“Right, that’s true,” he said. “Warm and friendly is right. Okay, I’m going to Paran now to pick up the bagels. There’s cash in the bedroom, right?”

Tziporah nodded.

When Benny appeared two minutes later, his hair was freshly brushed, and he had a new shirt on. He was also wearing brown ankle boots that emitted a deep leathery smell.

“You’ll start heating up the pasta now, right?” he said as he headed toward the door.

Tziporah put down the pile of plates she was holding.

“Benny?” Her voice came out high. “Is there a reason — I mean, why are you wearing boots when it’s 85 degrees outside?”

Benny smiled. “They’re nice, no? I’ll be back soon to help you set up the pizza station.”

The pizza station. On Wednesday night he had come home all excited, talking about this guy who could come to your party with a real brick oven and prepare custom gourmet pizzas on the spot.

Tziporah had put her foot down. “We don’t have room for it,” she said firmly. The money part she left out. “I’ll make a bunch of dough circles and I’ll put out of a choice of toppings, and we can set up the toaster oven on the buffet. I know it’s not as authentic, but I don’t see us fitting all your guys here in the living room along with buffet tables and a big brick oven, right?”

Benny had nodded. She knew he was disappointed at her practicality. This party was so vital to him, it had become an obsession. He had missed part of first seder to go buy paper goods with her, he had ordered the drinks himself. He had gone over her lists to make sure everything was in order. He had even spent an hour on Tuesday night in agonized vacillation, trying to decide it they should do fleishigs instead — guys always preferred meat — before going back to the milchig menu.

So much was riding on this. Benny, who knew nothing about budgets or prices, who would coach a bochur through a crisis until 3 a.m. rather than pay a water bill, had actually sat down with a pen and paper and crunched the numbers for their rent increase. He had put together a plan: how much money they needed every month, how many guys could realistically be expected to ask their parents to pitch in, and how much each guy would actually have to bring in every month.

If they could get 15 guys to sign up, he figured it would only be around $70 a month. “Totally doable,” he had promised Tziporah. “Think about how many of these guys have open credit cards, how much money they rack up every month eating out and entertaining themselves and buying pitzuchim. Think about how much money they would spend if they bought takeout food for Shabbos instead of coming here. Seventy dollars is a drop in the bucket.”

She set down a bowl of sliced olives at the pizza station and hoped he was right.

***

“Whoa, Reb Benny, this is unbelievable!”

Yitz marched in and whistled. The green-swathed tables were set with square bamboo plates, and pitchers of iced coffee, bottles of soda, and long flat platters of bagels were positioned strategically every couple of seats. Pans of pasta — mushroom fettucine, classic baked ziti, and penne a la vodka — were sitting primly above the Sternos Tziporah had rented, and the pizza rounds were stacked neatly next to all the toppings she’d prepared. Platters of cream cheese, tuna salad, sushi, and homemade gravlax sat alongside crackers, breadsticks, and small bamboo bowls of garlic-dill, honey-mustard, and jalapeno dips.

“Looks like no one’s gonna be eating breakfast tomorrow morning,” Eric said as he grabbed a knife and sliced open a bagel. “If we’d known about this, we would have skipped the cholent today too!”

Benny smiled. “Hey, Akiva, good to see you.” He squeezed Akiva’s shoulder. “And Yitz, how’s it going? Chaim, so great that you came! Zach, Shmuli, Yishai, Mordy. Take a plate, fill it up, it’s a mitzvah to eat!”

The guys loaded their plates, washed, and sat down. Tziporah watched from the kitchen doorway as Benny took a bite of his bagel, then set it down and scanned the room. He was smiling his usual welcoming smile, but it didn’t spread past his lips. He was too wired to eat, she knew. And there weren’t nearly enough guys here yet.

“So how was Shabbos? How’s the chazarah going for the big bechinah? Three more days to go, right?” he asked. His eyes kept scanning the room, counting heads.

“It’s tough, Reb Benny,” Akiva said. He was always so honest, so willing to be vulnerable, Tziporah thought. He would need a good wife one day to build him up.

“You’re right,” Benny said empathetically. “Yevamos is challenging. But you’re gonna get there, you’ll see. Reb Motti sets it up so neatly for the oilam, if you listen to the recordings of his shiur a few times, it will click. And if not, I’ll be there second seder to help you out, right?”

Akiva nodded. There was a knock on the door. Tziporah opened it and five more guys came in.

“Where’s Meir?” Benny asked. His voice sounded casual, but Tziporah heard the tension.

“Meir the Masmid?” That sardonic voice had to belong to Chaim Markowitz. “Come on, Reb Benny, you know Meir’s super-serious these days. He learns day and night. No way is he coming to a party when he could be chazzering.”

