Shevy is tinkering with the charoses, the tang of ginger and the strong scent of the wine making her heady. She hears the crackle of the omelets in the frying pan, Chaiky singing as she peels potatoes, and Mommy issuing instructions over the din of the mixer. She closes her eyes to feel the joy course through her, then opens them quickly as they water and she begins to cough.

“Maror,” she hisses.

“What about it?” Perela calls from the kitchen table, a mound of fresh, white horseradish in front of her.

There’s a noise in the doorway.

“Hello,” Menachem calls, striding into the kitchen.

Yissachar Dov smiles, heads over to Perela, and says something quietly. Shevy forces her eyes off them and turns to her husband.

Mommy switches off the mixer.

“What can we offer you boys for breakfast? Omelets? Mashed potatoes?” She looks at her watch. “You still have a half hour to eat chometz. I think Tatty brought home a few sandwiches, check the hall outside.”

“Nah, I’m fine, thanks,” Yissachar Dov says.

Sefer in hand, he slips out as Perela shoots up to prepare him a coffee.

“Breakfast sounds like a good idea,” Menachem says gaily. “Did you have something yet, Shevy?”

“Um, yeah,” she lies. Tension buzzes in her gut like a swarm of mosquitoes.

Her mother picks up a bowl of quartered potatoes and brings it to the food processor. “Why don’t you take a break for a bit and see that Menachem has something to eat?” she asks.

Shevy’s eyes alight on the food processor. “Yes, but you know Ma—” she pauses to flash a winning smile at Menachem, “Menachem could really help you with the kugel. Most men can barely tell a measuring cup from a… a measuring spoon,” she looks meaningfully at Perela, “but Menachem is a fantastic cook.”

Menachem smiles easily and bows. Mommy and Perela laugh and Shevy’s heart fills. “Really, you know Menachem makes the kugel at home? He puts in onions and… and what was it, that special ingredient?”

She blinks importantly in her husband’s direction. Menachem shrugs, casting his eyes toward the door. She forgot; he’s hungry.

“Whatever, but it’s really something else. Menachem, why don’t you make the kugel? I’m so in the mood.” She waves her knife in the air for emphasis.

“Uh,” Menachem hops to his other foot and chews his lip.

A little quickly, Mommy says, “It would be nice to taste that kugel but I think we should leave it for another time.” She slips the first potato into the machine. “Menachem hasn’t had breakfast yet. Shevy, go show him where the chometz stuff is.”

“Yes.” Shevy says thickly, dropping her knife. Frustration and shame boil inside her as she follows her husband out the door.

From the den, the sweet sound of Yissachar Dov learning.

***

The rich, flavored wine does little to soothe the sandpaper lining Shevy’s throat. Her brother-in-law sure knows how to turn an innocent Kiddush into a shuckeling match. She licks her lips and tries to push the thought away. Maggid will start soon and it could be any minute now that her husband will share his devar Torah. Out of the corner of her eye, she takes in Yissachar Dov thumbing through a pile of Haggados, and she gives herself a mental pat on the back for encouraging, that is, urging, Menachem to prepare a fine devar Torah to share. He hadn’t been so keen on it, really, mentioning something about his own father rushing through the Seder in order to make the chatzos deadline, but she’d been quick to assure him that her father was all for devar Torahs and stories.

Shevy gazes at her father now, his neat gray beard brushing his snowy kittel, surrounded by embroidered pillows. Okay, so he isn’t much of a Seder-schlepper either. Still, he always appreciates a nice Torah thought, of that she’s certain.

Karpas. The kids clamor for potatoes and Mommy chokes her way through the papery parsley leaves like she does every year, as if it were a mitzvah to torture yourself. Menachem hands Shevy a particularly large piece of glistening, dipped potato and she is secretly pleased. She would’ve been too embarrassed to complain had he given her a smaller bit.

Finally, Tatty calls out, “Maggid!”

