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Mark knew something had happened when Roger returned to the table: he had his hands in his pockets and was watching the floor, practically blushing. Though he said nothing, his body language kept no secrets, especially from Mark.
"What's wrong?" Mark asked quietly, but Roger only shook his head. "Roger," Mark whispered, but in front of his family, he had nothing more to say.
"According to tradition, the youngest child asks these four ancient questions," Lily read from her haggadah, introducing the Four Questions.
There was a long silence as the family waited for the questions to be asked. "Mark," Cindy prompted.
"What? Me?" he asked. "I don't…"
Lily nodded. "Unless Roger wants to read them," she said. "You're our baby, Mark."
"Oh, I don't…" Mark's blush flew from his neck to his temple, painting his face crimson. "I'm not…" No one seemed particularly interested in his excuses. He glanced at Roger, itching with the knowledge that he would never live this down. Mark was not the singer. Oh, he could carry a tune, his voice was by no means difficult to listen to, but compared to Roger…
"Mah nishtanah halailah hazeh mikol halaylot? Shehb'khol halaylot anu okhleen ha metz u'matzah. Helailah hazeh kulo matzah." At least Roger had no idea what he was saying. The heat radiating off Mark's skin made his glasses sweat.
"Shehb'khol halylot anu okhleen sh'ar y'rakot. Ha lailah hazeh maror." Two down, two to go. Mark's chest felt tight. It had been years since he gave a Hebrew reading, let alone sang the words.
"Shehb'khol halaylot ayn anu matbeeleen afeelu paahm ehkhat. Halailah hazeh sh'tay f'ameem." One more. Mark was having trouble breathing. Why was he doing this? And more importantly, why was it humiliating him? He used to love this, the part of the seder that was his and his alone, his right.
And why not? Mark was the youngest, after all. He had reveled in his Jewish heritage as a child. As the friendless boy throughout middle and high school, Judaism kept him afloat. A part of Mark knew that without something to believe in, he would be lost. He loved being Jewish. The cryptic Hebrew and Aramaic words filled him with a spiritual feeling of individuality. In temple, Mark felt that he belonged. And he belonged now. This was his family. This was his right.
"Shehb'khol halaylot anu okhleen bayn yoshveen uvayn m'subeen. Helailah hazeh kulanu m'subeen," Mark concluded, his voice stronger.
"Honey, that was great," Lily said, smiling a little more than was completely believable.
"Really beautiful," Roger whispered. Whether he meant the Hebrew or the speaker, neither knew for certain.
The story itself pushed Roger's emotions, though he had no part in the reading. The story of slavery and quiet determination made his heart ache. He couldn't help but gasp at the announcement that all Jewish boys would be killed. His arms itched to embrace Mark. Roger knew the story was only that, a story, a history, but already he was lost to it. Already it felt real, he let it feel real.
There was a moment of triumph when Yocheved hid her baby and sent him down the river, and he was rescued by the pharoah's daughter. Roger's shoulders trembled slightly as the plagues grew worse. As the tenth plague swept Egypt and the Egyptian parents woke to find their firstborn sons dead, he began to cry silently.
The story did explain why for a week no leavened bread would be consumed: when fleeing Egypt, the Israelites had no time to let their bread rise, or really bake it. Roger understood, barely, his mind numbed by emotion.
"The sea crashes down on the horses, soldiers, and chariots; it swallows them up. They sink like stones."
"Oh!" Roger said before he could help himself. He brought his hand up to clean his face. "I'm sorry," he said, aware of the many eyes watching him. "So sorry…"
"It's okay," Mark said. He glanced at his father and his grandparents. He could not in good conscience let Roger cry alone, but he had promised not to flaunt his homosexuality in front of his grandparents. Flaunt? he thought angrily. I'm not flaunting it. I'm just… just… He rubbed Roger's shoulder. "It's okay," he said again.
Roger had cleaned himself up now and pulled himself together. "I'm very sorry," he said again.
He held himself together and even managed to smile during Dayenu. It was lucky, Mark reflected, that a song came next. Songs always helped Roger cope. He made it through the next two cups of wine, the repeated explanation of the seder plant, and the blessings of the matzah and maror.
And, finally, it was time to eat.
Cindy and Lily rose. Roger started to stand, offering to help, but Mark told him, "It's all right. Unless you did the cooking."
"Oh. Okay." Roger sat down again. He looked curiously at the bowl of soup handed to him. When told it contained matzah balls, he turned to Mark with a shocked expression. Mark lowered his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling at his Gentile boyfriend. He had never before met anyone quite as ignorant of Jewish customs. He had never before thought of matzah balls in that context.
"It's cracker crumbs and soda water," Mark said. Trust Roger to misconstrue everything! "My G-d, Roger!"
On Roger's other side, Joshua was snickering. He seemed to like Roger, unlike Rachel, who glared at him. "You didn't really think…?" Joshua asked.
"I… I wasn't sure," Roger admitted. "So it's… it's just crumbs and soda water?"
"In regular old chicken broth," Joshua assured him, then glanced around the table. "Ah. Well, son, it's all eyes on you now."
True to his perception, the entire Cohen family was watching Roger, some less obviously than others, as he held his spoon poised over the bowl. Roger blushed. It seemed whatever he thought of his first bite of matzah ball would determine his standing in their esteem. Briefly he flirted with the idea of avoiding the balls and drink broth. Roger liked broth, it was familiar. Broth was something the Boho boys made one another from Oxo cubes for colds, coughs and post-sex supper.
Unfortunately, taking a sip of broth would label him a coward. He would never bounce back from that impression. "Oh, man…" Roger smiled, not certain what else to do, and speared off a piece of matzah ball. He filled his spoon with broth for good measure and, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, tipped it into his mouth.
The spongy matzah ball practically dissolved on Roger's tongue, and slid easily down his throat with the broth. "Oh, it's good!" he said. "Wow."
And the dinner progressed. Though no one said a word, Roger distinctly felt that he had won a victory.
TO BE CONTINUED!
Reviews are like matzah balls: delicious, fulfilling, and at times very funny. Hint, hint.