“You don’t listen to anyone but yourself. And Sarah.” My mother is on the phone, her voice booming through the car speakers. I have to keep the volume up to hear her over the rain. It’s hurting my ears. She continues:

“I don’t know why you bother with her. You know it can’t work. Not in the long run, you know that.”

It does seem a bit absurd for a Jew to be attending Easter dinner. I certainly have not been fasting for lent. Sarah is Christian; we’ve been dating for a while now, several months, definitely at least since December. I should know the exact date. I’ll check when I get home from her parents’ house.

“I like her, Mom.”

She scoffs. “I can think of two reasons why you might like her…”

I assume my mother is referring to her breasts. Is it so wrong of me to have a preference? Normally I would push back—against her needless ridicule—but not tonight. I just want to get through this phone call and not think about my mother the rest of the evening. Plus, it’s not like it’s entirely her fault. The way she is. It hasn’t been easy for her.

I suppose I do find Christianity to be a bit nonsensical. The countless number of Christians I’ve met who claim they can speak directly to G-d—how is that not incredibly egotistical? G-d has never spoken to me. Not directly, at least. And plus, if you could speak to G-d, one-on-one, then how would you struggle with anything in life? How does one go through any actual hardship at all when Jesus is their copilot? Always there, right alongside you… No, religion is meant to be faith- based. Remove the mystery: remove the faith.

Maybe my mother is correct in her assessment. Maybe Sarah is just the current, temporary thing until the next. Maybe I should break it off before we become too serious, before she gets too attached. But I do like her. And I’m on the way to her extended family’s Easter dinner. I sigh.

“Okay, Mom. Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

“I just wanted to talk to my son. Is that such a big ask? Oy vey…” My mother is such a stereotype.

The rabbit sneezes beside me. Sarah’s precious Harvey. It was my duty to pick it up from the vet and bring it to her parents’ place. How anyone could spend sixteen-hundred dollars on a rodent is beyond me. I hate the fuckin’ thing. Every time I try to pet it, it bites me. Sarah says it’s just being playful. Maybe it’s antisemitic—have any of Sarah’s Jewish friends tried to pet it? Come to think of it, I’m not sure if she has any; she hasn’t introduced me to any of them.

It stares at me through the bars of its handheld cage set on the passenger seat to my right.

Fuck this rabbit. Fuck Harvey.

“So uh, what’s new with you?” I ask as I scratch the bald spot hidden by my yarmulke. My mother instantly goes into a rant about her upstairs neighbor, how she’s too fat, how she makes her apartment boom with every step. I tune her out. I’ve heard this rant many times before. This. Exact. Rant.

I can’t deny the practical benefits of being welcomed into Sarah’s family. Her parents are very welcoming, very friendly. Her father is a retired construction worker. Or he owned a construction company? Probably the latter, they’re quite wealthy. Anyway I remember him working in construction. The mother is very beautiful. Double Ds I think.

I’ve only met them once before, only in passing. Sarah was dropping something off at my place a month or two ago while driving her parents to the airport. I invited them inside for coffee but they seemed to be in a hurry. Then again, they said their flight wasn’t for hours. Maybe they just thought (like my mom) that Sarah and I weren’t going to last, and didn’t feel the need to properly meet me. Maybe they are wiser than I gave them credit for. Or maybe they’re antisemitic.

Mom seems to have paused her rant for a moment. I throw in a response to make it seem as if I am listening to her. “Mm-hm. Go on.” She goes on.

I do like Sarah. She’s very nice, she’s beautiful. We have interesting conversations. Plus, it’s not like I’m a supermodel myself. I haven’t had that many girlfriends. I’m middle aged, balding, some would say fat. I’m smart, but that’s not enough. I don’t expect people to just love me. Love must be earned.

It’s a weird thing to love another person. Weird physically. To be that intimate with a giant bag of warm flesh outside of your own, thousands of long hairs protruding from their hard head… I get anxious just thinking about the number of hairs that grow out of the human scalp. Maybe that’s why G-d is making me go bald. Sarah has back hair. Not a ton, but enough to notice when up close when her shirt is off. I don’t mind; I actually find it kind of sexy. I’m not an insecure man.

I don’t love Sarah, at least I don’t think I do. Maybe I kind of love her. I don’t think that love is purely binary. I was married once. Well, twice, but to the same woman. When people ask, I say I was married once.

A flash of lightning, then thunder. I really shouldn’t be out tonight. The windshield wipers are my mashiach. Harvey shifts in his cage, uncomfortable. Sixteen-hundred dollars on a rodent, oy vey…

Money is certainly a factor right now, relationship-wise. I admit I am not currently employed. My mother still thinks I teach at the local community college, but the truth is that I haven’t worked there in months. I was fired, unjustly I might add. Several of my students were unhappy upon seeing a Star of David sticker on my laptop, my personal laptop. Apparently, they created a petition (a petition!) claiming I was promoting Israeli propaganda in my lectures. How Israeli propaganda can be weaved into entomology lectures is beyond me—I assume they confused my religious affiliation with some sort of political loyalty to the state of Israel. All of a sudden, over half my students stopped attending my class. The dean made me, forced me to cover the sticker on my laptop, can you believe that? He insisted he had no choice in the matter. Anything to keep the peace between the students and “the faculty,” though to my knowledge no other professors were facing similar issues… I paid ten dollars for a big peace symbol sticker to plaster over my Star of David, and yet none of the students returned. I was quickly let go. The dean claimed he was just following orders of the administration. Nothing he could do.

