David Grossman - The Book of Intimate Grammar

They went to Aron’s father and asked him to help them bake the challah, telling him only that it was for a girl in their class. They didn’t mention her name. Papa chuckled and gave Aron an affectionate slap on the shoulder, you could see he was pleased, and he said, “Never fear, Moshe’s here,” and that they did right to come to him, with his experience, twelve years at Angel’s bakery; he hadn’t always been a pencil pusher at union headquarters, no sirree; up until the accident, he had an honest job, breaking his back under the flour sacks and sweating like a demon on the night shift.

And so, for two feverish, flour-dappled hours, they commandeered the kitchen and went to work. Papa whistled while he stirred in the flour, eggs, margarine, and water, and then he showed them how to knead and roll the dough till it rose. As usual, he overdid the quantities, and squishy balls of cloven dough lay scattered around the kitchen table. Then he greased the baking pan with margarine, reveling in the movement of his hands, while the two boys shaped Yaeli’s face, her healthy cheeks, the defiant nose, and the smile of amusement on her lips, the lower one pouting slightly — oh, that willful mouth — and then they stuck in two almonds for her eyes, and Aron studied them, shook his head, slanted them a little more, and smiled: there she was, Yaeli, looking up at them, a veritable replica of herself.

Then they shaped her slender neck. Aron felt sweet all over as he rolled it between his palms, so fragile, too fragile to bear such happiness. At times like this, when he could feel his soul grow deep and wide, he was sure that soon, very soon, the depth and width of it would be all-pervading. His love empowered him, even when it hurt; and his gift for loving was equal to anyone’s: no one could hide this sky from him. Papa chuckled and said maybe it was time to steer the tanks around and head south to the interesting places, and Aron, who never lacked for inspired ideas but was often weak on execution, began having second thoughts.

Papa ignored his hesitation. He asked if the little lady had titties yet, and were they shaped like this or like this? Or maybe like this? He squeezed the puffy balls of dough: Like this? Like pears? Like grapefruits? Huh? Whuh? Spreading his fingers he dug into the dough, hisface glistening with perspiration. Aron buried his eyes in the table, and Papa said playfully, “Don’t tell me you fellas are blushing, huh? You know, if you wanna make a statue you gotta do it right. A la naturel!” Gideon blurted out that she didn’t, well not yet anyway, and Papa shrugged and said, “Flatfooted, huh?” And smacked the balls of dough with his open palm. “Never mind,” he said consolingly, pinching out a pair of sweet childish nipples. “They’ll grow. Even Sophia Loren was flat as a board once.” They continued in silence. Aron made one arm and Gideon the other. Aron formed the tender wrist and was almost tempted to lick it into shape. Now and then his eyes darted to the two flat patties of dough on the table. Papa took the arms from him and Gideon, and joined them precisely to the body. He used a knife to smooth the shoulders and examined his handiwork with satisfaction, and Aron remembered the old days, before Mama turned Papa into a clerk with tenure and a pension plan, when he used to get up at 2 a.m. to go to work. Aron, aged four or five, would slip into Papa’s place in the double bed beside Mama; Yochi, her eyes still closed, would curl up in Aron’s bed, with its thicker, softer mattress; Grandma would stumble out of her alcove, looking small and bewildered, and sleepwalk over to Yochi’s warm, empty bed, where she would nestle, sucking her thumb till she fell asleep again. Papa would stand in the doorway in his overalls, watching the rustling traffic of quilts and nightgowns, holding the cold door handle, refusing to be torn away. Will you go already, thought Aron before the door closed behind Papa, pressing himself into the hollow he’d left in the bed, cuddling up to his softly moaning mother, who drowsily offered her warm behind while he — a fervent Jacob — stole Esau’s blessing from his blind father, Isaac, with a twinge in his heart, snuggling closer as the hushed “Gooodbye” sounded forlornly from the hall — let him please just leave — and an icy draft made them shiver in their beds.

The kitchen, with the door shut to keep out his indignant mama, was filling up with steam. Aron modeled Yaeli’s leg in dough, compassionately forming the still-childish knee, then sliding down to work on the ankle till it was trim and shapely. When he caught a glimpse of Gideon scrutinizing him, he quickly changed expression. Papa took Yaeli’s legs from them and laughed: the contrast was so striking! “You like ‘em zaftig, huh”—he elbowed Gideon—“with lots of meat on ’em, huh? Wuh? Something to grab!” But Aron wasn’t listening. He noticed thatGideon had forgotten the space between her toes. Gideon didn’t love her like he did, he reflected, he wasn’t committed to her all the way.

“We finish her tuchis and we’re through,” said Papa, turning to the oven.

Aron peered at Gideon and both of them blushed. Then, in unison, so neither would be first, they picked up the remaining balls of dough and started shaping them. Aron could almost feel it arching under his fingers. Gideon worked intently, his eyes a little blurred. Aron molded an apple-shaped buttock and placed it on the table. Gideon set his creation down beside it and Papa laughed again. “You wanna tell me these are from the same girl?”