The kids break out in a cacophony of rehearsed chanting, then quiet down for Ha Lachma Anya, gathering steam for the Mah Nishtanah solos ahead. As the last little girl shyly winds down her Tatteh leben, Shevy can feel her muscles tense. In a moment, Tatty will start singing the beautiful songs she waits to hear all year. Only this time, Menachem will join in. And they will all melt, of course they will, as they hear the buttery smoothness of his voice, sweet and golden and light. The voice of an angel, Mommy will say, because it really is.

Her father taps his fingers on the table and launches into song. Heart in her throat, Shevy turns to watch Menachem.

He is quiet.

She clenches her fists. Tatty goes up a note, the little boys join in, even Yissachar Dov hums. Since when is her husband shy? Shevy waits nervously.

And waits.

Finally, a mumble. Menachem is… well, the only way she can put it, is gurgling. The song ends and Tatty goes on for a bit alone. Shevy clenches and unclenches her fingers.

At last, Menachem speaks up. He talks vividly, like he always does, rolling out his piece of Torah like smooth marbles. Shevy glances quickly around the table, straining to concentrate and follow along.

When he is done, she deflates just a bit. It was nice to be sure, but not mind-blowing. Oh well, she swallows and tries to relax, Tatty and Yissachar Dov look like they appreciated it. With effort, she slows her breathing and self-consciously adjusts her wedding pearls. She will have to be content with this.

The rest of Maggid slips away in a rush of words and spilled grape juice. Shevy whispers the last bit ahead of the family and looks longingly at the sparkling grape juice. She needs something to sweeten the acrid taste in her throat.

She waits for her father to rise and begin go’al Yisrael. But instead, Yissachar Dov leans over and starts talking in his slow, drawling way. A devar Torah. Her stomach tightens as she listens.

He goes on and on and she cannot even follow; all she knows is that it sounds brilliant and deep and Tatty and Menachem look enraptured. She moistens her dry lips, her previous satisfaction turning to dust.

At last, go’al Yisrael and the longed-for cup of wine. Shevy drinks hastily, sets her becher down, and before she can stop herself, turns to her husband and hisses, “Why didn’t you sing along, Menachem?”

He gives her a strange look.

“I don’t know the tunes,” he says simply, and pushes his chair back to wash for Rachtzah.

***

There’s something about Chol Hamoed mornings that make you want to stay in bed, Shevy ponders, feeling warm and lazy as the sun forces its way in through her closed eyelids.

Or maybe… She sits up, frowns, and peers darkly at the door. Or maybe it is only on a Chol Hamoed morning in which your husband is all chipper and fine, oblivious to his older brother-in-law nestled in the den, as motionless as a roosting chick, a sefer forever open on his lap.

Shevy rubs her eyes and sighs. This is all so unfair. Instead of enjoying Pesach, she is feeling more and more like a cauldron of bubbling nerves. For a bleak moment, she wonders if this is her lot in life, now and forevermore destined to live in the shadow of Perela and her husband’s greatness. Annoyed with herself, she drives the thought away and hurries downstairs.

Sure enough, as she nears the den, she hears a soft voice learning… but hey, is it voices? Her breathing quickens as she tiptoes over and peeks inside.

Yissachar Dov is sitting, as usual, in the right-hand corner of the loveseat, perusing a sefer. And… Menachem is in the recliner, doing the same. She hears voices from nearby and her heart does a little dance. Mommy and Perela have surely seen this beautiful sight. She slips away to join them in the kitchen, feeling suddenly tender.

Mommy is crumbling matzah into a bowl of milk for breakfast, and Perela is trying to sneak cubes of avocado into Shani’s mouth between elaborate storytelling.

“Good morning,” Mommy says brightly, holding out the milk to Shevy. “Want some?”

Shevy nods, happy. She will have a coffee and then daven. She thinks of Menachem, rocking softly on the recliner, learning Torah. Mommy must be shepping so much nachas. She swallows a little tingle of guilt. On a whim, she abandons her Styrofoam cup and reaches for a tall glass and the hot cocoa. She adds sugar and plenty of milk, a glob of whipped cream, three mini marshmallows, and a handful of nougat chips. There. This always makes Menachem happy. She can barely keep from trilling a song as she heads to the den.

