Free Bertrand Court by Michelle Brafman

was just trying to make things easier. “Such a shame,” Sylvia said. Safer to talk about Viola than other things.
    â€œShe was as big as a house when she went. You never saw her that way, but I’m telling you, she must have been eating yeast.”
    Goldie hadn’t changed one bit. “She used to be movie-star gorgeous,” Sylvia said.
    â€œYeast, I tell you.” Goldie shook her head. “She used to be movie-star gorgeous.”
    â€œI got you a present.” Sylvia set a bag of black licorice from the Pic ’n Save on the coffee table. Goldie and the help must drink a lot of coffee; rings from their mugs had ruined the table, the one that arrived right before Goldie hosted one of the last Rosh Hashanah lunches Sylvia attended. Goldie was so worried that this silly piece of furniture wouldn’t come in time for her to show it off to the family.
    Goldie grabbed the licorice bag and settled it on her lap.
    â€œHow are the kids?” Sylvia asked.
    â€œSimon’s getting married. Brenda. German Jew.” Goldie smiled with pride. “A bit of a snob.”
    Simon and Brenda had been married for more than thirty years. Goldie’s confusion ripped at Sylvia’s heart. Sure, things hadn’t always been easy with her sister, but Goldie had always been the rock, the bank, the fierce little girl who socked anyone who dared poke fun at Sylvia’s lisp.
    â€œYou know, she looks just like you did back then, long and willowy,” Goldie announced.
    â€œYour Hannah is much prettier than I was.” Sylvia could always follow her sister’s thoughts, even now, when it seemed like someone had put them in a pot of soup and stirred them up good. Sylvia hadn’t noticed how alike she and Hannah looked until she was rifling through old pictures last week, and she didn’t much like the comparison. She wanted more naches out of life for her great-niece. It made her ache to know that Hannah was having trouble making babies too. Now, Amy, she was built like Goldie, peasant-like, short with a bosom, and mischievous and light, a real artist, but still a child that one.
    â€œWhat else did you bring?” Goldie looked in the direction of the bags.
    â€œCabbage rolls, brisket, kishke, icebox cake, a few raspberries from the yard,” Sylvia answered; she wanted Goldie’s Rosh Hashanah to be perfect. “Simon picked out the finest cut from the kosher butcher out by him and Brenda.”
    Goldie’s attention drifted; her eyes, once dark and bright, were grayish and watery. She patted the arm of the davenport that butted up against her chair. “Come, sit.”
    Sylvia stepped around her bags and sat as close to Goldie as she could. Goldie’s breath smelled like dirty flower water, and coarse, dark hairs sprouted from her chin.
    â€œThat’s better,” Goldie said.
    They sat together in silence for a few minutes. Sylvia took a deep breath, thinking Goldie wouldn’t notice.
    â€œNu, what’s on your mind, Sylvia, after all these years?” She was the old Goldie.
    â€œI have something for you,” Sylvia said softly.
    â€œI see, all that food. Simon will come with the kids, and we’ll have a feast tomorrow.” She paused. “You’ll be with us.” It was a statement, not a question.
    â€œNo, not the food.” As Sylvia was getting up to retrieve her handbag from the kitchen, she felt Goldie’s fingers pressing into her arm through her thin sweater.
    â€œStay,” her sister commanded. “Hyman loves your icebox cake. He would wump up half of it if I didn’t stop him.”
    Hyman had been dead for ten years. “A good eater you married.”
    â€œTwenty-five cents.”
    Sylvia knew Goldie was talking about some kind of bargain from Saltzberg’s, which had been replaced by a discount shoe store twenty years ago.
    â€œTwelve ounces of chocolate for twenty-five cents at