Love for Scale (12 page)

Despite his size, Glen was thankfully very well-behaved on the leash, stopping a few times to pee, but generally walking right alongside Rachel. She understood why Sheri loved him so much; he was a real pleasure. Even when she brought him home, he sat patiently as she unlocked the door and when she removed his leash, he licked her hand, a slobbery thank you.

Rachel sighed. Just one more reason to be envious of her best friend. She stood up as Glen left her for the kitchen, his noisy slurping a moment later telling Rachel he had gone for a drink. She followed him, curious to see Brian’s digs.

It was a nice apartment, even though it definitely had a bachelor feel to it: no pictures on the walls or even any
tchotchkes
anywhere. There was a giant TV in the living room off the kitchen and the furniture was nice, right down to the leather sofas (and a huge matching one on the floor for Glen–how sweet!). It was all so masculine.

Rachel daydreamed about what she would do if she were to move in. Maybe a big vase of silk calla lilies on the dining room table, a bowl of fruit on the kitchen peninsula and, of course, a huge framed picture of herself and Brian over the mantle.

After drinking what seemed like a gallon of water, Glen walked over and nuzzled Rachel’s hand again before heading into the living room to flop down on his bed with a big sigh.

After washing her hands of Glen’s drool, Rachel noticed a stack of paperwork on the kitchen table. She looked around but it was just her and the dog (who was unlikely to tattle), so she stepped closer.

The top sheet was an invoice from ‘Keys R Us’ for a whopping four dollars and eighteen cents for two key cuts and a keychain.

Suddenly very ashamed of herself for the blatant invasion of Brian’s privacy, she turned and left the townhouse, only lingering a second to say goodbye to the snoring dog.

Returning to Sheri’s apartment, she climbed the stairs, counting each one as she made her way up to the second floor.

Finally able to sit down by herself and think about what had happened at dinner, she began to laugh. She laughed at how clever she’d been to the waitress, ensuring that Leo wouldn’t be hearing from her. Sheri would howl when she heard that. She laughed at how funny the situation was, how it was so ridiculous that it belonged in a sitcom.

Then she began to cry. She felt like the biggest loser on the planet. The butt of jokes, someone so pathetic that she belonged on a sitcom.

Whether Sunny was being sympathetic or just needed a warm body to snuggle up to, Rachel wasn’t sure, but the little dog pawed at her leg until she picked him up and deposited him on her lap. He looked up at her, his eyes two dark pools gazing into her own.

“You ever been humiliated like that, Sunny?”

“
Rowr
,” Sunny answered.

“Yeah, you probably have. You’re little; no one takes you seriously, no matter how much you try.” She scratched the dog’s head, right behind the ears where he liked it. He leaned into her touch, his entire body weight pushing into her hand. All four pounds of him.

The tears still fell, but she was somehow comforted by the quivering little dog who looked into her eyes, seeming to know everything.  Finally, after giving her his own brand of reassurance, Sunny turned around and unceremoniously flopped down, curling up in her lap. After a sigh, he closed his eyes and began to snore.

“You don’t sweat the jerks, do you, Sunny?” she said, marveling at how his ear twitched when she said his name. “Nah, I won’t either.”

Rachel carefully leaned forward, mindful of the little cargo on her lap and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. She swiped at her wet eyes with her sleeve and turned on the TV, happy to settle in and watch a repeat of
Grey’s Anatomy
.

Chapter 17

Pearl strode into the kitchen and abruptly announced, “You’re just going to have to make the latkes.” Harry was long gone to work, but Rachel lingered over her dry toast and yogurt, reading the morning paper.

She looked up at Pearl. “What? Are you serious? I can’t do the latkes.”

Pearl shook her head, dismissing her daughter. “I have to go into the branch. Apparently three of the girls are off sick with the flu, so you’re just going to have to.”

Rachel panicked. The small, greasy potato pancakes had always been her downfall. “I can go work for you.”

Pearl looked over the rims of her glasses at her daughter. “You’re not a manager, Rachel. I can’t let you go in my place. You know that.”

Rachel swallowed a mouthful of dry toast, thankful for the hot tea to wash it down. “Whatever,” she mumbled.

