Bertrand Court by Michelle Brafman

bars.” Sylvia stroked one of Hannah’s plaits and guided her out the door.
    The envelope felt heavy in the pocket of Goldie’s slacks. Part of her wanted to look her sister square in the eye and hand her the money, instead of her usual pretending that it just appeared like magic in Sylvia’s pocketbook. Part of her wanted to keep the money and splurge on a trip to Florida with Hyman next winter. Most of her wanted to turn back the clock, to tell Mama that Sylvia was the older one and she should take care of herself, or maybe even Goldie, once in a while.
    Goldie finished peeling her potato, then reached for another and another. After she added egg and flour and onion to the bowl of chopped potatoes, she grabbed Sylvia’s purse from the kitchen table, returned to her window chair, and zipped the envelope into the side compartment of her sister’s bag. She watched Hannah and Sylvia emerge from behind the big slide in the middle of the park; Sylvia put out her hand, and Hannah grabbed it. From the way they tilted their heads, Goldie knew they were sharing a laugh, a good giggle. And nobody knew better than Goldie how warm it felt on the inside of Sylvia’s laughter.
    September 1935
    Goldie
    Goldie thought she might plotz if she had to wait one more second to tell Sylvia the big news. Every few minutes, she peered out her living room window, waiting for her sister to come help her prepare her first Rosh Hashanah feast.
    She fluffed her new chair, delivered fresh from Zellen’s Furniture Store just in time for this important lunch. If Sylvia ever got here, she would help whip up cabbage rolls, three kinds of kugel, brisket, and of course Mama’s icebox cake. The men would eat until their paunches strained against their belts, and the aunties would squirm in their girdles, pledging to eat bread and water for days after the meal. But Goldie and Hyman wouldn’t announce their news to the family, not yet, too soon.
    She could see everything from the new chair, including willowy Sylvia finally waltzing down the street. Rays of sunshine poked through an umbrella of elm trees, catching the reds and golds in her hair as she moved in and out of the light. Her narrow shoulders drooped from lugging shopping bags brimming with last-minute items Goldie had asked her to pick up at Saltzberg’s.
    Marshall Plotkin broke from a game of kick-the-can to give Sylvia a big hello. She used to babysit for half the boys on the west side of Milwaukee before she married that Irving. Back then, Goldie didn’t share her sister’s enthusiasm for children; she preferred to meet her girlfriends at Walgreen’s to gossip over chocolate phosphates and French fries. But now, everything had changed. Goldie was going to be a mother.
    Zelda Greenberg waddled out of the bottom half of Goldie and Hyman’s duplex and stopped Sylvia to look into her grocery bags. Sylvia, too polite to end the conversation, smiled and nodded for what seemed like hours while Zelda nattered on, probably kvetching about her corns; she was always kvetching about something.
    By the time Sylvia let herself into the kitchen, Goldie’s impatience had gotten the better of her. She got up, fluffed the indentation of her body from the chair, and walked toward the kitchen.
    â€œYou’re too nice to Zelda Greenberg, she probably asked you how much you paid Saltzberg for the groceries. She’s got real nose trouble,” Goldie said as she pulled a place setting for Zelda from the breakfront in her dining room. Calmer now that her sister was here, she savored the anticipation of sharing her secret, just like she used to love sharing a string of black licorice at the matinee.
    Sylvia retrieved a pound of ground beef and a bunch of parsley from a shopping bag and placed them on Goldie’s kitchen table. “Isn’t collecting strays what you’re supposed to do on Rosh Hashanah?” She started giggling; her laughter,