The conversations around me continue, a comforting murmur.
My mom smiles fondly, the sides of her cheeks blushing with color against her tan skin. “That sounds just like David. I remember him always being glued to those video game consoles when he was Jake’s age.” Her gaze drifts to a family portrait, where a younger David, grinning ear to ear, holds a Nintendo DS, freshly acquired for Hannukkah.
“A fuckin’ grand on an old Nintendo they don’t even make games for any more…” Uncle Shelly replies, shaking his head in what seems like exasperation. “Can’t believe it. The shit people will pay for nowadays.”
“But speaking of articles,” Miriam interjects, a little hesitantly, her fingers playing with the silver pendant around her neck, “Did anyone read Abigail’s piece on the erasure of Jewish heritage in modern media? It was… eye-opening. And made me think about the art I study.”
I gently tense my body up, preparing for a fight. Not, like, a physical fight – Abigail just tends to cause… really strong reactions. Not everyone in the family appreciates her political views like Miriam does. I don’t even pretend to understand them, although she’s tried to explain them to me a couple of times. Maybe when I’m older.
Uncle Aaron, with a mix of pride and exasperation, shakes his head. “Every time she writes, she’s on fire. Not always in the ways I’d expect or want, but she has a voice, and she’s using it. She once told me she wants to change the world one article at a time. I believe she might.”
Aunt Rebecca’s gaze softens as she adds, “Remember when she tried starting that school newspaper when she was just ten? And they said no, so she wrote a strongly worded letter and stapled it to the doors of every classroom,” she says, chuckling quietly to herself. “She got in so much trouble.”
Aunt Linda nods, her lips curving into a smile. “She came to me once, asking about the history of my family’s jewelry designs, did you know that, Rebecca, darling? That girl… she has a real thirst for knowledge.”
Uncle Shelly chortles, a little smugly. “Knowledge? She has a thirst for arguments. But that’s our Abigail. She gets under your skin and makes you think.”
Chuckling weakly at Shelly’s comment, Miriam adds, “I’ve been collaborating with her on a few projects. We’re thinking about an online magazine. Combining art, history, and journalism.”
Jake, not to be left out, chimes in, “She wants me to shoot some photos for it. My drone might come in handy.”
“A real full mishpucah.” Pop-Pop Moe comments, smiling in his eyes as he performatively winces at a small piece of gefilte fish. I know he’s playing an act up for me, the sole audience member. I smile back at him, grabbing my fourth piece of it.
I’m glad nobody’s commenting on my teeth yet. I hope it stays that way.
Aunt Linda, sipping from her own glass, chimes in, her voice light yet holding an undeniable weight. “She’s thriving at Emerson, though. They must appreciate her inquisitiveness. Journalism seems like a good fit, doesn’t it? Channeling that insatiable curiosity of hers.”
Uncle Shelly leans back, a chuckle deepening his voice. “Oh, she’s curious alright. Every article she sends my way is like a little lecture. Sometimes they’re lessons I didn’t know I needed,” he adds with a playful roll of his eyes. “Like that piece she sent about ‘anarcho-communism.’ I spent a good hour just trying to wrap my head around the concept. It’s like saying ‘jumbo shrimp’. What’s the word for that again?”
Aunt Linda’s smile softens the edges of her amusement – or maybe slight discomfort. “Oxymoron, dear.”
“Right, like ‘military intelligence’,” he cackles.
Amidst the hubbub, Jake’s persistent camera-clicking stands out, punctuating my thoughts, reminding me to stay anchored, while he digitizes the memories to commit to an eternal computer brain. The aroma of brisket wafts through the air like a miasma, and even though the smell is comforting, it only serves to intensify the weight in my chest. But it’s family, I remind myself. They mean well. They always do.
I barely register Jake turning his camera towards me until he nudges me with his elbow. “Hey, look,” he motions, and an aerial photograph takes up the screen, making me feel like I’m suddenly suspended mid-air. I blink, adjusting my vision. The world laid out below looks miniscule, a playset for kids. My eyes immediately drift to the edges of the photo, where the familiar silhouette of the Empire State Building just barely shows.
“You used your drone again, huh?” I muse, trying to divert my focus from the memory of just how high up the picture must have been taken from. I’d be scared pissless if I was up that high in person.
