Authors: Holiday Outing
flame we sang the prayer in Hebrew.
“Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha olam, asher kideshanu bemitzvo tov, ve
tsivanu lehadlik neir shel Hanukkah.”
Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us by Thy
commandments and enjoined upon us the kindling of the Hanukkah lights.
“Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha olam, she asa nisim lasavoteinu bayamim
haheim bazeman hazeh.”
Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has wrought miracles for
our fathers at this season in days of old.
We sat around the table, admiring the glow of the menorah in rare silence. The candles
would be left to burn down for the evening. In faithful tradition to my childhood, my
mother then pulled out small net bags of chocolate gelt, candy wrapped like gold coins. She
put a dreidel on the table, but the raging storm outside seemed to put us all off games.
There was a burst of activity as everyone left the table to fetch small gifts to exchange.
We all reconvened in the living room and gathered on the couch and the recliners and
folding chairs.
“I’d like to go first, if I may,” Uncle Al declared. He cleared his throat symbolically.
Uncle Al wore a striped gray cotton polo shirt under a light brown blazer, from which
he pulled a wrapped box, slightly larger than his hand.
“I wanted to bring something for my brother,” Al said, looking at my father
meaningfully. “Over the years, we’ve had our differences, and we’ve not always seen eye to
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eye. But if I’ve learned anything from Lil’s death, it’s that life is short, and precious, and a
person needs to share with those who are important to him.”
I gaped at my uncle. I don’t think I’d ever heard anything that sentimental from the
grumpy old man in my life. With a somber expression, he handed the small package to my
father.
“Happy Hanukkah,” Uncle Al said.
My father scowled. It was clear he was as befuddled by my uncle’s sentimentality as I.
He opened the blue-and-white striped wrapping paper and then gasped.
He held my grandfather’s pushke.
“Oh my God,” my mother cried, covering her mouth with her hands.
“Dad!” Rachel cried. “You’re giving it away?”
Al looked near tears. “You and I have fought over this damned box for longer than I
can remember. I’m tired of fighting. It’s yours, Len. I want you to have it after all.”
My father still said nothing, staring at the box mutely.
The pushke was beautiful. A small, hand-painted wooden box, it had a slit at the top
for dropping in coins. When the box was full it would be emptied and the change taken to a
local charity or to the synagogue.
Tzedakah charity boxes were common in Jewish households -- we had one on the
bookshelves -- but this one was special. The painting was exquisite -- bright colors and
almost surreal faces of a Jewish family in a small village. The vibrant colors, the details of the
painting, and the ethereal imagery made it my grandfather’s favored possession from his life
in Russia, and an object of contention between my father and my uncle for years.
My mother started crying and laughing, and then everyone was up hugging each other
and ogling the box.
“I can’t believe this, Al,” my father said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it.”
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Astrid Amara
“Dad would have wanted you to have it,” Uncle Al said. “And look! It’s even got money
in it!” He rattled the box.
Everyone laughed. The box passed from hand to hand, each guest admiring its beauty.
Ethan sat next to me on the couch. When I handed it to him, he studied it intently.
“I get the feeling I’m missing something here,” he said.
“That pushke belonged to our father,” my father told Ethan. “It was given to him by his
good friend and neighbor, Moishe Shagalov, back in his home village of Liozno. Our father
treasured the box because it reminded him of his hometown.”
“We’ve been fighting over it for years,” my uncle said, shaking his head. “Not very
appropriate for a charity box, is it?”
Ethan turned the box over in his hands. He then handed it back to my mother, who
immediately wiped it with her apron and set it proudly on the mantel.
“It’s a lovely gift, Al, and I thank you for it,” she said, kissing my uncle on the cheek.
After this dramatic gift, everything else paled in comparison, although the mood
definitely improved.
We opened the rest of our presents in relative companionship, although the fact that
my parents gave me a bag of tube socks, and gave Ethan a new iPod Shuffle, did not go
unnoticed.
I, of course, was sweating during the exchange. I had brought eight gifts for my
parents, one for each night, but they were all in my checked luggage. So now I ran upstairs,
ransacking my carry-on for something that might qualify as a gift.
To his credit, my father smiled and proudly held up the cell phone charger I had
hastily wrapped in newspaper, as if it were something of great value.
“Thank you, son,” he said, smiling at me. “It’s lovely.”
I felt my face flush with the compliment.
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“When we get a cell phone it will be invaluable,” he added.
I stifled a groan of embarrassment. “Well, maybe I can help you pick one out when the
snow lets up,” I suggested, but we were already moving on.
My cousin Rachel and I helped my mother bring out coffee for everyone, and we
chatted the rest of the evening around the television, listening to the dire predictions about
the storm. Every so often someone would get up and admire the pushke. It was beautiful, and
stunning compared to the relatively bland decor of my parents’ house. The vibrant colors
attracted the eye.
And then, with a sudden draining noise, the power went out.
The television snapped off. The entire neighborhood went black.
We all froze for a moment, illuminated only by the small flickering lights of the
menorah on the dining room table.
And then everyone burst into noise and motion.
“Oh my God! Oh no!” cried Aunt Goldie, clearly disturbed beyond understandable
expectations.
I heard Ethan talk to her, his voice low and reassuring. He used his doctor voice, I
could tell, and it worked on Goldie, calming her down.
“Cool! I love it when the power goes out!” Rachel said.
I groped my way toward my mother’s hutch, where I knew she stored the extra
candles.
“Hold on! Nobody panic! Everyone just stay calm!” my mother screeched.
My father picked up the menorah. “Helene, where the hell is the goddamned
flashlight?”