“-and after that, after all that, she doesn’t even say thank you! Can you believe the nerve of that woman?” Mom says.

I’m bored of this conversation. Need it to end. “Mom, what if I told you that I’m the smartest person who has ever lived?” She goes silent. My ears are bliss.

After an eternity, she says: “you sound like Asher right now.”

Asher? Why would she bring up Asher to me? Doesn’t she know I am driving? I don’t know how to respond. I start to speed up, my foot instinctively pressing harder on the gas. Harvey sneezes.

“I said you sound like-“

“I know what you said,” I interrupt. Asher is my brother. He’s dead.

I glance down at the rabbit. Still staring at me. Disappointment. Why does his expression now remind me of Asher? I try to think about something else. I cannot. My mother’s words are like a virus.

Asher was seventeen when he came out as gay. Or queer, or whatever you’re supposed to call it nowadays (wasn’t ‘queer’ a slur?). Mom did not take it well, with it going against Mosaic law and everything. It is such a pity; perhaps if she wasn’t so hard on him, he wouldn’t have given up on the religion altogether. It was never the same after he moved out a year later—between the two of them, between any of us.

My brother was smart. Very smart, probably the only person I’ve ever met who’s smarter than me. I know that sounds egotistical but it’s just true. I didn’t care if he was gay, he could do what he wanted. Plus, if I am to break the seventh commandment with my girlfriend, who’s to say what he does–did–is any worse? We are all unworthy in the eyes of G-d. My mother did not see it the same way. The two of them saw each other very few times after that, definitely under ten.

He got a grant to study quantum physics at Cal Tech, graduated top of his class. He’d call me often, telling me of his accolades, but he was never pompous. He always came at it with such a humility, a thankfulness for the life he’d been given. I think he would have made a fine Jew in that way. He and his boyfriend (partner?) broke up after he landed a job in some lab; I think this is when he started to go off the deep end. I’d try to talk to him about our heritage, to see if I could bring him back—to Mom, that is, but ultimately G-d. He responded by saying, and I’ll never forget this, that he “found G-d in the science,” whatever that meant.

He never told me what he meant before his death only a week later. AIDS. Just kidding.

Carbon monoxide poisoning. I don’t know why I joked about that. Suicide isn’t funny.

Sarah seems to blame my dark (“twisted,” as she says) sense of humor on generational trauma. Well, “blame” implies some sort of negative connotation. She seems to enjoy my jokes. Maybe she is just putting up with it, I’d have no way of knowing. Anyway, she says it has something to do with the Holocaust. Sarah is somewhat naïve. She’s a bit younger than me. Not by a lot—I’m not one of those creepy guys who preys on younger women. There’s a thirteen-year age gap. She just turned thirty-one last month. That’s how old Asher was when he died.

I treat my brother’s story as a reminder, a cautionary tale I suppose, to keep myself in check. I must admit the prospect of suicide is in some ways appealing. We all die, eventually. People of my religion, or any religion for that matter, like to treat life as the ultimate gift. A precious thing not to be thrown away. It gets hard to maintain this mentality when things do not go your way, like G-d Himself is against you.

Sometimes I think I’m already in Hell. Like at some point I did something bad—something wrong, and this, all of this is just my punishment. Am I even me? Am I anything?

I need to get off the phone. It’s unsafe to be driving this fast in this weather. Fuck.
“Okay, Mom. I’m here. Gotta go.”

“Oh.”

“Bye.”

“Okay, well I’ll be-“

I hang up. I can’t stand her voice a second longer, and not just from the volume. I pull into the street on my right.

I park the car in the lot of the Dottie’s. I need something to eat before the dinner, I doubt much of the food there will be kosher. I grab Harvey’s handheld cage and take him with me—it’s exceedingly cold tonight for some reason. It shouldn’t be this cold in Spring. He’d probably be fine in the car, but on the off chance something happens I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Not for the rabbit’s sake, I hate the fuckin’ thing. But Sarah’s in love with it, for whatever reason. So I take him with me. Sixteen-hundred dollars…

I exit the car and head for the restaurant as fast as I can. My hair and yarmulke are instantly soaked. I don’t know why I didn’t bring a rain jacket. I knew the weather would be bad. My app said so. There isn’t a single other car in this lot. Maybe the employees park out back? In fact, I haven’t seen one single car on my whole drive to Sarah’s parents tonight. I suppose people don’t want to be out in this weather.

I enter the Dottie’s and wring out my yarmulke in the potted plant by the entrance. People think you have to abide by strict rules and never remove it. That’s a common misconception, you can take it off when you need to—Judaism isn’t a cult.