Jake grins, that troublemaker glint in his eyes. “Nah. Did it the old-fashioned way. Climbed.”
For a moment, I consider that, and am scared pissless. I blink, taken aback, processing. “That’s… gutsy.” The rest of the room notices the camera being passed around, as relatives scramble to look at what’s on display.
The commotion gains momentum as his dad, Uncle Aaron, catches sight of the image. His voice breaks through the clamor, sharp as a knife. “Jake! How many times have we talked about this? You’re… You can’t go monkeying around on any old fire escape that catches your eye. You’re going to get yourself killed! God forbid,”
I notice Uncle Aaron’s eyes glancing in my direction for a fraction of a second as he doesn’t finish his sentence. I pretend not to.
Jake’s posture stiffens, that classic teenage mix of rebellion and exasperation. “Dad, it’s just stairs and elevators. I know what I’m doing.”
My father, mostly quiet and uncomfortable with the spotlight, cuts in, his voice dripping with disbelief. “How the hell did you manage to get up there? Don’t they secure those places?”
Jake, now in the spotlight, shrugs confidently. “Not enough for paper clips, apparently.”
I hear Aunt Linda’s sharp intake of breath beside me, probably imagining her own kids pulling off something like this, while Miriam giggles at the anger of her father and uncle. Uncle Shelley’s reaction, though, is the most palpable. His face turns a shade redder, his fists balling up, knuckles white. “Jake,” he begins, voice trembling with controlled fury, “breaking into places is illegal.”
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The table goes silent, save for the clinking of silverware against plates. Every eye is now fixed on Jake, awaiting his response, wondering how far this familial tension will stretch before it snaps.
Aunt Rebecca’s voice, always so warm and velvety, washes over the room. “Shelly,” she begins, looking directly into his eyes, “do you remember when Ben tried to sneak some of Moe’s liquor?”
I tilt my head, attempting to navigate the labyrinth of my scattered memory. Has the incident slipped from the shelves of my mind? I’m surprised it’s not a story that’s told more frequently. I glance at my dad, who now looks extremely embarassed to have said anything. My mom, on her third glass of wine, is gently swaying from side to side to an invisible rhythm.
Uncle Shelly runs his fingers through his thinning hair, a gesture of frustration and recollection. “He was only 13,” he admits begrudgingly, the tension in his face visibly easing.
Aunt Rebecca’s lips curl into a half-smile, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Exactly,” she emphasizes, leaning slightly forward. “Ben thought he had it all figured out. But his face when he tasted it?” She giggles lightly. “He spat it out everywhere, right onto the carpet. He went on and on about how it tasted like fire and then he spent the next half-hour furiously brushing his tongue.”
“And he still doesn’t like it!” my mom shouts, enough to draw a mixture of comfortable and uncomfortable laughter.
I try to picture that – my dad, usually so composed, coughing and spluttering with a red face. I have to press my lips together to stifle the emerging giggle.
“And,” Aunt Rebecca continues, tapping a playful finger against her chin, her face mimicking a look of thoughtfulness, “I’d say Jake snapping a few adventurous photos of the city sounds marginally better than getting sloshed with the boys and racing down the 878, like some people here did.” Her eyes settle pointedly on Uncle Shelly. “Let’s not try to get a moral high ground here, Shelly.”
My mom almost spits out her drink. “You street raced? Like, with your car? While drunk?” She sputters, looking him up and down. “You?”
Pop-Pop Moe lets out a loud belly laugh. Uncle Shelly, seemingly caught in the memory of his youth, dismissively waves a hand in the air, yet a slight glint of pride betrays him. “We’re not dredging up my misadventures today. But, for the record? I was damn good at it. Just remember,” he adds with a wry grin, leaning in conspiratorially, “it’s the drunk crashers they catch, not the drunk drivers.”
Uncle Aaron’s face flushes a deep shade of red, disbelief evident in his widened eyes. “Herschel Small!” He exclaims, shock lacing his voice, and he reaches out to playfully swat at his brother-in-law with a dessert spoon. “No teaching our kids that kind of wisdom! Jake,” he adds, turning to his son, his tone suddenly serious, “your drone is where it’s at for photos like this. Keep it at that, okay?”