Menachem looks up as she walks in and his eyes crinkle gratefully. “This is a treat.” He sighs, stretches, and to Shevy’s alarm, snaps his sefer shut and gets up.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to disturb you,” she says quickly.

“Nah, don’t worry,” Menachem stretches again and yawns, “I was waiting for you to wake up. It’s the last full day of Chol Hamoed and we should really go somewhere nice.”

He accepts the drink and starts in the direction of the kitchen, Shevy following a few paces behind, disappointment coursing through her.

“So,” Mommy looks up from her cereal as they walk in, “Going Chol Hamoed halten today?”

“Yup,” says Menachem as Shevy smiles thinly. Mommy doesn’t ask Perela this question.

Menachem sips his drink and discusses the pros and cons of doing a museum versus a park versus a boat ride. Shevy makes an effort to join in, thoughts of rolling fields and sun-dappled waters wrangling with the image of two brothers-in-law sitting side by side in the quiet den. Mommy is listening and offering her commentary, Perela silently spooning applesauce into Shani’s mouth, clearly puffed with pride that she has no such decisions to make.

They settle on a cruise at the pier, a 40-minute drive away.

“I guess I’ll go put on my sheitel,” Shevy says, trying to keep the irritation from her voice. She tugs doubtfully at her snood for a moment, but nobody seems about to stop her, so she gets to her feet and shuffles out.

With a sinking feeling, she catches sight of Yissachar Dov as she passes the den. He is in the exact same spot as before, the recliner nearby conspicuously vacant. She casts a yearning look in his direction and trudges up the stairs.

***

Floating along the calm, silvery waters as Menachem weaves his stories and the sun caresses her cheeks is proving too sweet and peaceful to sustain a sour mood. Shevy sighs happily, eyes closed, as her husband explains how the motors of different boats work. How he knows all this she has no clue. All she knows is that somehow, he knows everything.

She opens one eye for a moment to regard Menachem. She almost laughs out loud; fancy her, Shevy, on a boat ride, with a husband. She strokes her sheitel and breathes deeply; the sun and water and easy companionship are slowly working their soothing magic.

Settling gratefully into the car for the way home, she is solemnly informed by Menachem that, due to the upcoming days of Sefirah, he’ll have to make “some arrangements.” He then proceeds to up the music volume to earsplitting levels. Shevy giggles as he starts the car, enjoying the smoothness of the road unrolling beneath her, the vibes buzzing through her as if in dance.

She leans her head back and closes her eyes, the music ringing inside her. That’s it. I’ll be careful to be nice from now on. I’m not being fair to Menachem.

Her new resolution feels so right… up until she and Menachem walk through the door and she takes in the blazing lights in the dining room, frenetic activity in the kitchen, and Perela accosting them, out of breath and excited.

“You’re back!” Perela cries, eyes bright, “Shevy, you won’t believe this. Yissachar Dov is finishing a masechta today and well, he forgot to mention it.” She giggles, then continues in a rush, “Can you believe it? Anyway, I told Mommy and she said we should make a little siyum, and Tatty was like, it’s Chol Hamoed! When if not now, is a time to celebrate?” She exhales and gestures around the room. “So anyway, Yissachar Dov’s parents are coming and we’re quickly whipping up some cakes and I’m so glad you’re home because there’s so much to do!”

Shevy’s resolutions drip out through her toes. Her tongue is glue.

“Wow,” Menachem says.

“Anyway, can you please, please, hop over to One Stop Kosher to pick up some potato starch? We just ran out and I was about to go, but if you can go instead while I finish up here, it would be amazing…”

NO, Shevy wants to say, no, no, no, NO. But before she can formulate her fury into words, Menachem stifles a yawn, tosses his keys in the air, catches them, and says, “Sure thing.”

