I smelled Barbra’s sweat under her Victorian sleeves. The chicken stunk. My mother looked sad.
‘She know the words? You need help? Abbi, help Barbra.’
‘Daddy, no,’ Abigail whined.
‘Regga,’ Barbra mumbled. She closed her eyes. She seemed sluggish. I knew she’d been drinking all day again.
‘Come on, Baruch atah Adonai…’
‘Stop!’ my mother said to my father. ‘Stop speaking.’
Stop drinking.
My father was compulsive. He had to cough to shut himself up. Barbra towered in silence above all of us. I looked at my sister. She looked like she was going to cry. I could hear mites in the air. I could hear the air beat. Then Barbra cupped both her hands over her eyes. The knuckles pointed out. It was as if her body shifted left. Our five-pointed chandelier hung like a crown over her head.
‘I want to thank God.’ Barbra started speaking so slowly. ‘I thank the mother in the house, the mother who takes care of her children more than herself.’
Barbra paused. The light hit her knuckles, illuminated her hairs. ‘The mother who now also takes care of herself.’
My father coughed again loudly. ‘What kind of a brucha is this?’
Barbra let her hands drop. But her eyes were still closed. Her eyelids were vibrating. My father could not be silent for this.
‘She’s got the matches right in front of her. What’s she doing?’ my father hissed.
I wanted to die. It occurred to me that what we’d done in my room was dehumanizing.
Abbi closed her eyes just like Barbra. She fluttered her eyelids. My mother inched her chair closer. Female silence wove a strange fuzz. I felt a ball in my throat made of porcelain.
‘Come on, Ruth, this shouldn’t take so long.’
‘Daddy, be quiet,’ Abigail said.
I swallowed. It was difficult. In silence, she swayed. My throat started to hurt. It was sweltering.
‘Barbra,’ my mother said softly, ‘is everything okay?’
Abruptly, Barbra opened her eyes. She broke off a match from the package and swiped it too hard. The flame of it flared up triple-size.
‘Easy now,’ my father laughed. ‘Don’t burn the place down.’
We all stared at the flame. Barbra stared inward. With one lit-up and sinuous hand over the other, Barbra pitched toward the candles and started to chant.
‘Abeytu Anteh Baruk Neh, Amlakachin yezemenat Nigus …’
I breathed in and out. My skin prickled. All her gruffness was gone.
‘Yemedanin Menged Yemeese Tilin …’
Barbra lit both of the candles, eyes glossy. Heart blood pumped inside my eardrums.
‘Be-meseeh Eyesus, i’su Buruk New, Ameyn.’
Then Barbra blew out the match. My father was finally silent. A stream of smoke rose to our dining room ceiling. Abigail mouth-breathed. Barbra covered both eyes again.
‘Aren’t we going to say the Hebrew prayer, too?’
My mother glared at my father. She had left him completely. I tried to swallow the little white ball in my throat again and again.