Then he said, “Now, close your eyes. From here on in, it’s adults only.” He laid the buttocks in the well-greased pan, joining them at the hips. Then, leaning forward over the froglike limbs, he gravely cut a slit between them with the horny curve of his yellow fingernail.

“Schoin, gemacht! Now we cover her up good so nothing shows!” And he sprinkled sesame and raisins all over like a farmer sowing seed.

Then, with a he-man swagger, Papa shoved the sweet challah into the oven, and before long, the fresh, intoxicating fragrance of baking challah filled the air.

“So what say, Aronchik, do we start sewing a wedding suit?”

At supper they teased him. Papa joked about seeing him down by the rock with Yaeli and Gideon, and Mama said someone reported spotting the three of them at the movies. They were positively glowing: the dreary gray curse of recent events seemed to have suddenly lifted. Papa poked his face into Aron’s and inquired, amid howls of laughter, what the lady’s father did for a living, and Mama reflected that Yaeli’s family name — Kedmi — sounded, eppes, like it might have been changed to cover up what it was before. She interrogated him closely about their house: when did they last redecorate, how big was their refrigerator, and was Yaeli’s mother the same Kedmi who bought an expensive wig from America, because, you know, she hastened to explain, her eyes shining, sometimes a woman wants a wig to make the neighbors jealous, but sometimes it’s to hide her baldness, which may run in the family; she pursed her lips self-righteously. “Nu, enough already, Mamaleh,” chided Papa. “It’s a little early to talk about hair and balding, I think, but how’s about inviting your girlie home to meet us, Aronchik, so we can take a good long look at her.”

Mama broke out in a smile that Aron detested, her fawning female smile, and Papa asked again what the little lovely’s name was, and Aron turned bright red and hid his head between his shoulders, terrified they would repeat her name with their mouths full. “Go on, eat, ess!” urged Mama, heaping the mashed potatoes on his plate. “Your time has come!You have to start gorging yourself!” And Papa carved a thick hunk of rye bread with his deadly knife and stuffed it into his hand. “My own Aronchik,” he cheered, “you’ll never know how glad I am!” They were truly exultant. Suddenly they looked carefree, radiant with youth, as Papa raised his plate and scraped some beans out on Aron’s plate. “There, have a little fasoulia! Gonna meet your girlie tonight, huh?” And Mama and Papa burst out laughing and shared a look he’d never seen before, and when Mama served the meat her hand rested on Papa’s arm. “Have another thigh!” she insisted, passing Aron the chicken from her own plate. “You’ve got to make up for lost time now! Eat! Don’t store it in your mouth! I said eat!” They buzzed around him, filling his plate with the choicest morsels, their hands hurrying back and forth, canceling the features of Yochi’s face as she chewed her food in silence; and Aron too averted his eyes, letting her down when this new pride trickled through to him, as though all by himself, with a snap of his fingers, he had opened the window they had their noses pressed to and let in a stream of wonderful fresh air. For a moment he yielded to a sense of elation, but catching sight of Yochi’s downcast head and the face of his mother greedily drinking in the breeze, he suddenly remembered the shoes he wore for his bar mitzvah, those elevator shoes. His shoulders drooped. His eyes sought Yochi’s, and his tongue cleared a path through the warehouse in his mouth, to touch his milk tooth. Mama and Papa went on chewing and talking, but he didn’t hear them anymore. Mama forgot to feed Grandma with a spoon, and Grandma sat before her plate of mashed chicken, a thread of saliva dripping down to her bib. Aron stuffed his mouth but couldn’t swallow. He shunted the warehouse from cheek to cheek, dug into his piece of bread, nervously picked out the caraway seeds one by one, and set them out in an arrowhead formation, like a flock of storks; from now on he’d better eat halvah and mashed potatoes every day to fortify himself so he’d be able to hold on to that place inside with the dancer, and at least seven squares of chocolate besides, not so good for the teeth but it would strengthen his internal Gideon, the Gideon who used to be, and he gravely checked the list again; the sugars of friendship and the starches of perseverance and the carbohydrates of loyalty, his own personal nutriments, and he smiled to himself; two weeks ago there had been nothing there, it was just another unfamiliar place inside his body, and now he could feel it alive and throbbing; and he woke up to Yochipushing her dessert plate away and going over to spit in the sink: Yuck, what did you put in that? Mama glared at her and tasted from the tip of her spoon. Her face turned yellow. So nu, she said, I must have switched the plates; if you helped me serve instead of sitting around like a princess with her feet in the air, a thing like that would never happen, she muttered, flushing red as she passed the dessert with the crushed medication to Grandma. Now sit down and eat your compote, nothing happened, why did you blow up like that; and Aron looked around bewilderedly, he’d been dreaming again, maybe they’d asked him a question or ordered him to do something that had to do with the future, his future; he nodded in anguish, what did they want from him; he stared down at the table, discovered the arrowhead of caraway seeds, flicked them away, and shook off the seeds that stuck to his fingers, all he needed now was for Papa to see what he’d done to a good piece of bread.