“Don’t use the menorah as a light source!” Aunt Goldie called out. “It’s against the
rules!”
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Astrid Amara
My father ignored her and continued to search the room with the menorah.
“I just stepped on something!” Daniel said.
“My foot, you asshole!” Rachel responded.
I fumbled in the dark for the candlesticks, and then reached in my pocket for my
lighter. I didn’t want to use it, as it would lead to the inevitable question as to why I
happened to carry a lighter around with me, and since I was taking a hiatus from lying I’d be
forced to tell the truth. But I couldn’t think of any other way around it.
Thankfully, my dad walked in the living room a moment later, bearing two flashlights
and a box of matches.
“Here! Goldie, take this.” He handed her a flashlight and swept the room with the
other. “Everyone all right?”
“Where’s Matthew?” Goldie cried.
“Danny? Rachie? You two okay?” Uncle Al asked.
“Yeah, Dad, what did you think would happen?” Daniel asked, rolling his eyes in the
flickering candlelight.
I handed a taper to Ethan. He looked hauntingly beautiful.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“I could be better,” he whispered back. He grabbed my hand.
I dropped it immediately, in case the power resurrected itself. But I could feel his touch
lingering, warm and solid. I stepped away from him, my face flushing. His come-ons were
terrible, and the thought lowered my defensive wall slightly. I always thought Ethan was
perfect at everything. The idea that he would court someone so clumsily was somewhat
endearing.
My mother reappeared, her glowing face illuminated by the gas lamp in her hands,
staring at us in surprise.
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I handed out tapers to the others. We all had light now, and stood around, staring at
each other.
“Where’s Moe?” Aunt Goldie cried.
“He’s dead,” my mother reminded her. And then suddenly, my mother screamed.
“Ma!” I ran to her, frightened by the fact that the color drained from her face. “Ma,
what’s wrong?”
Ethan instantly stood beside me and helped navigate my mother through the darkness
toward the couch. I helped her sit down.
“Mrs. Levinson?” he asked, kneeling before her. He looked just as concerned as I felt.
My mother pointed to the mantel.
“The pushke! It’s gone!”
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Astrid Amara
My mother was beside herself.
“Who took it!” she cried, sobbing into her hands. “Give it back!”
I suggested it could have been accidentally moved. For this I received an angry glare.
“Of course it wasn’t moved, it was taken!” she cried, clutching her fist. “I saw it on the
mantel just before the power went out! Who took it?”
Suddenly my uncle swiveled and glared at me. “Jonah!”
I almost dropped my lit candle. “What?”
“Joke’s over. Put it back,” he said.
“Are you nuts?” I backed up instinctively.
“Now hold on! Everyone calm down!” my father shouted, stepping between his brother
and me. “You don’t know it was Jonah, Al.”
“Of course it’s him! Who else would it be?” my uncle reasoned.
“It’s pitch black in here,” my father said. “Maybe it just got knocked over.”
“This isn’t funny!” my mother stated.
“Let’s just look for it in the morning, when it’s light out,” I suggested.
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“The power could come back on,” Rachel offered, but everyone ignored her, and
indeed, the prospect seemed slim as the wind picked up outside and howled against the
window panes. Branches from the backyard tree banged against the roof, and for a moment,
we all froze, listening.
“I agree with Jonah,” Daniel said helpfully. “Let’s go to bed and we’ll see what we find
out in the morning.” As if on cue, everyone began rummaging around for belongings, finding
places to stay. Aunt Goldie took the guest room, and my Uncle Al claimed my mother’s
sewing room. Two beds were hastily made for Daniel and Matthew in the den, and Rachel
hunkered down on the living room couch.
My mother despondently fetched extra pillows and blankets, and my uncle continued
to mumble under his breath. “If you stole it, Jonah, it’ll be the last thing you do.”
I wanted to point out that if I had stolen it, I had actually done lots of things since
then, like light candles and help make beds, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate my humor.
“Good night, Mr. Levinson,” Ethan told Uncle Al firmly.
My uncle glared in my direction one last time and then slammed the sewing room door
behind him.
I fetched my coat and sneaked back down into the kitchen, where I managed to force
the back door open. My parents’ house had a covered porch, and even though the snow was
still three feet high from the wind drifts, I could crack the door just enough to squeeze
through.
I lit a cigarette and then hunched lower behind a mountain of snow, sheltered by the
frozen dumpster and the never-used Weber grill.
My parents didn’t know I smoked, that I had smoked for years. But the need for
nicotine outweighed the consequences of exposure. I huddled from the howling wind and
turned my face toward the dumpster, away from the flurry of snow.
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Astrid Amara
I heard the back door groan as it opened. My heart stopped and I instinctively lowered
my cigarette, glaring over the snow for the intruder.
“Did you know that cigarette smoke has four thousand different chemical compounds,
two hundred of which are poisonous and sixty of which are clear carcinogens?” Ethan told
me. He hunched down in the shadows with me, thankfully keeping his voice low.
“Yeah, well thanks for that,” I grumbled. I inhaled deeply, just to show him how much
I didn’t care. “It feels so healthy I’m shocked by the news.”
Ethan snorted. He rubbed his long fingers together in an effort to fend off the cold.
“I suppose you’ve never smoked,” I said.
“Of course not,” Ethan replied.
“I bet no recreational drugs either.”
“Nope.”
I shook my head. “You really are perfect, aren’t you?”
Ethan grinned. “My body’s as clean as a whistle. My mind, however, is filled with
filthy, depraved sexual cravings.” He tried to sound cavalier, but his teeth chattered.