He is out the door before she can open her mouth. Perela rushes off and Shevy is left staring at the closed door, her stomach burning with something she tries hard to identify. Menachem is so tired and exhausted but he didn’t think twice about helping out. But of course, nobody notices… and there won’t be any siyum to celebrate his helpfulness. With a bitter taste in her mouth, she trudges to the kitchen to offer a hand.

***

It’s going from bad to worse. Yissachar Dov being the glowing prince is punishment enough, but does Menachem have to make himself so scarce?

Shevy shakes her head in disgust and pretends to listen as Yissachar Dov’s mother, Mrs. Baumhaft, wipes away a tear and shares an anecdote from his kindergarten days. Mommy is bustling back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, arms full of trays, and Perela is busy keeping Shani off the table, so Shevy has to be the one to nod and smile at this woman and her awful idea of conversation.

Mrs. Baumhaft samples a nutty almond cookie and makes an appreciative noise. She pats a strand of yellowish wig out of her eyes and segues into a tale of one night, when Yissachar Dov was the last one awake, learning of course…

Shevy nods, smiles, and keeps casting anxious glances in her husband’s direction. He is usually the life of the party, but now he is softer somehow, overly complacent. She cracks her knuckles and bites her lower lip in frustration. It’s as if he decided to gracefully bow out of the picture and let Yissachar Dov have the whole pie, chocolate, cherry, and all.

After the Baumhafts have left and the family is sitting around the table nibbling chocolate and lady fingers and talking… mostly about Yissachar Dov, of course, Shevy decides it’s been quite enough. If Menachem cannot steal some of the spotlight, she’ll have to do it for him.

She waits for a lull in the conversation, then remarks brightly that, by the way, they had a fabulous time on the boat today. Her father laughs and tells, again, of how he took Mommy on a boat ride when they were first married, and the boat had a defect, and they ended up in life vests and row boats and the whole deal.

“There are so many different boats and they each work so differently, did you know?” Shevy leans her arms on the table and smiles brightly at Menachem. “Menachem told me all about them today.”

Her father turns to Menachem, eyebrows raised. Shevy waits, but Menachem just shrugs and says lightly, “Yeah, boats are interesting.”

Shevy clenches her fists. “Aaand,” she continues, “airplanes for that matter. It’s so complicated to learn how they work, but Menachem explained all the details to me. Really, it’s fascinating.” She barely keeps from pursing her lips. She will do this, she will.

Menachem chuckles. “Yep,” he says and leans forward, making a big show of looking for the chocolate. “No more of those marshmallow squares?” he asks, looking genuinely regretful.

The talk shifts and wanes, and Shevy thinks she will hit the roof any minute now. It’s almost as if… as if Menachem is purposely being difficult. She has a sudden urge to stamp her feet.

Later, in the relative privacy of the kitchen, Shevy cannot stay silent anymore. “Menachem,” she whispers fiercely, “you know… you’ve been acting… different lately.”

Very slowly, Menachem puts down the empty glasses he is holding and turns to face her. He is silent for a moment, then says in a low voice, “I have no interest in proving myself to anyone.”

Shevy takes a step back, as if scalded. “What are you talking about?” She opens her eyes wide, as strands of guilt knot themselves up in her chest. “Who’s proving what to anyone?”

Menachem shrugs and transfers the glasses to the sink. Shevy chews her lip and heads to the dining room to fetch more dirty plates, the unease in her stomach a physical pain.

Much later, when she retires to a bedroom flooded with silvery moonlight, the unease is still there, relentless and cloying, and sleep eludes her. Eventually, she gives up trying and tiptoes downstairs for a drink.

***

She can tell by the misty whiteness in the room that she can still turn over and go back to sleep. It doesn’t seem right to get up so early, but her crackly throat is becoming unbearable. Sighing, Shevy washes negel vasser, throws a sweater and skirt over her nightgown, and goes for another drink. The sun is softly creeping into the kitchen, throwing shimmering streaks across the gray tiles. She reaches for the fridge door, lifts her arm… and lets it fall in horror.