I approach the counter. There’s no one else in this restaurant. No employees, customers, anyone. It’d be completely silent if not for the vague Christian rock song playing through the speakers; something about ‘glory from within,’ ugh. The restaurant is definitely open; the lights are on, they’re blinding me. The absurd color scheme of the walls and chairs isn’t helping. I don’t like how that clown painting is looking at me.

No one at the counter. “Hello?” Silence. I call again, still nothing. I see a bell on the counter and ring it. A young woman appears from behind the corner in the kitchen. She wipes sweat off of her forehead. Was that sweat? It was a dark, grayish color.

“Hi, welcome to Dottie’s. What do you want.”

“Hi, uh, could I have the uh…” I look at the menu above me. What does any of this mean? I just want a burger. “Can I have the Double Trouble Dottieburger and a Coke? Small is fine. Oh, and is there pork in that?”

“No, there’s no pork in the Coke.” She giggles to herself and rolls her eyes. She hasn’t made eye contact with me once since I’ve started ordering. I submit to her teases. She’s very pretty.

“No, I meant the burger.”

“Our Dottieburgers come with two slices of apple-roasted bacon. It’s very fresh. Chic, one customer called it.”

“Oh, then can I just have the burger without the bacon please.”

“It comes with it. It doesn’t cost extra.”

“That’s fine, I just don’t want the bacon.”

She leans on the counter: “Now why in the world wouldn’t you want bacon on your burger?” she asks while looking me in the eyes for the first time since I walked in. I can’t tell if she’s offended or flirting with me. I bow my head and point to my yarmulke.

“Oh,” she says as she quickly looks away again. Did I sense judgement in her voice? Maybe I’m gaslighting myself. Mom would definitely blow this encounter out of proportion. I keep my cool. She starts to ring me up.

“Who’s that?” she asks.

I forgot that I’ve placed Harvey on the countertop. He’s been invisible to me until now. “Just a rabbit,” I say.

She scoffs. “Okay, bunny-boy. Can I have a name for the order?”

I look around me. No one else is here. Do I really have to be giving out my name to this woman? This possibly antisemitic woman? She notices me looking around.

“It’s just policy. We have to put down a name for the order in the system.”

I clear my throat. “Simon.”

“Last name?”

“Why would you need my last name for a fast-food order?”
“Policy, Simon.”

After a beat, I once again submit. Her chest looks amazing in her bright red uniform. “Abrams. Simon Abrams.”

Harvey stares at me from behind his barred cage. I stare back at him, there’s nowhere else to look; I left my phone in the car. He looks hungry. Is he jealous? Does he know I’m enjoying a meal right now? This probably just furthers his hatred for me. I ponder what initiated it, what the catalyst for the hatred was. Harvey must be antisemitic too. Would he intentionally put pork in my burger?

It’s not like I’m an unempathetic man. I enjoy animals; I study them. I just do not enjoy this rabbit. Its dark, lifeless eyes… I do wonder if animals are truly conscious. I’m not one of those religious freaks who doesn’t believe in evolution or anything, so logically there would have to have been a point in which apes stopped being apes and started being humans. Did they gain consciousness? Was one ape unconscious, then its offspring conscious? What would that have looked like for the family dynamic? Perhaps not dissimilar to that of my own, I joke to myself.

Nevertheless, the rabbit stares at me. Nose twitching. Thinking. Like it’s somebody. I don’t like it. I rotate his cage away from me and finish eating my burger.

Why didn’t her parents want to come inside and properly meet me when Sarah was driving them to the airport? Did they take one look at me and realize I’m not boyfriend material? or did Sarah herself say something to them? I’m never good enough. I wasn’t good enough to keep my job, keep my family together. Most people would envy my level of intelligence but I tell you in earnest that it’s a curse. It’s a curse to know that you could have done something but didn’t. Things could have been different, but they aren’t, and I’m torpedoing towards an Easter dinner with a bunch of people I don’t give a shit about. I wipe the dripping rain off my forehead as it starts to reach my eyes. Why is it gray?

I want to talk to Asher. I want to know what he meant in his discovery, if it even was a discovery. He probably lost his mind. He decided to kill himself—how could he be sane? I just want to see him. And Mom. I want to see them together. I want-

The rabbit suddenly goes haywire. It starts screeching a piercing, high-pitched scream, frantically kicking the wall of the cage. What is happening? It has never done this before; even when it bites me it’s somehow so mild-mannered. What has it so abruptly terrified? The cage falls onto the floor, breaks open. Fuck. I lean over to try to collect Harvey. Squirmy fucker. I finally grab him. Then my car hits the tree.

My yarmulke flies off of my head and disappears through the shattered windshield. The airbags start to deflate. Everything is still. I’m alive. I’m miraculously unharmed, or perhaps my adrenaline has deceived me as such. I look down at my hands. No rabbit, just blood. Then I see the carcass, laying several yards in front of me next to my yarmulke. I exit my smoking vehicle.

The rabbit is dead, there’s no question. Its stomach and intestines lay around its body like a wreath. I’ve been left behind. Remaindered. I stand there, wondering if G-d made this all happen for the rabbit itself to suffer, or for me to simply bear witness. Then the rain stops.