“The new year starts when the sun sets,” his grandfather says. “And the sun doesn’t wait for Jack Luckman.”
The family has gathered to celebrate Rosh Hashana at the lake house in the Indiana dunes. The new dining room table is covered with a light blue linen cloth. Two tapered Shabbat candles rise above the good china, the reflected flames flickering on the holiday wine goblets. On the crimson trolley next to his grandfather’s seat, an antique shofar lies enshrouded in a fringed, silk cloth.
Jon’s mother is dressed up, in her lacy party blouse and black skirt and his grandmother’s dangly diamond earrings. She stands at the window, arms folded, as though protecting against the cold, gazing at the driveway.
“Sit, Joan,” his grandfather says. “We’re starting.”
Jon’s mother slides in between Jon’s little brother Ben and his Uncle Norm.
“Everyone take a slice of apple,” his grandfather instructs. “And dip it in the honey. So the new year will be sweet.”
The honey is gooey and cold and sticks to the back of Jon’s throat.
His grandfather opens a worn, black leather prayer book and begins softly chanting.
Jon can’t take his eyes off his father’s empty chair. He tries to will his father to appear, straining to catch the sound of the balky old Nash engine wheezing into the space beside his grandfather’s high finned Cadillac. His grandfather’s murmuring sounds soft and far away, like the high summer hum of bees in clover.
His grandfather lifts...
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