Queen Solomon by Tamara Faith Berger

Author:Tamara Faith Berger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Coach House Books
Published: 2018-01-17T16:00:00+00:00

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At our last Friday-night dinner before my mother left, Barbra looked strange. She wore a ruffled, white-stitched, kind of Victorian dress.

‘Looks great on you,’ said my mother, filling our goblets with wine.

Barbra screwed her hands together and stared at her plate.

‘We’re sending you two off in style,’ my father boomed. ‘Chicken from Dominion, just like my mother’s. I like a little schmaltz, me and Abbi like a little schmaltz. The kid’s gonna miss me. She likes the way I dress it up with schmaltz.’

God, I wished he would shut up. Even Abigail grimaced.

‘Well, kids, what do you say?’

My father handed Abigail the knife for the challah. My mother unpacked the side dishes of beets and potatoes. Barbra’s fingers interlaced like she was crushing something.

‘I will light the candles tonight,’ Barbra said, standing up. ‘For Ruth.’

‘Good, good. For Ruth? Fine. She needs matches.’

My father twisted around and reached into the drawer of the hutch. Barbra had told me that there was no such thing as racism in Ethiopia. Ethiopia, she said, had had no problem with Jews. My father pitched a pack of matches at Barbra. This was my mother’s and Abigail’s last night at home so we were eating in the dining room.

‘I’m not cooking, I’m not lifting a finger,’ my mom had said.

‘It was only in Israel,’ Barbra had told me, ‘where people were first ever racist to us. They called us names. They called me kushi. Israel was a disappointment,’ she’d said.

I smelled Barbra’s sweat under her Victorian sleeves. The chicken stunk. My mother looked sad.

‘She know the words? You need help? Abbi, help Barbra.’

‘Daddy, no,’ Abigail whined.

‘Regga,’ Barbra mumbled. She closed her eyes. She seemed sluggish. I knew she’d been drinking all day again.

‘Come on, Baruch atah Adonai…’

‘Stop!’ my mother said to my father. ‘Stop speaking.’

Stop drinking.

My father was compulsive. He had to cough to shut himself up. Barbra towered in silence above all of us. I looked at my sister. She looked like she was going to cry. I could hear mites in the air. I could hear the air beat. Then Barbra cupped both her hands over her eyes. The knuckles pointed out. It was as if her body shifted left. Our five-pointed chandelier hung like a crown over her head.

‘I want to thank God.’ Barbra started speaking so slowly. ‘I thank the mother in the house, the mother who takes care of her children more than herself.’

Barbra paused. The light hit her knuckles, illuminated her hairs. ‘The mother who now also takes care of herself.’

My father coughed again loudly. ‘What kind of a brucha is this?’

Barbra let her hands drop. But her eyes were still closed. Her eyelids were vibrating. My father could not be silent for this.

‘She’s got the matches right in front of her. What’s she doing?’ my father hissed.

I wanted to die. It occurred to me that what we’d done in my room was dehumanizing.

Abbi closed her eyes just like Barbra. She fluttered her eyelids. My mother inched her chair closer. Female silence wove a strange fuzz.

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