Free Food, Free Rabbi (RP for half_whole_pw)
"Papi, get out of my kitchen."
"Zeit moykl, forgive an old man for trying to be helpful," Jacob Levine murmured, raising his hands and backing away into the slightly-more-spacious living room.
"Your helpful will make my kitchen a balagan," Zippy said darkly. "Siddown. The boychik'll be here soon, I don't want he should arrive to hear me swearing at my own father."
The rabbi grumbled and retreated to one of the couches, settling down and, within seconds, gravitating towards one of the books piled on the coffee table. "Peter, you said his name is?"
"Mmm-hmm," Zippy said, navigating the process of putting water on for tea and getting cookies out of the oven. "Boytshikl, a real nice boy. He's smart and sweet and stubborn. I dunno how serious he really is about conversion, but he's had a rough time... he needs a listening ear from someone who talks to G-d."
"And you don't?" Jacob asked mildly, accompanied by the sounds of a page turning. Zippy had the tea cupboard open, deliberating over which tea to brew, and she made a face at the tin of Darjeeling.
"Don't get Socratic on me."
"Is that what I'm doing?" Still in that mild tone, now with a note of amusement. Zippy thought, not for the first time, how her father would have made an excellent psychologist. And how damn irritating that was.
"Keep it up and you get no cookies, tateh."
He harrumphed, but let it go. Zippy turned her attention to clearing off the table to make room for her guest and her father. They'd need another chair, so she dragged over the one from the computer table with a glance at the clock. Peter had called, said he was on his way. Punctual boychik. She stole a glance at her father, lost in The Oxford History of Islam: an old man now, as he'd said, as always took her a little off-guard. She had an easier time thinking of herself as old, but there was no arguing with his white hair, his stooped shoulders, the loose skin and liver spots of his hands. Deep lines from laughter and sorrow furrowed the corners of his eyes, disappeared down from his cheeks into his trim white beard. No yarmulke today, or indeed most days when he wasn't being called on by his community to be reb. He was wearing a simple button-up shirt, clean, pressed neatly, and the mental image of her father's hands on the iron, doing the simple task his wife had done for him for so many years, caused something to catch in Zippy's chest. She turned back to the table.
Family dinner was always on Shabbat, both the brothers and their wives and kids attending, Ben usually coming from college, Rachel if she wasn't with her father. Sundays, however, were sometimes lonely days for her father. This afternoon was only partly for Peter's benefit.
There was a knock at the door. Zippy hollered, "Come in, Petechik, it's open," and moved back into the kitchen to fetch the tea mugs.
"Zeit moykl, forgive an old man for trying to be helpful," Jacob Levine murmured, raising his hands and backing away into the slightly-more-spacious living room.
"Your helpful will make my kitchen a balagan," Zippy said darkly. "Siddown. The boychik'll be here soon, I don't want he should arrive to hear me swearing at my own father."
The rabbi grumbled and retreated to one of the couches, settling down and, within seconds, gravitating towards one of the books piled on the coffee table. "Peter, you said his name is?"
"Mmm-hmm," Zippy said, navigating the process of putting water on for tea and getting cookies out of the oven. "Boytshikl, a real nice boy. He's smart and sweet and stubborn. I dunno how serious he really is about conversion, but he's had a rough time... he needs a listening ear from someone who talks to G-d."
"And you don't?" Jacob asked mildly, accompanied by the sounds of a page turning. Zippy had the tea cupboard open, deliberating over which tea to brew, and she made a face at the tin of Darjeeling.
"Don't get Socratic on me."
"Is that what I'm doing?" Still in that mild tone, now with a note of amusement. Zippy thought, not for the first time, how her father would have made an excellent psychologist. And how damn irritating that was.
"Keep it up and you get no cookies, tateh."
He harrumphed, but let it go. Zippy turned her attention to clearing off the table to make room for her guest and her father. They'd need another chair, so she dragged over the one from the computer table with a glance at the clock. Peter had called, said he was on his way. Punctual boychik. She stole a glance at her father, lost in The Oxford History of Islam: an old man now, as he'd said, as always took her a little off-guard. She had an easier time thinking of herself as old, but there was no arguing with his white hair, his stooped shoulders, the loose skin and liver spots of his hands. Deep lines from laughter and sorrow furrowed the corners of his eyes, disappeared down from his cheeks into his trim white beard. No yarmulke today, or indeed most days when he wasn't being called on by his community to be reb. He was wearing a simple button-up shirt, clean, pressed neatly, and the mental image of her father's hands on the iron, doing the simple task his wife had done for him for so many years, caused something to catch in Zippy's chest. She turned back to the table.
Family dinner was always on Shabbat, both the brothers and their wives and kids attending, Ben usually coming from college, Rachel if she wasn't with her father. Sundays, however, were sometimes lonely days for her father. This afternoon was only partly for Peter's benefit.
There was a knock at the door. Zippy hollered, "Come in, Petechik, it's open," and moved back into the kitchen to fetch the tea mugs.