| Out of Step |

Out of Step: Chapter 32

By Ariella Schiller | April 29, 2020

Naftoli lifts his head and his face goes from green to white. “Baruch!” he gasps.

It had been a nice Purim, I have to admit. Our family has joined with Pori’s for the Purim seudah for as long as I can remember, switching off homes each year. This year was Pori’s family’s turn and Mrs. Sanders had done a beautiful job, with appetizers and tablescapes that only the sober women could enjoy.

Daddy and Dr. Sanders spent most of the seudah leaping off of their chairs and dancing, knocking various objects over in the process, Naftoli and Aharon kept giggling uncontrollably, and Chemia had clutched the one glass of beer Daddy had allowed him, taking small sips that showed exactly what he thought of the bitter drink.

Pori’s “girls only” family always get a big kick out of the Martin men.

I sink onto my bed, I still haven’t gotten used to the serenity of my room and I love it anew every time I enter.

There’s something about Purim, something that makes me anxious. Maybe it’s the importance of the day, the kedushah they teach us about in school. Or maybe it’s the fact that I feel like I’m chasing something, like I’m running and running but I don’t know what it is I’m running toward. This year especially, I woke up early to try to capture the special koach hatefillah. After all, I have a lot to daven for.

But I ended up just feeling depleted, like I had poured my tears into a bucket with a hole in it.

The rest of the day had been fun. Pori and I always dress up together, this year we were Jelly Belly packets and it had been adorable.

I pull the jellybean-adorned scrunchie out of my hair and sigh.

What I can use right now is a post-Purim snack.

My mind flits to my exercise regime, but I ignore it. I’m tired and I deserve a treat, because, well, because I just do.

I take the steps slowly, enjoying the feel of the wood beneath both my feet. The boot had been removed only two days ago, and I’m still enjoying the freedom.

I glide into the kitchen and do a small pirouette. I bow to my imaginary audience. Yup, still got it.

Ma and Aharon are loading shalach manos onto the kitchen table, although Ma looks quite worried that Aharon might just drop everything on the floor in the state he’s in.

“Careful. Careful!”

I smother a laugh and turn toward the island where Chemia and Naftoli are perched on barstools. Naftoli’s head is propped in his hands and he’s moaning.

Ha. Purim may be a man’s Yom Tov, but Motzaei Purim doesn’t seem like much fun for them.

Ma lifts a large basket filled with fruit and nods appreciatively. “The PTA always sends something nice.”

She puts the basket on the counter and has only begun unpacking it when she notices Naftoli’s green face.

“Naftoli! Do not throw up on my counter. Please.” She plops a bucket down in front of him.

He winces and mouths a thank you.

Ha!

I make my way to the carefully sorted piles. Ooh la la, pareve Schmerling’s… Hmm, unless I want dried mango? Decisions, decisions.

Unwrapping the Schmerling’s, I lean on the counter and begin a spirited debate with Chemia over who had been the one to throw up in Pori’s mother’s flower bush.

“I vote Aharon.”

“I think it was that random bochur dressed like a construction worker.”

“I think that was a construction worker.”

“No…”

“Uh, guys,” Naftoli interjects. “It was me.”

We all crack up, even Ma.

We’re still laughing when Daddy walks in, followed by a bochur I don’t know.

Ma looks at him inquisitively. “And who is this?” she asks politely.

Naftoli lifts his head and his face goes from green to white. “Baruch!” he gasps.

And then he throws up into the bucket.

Mostly.

***

We all wait while Naftoli sips a glass of cold water. Really we should all leave the room and let Naftoli and Baruch speak to Ma and Daddy, but I mean, come on.

So, we try to look as inconspicuous as possible, which is harder than usual considering Aharon’s wearing a Viking helmet, Chemia is dressed as a penguin, and I’m wearing a bright blue skirt with felt jellybeans sewed on.

“Baruch,” Naftoli finally says hoarsely. “I told you not to come. Why are you here?”

Baruch, who is obviously still tipsy, throws himself into Naftoli’s arms.

“Because you saved my life. And I’ve come to tell your parents what a tzaddik they’ve raised.”

Naftoli smiles, but there’s no joy in it. “Yes, I’m bringing them so much nachas right now.”

“Naftoli!” Mommy protests weakly.

Daddy steps in. “Baruch, why don’t you sit down? We can even provide you with your own bucket.”

I smother my laugh behind my hand.

Soon Ma, Daddy, Baruch, and Naftoli are seated around the shalach manos-laden table.

“So, tell us, Baruch.”

Chemia starts pinching me and Aharon is motioning with his head toward the kitchen door.

Sigh. I never get to hear the good stuff. I drag my feet but Chemia’s surprisingly strong for such a small kid. Well, if I’m going down, at least I’ve got chocolate.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 808)

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