in Mount Kisco, Seema rubbed her fingers over her right cheek, where she could still feel the fire of her mother’s handprint. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aunt Hannah, who was wrapped up in her brown wool cloak and hugging herself to keep warm. She was the only person waiting at the station on this frosty morning. Seema quickened her step and put a smile on her face as she braced herself for Aunt Hannah, a small but effusive woman with a big hug.
“Seema, finally you’re here. I thought you’d be on the last train,” shouted Aunt Hannah. She spread her arms, and the cloak billowed, making her seem twice her size as she swaddled Seema in her wooly embrace. “Now everyone’s here. Ruth and Lev came last night. Flora’s been waiting for you all morning. She looks absolutely radiant. Oh, you girls. You must miss your mother so on a special day like today. Uncle Paul and I want you to know that we are your family and couldn’t love you more if you were our own children.”
Seema tried to turn her face away from Aunt Hannah, afraid that the liquor was still on her breath. Their cheeks touched. Aunt Hannah’s skin was smooth and cold. She thought about the man last night and his stubble and the red scratch marks he’d left on her cheeks. If Aunt Hannah smelled gin or noticed any nicks on her face, it didn’t distract her from her chatter. “It’s so sad that your mother and Margot couldn’t be here. But, of course,it’s such a long and expensive trip. Oh, but let’s not dwell on the negative. There are so many happy things to talk about. Flora. What a dream she is in her dress. She even found some gardenias for her hair. And Simon. We are so lucky to have Simon in the family. He’s shy. A little hard to get to know. But a fine man, don’t you think?”
No, Seema didn’t think he was a fine man. He was quiet. Moody. Unassertive. Not the kind of fellow who could walk into a room full of people and make himself known. He was one of those pale Jewish types who lived in their heads. Seema hated men like that. By now, she believed she could size them up right away: soft damp hands, indecisive, always measuring their words. And worst of all, she knew that they would love her in a tentative, trembling way.
Not like the man from last night, who smelled of fine leather and tobacco and called her “sugar.” Jewish men spoke a jagged English or, like Simon, used oddly formal language when they talked, which, in his case, was hardly ever. The men she liked had straight noses and wore suits that were hand tailored. They didn’t dress in clothes that were too big for them or chew with their mouths open and smell of onions. When the men she liked made fun of the Jews with their hooked noses and stooped shoulders, she laughed along with them and never told them that she was a Jew herself. Why should she? No one ever asked.
Aunt Hannah kept talking about the wedding: the leg of lamb for fifty; the bottles of French wine Uncle Paul had stored in the cellar; how beautiful the synagogue looked, particularly the chuppa, which was decorated with gardenias to match the ones in Flora’s hair. Seema smiled secretly, imagining the look on the faces of all those men if they could see her inside a synagogue.
As they drove up the circular driveway, Seema could see Uncle Paul standing on the front porch, already dressed in his black tuxedo pants. When the car stopped, he ran around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. “CeCe,” he shouted. “Let me take a look at you.” He grabbed her bag and helped her out of the car. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said, standing back and taking in the full image of his niece. “Quite a sight indeed.”
If anyone would notice that she was drawn and slightly hung-over, it would be Uncle Paul. He’d keep it to himself at the time, and then, maybe months later, he’d drop it into a conversation. For now, he just asked, “You working hard,
“Seema, finally you’re here. I thought you’d be on the last train,” shouted Aunt Hannah. She spread her arms, and the cloak billowed, making her seem twice her size as she swaddled Seema in her wooly embrace. “Now everyone’s here. Ruth and Lev came last night. Flora’s been waiting for you all morning. She looks absolutely radiant. Oh, you girls. You must miss your mother so on a special day like today. Uncle Paul and I want you to know that we are your family and couldn’t love you more if you were our own children.”
Seema tried to turn her face away from Aunt Hannah, afraid that the liquor was still on her breath. Their cheeks touched. Aunt Hannah’s skin was smooth and cold. She thought about the man last night and his stubble and the red scratch marks he’d left on her cheeks. If Aunt Hannah smelled gin or noticed any nicks on her face, it didn’t distract her from her chatter. “It’s so sad that your mother and Margot couldn’t be here. But, of course,it’s such a long and expensive trip. Oh, but let’s not dwell on the negative. There are so many happy things to talk about. Flora. What a dream she is in her dress. She even found some gardenias for her hair. And Simon. We are so lucky to have Simon in the family. He’s shy. A little hard to get to know. But a fine man, don’t you think?”
No, Seema didn’t think he was a fine man. He was quiet. Moody. Unassertive. Not the kind of fellow who could walk into a room full of people and make himself known. He was one of those pale Jewish types who lived in their heads. Seema hated men like that. By now, she believed she could size them up right away: soft damp hands, indecisive, always measuring their words. And worst of all, she knew that they would love her in a tentative, trembling way.
Not like the man from last night, who smelled of fine leather and tobacco and called her “sugar.” Jewish men spoke a jagged English or, like Simon, used oddly formal language when they talked, which, in his case, was hardly ever. The men she liked had straight noses and wore suits that were hand tailored. They didn’t dress in clothes that were too big for them or chew with their mouths open and smell of onions. When the men she liked made fun of the Jews with their hooked noses and stooped shoulders, she laughed along with them and never told them that she was a Jew herself. Why should she? No one ever asked.
Aunt Hannah kept talking about the wedding: the leg of lamb for fifty; the bottles of French wine Uncle Paul had stored in the cellar; how beautiful the synagogue looked, particularly the chuppa, which was decorated with gardenias to match the ones in Flora’s hair. Seema smiled secretly, imagining the look on the faces of all those men if they could see her inside a synagogue.
As they drove up the circular driveway, Seema could see Uncle Paul standing on the front porch, already dressed in his black tuxedo pants. When the car stopped, he ran around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. “CeCe,” he shouted. “Let me take a look at you.” He grabbed her bag and helped her out of the car. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said, standing back and taking in the full image of his niece. “Quite a sight indeed.”
If anyone would notice that she was drawn and slightly hung-over, it would be Uncle Paul. He’d keep it to himself at the time, and then, maybe months later, he’d drop it into a conversation. For now, he just asked, “You working hard,
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