Uncle Yidel was dancing in the middle with two rabbanim, but he lit up when he saw Shmuly. Of course he did — the orphaned nephew, the perfect prop for his simchah, along with the ice sculpture and cut-up melon before the chuppah

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hmuly made his way through the lobby, trying to figure out what they were up to inside the ballroom. It sounded like the middle of the first dance, which was kind of perfect, early enough in the chasunah that he was there, he could dance and smile when the video camera guy came around and everyone got all insecure and busy with their cream of chicken soup, but late enough that he’d missed the chuppah.

At the last wedding, Uncle Yidel had pulled him in for a bear hug just after the chuppah and said, “You know, the seforim say that the neshamos of the zeides come from yenneh velt to the chuppah, but I know your father was here too, I felt him.

“Some uncles get special privileges,” he’d added, as if he could see clear into Heaven and read a printout of which souls had been sent down for the evening.

Estie was excited for this wedding. She was new enough to the family that she still enjoyed the warmth. Aunt Shevy and all the cousins would no doubt make a big deal about her, and Mommy would feel good to have her newest daughter-in-law there.

Mommy. Probably dancing with Aunt Shevy, a dignified smile on her face as she played the part, the widowed sister-in-law rejoicing with her deceased husband’s siblings. They say Yidel and Shevy support her now. They say he paid off the mortgage. They say they say they say, all the they says filling the air around them, mixing with “Toraso Magen Lanu” and pounding feet and the big-name Israeli electric guitarist who had a small crowd around him taking videos.

Uncle Yidel was dancing in the middle with two rabbanim, but he lit up when he saw Shmuly. Of course he did — the orphaned nephew, the perfect prop for his simchah, along with the ice sculpture and cut-up melon before the chuppah.

“Shmulik’el,” he said, using the name only Shmuly’s father had used, and pulled him in, pressing Shmuly’s face into the silken folds of his beketshe. Uncle Yidel started dancing, still grasping Shmuly like a tattered old teddy bear, holding him close. Shmuly knew what was coming next, and he let his uncle pull him over to meet the new mechutan.

“Reb Shea, this is my nephew Shmuly. His father, Yankel, and I were best friends, like twins, people said. Like twins. He’s already not here four years and we’re all not okay. We never will be again, ’til Moshiach comes.”

He nodded somberly, and the new mechutan, who probably bought the whole thing, joined them in a little circle.

Mendy, Uncle Yidel’s oldest son, came and joined the circle too, smiling beatifically as he took Shmuly’s hand. Mark from acquisitions, Shmuly thought bitterly, remembering the six months he’d worked for his uncle after leaving yeshivah. Uncle Yidel had played the benevolent benefactor eager to take his orphaned nephew in and show him the ropes; it had all started out nicely, until they realized that Shmuly was good. That he worked hard and was smart and determined, and that scared the living daylights out of Uncle Yidel, and especially Aunt Shevy, who panicked that her nephew would take all the jobs and there would be nothing left for her sons.

So Uncle Yidel had called him in, told him again that he and his brother Yankel had been close as twins. He laughed and wiped away tears and he talked about how they’d built succahs for money and bought a used lawnmower one bein hazmanim and also, they had to downsize at Ace Developments and he would give Shmuly six months’ salary, but there simply wasn’t room for all of them, the industry was shifting, you know how it is.

Uncle Yidel had called the next day, wondering how the job search was going. He had a small part in a food business, was that something Shmuly wanted to do? He was very good with Gluck, from the plumbing supplies, was that interesting? Of course, if Shmuly wanted to join any of the moisdes, all it would take was a phone call.

“Nah,” Shmuly said, “I’m good, thanks. I’ll figure it out.”

Now, at the chasunah, Uncle Yidel’s son-in-law Pinchus — Philip from tenant relations — took Shmuly’s other hand, offering an extra squeeze to show his warmth. Mazel tov.

A

fter Ace, Shmuly had gone to work at Broadway Health, which he didn’t love, but it was where he’d met Yossi, his current boss at Kehilla RealTime, a job he did love. The website was growing every day, and Shmuly, who’d gone from selling ads to writing and interviewing, had found his calling. Between the website and social media, RealTime was influential and profitable, and while there were other writers, no one could research a story, turning over every stone and following every lead, like Shmuly could.

He didn’t use his real name yet — none of them did — but it was a matter of time. Their last major story, his investigative report of how kosher restaurants sold their chometz and what they did with it, had over one hundred thousand hits and it had forced three major restaurants to issue statements and one kashrus agency to change their policy.

He was making a difference and making money and the sky was the limit. He was knee-deep in his newest story: tuition arrangements for yesomim. He was calling various schools and they all talked the good talk, but he wanted actual figures. This, he told Yossi, was personal.

Yesterday, he’d tracked down a British askan who covered tuition for all yesomim out of his own pocket. Shmuly also spoke with a belligerent board member from the Midwest who maintained that there were plenty of non-yesomim who also had no money and he personally knew yesomim who had plenty of money. Shmuly put the phone on speaker and went to make coffee. When he came back, the man was still speaking, his voice a bit disjointed as he pontificated about the fact that there were families that had made serious money on life insurance and —

“You’re kidding, right?” Shmuly asked.

His father had had life insurance. His mother had gotten enough to pay off the mortgage and marry off the girls, but not more than that. There had been no funds or collections either, because the askanim reasoned that no one was giving monthly credit card donations for Yidel Aker’s brother.

He hung up, cutting off the askan midsentence.