"The people around here aren’t the 9:15-minyan kav, if you know what I mean”

It was late on Thursday night, and Shaindy wanted only to close the lights in her clean kitchen and go to sleep, but Heshy was just getting started. He’d been humming to himself all evening long, so she knew he had some sort of exciting plan in his head, and now, as he started unpacking containers on her freshly scrubbed counter, she looked on curiously.

“Hesh what’s up, did you buy some cholent? I know that the young people like that on Thursday night, though Tatty always thought that it’s more kavod Shabbos to wait.”

He smiled at her politely. “I’m making herring, actually,” he said. “It’s something I’ve been doing lately, and I promised the chevreh I would do it this Shabbos for kiddush.”

Which chevreh? Which kiddush? Herring? Why couldn’t he buy herring?

“Oh?” she tried to keep her voice interested, but not too interested, like Chaim did.

Suddenly her kitchen did not smell good. She hoped he knew what he was doing.

He looked down as he worked, very busy, but he kept talking. “Last Shabbos, I went to daven at the minyan, you know the old man at the corner of Dalton, and it turns out he’s a very special person. He actually used to be a rav of a shul, once upon a time, in Chicago I think, or maybe Cleveland. His mind is very sharp, but he’s pretty weak. Anyhow, we were schmoozing after davening, and he told me how much the minyan means to him. It’s all he has, once a week when he gets to still be a rav, you know?”

He looked up, now, and Shaindy didn’t see the mess, the fish innards that he was putting into the wrong bin — you can’t recycle fish innards, she thought — or the bottom of the container making a large circular stain on the counter. She saw only her son’s face, open and kind and caring, and she felt proud.

“That’s very special of you, Heshy.”