Perele broke in. “Butter? Marjorie, I told you, we never, ever use butter when cooking meat meals”

February 1964

“Look, sweetheart, I’m running late,” Abe said, as he carefully checked his black leather bag to make certain all his equipment was there. Stethoscope and sphygmomanometer: check. Tongue depressors, flashlight, reflex hammer: check. Local anesthesia, syringes, dressings, assorted pills: check. Yes, all medical equipment in and accounted for.  His wife was certainly a wonder. “Thanks for packing it up for me. Big day today, nonstop patients until three, and then six kids with flu symptoms to visit at home. Can we talk about Artie on Shabbos, when we have more time?”

Annie sighed as she sliced the cucumbers to add to Abe’s tuna sandwich. Doctor’s house calls certainly made sense: why schlep a child with fever and chills outside, and have him sit in the crowded waiting room, infecting others? But they took so much of Abe’s time, and he would certainly be coming home late, exhausted from a hard day’s work.

“It’s really important, Abe. Since he failed that math test he’s hardly said a word to anyone.” She handed him a brown bag, knowing he’d barely find five minutes to gulp down the sandwich. “And lately, he’s been staying out late, not coming back until well after midnight. When I ask him where he’s been, he doesn’t answer. The boy is really upset.”

Abe, already out the door, turned back. “He’s not a boy, Annie, he’s 25 years old.  A man.” His voice was impatient, almost stern. Then he softened. “Tell you what. Why don’t you have a conversation with him. Talk to him about his future plans. Then we can discuss it on Shabbos.”

And then, with a wave and a cheery, “Bye, hon,” he was gone.

A

nnie knocked lightly on her foster son’s bedroom door. When there was no answer, she hesitantly opened it. She found Artie sitting moodily at his desk, a pen in his hand. Quickly, almost guiltily, he turned over the paper he’d been writing on, and looked up at her.

Annie stared at the walls, white with a bright-blue border. The bed was not made, and Artie’s guitar lay among the crumpled blankets. The room, she realized with a start, had an oddly impersonal air, so unlike her Mutty’s, with its Yankees pennants, awards for excellence that he’d routinely copped in high school, and family photos.

Artie used to have his Mickey Mouse poster, and his yearbook picture from yeshivah. When had he taken them all down?

Another shocking thought: Abe is right, he’s a grown man.

She looked at him, this person she’d helped raise from the time he was a silent four-year-old boy. Artie was so quiet when she first saw him, a terrified child who’d survived a fatal bombing during the Blitz, a young boy who finally recovered his voice and his smile through the love that she and all those around him had poured upon him.

When had that smiling boy turned into this silent, almost sullen, young adult?

“Yes?” Artie asked, his voice uninterested.

“Aharon-chik,” she said gently, using the nickname Papa had given him so many years earlier, “is there anything we can do to help?”

“No.”