“Pass”
“Pass”
“Pass”
A few seconds waiting for a bid in Bridge can turn into an eternity. Sherman (that was my Dad) asked, “Well?”
No answer. Sherman waits for another few seconds while Rachel re-arranges her hand for the third time since the bidding opened. “Rachel? Are you going to bid this evening?”
Rachel re-arranges the cards one more time. This time putting spades on the far left of her hand. “Can I have a review of the bidding?”
Sherman puts his cards down. “I passed. Jake passed. Estelle passed. And now it’s to you.”
“Don’t rush me Sherman. You’re rushing me. You probably have bad cards and you’re rushing me.” Rachel shifts her spades to the far right of hand. “OK. Let’s see. I bid a small spade…”
Sherman folds his hand. “Rachel, you can’t do that. That’s cheating. You can’t say a ‘small spade’. You can say a spade… just a spade… or two spades if you want to, or you can pass. But you can’t say a small spade… because you have just told Jake that you only have four spades, or that you have a weak point count. That’s cheating.”
Rachel’s expression showed hurt. The accusation stung. Almost as much as if someone said that they didn’t like her soup.
Sherman recognized that his comment pinched. “OK… look, this is going no where… let’s just finish the bidding. I pass.” He was reconciled to having bad cards for the fifth hand in a row.
And that’s pretty much how it went when my Aunt Rachel and Uncle Jake came over our house to play bridge. Thursday night was bridge night. They would set up in our small breakfast room that was adjacent to the kitchen and begin play at 8:00PM… you could set your clock to when the first cards were dealt.
They would stop at 9:15PM for coffee and… The “and” was usually a Russian coffee cake, or a bundt cake, or occasionally a pie. Aunt Rachel always brought the “and” I would have been long to bed before the break in the card game. I would only have discovered the precise flavour of the “and” the next morning. Whatever was left from the night before would be put in my school lunch, and if I was lucky there would be a slice or two remaining when I got home in the afternoon.
Even if my Aunt Rachel was slow to bid, or did so in an underhanded way (I would learn more about her technique when I picked up Bridge during my undergraduate days)… even if half the time playing cards were spent in argument… or in discussion as my Father would say… discussing about the wrong card that Rachel would play or some such… all that not withstanding, Rachel was one helluva baker & one helluva cook.
My interest in their card play or their sometime heated discussions, was a sidebar to what really mattered. It was Rachel’s “and” that she baked with care & love. {And of additional note… Rachel’s chicken soup was considered a marvel in our extended family.}
Rachel and Jake would leave sometime after 10:00PM. The actual time would depend on whether their spirited discussion put a damper on further play after “coffee and“ service. Regardless, it would never be a real late night, Rachel would have to get up early the next day to drive to Bridgeport… so my Aunt and Uncle would return to their Woodbridge home well before the “witching hour.”
Uncle Jake was a Certified Public Accountant in New Haven. And according to my Father, a good one. Aunt Rachel taught 8th Grade Science in Bridgeport.
When I was a kid I didn’t particularly like teachers… my dislike wasn’t directed against teachers as people; but rather against what they did and where they worked. You see, I just didn’t like school. Other than gym, school was a horrid and wretched experience for me.
Having a teacher in your family was almost like having an undertaker in your family. Both useful professions… but do you really want them around in your personal life?
I loved my Aunt Rachel; but when I was in the 8th grade she made me nervous. It wasn’t like she taught in my school or anything; but I lived in constant anxiety that she might ask me what photosynthesis was.
I can’t say when I grew out of my discomfort with Rachel being a teacher. I would like to say that it was when I entered the 9th grade. But I am sure that it was a few years later. Let me assure you that at no time did my discomfort intrude on my appreciation of her Russian coffee cake, or her insanely divine chicken soup.
Years later… well after Uncle Jake passed on, I would truly begin to understand her considerable force. On one visit to her condo in Boca, we got to talking about the “old days.”
“Rachel… you had any number of opportunities to take positions in other school districts… to teach kids that would be moving on to high school, college and beyond. You could have taught in Woodbridge or Greenwich forGodsakes! And been better paid for it to boot!! Why the hell did you remain in that cesspool of a city, Bridgeport? You could have done so much more for kids who cared!”
Rachel stirred her tea. Something she still called a “glassela tea” even though it was served in Spode china. She cut a slice of her famous Russian coffee cake for me. She asked after my kids, and without skipping a beat, launched into a mini-dance around the kitchen to her rendition of “Suzie Q” at the mention of my daughter Suzy… she hopped and skipped, hummed and strutted… and swept crumbs from the table in smooth motions that defied choreography.
I shook my head in amazement, “Rachel… I don’t know how you do it!”
I could only imagine her “putting on the Ritz” in her class room, or down the school halls… a “Mick Jagger” who knew about photosynthesis.
“Rachel… your talents were wasted in Bridgeport. You could have been teaching in a school where the kids mattered.”
That stopped Rachel mid-dance.
“Jimmy. My kids mattered. They counted. They were important. The system may have sucked. The parents may have sucked and not cared. But the kids? The kids? We have to try the best for the kids. We owe it to the kids. All the kids. The fancy shmancy kids in New Canaan have tons of people to do the best by them. But who is going to go to bat for the kids in the barrio? No. Knock me down in the street. It’s OK, I can take it. I’ll stand up, dust myself off… I was going to try and make a difference. And to succeed once? Yes, it would have been enough.”
The phone rang. Rachel went into the den to take the call. I put my tea cup and plate in the sink and stopped by the fridge to look at the pictures that coated the door. Grandkids galore… Max, Zoey, Lucas & Joshua… each photo noted with date and location. And there tucked in a nook of the “gallery” was a piece of lined stationary with neatly and carefully lettered poem. A poem for Rachel.
A Stare
A stare has a lot of significance
A stare is from feeling at that instant
A stare comes from love while you admire something
A stare comes from joy and happiness like a sting
A stare means a lot, at least for me it does
A stare is special, it’s that extra little shove
A stare is like praise in my eyes
A stare is like longing to let go of all the lies
A stare is wishing I had your beautiful eyes
A stare comes from wishing my eyes could reflect the skies
A stare comes from wishing I had your comical and loving smile
A stare comes from wishing I wasn’t afraid to lose myself
Even if it meant that I would not be in style
A stare comes from wishing I could make people laugh the way you do
A stare comes from wishing my smile had the beauty to help people through
A stare comes from bewilderment because I smile every time you do
A stare comes from embarrassment because I truly do love you
A stare comes from the fact that every time you’re happy so am I
A stare comes from the fact that I know that in you I could always confide
A stare comes from the fact that I know I always have a friend to come to at school
A stare comes from the fact that you don’t let me act a fool
You wanted to know why I stare at you so much
And, it’s because I admire you and such
You’re like a friend I have known for years
I guess staring at you is what takes away my fears
— Thank you, Francis
The paper had corners that were turned and wrinkled. This poem, written years before, had been transferred from fridge to fridge… and to my Aunt Rachel I could see that it was worth more than a chest full of gold.
I don’t think I could have loved Rachel more. When she returned to the kitchen, I had a catch in my throat. Sure. What could I say?
“So… Rachel. That day… did you really bid a small spade?”