Washing the Dead by Michelle Brafman Read Free Book Online Page A

friends shouting at the vampires receded, and I could hear only my pulse thumping in my ears. I recognized the no-nonsense cursive of the address instantly. I’d seen it a thousand times on four tattered recipe cards of my mother’s. I ran my fingers over the return address embossed on the thin white envelope as if I were reading Braille.
    Rivkah Schine
    3050 Lake Drive
    Milwaukee, WI 53211
    Rivkah Schine. I hadn’t seen the rebbetzin in more than thirty years, not since the Schines cut my mother from the community like a brown spot from an apple. My mother had left them no choice, and while they were at it, they excised Neil and me too.
    I put my thumb over the address: 3050 Lake Drive. The Schines’ shul. Sam, Lili, and I lived a few blocks off Lake Drive, but ten miles north, in a suburban split-level. I avoided driving by the mansion, particularly on Shabbos mornings, so I wouldn’t have to look at the men in their business suits and skullcaps, accompanied by women who covered their hair with stylish hats and held their children’s hands. Four decades ago, I’d been one of those children. Back then, I belonged to the Schines’ shul and my mother belonged to me, two facts that I still could not tease apart.
    I held the white envelope to my nose, half expecting to smell the lemons the rebbetzin and my mother rubbed on their fingers to mute the scent of the onions they’d diced for the Schines’ Shabbos feasts. I closed my eyes and conjured the sound of beef meeting hot oil, and I could practically taste the luscious cholent thatsimmered for a full day before the Sabbath meal.
    Stop it, Barbara, I almost said aloud. This was absurd. The rebbetzin could not have forgotten that as June Pupnick’s daughter, I was a pariah. Until I married Sam, the most casual mention of the Schines or my mother made me feel like no matter where I lived, there was a boisterous New Year’s Eve party happening two houses down the block and I hadn’t been invited. I’d gotten over all that, and I wasn’t going back.
    I folded the unopened envelope and stuffed it into the pocket of my capris. Its corners pricked my thigh as I walked away from the mail slot in slow motion, like in the ESPN highlight videos Sam watched on his computer after Packers games.
    Mounted on the hall wall were photos chronicling the life I’d built with my family: baby pictures of Lili taken at the Sears in Bayshore; our annual artsy black-and-whites of Sam, Lili, and me in blue jeans and crisp white shirts, our feet bare, our smiles broad and backlit by our love and the late-afternoon sun; a sweet candid of Sam’s parents pushing Lili on a swing. I’d paid a decorator a month of my teaching salary to frame and arrange these photos just so, but despite her efforts I’d never been satisfied with the placement of one photo: my mother, Lili, and I wearing pink birthday hats, the elastic straps cupping our chins, Lili’s lips covered in chocolate. My mother is draping her arm around my shoulders, grinning as if we were a normal mother and daughter.
    I went into the kitchen, the hum of the dishwasher muting the girls’ chatter. I pulled the envelope from my pocket and opened the trash compactor, the paper shaking in my hands as it hovered over napkins stained with tomato sauce and an abandoned slice of pepperoni. I still had qualms about ordering pizza adorned with rounds of pork, but I did it often, perhaps to erase Barbara Pupnick, the girl who’d been kicked out of the Schines’ world.
    I stuffed the letter back into my pocket and went to the porch. “It’s getting chilly, I’m going to grab my fleece,” I told Sam, who was sitting there with two sweating glasses of white wine. I took the steps to our room, shut the door, and tore open the envelope.
September 6, 2009
B”H
    Dear Barbara,
    I am sorry to tell you the news that Mrs. Kessler has passed away, aleha hashalom, may peace be upon her. Please meet me at the Abromowitz Funeral Parlor on Monday at