Avromi is standing at the door of my childhood bedroom, car keys in one hand, the Maxi-Cosi in the other. “Finished?”

“Just looking for my old machzor.”

Right next to my Clep Biology textbook, my ArtScroll machzor stands upright, a faithful friend throughout the four long years I leaked makeup into its pages. Now it’s been granted a reprieve, sitting primly in my former room, a little island of pink in a house of blue.

Avromi didn’t imagine I’d want an ArtScroll machzor. He meant well, with his white leather-bound set. He just didn’t know about the relationship I had forged with my blue machzor, standing in shul as a desperate single, mature enough to want to really understand what I was saying. I pull it down from the shelf and close the light. “Kay, I’m ready.”

“I see you’re planning on davening a lot this year.”

“Hoping. Last year I was busy throwing up. This year I can actually daven.”

We walk down the hallway and into the kitchen. My mother is in a robe and lavender turban, loading the dishwasher. She looks up.

“That’s it, you’re going?”

Oh, the guilt of an only daughter. You feel bad when you’re single and making them wait. You feel bad when you’re married and leave them all alone.

I sigh. “Yeah. Avromi has night seder soon.”

We stop by the dining room where Leizer and my father are in heated discussion.

“Nu. So that’s exactly what I did. I only went up at the end of hayom.”

“No.” My father’s voice is mild, but I can hear the veiled impatience. “You went up too much at the end. Listen to how he stretches the second-to-last note.”

He fumbles with the buttons, but Leizer waves his hand. “I got it. Okay, this is what you mean.”

His beautiful baritone, like polished mahogany, fills the dining room. When he sings like that, I forget the voice belongs to my brother, his jacket thrown over the chair, a pile of pistachio shells hugging his empty glass of Coke. I just see a chazzan.

I watch Avromi’s face as Leizer sings.

He seems impressed, I think. I hope.

Leizer finishes with a flourish. “Better?”

My father nods. “Yes. Good.”

Avromi smiles. “Wow. Really beautiful. I’m mamash looking forward to hearing you.”

Leizer salutes him in thanks.

My father pushes his chair back and walks over to us. “Sorry I didn’t greet you with more kavod.” Avromi smiles but his eyes darken. He can’t take the fawning, the way everybody treats him like a hero. He says it’s like he stepped into a warm family picture and everybody just froze with fake smiles.

“It’s mamash a joy for me to see you both. We love when you stop by.” My father pats him on the shoulder but Avromi is stiff.

We walk to our car.

“He’s amazing, Leizer, no? All of my brothers, actually.”

Aromi nods a little too quickly. I freeze for a second and look at him again. He’s humming as he buckles the car seat and closes the back door. Maybe I imagined it.

Still, I caught a look of something on his face. Something, but I’m not sure what. Did my father say something wrong? Did Avromi find last Rosh Hashanah overwhelming? Does he think we’re nuts that we hold our own minyan in the country?

I know Avromi misses his yeshivah davening. On the other hand, Tatty’s Mussaf is legendary, and my brothers are the real thing. There are 22 other families who come up every year, shlep their food, and rent the surrounding bungalows, just to hear the Kaufmans daven. And they’re pretty normal people.

I try to sound casual as he pulls out. “You know that Aizik is coming back this year?”

His eyebrows go up. “Really? Nice.”

“Yeah. You know that he had the job at the Lincoln Square Synagogue? Years ago, before his surgery?”

“Takeh, Lincoln Square?” He moves into the right lane.

“Yes. Last year, Leizer was so nervous when he heard he was coming. He practiced like crazy. But I guess we passed.”

I wait for Avromi’s little laugh.

It doesn’t come.

His face is creased in thought as he stops at a red light. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out something. He tears open the wrapping, but then the light turns green, so he drops it onto my seat.