The Singing Fire by Lilian Nattel Page A

know.”
    “I’m sure she did,” Father said dryly.
    The guests looked from Father to Mother. The brothers drank more wine, eyes glazing. Their wives suddenly asked to be excused from the table. Father waved them away.
    “May I be excused, too?” Emilia asked.
    “I don’t know,” Father said slowly. “Tell me what you’ve done and then I might be the judge.”
    “I mean from the table, please.”
    “Ah. I see.” Father sat back quietly for a moment. Then he leaned forward. “Why did you call in the doctor?”
    “It was nothing, Father. I—”
    “Does your mother enjoy his company very often?” He tapped the table with his spoon.
    “It was only once, Father. For myself. I wasn’t well.”
    “And yet you look the picture of health to me. I must have my eyes checked.” He threw down the spoon. It was just a spoon. No reason to be afraid. But Emilia’s hand was wet and her mother’s hand was cold.
    “I was having female troubles,” Emilia said. She’d asked the doctor that lived next door to come in and have another look at Mother’s arthritic hands. Sometimes they hurt so much she couldn’t play the piano or draw the pictures for her paper-cuts, and then she had no reason to get out of bed. Emilia was afraid of another accident with a knife. “I wasn’t well, Father.”
    “Your mother’s child. My daughter would not be a liar.” He rubbed his thumb on the rim of his wineglass.
    “May I be excused, Father?” She could feel the guests looking at her. But she didn’t blush. She’d stopped blushing long ago.
    “You think I don’t know what’s going on under my nose?” Father snapped. He was often irritable on Sabbath eve, contemplating a whole day without a cigar or cigarette. But this time he didn’t throw the wineglass at the wall. He didn’t sweep the platter of potatoes onto the floor. He only said, “Stupid girl. Yes, please leave the table.” And he called to the maid. “Freida. I believe we’re ready for dessert, now. Enough philosophy, gentlemen. What do you think of the news—is it good for the Jews?”
    Throwing a shawl over her shoulders, Emilia took a plate of bread and jam from the kitchen pantry and carried it out to the garden. Mama didn’t swallow a mouthful when she was upset, and as a consequence she was altogether too thin. She didn’t realize that you have to push every bad thought away or it will eat you up. And Emilia had no intention of wasting away. The consumptive look wasn’t well regarded by matchmakers. She didn’t care what Father said. Everyone else agreed that she was as lovely as the loveliest gentile girl. Someone was bound to want her.
    It was the smell of a cigar that made her quickly brush the crumbs from her skirt, tucking the plate under her bench. “Who is it?” she asked.
    “Mr. Levy,” a low voice said.
    “Shouldn’t you be in the parlor with my father and brothers?”
    “I can’t smoke there.” Mr. Levy leaned against the apple tree. The darkness was mild in the shelter of the brick wall and the low clouds above.
    “It’s still Shobbos out here,” Emilia said.
    “I won’t consult the calendar if you won’t. I thought you might like to know that your father hired me.”
    “But I don’t need a tutor.” Certainly not one that was going to stare at her at every meal.
    “Well, it’s no great pleasure for me either, you know.”
    “Then go somewhere else.”
    “If I could,” he said. On the other side of the garden, cats were yowling, tangled in a heated exchange.
    “Well, I’m sure the world is large enough.” She shrugged.
    “Certainly. For those with means. But for me … Apparently it’s my fate to be stuck nowhere doing nothing. You don’t know what it’s like.”
    The ghost of the first Mrs. Rosenberg rustled the branches. “Anyone that lives here knows what you mean,” Emilia said.
    “Well, don’t worry. Somehow we’ll pass the time together until you marry. I could study while you embroider or whatever