Tonight, and all the Fridays are the same, and how that’s the idea, one of the guests, Feigenbaum his name, head tenderized, rendered as soft as his heart’s always been from his entrance through the oven, shifts uncomfortably in his chair, scoots, scooches, moves himself bald with his seat, shoots glances left, right, then across the table, excuses himself in a voice too soft and unsure to hear or truly know if he excuses himself or not with even him still unsure and so maybe he didn’t, rising, wending his way around his own chair then past those of the others, nimbly, squeezing himself as if greased with the essence of the fish and the chicken to follow through the small occasional apertures appearing between chairs and wall, knocking the hands of dim clocks to chaos and photographs and art, too reluctant and ashamed, too, to ask the seated to pull or push their chairs in a bit, a bissel and so generally upsetting all their eating and drinking and talking even more than if he would’ve asked to be disregarded politely to begin with.
This is his third trip to the bathroom this meal, though this one, and though he’s thought this every time, is no False Alarm. A ringing in the crotch, this bowelward tingle. The trouble is twofold, as it always is, if not morefold, brokenloaved, turning cheeked: one, his bladder, the second, his memory. Or. Though he’s been there twice already tonight, or has it been thrice, he has no idea, for the life of him, no memory whatsoever, of where exactly which bathroom is. Maybe it’s the medication is the easy way out — which leads I don’t know, wish I did. He’s not even sure he went to the same one the two times previous. It’s quite possible he’ll spend time in three different bathrooms tonight — if he doesn’t have to go again, the odds of which aren’t in anyone’s favor: the plumbing and paper supply. Even given the number, not to mention the aesthetic variety, of bathrooms in this house, those options of memory wellventilated, overlit, he still has no idea where the gehenna any of them are. And how to ask for help, for direction. At least, he had his dignity earlier. He’ll find it himself, don’t you mind.
He wanders, quickly now, holding it in, cupping his cheeks, bunching his pants up. A left here and right there, the way the light fell anywhere, and the darkness. That particular wallhanging, print, or mirror. The carpet giving way to tile, or was it a woodfloor, or rug pulled out from below, and if rug then a rug patterned how, over what — wandering into a part of the house he probably hasn’t or doesn’t think he’s ever been in before, maybe a portion that didn’t even exist prior to his wandering it, an annex, extension. Inscrutable. Obscure. He’s feeling for walls, his hands held out to ascertain distances, depths, pushing against the leaning, the pitching hallway, feeling for openness and passages, cavities, cancerous abcesses, pressing turns and doors and deadends. Respiratory difficulties. Senility. Alzheim, I forget. He fumbles with handles, knobs, trips over thresholds, his feet snag on rugs, snare on throw-rugs, nearly toppling honorary plaques and trophies from pedestals, then pausing to right them, pushing against and finally — his third bathroom of the night, a mistake; a door he didn’t mean to open but does, falls against it and there it, or only one of them, is.
He runs the tap to weather the sounds, shpritzes his wife’s, his Felice’s (there’s the name Israel’d forgotten, left in his other suit), less expensive perfume, stolen from home’s vanity and kept leaking in his jacket pocket, to create a cloud for the odor anticipated, then undoes himself, piles pants on the floor. He sits and waits, strains, tries; locked in with the running tap, the noxious atmospherics of imitation scent. Has he gone yet, hasn’t he — who wants to look, to hear, to smell. Not yet. Too pitiful, too embarrassed, to ask for help he sits and waits, taps shoes under his pants as if a stray calf ’s hidden down there and breathing. And he’s there next week, maybe, as if gestating, hibernative unasked after, never searched for or what, at least it seems that it’s his wife again his Felice eating her dinner, and drinking too much all over again, she’ll feel it in the morning in bed with a headache with me still bathroomed, locked in — her talking and always too huge with the wife of the household, not thinking to ask whether she, Hanna he’s searching for the name, knows where he, Feigenbaum, is; him hearing Hanna talking, talking, the woman’s always talking, to his wife just down the hall, the halls, the other guests, about the guests and his wife, about them to them, too, the preparation of food according to special diets, neighborhood tragedy weighed upon the Grecian scale — the walls shaking intestinally, the windows giving gaseous drafts; hearing what must be next week’s preparations in the hallways already, drawers opening, closing, and closets, he sits and waits, wetting wads of tissue, sucking them to formlessness, gumming the soap for his sustenance — they’ll forget about him, always do.
A clattering that’s the clearing of plates from beyond and he’s thinking dinner’s over already, or begun the following week just now ended — but it’s only the next course, he’s missing…
Understand, we have it on good authority, the existence of a first course, and are able to identify, too, a last course: a spoondeep, knifelong affair of talking over coffee with creamer nondairy, dessert then the giving of thanks, which is benching. Blessed art Thou for a spread such as this. But is a middle course not inconceivable, a culinary lull? This, then, is that middle course — the middle of the middle course. Fish, soup, and salad. Then the maincourse with sides then dessert, coffee, decaf or tea.
A matter of course — we are now after the salad but before the main, which is chicken. Fishplates have been cleared from the table, Wanda. Soup in the soupbowls has been brought steaming in from the kitchen, first linedup at the range, ladled, garnished, then served, thank you Wanda.
Soupbowls were then cleared from atop the saladplates — appreciative, Wanda, we all are.
Under the saladplates are the plates for the main — the largest, widest, and deepest plates, able to handle generous helpings of poultry and sides, circumferential enough to handle even the most reckless soppings of sauce, or gravy, and the most unimaginable of allowed forkful combinations.
Now they’re in the nowhere, the untime, of no saladplate, that’s been cleared, Wanda, and an empty mainplate: chicken and its attendant sides have yet to be brought to the table, along with their respective serving utensils…O God and the kugel. This is a moment-of-silence, momentless, without even talk…there’s no ease here — a silence the thinnest sheet of glass, the salival bubble bursting of night, a plate so empty it might not even be a plate, only a smashable absence, a shatterable null…how it would take the right cough from the right person, the right sneeze, the right set of allergies subjected to just the right set of allergens, exactly, to break it all, broken. Windows far away to where they mightn’t be windows anymore, only a clearing, the sky. When the daughters get restless, begin throwing stuffed toys at each other, Hanukah presents some hauled to tableside — they don’t know yet to wait, have to develop their timing.