Lupinsky winked at him. “L’chayim,” he said, raising a schnapps cup.

There were waiters bustling around, and a party planner issuing orders without stopping to breathe: “Uncover the fish platters, bring pastries to the women, let’s go, chop chop.”

“Oh?” Reuven raised his eyebrows like a disappointed rebbi, approaching Lupinsky.

“Oh? What’s oh?” Lupinsky looked like he was enjoying this. He raised his cup again and smiled.

“It’s just not the sort of kiddush we’re used to here,” Reuven said, aiming for an amiable tone. He would be the reasonable leader, appealing to logic and not emotion. “I mean, we don’t have formal takanos here — yet — but there’s a certain standard and lifestyle that the people here appreciate and respect, you know?”

Lupinsky nodded. “Aha, I hear, sounds fair. Just curious, who decides what that standard and lifestyle is? Where’s the Shulchan Aruch for that?”

“I don’t mean Shulchan Aruch, I just mean basic tzniyus, you know? Look how others do things and try not to stand out?” Reuven allowed himself to speak harshly, because this was a clear violation of what they wanted the neighborhood to be.

They were interrupted by the party planner, who had quite a commanding presence for a small woman, Reuven noted.

“Mr. Lupinsky,” she said crisply, “the ladies are ready to go, please send someone to make kiddush for them so that they can enjoy the cholent while it’s still hot.”

“I should make kiddush?” Lupinsky asked. “Again? LOL.” He turned to Reuven and said, “Excuse me a minute, I want to attend to my guests,” and headed to the stairs leading to the ezras nashim.

Someone who said LOL as a word, Reuven thought, was not someone he should be engaging in a fight.

Reuven decided he  was not staying for the kiddush. Even though he usually enjoyed making Kiddush in shul and learning for a while before heading home, this week he would forgo the pleasure to make a point.

But as he walked down the white stone path out of shul, he heard Nechama calling his name.

“Hey,” he said with a smile, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh, so sorry, I totally forgot to mention it, I have this sort of friend — Ahuva Lupinsky? — we were schmoozing at the shiur, you know they’re one of those Flatbush people? Anyhow, she and her husband are very excited, their granddaughter is engaged, and they’re making a kiddush. She texted to invite me and I feel like it’s impolite to ignore that, I want to say mazel tov. Can you come back in to shul? It would be nice for me if you wished him mazel tov too.”

Reuven hesitated.

“Oh come, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud,” she said. “It’s okay to have fun once in a while, come on.”

Her tone was extra playful, which meant that she was feeling a bit insecure, and he felt bad for her.

“Sure.” He smiled, and turned around to walk back in. They split up at the fork in the path and agreed to meet in 20 minutes.

“Enjoy yourself,” he called out after her in his heartiest voice and walked back into shul. He could learn, but he was starving. He really needed to make Kiddush and eat something if he had a hope of learning.

He peered into the side room, looking only for a becher and some grape juice. Pressman and Lax were sitting at the first table — a round rented table with a burgundy tablecloth — and they both looked up with guilty expressions on their faces. Reuven noted the near empty bottle of Lagavulin between them and tried to smile.

“A little l’chayim is good for the heart,” he said, “that’s what they say.”

He didn’t see any grape juice. He scanned the room and saw the host in the middle of a crowd, men with gray beards and half glasses, many of them in thick Rockport shoes, sitting around him and laughing.

The table was covered in empty bottles and half-finished meat boards.

Reuven winced. Of course Heshy Brucker was there too, holding court alongside the baal simchah, and the only bottle of grape juice in the room was at the table near theirs.

Reuven approached gingerly, hoping not to be noticed, but Heshy wasn’t one to respect someone’s privacy. He jumped to his feet as Reuven approached and started clapping. “Yamim al yemei melech tosif,” he sang. “Ah, the president is here, what a kavod.”

Lupinsky turned slowly, as if enjoying the moment. He squinted up at Reuven, as if it was someone he did not recognize.

“Ah, look who came to join the party… the tzniyus police himself,” he said, even as his smile was gracious and welcoming. He motioned to a waiter, and a new bottle of Glenmorangie appeared. He opened it and poured a glass for Reuven.

“Glad you came around,” he said, and leaning over to Reuven’s ear, whispered, “It’s a long way from Queens.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 905)