Jake, the eternal cheeky charmer, shoots a grin across the room, mischief practically dancing in his eyes. “Promise,” he lies.
Dessert’s been served and picked clean. The plate that once held Aunt Rebecca’s honey cake is now just a gathering of crumbs, scattered like the aftermath of a feast. My stomach feels comfortably full, and by the looks of it, so does everyone else’s. The warm hue of the room’s lighting reflects off the silverware, creating a soft, comforting atmosphere that spells home.
Jake’s shifting his weight from side to side, eyeing the desserts. The stealthy glint in his eyes gives away his intentions: he’s looking to make another grab, perhaps hoping no one will notice. Beside me, Miriam, ever-contemplative, traces patterns on the white tablecloth. Her finger slides gently over the soft fabric, either lost in a sea of thoughts or just savoring the texture beneath her fingers.
Meanwhile, Jake, not content with merely planning his dessert heist, pulls out his new camera drone. He’s excitedly showing off aerial shots taken earlier today, pointing out landscapes and candid moments captured from the sky. The coastline appears brilliant, and the roofs of houses glint in the sunlight, people waving energetically from their porches. The colors are strikingly vibrant, and the clarity’s impressive. His excitement is contagious, and for a moment, even my often-wandering attention is riveted by the images.
Then, as conversations start to taper off, creating a small pocket of silence, Pop-Pop Moe pushes his chair back. There’s an audible scrape against the floor as he stands, signaling a shift in the room’s dynamic. All chatter hushes. Whenever Moe speaks, it’s as if the very walls lean in to listen. The room’s ambiance alters, a tangible mix of respect and anticipation.
He slowly, almost ritualistically, heads to the cabinet at the end of the room. From within its wooden confines, he retrieves the shofar–a long, spiraled horn rich in history and symbolism. Its darker mouthpiece tells tales of years gone by, of countless Rosh Hashanahs and moments of reflection. It’s been blown so many times, yet its significance remains undiminished – if anything, it’s become even more important, even more holy and sacred.
Clearing his throat, Moe begins, “The shofar,” his voice deep, filled with resonance, like an old song being played on a gramophone, “is more than just an instrument. It’s a call, a beckoning, reminding us of our past, our present, and the potentialities of our future. On Rosh Hashanah, it sounds out to awaken our very essence, to shake us free from our daily distractions and ready ourselves for Yom Kippur, for judgment and cleansing. Today, God has opened up the Book of Life, and in ten days, he will close it, sealing our fates for the year ahead.”
Though this isn’t the first time I’ve heard these words, each time feels like a renewal–a grounding experience. My eyes linger on the shofar’s spiraled surface, following the intricate grooves and noting the way ambient light dances upon it, sliding through the textures like water in a waterpark.
“But beyond the religious significance,” Moe continues, not missing a beat, “it’s also a reminder of being present, of not letting life’s distractions pull us away from what truly matters.”
My thoughts wander momentarily to my own distractions, my double life of “community service” and the adventures it entails. The shofar’s call, that piercing, soul-stirring sound, mirrors the internal pull I feel whenever danger looms. The urge that drives me to act, even when I shouldn’t. Jake’s recent obsession with his camera drone flashes in my mind. A distraction, sure, but one of innocent curiosity. How different our distractions are. Is this bitterness I taste in my mouth?
Moe raises the shofar to his lips, and the room grows even quieter, if that’s possible. A palpable anticipation permeates the air. Everyone’s attention, mine included, is riveted on that ancient instrument. The first note he produces is deep, a resonant rumble that travels through the room, vibrating deep within my chest, like it’s punching me. He plays another note, and then another, each one deeper, fuller, and louder than the last.
The room fades into a deep, awful silence.
The evening has settled into a quiet lull, the house’s walls murmuring with the distant chit-chat of my family, who have scattered to the corners of the household. I’m sure Jake is out flying his drone from the guest bedroom window, while the elders of the household are off watching television, barring Aunt Rebecca, who is just silently cleaning, listening to music on big wireless earbuds.
With everyone engrossed in conversation, I find an opportunity to slip away unnoticed, pushing through the heavy kitchen door that leads to Pop-Pop Moe’s balcony. Surprisingly, it’s clear of its usual assortment of beach chairs and other storage-ables, and I immediately wonder where they could’ve went, since I didn’t see them in the garage. Maybe this house has an attic I don’t know about? I take a mental note to ask about it later.
