“Like what happened to the Epsteins or the Lipshifts?” Judith said, unfolding her napkin. “They were your good friends. Now you don’t see them anymore. I suppose you owe them money.”
“Your father and Harold Epstein had a fight over Israeli politics. And the Lipshifts just had a new grandbaby and are helping out their daughter.” Ellie gave Judith soup and placed the red bowl filled with tuna on the table. “Here’s your favorite tuna. Put it on the sliced challah.”
Judith nodded her head at Lawrence.
“Mom and Dad, Judith and I aren’t giving you any more money,” Lawrence said, his arms crossed over his chest. “Not until you look at your income realistically. You need to reduce your expenses and pay back people.”
Ellie cocked her head to one side. Perhaps Seymour shouldn’t have asked for the seed money for the candle-making start-up. There could be trouble at Lawrence’s firm. This was all a misunderstanding.
“Honey, we found the $3,000 so we don’t need your money now.” Ellie touched Lawrence’s arm. “Right, Seymour?”
Seymour stared at his son.
“Well, then don’t. Cause we’re going to say no.” Lawrence pulled away.
“We think you should get on the wait list for subsidized senior housing,” Judith said. “With the sale of this home you could pay back much of the money you owe people. You might even qualify for food stamps.”
“Sell this house?” Ellie opened the refrigerator. She rummaged inside. “Subsidized housing? Food stamps? Those are for other people.”
Ellie closed the refrigerator. The “Helpers of All Kinds” tag line caught her eye.
“Here’s the miso dressing you love. Judith, you worry too much. Eat your salad.”
After lunch the four of them played Scrabble. No more talk about money or debts after that. Judith flew back to Phoenix that night. Lawrence’s flight left at 6 the next morning, which gave him an excuse to go to bed early.
The closeness Ellie had felt when the four of them lived together was now gone. She had known the family intimacy would be hard to maintain when her children moved away and began their own families, but the money she and Seymour owed was clearly straining the relationship.
***
Before Rosh Hashanah a letter from the bank had arrived. Ellie feared opening it would dampen her New Year celebration, so she waited. Now in the more somber days leading up to Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, she could put off the letter no longer. The bank was foreclosing on their home. Not surprising. Her stomach spiraled and churned its acid. Yesterday, she had picked up the phone and called Mrs. Sanchez to see what “Helpers of All Kinds” meant. She had expected to leave a message but Mrs. Sanchez answered after the first ring.
“Hello, this is Ellie Fischer. We met at Western’s Butcher Shop.”
“Yes, hello Mrs. Fischer,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “I’m so glad you called. Are you interested in household help? Or boarders to help with the mortgage?”
“Well, could you explain a little more?” Ellie said. “About how things work.”
“We match recent immigrant families priced out of the LA housing market with older residents who have empty rooms and need help,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “If you’d like, I can schedule a home visit to determine your suitability. How’s Monday at noon?”
Ellie hesitated.
“It’s really a great program,” Mrs. Sanchez said, reassuringly. “Everyone benefits.”
Ellie took a deep breath before agreeing to the visit. She eventually asked Mrs. Sanchez to lunch.
***
“Well, who did you see?” Ellie said to Seymour upon his return from Shabbat services.
“The usual.” He took off his hat and unbuttoned his jacket. “Harold, Milford, and Stan. They were not very friendly though. Even the Rabbi acted a little standoffish.”
“Maybe they’re upset that you’re not as active anymore.” Ellie hung up his coat. “After all, you were the synagogue president for eight years.”
“That was ten years ago.” Seymour slipped off his worn shoes. “You’re the one still active in the sisterhood.”
“I’ve been somewhat anti-social lately. With the store closing and your doctor appointments, I’ve been too busy to do much there.”
Seymour followed Ellie into the kitchen. She ladled split pea soup into the bowls.
“I’m just worried that perhaps the kids were telling the truth.” Seymour sighed.
“What?” Ellie put the bowls down and placed her hands on her hips. “We’re being shunned for owing money? They’re our friends. We’ve known most of them for 50 years. What are friends for?”
Seymour shrugged his shoulders. She wanted to tell Seymour about the foreclosure notice and her conversation with Mrs. Sanchez. But he seemed so depressed. Instead Ellie sat there, her stomach clenched, while Seymour ate his soup.
***
Later that night Ellie climbed into bed.
“Seymour?”
“Hmmmm.” He didn’t turn toward her.
“What do you think about getting some help around here?”
“What kind of help?” he said muffled into the pillow.
“Young people,” Ellie said. “Families would pay rent and help with the yard and with your candle-making.”
“Strangers, living here with us?” He turned towards her, his brows furrowed.
“Yes, they would be strangers at first,” Ellie said, placing her hand on her husband’s arm. “But not for long.”
“Can we discuss this tomorrow?” Seymour said. “I’m exhausted.”
“Sure, but…” Ellie withdrew her arm and sat up straight. “I contacted Mrs. Sanchez and invited her over Monday for lunch.”
“So why’d you even ask me what I thought?” Seymour said.
“I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to get a little more information,” Ellie said. “We’re not committed to anything.”
Seymour rolled away from her. Ellie lay back and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
***
“Come in,” Seymour said. “May I take your coat?”
Ellie wiped her hands on a dishtowel and hurried into the front hall.
“Welcome. Welcome.” She shook Mrs. Sanchez’s hand. “Nice to see you again. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “But I should tour your house first.”
Seymour looked at Ellie. His eyes transmitted his lack of trust.
“In case the bedroom arrangements are not set up correctly.” Mrs. Sanchez reassured them. “We wouldn’t want to waste either of our time.”
Ellie showed her Lawrence’s and Judy’s old bedrooms, which were separated by a bathroom. She also took her to the darkroom, which had a cot so Seymour could take naps.
“This would work,” Mrs. Sanchez said, as everyone sat down for lunch.
“What would work exactly?” Ellie said.
“Do either of you speak Spanish?” Mrs. Sanchez said.
“A little,” Ellie said. “From my social work days.”
“That’s good. The men are generally day laborers and the women work as housekeepers or nannies.” Mrs. Sanchez sliced her chicken.
“Are these roommates legal?” Seymour said, helping himself to the salad on the table.
“Yes, they will provide you their social security numbers,” Mrs. Sanchez said.
“Do you want me to send a family with children?” Mrs. Sanchez said. “Sometimes the older couple looks after the children in exchange for house cleaning or yard services. We don’t get involved. We let households work these arrangements out on their own.”
Ellie tried to read Seymour’s preference.
“We love kids,” Ellie said. “But I don’t know if we could handle them.”
Seymour nodded. “But I guess we could try.”
“We’re happy to switch people,” said Mrs. Sanchez. “If it doesn’t work out. There are single men as well. And I’m available 24/7 if there are any problems. Questions?”
Ellie and Seymour looked at each other.
“By the way, everything is delicious,” Mrs. Sanchez said.
“Thank you,” Ellie said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Ellie cleared the empty dishes from the table.
“How soon would they arrive?” Seymour said.
“They could be here next week,” Mrs. Sanchez said.
“What if it doesn’t work out?” Seymour said.
“You just call us and we pick them up,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “We can then arrange for another family if you want, or forget the whole thing. How about a week from today?”
Ellie turned to Seymour.
“Could we talk about this alone?” Ellie said.
“Of course,” Mrs. Sanchez said.