“Very impressive,” Benny said. His eyes remained vapid. “Can I pass you some iced coffee? Or maybe some water?”

Another knock. Tziporah watched four more guys goggle at the spread, then grab plates and fill them. Soon they joined the hum of conversation at the table.

She took a plate of her own and put a tiny spoonful of penne a la vodka on it, then a narrow sliver of gravlax. These were all her favorite foods. And the aromas and colors and variety were so perfectly calibrated. But she wasn’t hungry. The whole event felt like a cheaply masked appeal, a thin attempt to hide how desperately needy they had become.

We’re the Best Couple, she reminded herself. This is what Benny wants, so this is what we’re doing.

Another knock on the door. Was it more bochurim? She opened it and found Gitty Lederberg standing there nervously, wearing yet another one of her perfect ensembles, this time a belted floral maxi dress with matching pink-accented shoes.

“I hope it’s okay that I’m knocking,” she said. “It sounds so happening here! Do you need some help in the kitchen?”

Tziporah didn’t really need much help, but she pictured Gitty in an empty apartment while her husband was out learning and her heart lurched.

One day, Gitty, you’ll realize how lucky you are, she thought. One day you’ll realize what you have.

“That’s so nice of you, I really appreciate it,” she said. “Come in!”

Gitty smiled with relief.

“Here, take a plate,” Tziporah offered. “Right now I don’t think the guys need our help, so we can sit and enjoy the food.”

Gitty piled ziti and sushi on her plate. “I can’t believe you pulled this together yourself,” she said as she settled into a chair in the little kitchen. “It’s amazing. I hope these guys realize how lucky they are!”

Tziporah pulled her lips up into a smile. I hope so too, she thought. Because Benny’s entire plan depends on it.

***

“So that’s the real concept of Melaveh Malkah, that’s how it all comes together. Got it?”

Benny surveyed the guys. Akiva seemed genuinely moved by his explication of the luz bone; Yitz not so much.

Benny knew that at some point soon he would have to bring up the rent issue, but he wasn’t entirely sure how to go about it. He had a funny feeling that the holy talk wasn’t going to get him there. He had to try something else.

“Hey, Chaim, can you go into the spare bedroom — it’s down the hall, the door on the left — and bring me my guitar?”

Chaim pushed in his chair and stood up. This was Benny’s moment to show that he got his guys. He understood them like no one else on the Ner Olam staff did. The words that had been running through his mind like a TV chyron the entire Shabbos finally tumbled out.

“Not sure what Lila would say about my playing — I would probably be out of the competition by now, like Madison and Dominic. But the Ner Olam guys are much nicer judges than Lila and Jason, right?” He winked.

No one winked back.

Akiva Mandel looked down at his plate as a red flush crept up his cheeks. Yitz and Shmuli exchanged raised eyebrows. Zach twisted a napkin tight. The clock ticked.

“Here, Reb Benny, here’s your guitar,” Chaim said as he approached the table and broke the silence. “I wasn’t sure which one to take — there were two there. Hope this is the one you wanted.”

“This one is good, thanks,” Benny said as confidently as he could. He slid the strap over his shoulder and began to pick out an E minor. The sound seemed gluey somehow.

“Hu shomer aleinu, Hu oheiv otanu,” he sang.

No one sang along. Was this going to be a solo performance?

Thank Heaven, Akiva picked up the second stanza. Yitz was next. Soon most of the guys had joined in. But their voices weren’t rich and proud; they didn’t expand then cohere then fill up the room the way Benny knew they could. The whole thing felt uneasy, unsure.

A tinny ring interrupted the song. It was Eric’s phone. He got up from the table and took the call in the hallway.

“Abba, oy Tatte…” the boys’ voices trailed off.

Eric returned to the dining room, but didn’t sit down. The guys looked inquiringly at him.

“That was Reb Ephraim. You know, Ephraim Grossman, the first seder shoel u’meishiv,” he said. “He wanted to remind me — actually all of us — about the special chazarah session he’s doing tonight from 11:30 to 1, for the big bechinah. In the main beis medrash. Optional, he said.”

He gestured to the half-depleted pizza station and the last strips of gravlax lying abandoned on their tray. “But he also told me to mention that we should… um, we should remember why we’re here in Eretz Yisrael. Food is nice, he said, singing is good, but the learning is the main dish.”

He shrugged apologetically. “Just passing on the message.”

The room was quiet. Akiva stared at an invisible spot on the tablecloth. Yitz ran his fork over his empty plate — back and forth, back and forth. Zach started shredding his napkin. The guitar hung over Benny limply, like an overtired, overgrown toddler that refused to acknowledge it was long past its bedtime.

“So,” Chaim said hesitantly, “should we bentsh?”

The party, Benny realized, was over.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 934)