“Don’t give me that attitude, Rachel. I need your help with this.”

Apparently it wasn’t enough that Rachel had taken two vacation days from work to help her mother get ready for the huge dinner. She was willing to do everything else, everything else other than this.

“Ma, I just don’t think I can do the latkes, please don’t make me do them,” she begged.

Pearl stood, her hands on her hips. “Who’s going to do them, Rachel? The latke fairy? Your father? Hmm?” She stared at her daughter, lips pursed, foot tapping.

Defeated, Rachel nodded. She would do them, she knew she would give in before Pearl.

So as Pearl showered, Rachel grated the potatoes. As Pearl put on her makeup and did her hair, Rachel grated the onions. And as Pearl left, with a promise to return later in the day, Rachel turned on the front burner on the stove to start heating the huge frying pan of oil.

The first batch never turns out quite right: the oil isn’t hot enough. So as batch number two made it into the pan, Rachel nibbled on batch number one.

Whoops, that one fell apart; not acceptable for company. It disappeared into Rachel’s mouth. And so it went until all six dozen latkes were fried and piled up between layers of paper towel. By the time Rachel turned off the stove, she felt heavy, ashamed, and more than a little nauseated.

Tears rolling down her cheeks, she wrapped up the latkes and put them in the fridge where they would sit until Pearl took them out to warm up for dinner the next day.

Angry at her mother, but angrier at herself, Rachel grabbed her gym bag and headed out to the Y. She wasn’t scheduled for an Aquafit class, but she had to do something to work off a little steam and a whole lot of potato.

Chapter 18

Setting the table was always one of Rachel’s favorite things to do for the holidays. She took great pride in getting everything looking just right, using her creativity to make it look special and unique. And the act of setting the table itself didn’t instigate any eating either, which was a relief, especially since her latke meltdown.

But that was yesterday, and now, thankfully, the potato pancakes were in the fridge, out of sight out of mind, at least for now, and Rachel was able to turn toward setting the big table.

She had inserted both leaves into the oak monolith and put the table pads on: necessary to protect the wood from hot plates and inevitable red wine spills. Over the pads went the heirloom tablecloths which her mother painstakingly washed and ironed with care after every holiday.

“How many tonight, Ma?” Rachel called into the kitchen where Pearl was standing, dressing the turkey. She wondered if Aaron had spilled his news.

“Thirteen.”

“Who are the extras?” Rachel asked, carefully taking the stack of good dishes out of the hutch.

She spared a moment to admire the China: its delicate feel and elegant gold bands around each dish. Someday it would be hers. She had made her mother promise to will her the entire set of good china. Her brothers could have anything else they wanted, but the dishes were hers. Rachel had always had a passion for dishes, beginning with her first set of Royal Doulton Bunnykins, which was carefully preserved in bubble wrap in her dresser. Someday she would give it to her own child. Well, maybe; she had to find a man before she could even start thinking about kids.

Pearl abandoned the turkey and turned toward the dining room, holding her wet and greasy hands up like a surgeon who had just scrubbed in. She began to count on her fingers. “Well, we’ve got you and me and your father, Jeff and a
friend
.”  The wide eyes and the emphasis on the word ‘friend’ was not lost on Rachel.

Rachel smirked. “A
new
friend?
”

Pearl looked over her glasses at her daughter. “Apparently. I would have liked to have gone with your father to pick them up at the airport but obviously the turkey couldn’t have waited.” She ticked two more fingers on her left hand. “Aaron and Lily.”

Oh God, he hasn’t told her
, thought Rachel, forcing the smile on her face not to waver.
Well, I’m not saying anything; I’ll just set the place and let
Aaron
deal with it.

“The Feldmans, your Bubby Marion, your Aunt Louise, Uncle Morty and Rabbi Rosen.”

Rachel almost dropped the irreplaceable antique plate she was holding. “Excuse me, who?”

“The Feldmans, your—”

Rachel cut her off. “No, did you say
Rabbi Rosen
?”

Pearl blinked innocently behind her reading glasses. “Yes. What’s the problem, Rachel? It’s a mitzvah to have the rabbi for dinner.”

