Friday afternoons have a rhythm of their own.
The chicken is in the oven, the soup simmering on the stove, the kugel cooling on the counter.
The knife taps the cutting board with satisfying snaps, and a large pile of vegetables gets smaller while the salad bowls fill.
The door swings open.
“Please close the door behind you, Shmule,” I say without turning around.
The door slams, and I sigh. “Gently next time.”
“Sorry, Bubbe.”
Shmule heads straight to the stove and pops the lid off the pot, his glasses fogging from the steam as he peers at the golden liquid.
He walks over to me, and I instinctively swat his hand away as he tries to pick a cucumber out of the salad bowl.
“How’s my favorite globe-trotting grandson doing?” I ask him.
“Famished.”
I give him a mock frown. “Go put your things down, and I’ll have a hot piece of onion kugel waiting for you. Elter Bubbe’s recipe.”
That does it. In a flash he’s gone, and just as fast he’s back. The kugel is on the table with two mugs, coffee for him and tea for me.
The soup bubbles over, hissing. I lower the fire beneath it and sit down across from him.
“How was your week?” I ask.
Shmule sniffs, as if the kugel is his favorite scent. He looks at me and then at his plate.
“Es gezunterheit, mein kind,” I laugh.
He makes a bracha. I answer amen and watch as he practically inhales the steaming onion kugel. I cut him another piece as he sips his coffee.
He leans back and starts talking.
He tells me about his meeting with Charlie on the dock. About the three boats. And about Crazy Donny, who wouldn’t know two plus two if it slapped him across the face.
He describes his meeting with Donny, the words tumbling out but still coherent. His face shines as he repeats the conversation as accurately as possible, demonstrating quite an aptitude for it.
He completes the narrative and looks at me, waiting for my response.
“What did Donny say about the pictures of Tod?” I inquire.
His face falls.
“I forgot to show them to him. I… I was so excited, and I had to catch the train…” His voice trails off. He looks so disappointed.
“Did you ask him if there’s anything in the later entries? Maybe he saw a picture of Tod in the newspaper and put two and two together? Did he tell anyone about what happened?”
He toys with his fork miserably, scraping the last remnants of kugel back and forth across his plate.
“No. But Charlie said that he wouldn’t ‘put two and two together if it slapped him across the face.’”
“Shmule, use your head.” I feel sorry for him, but if he wants to succeed, he’s going to have to open his eyes and really start thinking. “From what you described, Donny seems extremely perceptive and aware. He may be a rambler, but he’s no fool.”
“You’re right,” Shmule whispers.
“And there’s always context. The accident was national news. Every gazette in the country had photographs of Tod splashed across the cover. You can’t stop at one entry. You have to keep looking.”
“What will I tell Zeide Berle?” Shmule croaks.
“Nothing. You will tell him nothing.”
A puzzled look replaces his defeated expression.
“Zeide Berle has refused to go down this route for forty-five years. He knew there was a possibility that Tod survived. All you can tell him now is that he most likely did, but you didn’t even confirm it with the pictures he gave you.
“Besides, just because he survived the cliff jump doesn’t mean he’s alive today. Just don’t mention it, and Zeide won’t bring it up. And between me and you, Tod is dead until after Shabbos. No thinking about him when there’s nothing you can do about it. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says, his usual cheerful demeanor slowly returning.
“Go get ready for Shabbos. Quickly.” I shoo him out of the kitchen.
Shmule brings his plate and cutlery to the sink and rinses them. His coffee remains on the table as he exits the kitchen, leaving me wondering whether he’s still planning on finishing it.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Little Mottle comes in and drains his big brother’s highly caffeinated beverage. “Ew, it’s so bitter.” He grimaces.
I grimace too.
It’s going to be a long night.