My fingers wrap around the cool metal railing, the sensation grounding, in contrast to the swirling typhoon of emotions in my stomach, threatening nausea. The breeze plays with my hair, teasing it around my face, a gentle touch in the otherwise stifling evening. Nobody asked about my teeth, which is nice.
I barely register the soft sound of the sliding door opening again, too caught up in my thoughts. But then, a familiar voice reaches my ears, weary and thick with age but imbued with a deep warmth. “Thought I might find you out here,” Pop-Pop Moe remarks, settling down beside me. His silhouette, made more pronounced by the glow of an evening in Ventnor, is one of comfort. His eyes, always sharp despite the wrinkles that frame them, take in my expression with a knowing look.
“Heard about the spat with your parents,” he begins, not one for beating around the bush. “You know, kiddo, parents worry. Comes with the territory.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “I know,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s just… everything feels so complicated right now.”
He nods, looking out at the city (is it a city? A town?) below. “Life has a funny way of doing that,” he muses. “But you’ve got that fire in you. Your grandmother had it too.” There’s a pause, and I can almost hear the memories playing in his head. “She’d always say – you can’t control the world, but you can control how you react to it.”
I let out a long breath I didn’t know I was holding, feeling a slight weight lift from my shoulders. “Yeah,” I finally reply, “It’s just… a lot right now. More than I think I can tell you.”
He places a comforting hand on my back, the touch both reassuring and grounding, and gives me a couple of pats. “I’ve read enough comics. I know how it is. I’m sure you’ve got a nemesis or two by now,” he says, chuckling, coming up to my side.
He leans on the railing beside me, the cool night air ruffling the hem of his shirt. Below, Ventnor moves and breathes, a pulsing township beginning to die off with the advent of fall, just like the trees, as vacationers return home. Moe’s deep, aging eyes wander over it, seemingly seeing far beyond the modern apartments and traffic, deep into something I can’t recognize.
“You know, there’s this quote from the Shulchan Arukh,” he starts, his voice imbued with the familiar resonance I’ve grown to associate with stories of old, that he’s about to tell me something important. I feel my body perk up – if I had cat ears, they’d be going straight up right now. “‘There is an obligation for a man to save his friend in body, money, or the like. One who saw his fellow drowning, or threatened by thieves or by a wild animal, and could have either saved him himself or hired others to save him – and he did not – or someone who heard that gentiles or informants are plotting against someone or preparing to ensnare him – and he did not reveal this to his friend and tell him – or someone who knew that a gentile or violent man was approaching his fellow, and he could have appeased him and changed his attitude towards his fellow – and he did not appease him – in all such situations, he has transgressed, “Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor.”‘.”
He turns to me and smiles. The night, so serene before, seems to close in, pressing its very fabric against my skin. I understand his intent. He’s trying to reinforce that the power I possess doesn’t just come with the capacity for great feats, but also a moral duty, a responsibility tethered to our deep-seated beliefs, the things I have been taught since childhood.
I’m certain he’s trying to help. My parents don’t know yet about the fact that I saw someone die, just the gist of the situation. I’d be surprised if Pop-Pop Moe knew. So I’m sure he’s not trying to chide me for failing to act. I know it’s not an accusation, but it doesn’t stop it from feeling like one.
His observant eyes catch the shift in my posture, the drop in my gaze. With a delicacy that often surprises me from such a rugged old man, Moe places his hand on my shoulder, offering a wordless comfort. “Whatever it is,” he murmurs, his voice layered with the wisdom of age and experience, “you’re doing your best. And that’s all anyone can ask. She who saves one life…”
I look up, meeting his gaze. The city lights reflect in his eyes, but there’s also warmth there, a kind of understanding. “I know, she saves the whole world.” I manage to whisper back, feeling the sting of unshed tears. I reach up and clutch the shark tooth that hangs constantly around my neck now, squeezing it so hard that it feels like I’m about to cut my palm on it. “Thanks, Pop-Pop.”
Silence stretches between us, punctuated only by the ambient sounds of the city below. A dog barks in the distance. Somewhere, a car horn blares. Somewhere on this Earth, someone dies.