The Jewolic by Ritch Gaiti Read Free Book Online

eyebrow and uttered:
    “She i s in a better place.”
    “Can she watch As the World Turns ?” I retorted.
    “Huh?”
    “ As the World Turns ; does she even have a color TV or even a small black and white with rabbit ears? Can she play canasta or double solitaire? Can she smoke a Kent there?” I didn’t wait for my pseudo uncle’s reply as the moment flowed out of me. “I don’t think so. If she can’t smoke and iron and watch As the World Turns , then it’s not a better place. You know where a better place is? Here. Here is a better place.”
    Mucous flowed from my eyes and nose. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a neatly folded yarmulke that I copped off the front table to give to Hochman who collected yarmulkes like most kids collected baseball cards. I wiped my nose with it and stuffed it back into my pocket. Uncle Hy glanced askance — first at the yarmulke that I had secreted away as if he could see into my Robert Hall suit pocket, and then straight at my eyebrow, making direct and admonishing eyebrow contact. He followed this with a slight nod, head askew, brow furrowed, which I had learned over the years meant “is this how you were brought up?” or “you don’t have cream cheese?”
    I assumed that the first interpretation was in play because we were at least two hours away from the post funeral feast, which, as everyone knows is the best Jewish meal one could consume. If I were going to open a restaurant, I would call it :
     
    The Shiva King: try a bisel.
    The finest deli in real plastic containers
    H ot coffee in a cardboard cup with a handle.
    B ring your own bridge chairs.
     
    I reconsidered giving the yarmulke to Hochman.
    Uncle Hy reached up to wipe my tears as a pseudo-uncle might do but, as he was about a foot shorter than I, he awkwardly hooked his pinky in my ear. After my mini soliloquy, we were both aware that it was his turn to speak. We stood frozen in funeral protocol. It was simple; I had an emotional outburst, now it’s his turn to comfort me. Considering that we never connected on any meaningful level before, I did not expect anything other than the standard funeral sentiment of a Hallmark cliché and, of course, the imminent withdrawal of said pinky.
    “God’s will.” He whispered, as if he had just received a text message from Upstairs.
    I considered questioning the whole premise of God’s will and death and the hereafter and other comforting rationalizations but decided that it would only serve to prolong the conversation, which we were both seeking to ditch.
    “Baruch.” I whispered, conjuring up the only comeback that I could.
    “Baruch.” He acknowledged.
    “Monashadana.” I mumbled and phlegmed, contriving a few syllables of guttural insignificance, which meant nothing but sounded profoundly Jew ish. “Aleichem,” I added, momentarily regretting the absent Hebrew School training. I placed my hand empathetically on his shoulder.
    He nodded without responding. I had him. I had actually out-condolensced my ersatz uncle.
    “Mox nix.” I whispered.
    “Mox nix.” He agreed and added: “She was a good lady.”
    “The best.”
    “The best.”
    “I miss her already.”
     
    There was an extended beat as we stood there, once again, out of commiserative dialogue. It was time.
    “Unc.”
    I could tell that he was clearly touched; as this was the first time I had referred to him in such as way as to anoint him as being officially related to me. I had called him Unc, a breakthrough of sorts as we could now bond at another level. He was no longer quasi-Unc, or pseudo-Unc or half-Unc as I called him prior to today. He was now Unc and I was Glebe. I wondered how I would break this to my Uncle Irving, my mom’s bro and real official uncle, who I had been calling Unc since forever. Uncle Irving took pride that he was my only uncle, forgetting that Uncle Charlie, my father’s brother in law, was, in fact, an uncle as well.
    “Yes?” Uncle Hy inquired.
    “You can