She couldn’t meet her son’s eyes, knowing that she had just interrupted his kiddush and sort of killed the atmosphere

Chaim was sitting at the table with an open Chumash, but Shaindy could tell from the way he was tapping his fingers that he was getting a bit impatient.

The Staglers were planning to start the seudah at 12:15, which Shaindy thought was a bit Queensy. There was no reason to start after 11:30, she felt. Still, you don’t complain when you’re a guest.

And the later timing gave Heshy more time for his kiddush, which, it turned out, was being held right there, in the Brucker backyard. The minyan at the old rav had been jammed, as Heshy had hoped, and it seemed like the whole crowd had come here for the promised kiddush and Heshy’s homemade herring.

Shaindy looked out the kitchen window and allowed her mind to wander. When they had first seen the plans for this house, she had imagined peering out the window to this backyard and watching eineklach play, maybe the older ones reading in the corner under the trees that existed only in the plans but not yet in real life. If Chaim would ever become the rav, she had thought — not that she was counting on it, but you never know — the backyard would be a nice place for a women’s shiur too, maybe Pirkei Avos or something in the spring. She could make pink lemonade, nothing too elaborate. A shiur should never be about the refreshments, she believed.

Now the single picnic table meant for six adults was holding about twelve people, and Heshy had brought all the lawn chairs over. He was walking around like the maître d’ and making sure everyone was comfortable. There were a few teenage boys near the fence, and he went over to them and started a niggun. They looked hesitant, but Heshy was the type who would sing himself until they joined. He did a few rounds with them, then moved on.

She was able to hear his little speech, delivered with one hand on the shoulder of a man she didn’t know — maybe it was the husband of that grumpy-ish woman from the corner, the rich ones who used to live in Chicago, she couldn’t tell.

“Listen,” Heshy was saying, “in Meah Shearim they don’t know from tequila yet, we’re still at arak, that’s more like a licorice flavor, it’s pretty strong, so we don’t add a lot. But I would think that for tequila, plain seltzer would go good, or maybe mix in some orange soda, even?”

Shaindy stood on the tips of her toes and saw Dr. Durnst, who had been an orthopedist in Passaic, listening as if he was enthralled. “Yeah, that’s an idea I could get behind,” he said, and reached for the bottle of ShopRite orange soda. “Let’s try.”

Heshy was still wearing his tallis thrown casually over his shoulders and she watched him cross the yard, where Rabbi Bordin was enjoying the Yerushalmi kugel Gitty had made. “Six doros of Yerushalayim in this recipe,” Heshy said, “it’s a mesorah.”

This struck Shaindy as a bit of an injustice, since Mrs. Bordin, whom she remembered from camp, had pretty much ignored her since she’d come to Alameda. Shaindy had tried reminiscing about their bunk, just as a way of renewing ties, and Malky Borden smiled politely and said, “Who can remember what happened last week, let alone 50 years ago, right?” so no ties were renewed.

Now Shaindy peered into the dining room, told Chaim she would be back in a moment — she was just going to see where Heshy was holding — and then she opened the door and walked into the backyard.

Her backyard.