The fridge door is ajar. Open. A jolt of horror flashes through her. Open, I left the fridge open. I just destroyed ALL the food. Hours of work. I… I am just going to collapse right here.

Suddenly, she is shivering. Ohmygoodness ohmygoodness what am I to do— She stuffs her knuckles between her teeth to stifle a cry. She stands prone for a moment, beset by panic. She hears the door squeak open.

Mommy. She closes her eyes. She will be… furious. Her breath is stuck in her throat and her eyes pop — just as Menachem ambles into the kitchen and dumps his tefillin bag on the milchig counter. Half-dazed, she watches him turn around, notice her, startle.

“What’s the matter, Shev?”

She breathes, finally. She searches for her voice amid the waves of panic rushing up her throat. “Menachem, the fridge,” she squeaks, eyes darting wildly towards the kitchen entrance. “I left the door open! All the food, we spent hours cooking—” She stops and bites her lips but tears are gathering in her eyes. She paces the kitchen, forehead damp with sweat, gesturing frantically as she speaks. “I don’t know what to do. I feel so bad, this is crazy! Mommy will be so, so upset, I just—”

“Shevy, stop.”

Shevy pauses, her arms midair. “What?”

“Stop, it’s not healthy to get so hysterical.” He folds his arms and knits his eyebrows, “Go upstairs, wash your face and calm down. We’ll deal with this.”

She stares at him dumbly.

“Go, relax a bit. It’s okay, we’ll deal with it.”

Her heart throbs. She nods at him, sniffles, and stumbles away.

In the bathroom, she splashes cold water on her face and allows herself four full minutes of focused breathing before squaring her shoulders and stepping out. She is nearly in the kitchen, when she stops at the sound of Menachem’s voice, muffled by the clinking of mug and spoon on counter. She edges closer.

“… really bad, I’m so, so sorry,” Menachem is saying, spooning Xylitol into a peach-and-white checkered Pesach mug. He brings the mug to the table, where Mommy is sitting, rubbing her temples. “I don’t know how it happened, I must’ve been half-asleep. I just… don’t know what to say. I feel terrible.”

She jumps back, bitten. What in the world?! Menachem! She feels her cheeks burning with shame. Menachem is sabotaging himself for her, for her feelings. She leans against the wall. You’ve been horrible, Shevy, just horrible.

Remorse makes her insides churn. She tries to think past the blood pounding in her ears and closes her eyes as a tear slips out… Yissachar Dov, humble and smiling and noble at the dining room table, Tatty standing around, pink-cheeked with pleasure, Mommy and Mrs. Baumhaft laughing and talking, Perela with glowing eyes—

Shevy’s eyes fly open and she clenches her teeth. Well, I have no choice. With a brother-in-law like that, I have to make sure my husband gets to shine, too!

Energy rushes through her and she turns back to the kitchen, intent on wrestling the blame back from her husband. All she needs is for Mommy to think Menachem a shlemazel. And maybe… maybe this act of kindness will finally reveal what a nice person her husband is.

She is at the threshold of the kitchen when she stops. Menachem is still talking but she can hardly hear him over the static in her head. Nobody ever said anything about comparing Menachem to Yissachar Dov, you know. Nobody said anything about Menachem being less.

She waits, stricken. It couldn’t be just her, could it? She wants to move, pick up one foot, the other, go into the kitchen, do what she has to. But she falters. Don’t.

She swallows, her entire body tingling with urgency. To accept this kindness would mean… would mean letting go, of Tatty and Mommy and-and what will they think? Oh, but… .Could she? Could she focus on Menachem and not beyond?

She waits, paralyzed. He can be your own crown prince, if you’d let. She bites her lip. She will just walk inside and clear up this mess.

Don’t. Just leave.

She pauses, one foot at the entrance, breathless. Then she turns around and slips away.

(Originally featured in Calligraphy 607)