Me: Tell me the truth. Do you find this whole support group thing productive in any way?

It took a full hour from when “L’shanah Haba’ah” crashed to an end until the mitzvah tanz began. By that time, Malkie was sprawled over three chairs, fast asleep. Hindy, Zissi, and their cousins were twirling in their gowns in the nearly empty hall.

Pessie sat down between her sister Devoiry and her sister-in-law Fraidy, kicked off her heels, and wriggled her finally free toes.

A tray of chocolate was passed around, but Pessie declined. She gestured at the buffet of hot dishes stationed near the men and marveled. “I don’t know how people can eat cholent at this hour.”

Fraidy chuckled. “The men seem perfectly capable.”

The badchan wound down Zeidy Hartstein’s grammen — “Shreits aleh der zeide fun di kallah, er geit, er geit...” — and all the Hartsteins stood up as their grandfather took Suri’s hands and shuffle-danced in place.

The badchan moved along to the chassan’s grandfather. Nice, hartzig. “I like this badchan,” Devoiry declared. “One-two-three, done. He better not make jokes.”

The mitzvah tanz moved along. True to his promise not to keep up the oilem, the badchan did a “Kol Hane’arim” grammen for the uncles on all sides. With one exception.

…Reb Yochonon Hersko!

My longtime yedid

He’ll take you from Venezuela to Madrid

Trust me, this is bechlal nisht a poshuter Yid

He continued in this vein, the crowd roaring with laughter. Even Pessie chuckled; that was Yochi, the life of the party. She wasn’t happy about the tour, but it was heartwarming to watch how everyone always took to her husband.

But when she watched Yochi wink as he pumped Shabbos gelt into the badchan’s hand, something stirred in her chest.

Something was wrong with Yochi. The smile was there, yes. The right words, too, judging by the way the badchan burst out laughing.