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I laughed. "Remember that while she's giving you the third degree."
I joked, but as we walked toward the house I grew up in, I closed my eyes to relish in the feeling. I forgot sometimes how good it felt to have the people I loved all safe around me in one place. Now that Brandon was here with me again, it felt like home.
~
After finding out that Brandon and I were going to be stopping by that evening, Bubbe had pretended to be nonchalant on the phone. But I knew better. She had been rooting for me and "that handsome goy" to work out from the beginning, so it was not too much of a surprise to find that she had spent the rest of her afternoon making a traditional Shabbat dinner, the likes of which I hadn't seen since I was a small child.
Brandon and I walked into the house and were immediately bowled over by the rich smells. A quick glance in the kitchen revealed not one but two freshly baked loaves of challah bread sitting on the counter, a massive salad and a zucchini kugel on the table, and, from the smell of it, her brisket slow-cooking in the oven.
I was a little amused. Bubbe was the only practicing Jew in our house, and Shabbat dinner was a rare occurrence. Dad only attended temple when Bubbe guilted him into it every few years, and considering the fact that my mother wasn't even Jewish at all, I only really considered myself part of that tribe by association. This was definitely a meal designed to impress our guest.
"Are you going to sing Kabbalat Shabbat for us?" I joked as we entered the kitchen.
Bubbe, who was lost in concentration as she checked whatever sauce she was making over the stove, jumped. She turned around with a hand held to her heart, then pointed her wooden spoon at me.
"I ought to, you little minx, you. If I could do it without your father falling asleep, I would. Now come here and give me a kiss."
Brandon and I both did as she said, and she grasped us each around the neck for a brief hug.
"Hello, handsome," she greeted Brandon. "Oy gevalt, did you get taller since May, or am I shrinking?" She pressed a hand against his chest and looked him over with obvious approval. "Such a big, strong man. So wonderful to see you again, Brandon."
I thought he might be embarrassed by her comments, but Brandon's massive grin over Bubbe's small form lit up the room. He seemed to enjoy my grandmother as much as I did.
"Sit down, sit down," she urged us after several pinches of Brandon's cheeks. "I'm almost done here. Danny's just getting dressed."
Brandon and I obediently sat at the table, and Brandon nodded when I offered him a glass of wine from the open bottle.
"You really didn't have to make all of this, Bubbe," I said, taking in the massive spread once again. "It's too much."
"Well, it's not so often I get to have my granddaughter and her handsome friend here for Shabbat dinner," Bubbe said from the stove. "Speaking of...did you...accomplish what you came here for?"
She glanced toward the doorway of the kitchen, as if expecting my dad to bound through at any moment. Under the table, Brandon grasped my knee.
He cleared his throat. "We did, Mrs. Crosby," he said. "But we both think it's time to tell Danny what you saw at the grocery store."
Bubbe's face fell at the thought, but she nodded her head.
"What happened at the grocery store?"
We all swung around to find my dad standing in the doorway. I brightened at the sight of him; he looked better than I'd seen him in months. When I'd left for Boston, he was still in his bathrobe. Now he was dressed like his normal self in a pair of ironed, if faded, navy blue chinos and a plaid button-down shirt that he had actually tucked in. He even wore shoes and a belt.
He still cradled his broken hand against his chest, but other than the still-fresh surgical scars over the top, it looked almost normal again. I knew he still had another month before he could really go back to work, and his disability was running out, but it would take another year before he could even think about getting full range of motion back. It was just another reason why he would be better off with me in Boston, where I could take care of him.
"Hey kid," Dad greeted me with a kiss on the cheek before reaching over to shake Brandon's hand––with his left, I noticed. "How you doin', Brandon? Nice to see you again."
Dad winked at me, then took a seat at the table and poured himself a glass of wine. We all leaned back as Bubbe set a mountain of brisket in the center of the table. She took her own seat and accepted a glass of wine for herself.
Dad looked warily around the table, which had become oddly quiet.
"Anyone want to tell me what's going on?" he asked, wrinkling his nose so his thin mustache scrunched over his lips.
I sighed and looked at Bubbe. "Go ahead, Bubbe. Tell him."
Bubbe looked like she would rather do anything else, but she set her wine glass on the table and proceeded to describe what she had seen between Katie and Victor. I continued the tale with the exchange in the shop. By the time we were finished, Dad looked like he was going to be ill.
"God," he said under his breath. "God, I have been so damn stupid."
He pulled his napkin in between his hands, twisting and turning the faded fabric while he processed. When he looked up, his expression was pained.
