Free An Almost Perfect Moment by Binnie Kirshenbaum Page B

Seagull, where there was, along with her prayer card of the Blessed Virgin, the hundred-dollar bill that Grandpa Kessler gave her for her last birthday, along with some twenties, and the two ten-dollar bills she’d earned babysitting for the Silverberg kids, which she swore she’d never do again under penalty of death. They were maniacs, those children. Plus Mrs. Silverberg left Hydrox cookies for a snack. Hydrox. A poor imitation of an Oreo. Clearly, Valentine was hoarding the money, but for what? What did she want that Miriam wouldn’t buy for her?
    The box from Kleinman’s she slid under her bed, where it stayed, with the two pristine shawls inside, for some time to come.
    Once the gifts were opened, wrapping paper in the garbage can,ribbon put away to be used again, Miriam said, “Dinner’s ready,” and the four of them sat around the table for brisket and string beans and potato latkes with applesauce. Miriam surveyed her family, such as it was, and while the ache for Ronald involuntarily pulsated, the wound never healed, nonetheless Miriam felt grateful for what she did have, and as she chewed a piece of brisket that was, frankly, a little bit stringy, she thought to herself more than to any deity, Please God, God in many ways being nothing more than a figure of speech, watch over Valentine and don’t let her do anything stupid . But as Miriam’s mother, may she rest in peace, was fond of saying, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” and if God had ever heeded Miriam Kessler’s prayers, Ronald would have strolled through the door as casually and happily as he walked out all those years ago. But all old stories are driven by desire, and it was an old story already, Miriam’s wish for Ronald to come back to her.
    After Sy and Rose went home, after the dishes were washed and put away, Miriam swept the kitchen floor. Somehow the Kessler house seemed darker than usual. True, it was late December and after eleven at night and the kitchen light, overhead, cast a white halo, a halo which, rather than heralding the arrival of an angel, radiated a kind of desolation. Miriam felt the weight of sadness come over her. A sensation which was no stranger to her, although no one else, not The Girls, not Valentine, knew that daily, even if only for a few minutes, Miriam experienced profound grief. She sat herself down on one of the kitchen chairs, her arms wrapped around the broom, and she stayed that way until the feeling passed.
    Upstairs, the mood was different.
    In her bedroom, Valentine sat cross-legged on her bed, her Princess phone in hand, listening to Beth Sandler in ecstasy. Thekind of ecstasy that emanates from a gold heart-shaped locket with a diamond chip in the center. “So, now that we’ve made this step toward preengagement,” Beth said, “tomorrow night his parents are going out. We’re going to do it.”
    “Are you nervous?” Valentine asked.
    “Yeah,” Beth admitted. “Kind of.”
    Two years or so before, at Beth Sandler’s house, Beth and Valentine, behind the closed door of Beth’s bedroom, had an exhaustive talk about it, about doing it, or more specifically, how it is done. Aware that their knowledge of it was garnered in bits and pieces and from sources not always reliable, they worried about, when the time came, doing it right because their mothers had taught them there was a right way and a wrong way for doing all things under the sun. Just then, Mrs. Sandler happened to come into Beth’s room with a tray of tuna-fish sandwiches and two glasses of juice because it was time for lunch. “Ma,” Beth asked, “how do you know if you’re doing it right? You know, after you’re married and on your honeymoon, how do you know what to do?” Beth added the bits about married and honeymoon to avoid the cow-and-the-free-milk speech. “Girls,” Mrs. Sandler said, “the dogs know how to do it, the cats know how to do it, when the time comes, you’ll know how to do it too.”
    And now