Her heart racing, Rachel glared at her mother. “And I suppose you only invited him for that reason alone?” Her mother liked to hide behind the veil of doing things just for the sake of doing good (for example: buying a pair of Stuart Weitzman slides. If you got them on sale it was a double mitzvah: you save money which you could give to charity – mitzvah one, and with a name like Weitzman, he has to be Jewish, and we support our own – mitzvah two.)

Pearl turned back to the waiting turkey, avoiding her daughter’s scowl. “Of course.”

Rachel didn’t buy it. She knew her mother well enough to know that had she not been single, the rabbi would not have been invited to her home to eat: it was too much pressure to feed the rabbi. You had to provide kosher food, avoid putting customary sour cream on the latkes (there would be meat on the table), and generally be pious and good, something Rachel’s brothers were not known for.

Rachel had expected the addition of some kosher meat: her Aunt Louise and Bubby both kept kosher in their homes. But she should have suspected something was amiss when the entire meat order had come from the kosher butcher instead of Costco.

Fuming, Rachel placed all the plates in front of the chairs which had already been arranged around the table. She decided once she was finished, she would print up some place cards on her computer and make sure she and the rabbi were to sit at opposite ends of the table. She’d rather be next to perverted old Uncle Morty with the bad breath and the wandering hands than have to sit for a whole meal next to the rabbi on what her mother probably considered their first real date (four scant minutes at speed dating didn’t count as a date in Pearl’s books).

Stepping around the table from place to place, Rachel carefully arranged the cutlery in order of course beside each plate. She positioned the napkins on the top plates, each wrapped neatly with a bow of dyed blue raffia. A chocolate coin sat on each side plate, and several colorful
dreidels
were scattered around the table, just for fun. The table’s centerpiece was a sterling silver Menorah that had been her grandmother’s prized possession until she had given it to Rachel, saying that it would ensure that Rachel would have a bright Jewish home.

She smiled at the Menorah as she placed alternating white and blue candles in it in preparation for the evening’s festivities. It was a beautiful piece, heavy but not too ornate, and one day she would be proud to place it on her own dining room table.

If she ever moved out of her parents’ house…

* * *

Dinner was called for six p.m. which came and went without a soul having knocked at the door. Rachel stood in the kitchen, arranging the latkes on an aluminum foil tray for reheating. She glanced at the clock. It was already ten after; how was she supposed to know when to have them ready for? No one was ever on time for these things.

Screw it, who cares?
She said to herself, grabbed a cold latke (unfortunately, they tasted just as good cold as they did hot), stuffed it into her mouth and shoved the tray into the preheated oven. A part of her hoped they got burnt and dried out: then she wouldn’t be tempted to eat any more of them. It was a sick joke to have Chanukah dinner fall on the day before her Weight Watchers weigh in. And, she would be missing her Monday night Aquafit class. A double whammy working in polar opposition to her diet. And if no one showed up, she’d have to eat all the food herself.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Rachel wiped her hands on her apron and jogged to the door. “Hi Uncle Morty,” she said to the grizzled old man in the doorway.

“Nice boobs,” Uncle Morty said in greeting. “They seem bigger than last time I saw you.”

“Thanks,” Rachel said automatically, unaffected by her great uncle’s obnoxious comments. It was to be expected: no holiday would be the same without the old man making his trademark un-PC comments. She considered herself lucky; last year he had copped a feel of her mother. Amazingly Pearl had just laughed as she smacked Morty’s wrinkled and liver-spotted hand away as Rachel watched in horror.

Apparently Uncle Morty had been leading the caravan of family cars pulling up to the Stern house. Rachel stood, allowing herself to be turned into a coat rack as each family member arrived, greeting her and draping their coat over her outstretched arms.

“Where’s Mom?” Aaron whispered as he entered, alone.

Rachel nodded her head toward the back of the house. “They’re still getting ready.”

“Did you say anything?” Aaron was tense. He ran his hand through his hair.

Rachel snorted. “Duh, no.”

“Okay, well as far as you know, Lily’s sick. Got it?”

“Whatever,” Rachel said. She was beginning to buckle under the weight of the coats that hung over her arms. “Can you take these coats and put them onto my bed?”