Morris sat his narrow ass on the edge of the armchair, peering at his laptop on the tray table in front of him. “The rabbi’s letter this month is weak,” he said.
“Weak?” Nancy said.
“Like, meh. What does it even say?”
“Ah,” she said. “Hmmm.”
“They’re barely holding on, you know. They’ve only got forty-five families, it says here.”
“We could join,” she pointed out for the hundredth time.
“You know how expensive it is,” he said. “And on top of the dues, they’ve got a five hundred dollar annual security fee, if you can believe that.”
“We can afford it. It could be a good thing, at our age.” She wasn’t Jewish, wasn’t anything, really, having left her family’s Christianity far behind. After more than forty years with Morris, she considered herself an honorary Jew, though she didn’t say it out loud, not that he would have argued. He was not religious himself, but the culture was in him on a cellular level, microscopic yarmulkes spinning, like platelets, in his bloodstream.
“We’re not joiners, though,” he said.
“We’re not that,” she agreed.
Nancy had been a joiner in her youth. Extracurricular activities...
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