Nest (24 page)

I’m in the middle. The seats are leather. The glass is dark, I guess so that no one can look in and see Dad and Rachel with their red eyes and drippy noses.

“How are you, Chirp?” Rachel says.

“It’s a very sad time,” Dad says.

“Oh, Daddy,” Rachel says, and starts to sob again, so I lean back and Dad reaches across me to hold her and his jacket sleeve is in my face.

If I were sitting up front with the driver, I could just look out the window and have no questions asked at me and no sobbing sister and no sleeves in my face.

“I can’t believe she’s in a coffin in that hearse,” Rachel says. “I can’t believe we’re going to Mom’s funeral.”

Rachel looks at me.

I keep humming. It’s a song Mommy loves.

“Daddy,” Rachel says.

“Dad!”

“Be patient with her, honey,” Dad says to Rachel, as if I’m not there.

“Well, she could at least talk to us,” Rachel says. “And she doesn’t even cry.”

Dad sits back. Without his sleeve in my face, I can see out the window. Pitch pines.

Dad puts his hand on my leg.

If I squint, all the trees melt into dark green ocean. Pretty.

There’s a clump of people standing on a hill. Grandma, Grandpa, Clara, Mrs. Mitchell, Sally’s mom. Some other grown-ups. I wave and they wave back.

Dad says that Rabbi Greenbaum needs just a minute with us, the
mourners
, which is only Dad and Rachel and me. If Mom’s parents were alive, they would count. So would her sister, but she didn’t come,
because she and Mom didn’t talk to each other and she lives in Mississippi with her goyish husband.

Rabbi Greenbaum is standing under a tree, away from everyone else. When he sees us, he flaps his arms like a giant black bird and rushes over. He reaches up like he’s going to put his arm around Dad, but he just slips a yarmulke on Dad’s head.

“Naomi, I’m so sorry for your loss.” Now he’s crouched down right in front of me. He smells like oatmeal cookies.

“Yes,” I say.

He has something in his hand. An oatmeal cookie for me?

He pins a black button with a black ribbon on my jacket and stands up. “An ancient tradition of our people,” he says. Suddenly he’s reaching for me. I step back, but he grabs at me. He rips the ribbon.
Owwww
. I know that all he’s done is ripped the ribbon, but it hurts it hurts it hurts, like my heart’s tearing in two.
Noooooo!
Rabbi Greenbaum’s hand is warm on my head. He’s talking in Hebrew. “It helps us feel our grief,” he says, and then he rips Rachel’s heart and Daddy’s heart and now, finally, all three of us are crying. We cry as we walk over to everyone else, with our ripped black ribbons fluttering in the breeze.

The rabbi is talking.

In that box is Mommy. In that box is Mommy. In that box is Mommy. In that box is Mommy. In that box is Mommy. In that box is Mommy. In that box is Mommy. In that box is Mommy
.

The box is disappearing. Four men with four straps are lowering it into the hole.
Stop it. No. Stop it
.

Dad has a shovelful of dirt. He’s going to dump it in the hole. I grab his arm.

Hands hold me back. “Shhh, honey. No, sweetie.”

Thud. Thud. Thud
.

Now they’re pushing me closer to the hole.

“Take the shovel, sweetheart.”

“It’s your turn, Chirpie.”

“It’s okay, honey.”

The shovel is cold. I stick it into the pile of dirt. I hold it over the hole.

I turn the shovel over.

My dirt hits Mommy.
Thud. Thud. Thud
.

I throw the shovel down and run.

I run past Rabbi Greenbaum’s tree, down a concrete path, across wet grass. My tights are too small, and they rub against the tops of my legs. The short white fence is easy to climb over.

Plenty of trees, but I like this maple best. I sit down and look up. What I see is lots of branches chopping the gray sky up into little pieces. Two black-capped chickadees. One house finch. It’s rare to spot a purple finch until it’s warmer outside. House finches are common. They have stubby wings, which makes their tails seem long by comparison. What’s best is their funny twittery song that goes on and on and on.

Are there more rolls? We need a fresh pot of—I’ll put out more fruit salad. Yes, yes. Napkins? In the cupboard over the sink
.

The ladies are bustling around the kitchen. Ladies from the synagogue where we never go. Ladies from Mom’s dance brigade. Ladies from town. Watching all the ladies makes me even more tired, and I’m already so tired I want to curl up in my nest and sleep forever, except that I have to be here for all of the company that wants to stop by so they can tell me how awful they feel for me and what a terrible tragedy this is. I’m glad we’re not traditional Jews, since they sit
shiva for seven whole days. I just have to try to be a trooper for the rest of today and for three hours tomorrow and the day after.

“Honey, have you eaten? You have to eat something.” Clara hands me a plate with a hard-boiled egg and some noodle kugel.

“She’s never been a big kugel fan,” Grandma says, rushing over.

“Oh. Oh, sorry. I didn’t know that,” Clara says, and her eyes fill up with tears. She walks away.

While Grandma watches, I eat the kugel and leave the egg.

Grandma frowns but doesn’t say anything.

“Chirp.” It’s Mrs. Paganelli. She’s got a plate full of food. She holds it out in the air while she hugs me with one arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says.

What I want to say is
She’s not lost. I know right where she is. And you do, too
.

“Thanks,” I say.

“If you need anything, anything at all, you just let me know,” she says. “Will you promise me that? I need you to make me a promise.”

I nod.

“Promise?”

I nod again.

“Say it,” she says.

“Promise,” I say.

