Wonder Boys - Michael Chabon [86]
“That’s what the moror is, dear,” said Irene with placid condescension. “Bitter herbs.”
“I know, but I think the chazeret is supposed to be something bitter, too. Maybe something like watercress?”
“Put some watercress, Irene,” said Irv, at once, deferring, as was generally wise in such matters, to his daughter-in-law’s erudition.
“Watercress? Why would I have watercress?”
“For the chazeret.” He looked annoyed, as if she were being obtuse. “There’s plenty of it growing around the pond.”
“I’m not going out to the pond, Irving, at night, in that mud, to harvest any watercress. You can forget about that.”
“Or maybe endive?” suggested Marie.
“How about some radicchio?” said James, deciding to brave the waters of Warshavian ritual dispute.
“Radicchio!” cried Irene.
“I know,” said Emily, with a little smile. “Why don’t you put some kimchee?”
Everyone laughed at that, and an evil red rank-smelling dollop of kimchee was fetched from its sealed lead containment unit in the refrigerator. It seemed to me that things had gotten off to a very good start. Then I remembered that it didn’t matter what kind of a start things got off to, that I was not going to be a part of this family much longer, and that the news I had come to impart to Emily would annihilate in an instant all the promising starts and family happiness in the world.
“Shall we begin?” said Irv. “James? Will you hand me the Haggadahs?”
He pointed to the sideboard behind us and James reached around for the stack of little booklets, which Irv then passed around. They were the same ones he always used, cheap little giveaway jobs, heavy on the English, that were emblazoned throughout with the name of a defunct brand of coffee. He pulled his eyeglasses from their plastic sleeve in the pocket of his shirt, cleared his throat, and then we set about once again to commemorate the start of a long trip across a small desert by an ill-behaved rabble of former slaves. Irv started by reading the short opening prayer that invoked in fairly conventional and politically somewhat outmoded terms the Almighty; the family, friendship, and the sense of thanksgiving; and the spirits of liberty, justice, and democracy. James turned to me, looking panicked, and I showed him the trick with Jewish books, flipping his Haggadah to what he’d thought to be its conclusion and opening it to page 1. Then I bowed my head, and listened, and looked over the top of my eyeglasses around the table. Everyone else was reading along with Irv, except for Deborah, who was not even looking at the Haggadah in her hands. I caught her eye and she stared back at me for a moment, levelly and without expression, then looked at Emily. Then she dropped her eyes to her book.
“Now we pour the first cup of wine,” Irv said, when he’d concluded the opening prayer. “There are four,” he told James.
“Look out!” said Philly. “James already had his four beers.”
“He doesn’t have to drink all four glasses,” said Irene, looking concerned. “You don’t have to drink them all, James.”
I turned to James.
“Maybe you should take it easy,” I said.
“Mr. Role Model,” said Deborah. She looked at James. “You wanna make sure you follow this guy’s example, that’s for sure.”
“Deb,” said Emily in a tone of gentle warning, and as we raised our cups, and Irv read the blessing over the wine, I felt so grateful for this intervention by my wife on my behalf that tears almost came to my eyes. Could she really have decided to forgive me? And was I really going to throw away such unearned forgiveness, such grace? The heavy wine was hot and salty in my throat. James, I saw, drank down his whole glass.
“All right,” said Irv. He pushed back his chair and got up from the table. “Now I wash my hands.”
“I’d like to wash my hands, too,” said Marie.
This appeared to irritate Deborah.
“Isn’t it usually just Daddy who washes his hands?” she said, with mock innocence.
“Anyone can wash their hands,” said Irv.
“Yes, we all could,” said Marie, as if trying to get up