Bertrand Court by Michelle Brafman Page B

parsley, passing the correct amount of each ingredient to Goldie, as both sisters had always done for their mother when she cooked and baked.
    â€œKeep stirring. It’s too gloppy. I’ll be back in a minute,” Goldie said, and handed her wooden spoon over to Sylvia.
    Sitting on the sliver between the twin beds she and Hyman had pushed together to make their queen, Goldie pondered her embarrassment of riches: a baby on the way, Mama’s first grandchild to eat from Grandma Hannah’s spoon, a breadwinner like Hyman who made a good living even during a depression and remembered to buy hiswife a box of chocolates for her birthday, and now the honor of preparing Rosh Hashanah lunch. What did Sylvia have? A no-goodnik Irving. Who cared if he looked like Errol Flynn? He liked his schnapps too much, and his “deals.” He was probably in trouble again, didn’t want to face Uncle Seymour. Probably owed him money.
    It had always been this way with scrawny Sylvia. Mama had told Goldie that she was the strong one and that she had to watch out for Sylvia. In kindergarten, Goldie — just a grade behind Sylvia — beat Sari Coppel up for calling her sister Bug Eyes and teasing her about her slight lisp. Mama scolded Goldie for fighting, but Goldie knew that she didn’t really mean it. She never felt more proud of herself than when she fought her sister’s battles.
    She stuck her hand under Hyman’s mattress and pulled out her knippel. So the baby wouldn’t have the fanciest buggy on Fifty-first Street. An ugly memory jumped into Goldie’s head. The one time Hyman said that Irving might actually get rich from one of his “deals,” something to do with liquor. Goldie hadn’t felt happy for her sister at all.
    She returned to the kitchen to find Sylvia arranging cabbage rolls in a pan.
    â€œThat’s a nice batch,” she said, and slid the brown envelope into the pocket of her sister’s dress.
    â€œI…we…can’t.” Sylvia bit her lip.
    â€œMahjongg. You know I’m a big shot with the tiles. Come. Brew a cup of coffee for the icebox cake.”
    â€œIrving is picking me up in a few minutes. I’ll make the cake at my house and bring it over.”
    â€œA few minutes?” Goldie’s heart sank again. This was not turning out anything like she had planned. Her morning with Sylvia was ruined, thanks to Irving.
    â€œMaybe I can come for Rosh Hashanah. I’ll ask again,” Sylvia offered.
    Goldie shrugged.
    Sylvia touched her index finger lightly against Goldie’s belly. “Mazel tov,” she said again, and tears sprang to her eyes.
    In spite of her disappointment, Goldie was moved. She ran hot water over the greasy skillet until she could no longer hear Sylvia’s heels clicking against the linoleum steps that led to the landing of the duplex. Wiping her hands on a towel, she returned to her new chair and peeked out the window. Irving stood at the gate, grinning at Sylvia. So cocky, that one. And too handsome. Sylvia caressed Irving’s cheek with one hand and with the other stuffed the fat envelope into the breast pocket of his finely tailored suit. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, which now drooped under the weight of a new debt.
    September 1937
    Sylvia
    Sylvia’s feet swelled in her pumps — Irving didn’t approve of those frumpy tie-up shoes, even for a cooking day — as she trekked an extra seven blocks to buy bananas for Goldie’s toddler, Simon, along with a few “while you’re there pick me up some…” items. The handles of her shopping bags left red creases in her fingers, and her shoulders ached.
    Even before she married a man who couldn’t afford to spend two months of grocery money on a brisket, Sylvia had known that she would never make Rosh Hashanah, even though she was the eldest. Let Goldie have the spotlight — she’d practically begged