“Oh, good!” she says, and starts wolfing down her potato salad.

I want to eat chocolate bubke in my nest.

The dining room’s too crowded.
Excuse me excuse me
is what I’ll have to say to get to the bubke, and I don’t feel like talking, which I heard Dad tell Rachel is a symptom of my overwhelming grief. There are too many people blocking the bubke. I lean against the wall and wait.

Delicious, I’ll have to get the recipe. Right. Imagine doing this to those two young girls! Yes, yes. No. We’ll go visit my in-laws in Maine, as always. A note on the table. Really? Half the calories. Well, that’s something I’ll never understand. I guess a little sherry can’t hurt. I know. I saw her swimming last summer. A bit of a sweet tooth. Of course, he will. Absolutely. Hopefully her suicide won’t be front-page news
.

“Chirp.”

Daddy touches my arm.

“Honey, you remember Marcy from the hospital? She drove all the way here to see us when she heard about Mommy.”

Does he want me to say thank you? I can’t say thank you. I don’t even want to look at her.

I look at Joey instead. He’s wearing a suit and blue-striped tie. He must have tied the tie himself, because the knot’s all lumpy. He’s leaning against the wall like I am. He’s by himself. He’s eating fruit salad. He waves. I wave back.

“Marcy wants to talk with you, honey,” Daddy says, poking my arm. Marcy’s crying. She kneels down in front of me.

“I’m so sorry, Chirp,” she says. Her nose is pink and swollen, and she keeps swiping at it with a crumpled-up Kleenex. She’s looking right into my face. I really, really want to close my eyes. “You know, your mother loved you very much.”

I shake my head. I don’t want her talking about Mom. I don’t want her telling me anything about her.

“Yes. Yes, she did, Chirp.”

I shake my head harder to get her to stop.

Marcy grabs my hand. “It’s very important that you understand how much your mother loved you,” she says. “You know that, don’t you?”

Daddy’s looking at me, too.

A little space has opened up at the table between where Mrs. Bonazoli and Mrs. Mitchell are standing. Just three pieces of bubke left on the plate.

I jerk my hand away from Marcy. She tries to grab it again. She’s a greenhead fly, and I’m a flyswatter. Smack! I miss.

“Naomi!” Dad says.

I run to the table and snatch a piece of bubke. Suddenly Joey’s right beside me. He snatches the other two pieces.

“Here,” he says, shoving the bubke into my hands. I fly out of the room and up the stairs as fast as I can. I slam my door. I crawl into my nest.

First, I tear the bubke into lots of pieces. Then I roll the pieces into balls.

Downstairs it’s silverware clanging. It’s the smack of ice in glasses. Noisy stupid questions. Noisy stupid answers. Noisy stupid nothing.

In my nest, suppertime. With my eyes closed, I open up wide.
Plop
. The first bubke ball.
Chew. Chew. Swallow. Next. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Next. Chew. Chew. Swallow
. I take it nice and slow. Hopefully, by the time I’m finished with my sweet supper, everyone will have put their long, dark coats back on, taken their noisy stupid nothing, and gone home.

Early morning and Daddy’s in his office. He’s not going to work for five more days. Rachel’s wearing Mommy’s red flannel bathrobe. She knocks on Daddy’s door. She doesn’t wait for him to give permission. She just goes right on in.

I pour myself another bowl of Grape-Nuts. When I eat them, I can’t hear Dad and Rachel talk.
Crunch
is all I hear.

“Give Grandma and Grandpa a hug good-bye,” Daddy says. We’re all standing in the front hall. It’s our last day of sitting shiva, but Grandma and Grandpa aren’t going to stick around, since they have a long drive ahead of them back to New York.

“I’ll write you letters,” Grandma says. “And call you on the phone.” She pats my head. She opens up her purse and hands me a whole box of peppermint Chiclets.

“What do you say, Chirp?” Rachel says, like I’m a little kid, and before I can open my mouth she says, “Thank Grandma, Chirp.”

I can’t believe her. I want to pull her hair, but I just turn around so I don’t have to see her dumb face.

“What is it, Chirpie?” Rachel says, all gooey sweet and touching my hand, and I can’t help it, I’m so mad that she’s pretending to be Mom, I start to cry.

“It’s hard to say good-bye, isn’t it, sweetheart?” Dad says.

“We understand,” Grandpa says. “Let’s just say, ‘See you later, sweet potater,’ ” and he touches the side of his plaid driving cap with two fingers. Before I can hug him or Grandma, he takes Grandma’s hand and pulls her out the door.

“We’ll talk soon,” Grandma says, blowing kisses.

“Freda, you’re just making this harder on the children,” Grandpa says in a loud whisper. “Let’s go.” And suddenly they’re in their blue Dodge Dart, driving away.

“Well,” Dad says.

“Well,” Rachel says, putting her head on Dad’s shoulder.

“I’d hoped they’d feel like more of a comfort,” Dad says in a sad voice, and Rachel looks up at him, but
I don’t hear what just-right thing she says, because I’m walking past them and out the door, even though I’ve got my slippers on.

It’s good to fly the coop. It’s good to not say thank you. It’s good to have cold air in my face. It’s good to see the gray sky. It’s good to run so fast down to the salt marsh in my wet slippers that my feet sting.

I touch my tree.
Tag, you’re it
.

I touch the water.
Tag, you’re it
.

There’s no point searching. The red-winged blackbird nest that I left for the marsh lady is gone. Maybe she took it. Maybe it’s the one precious thing that she has to call her own.