Title: Shabbos
Author: LizBee
Summary: Russell handles a series of domestic, religious and political crises with all the grace we have come to expect.
Warnings:  Lemme see, soapy drama, offspring, multiple violations of the Fourth Commandment.  (Unless you're Catholic or Lutheran, in which case it's the Third.)
Fandom: Mary Russell (Sherlock Holmes)
Spoilers: Erm... everything?  Nothing?
Disclaimer: Russell is the property of Laurie R. King. Holmes is public domain, although it's probably only fair to name-check Arthur Conan Doyle.
Notes: So this has hovered in post-completion limbo for nearly a YEAR because I couldn't persuade anyone to look over it and tell me how badly I have screwed up in my portrayal of Judaism.  (Major sources: The Ladies Auxiliary by Tova Mirvis, and Judaism for Dummies.)  So if I have made errors, point 'em out and I'll edit.  Thanks to Branwyn and Prof_Pangaea for their betas.
Shabbos
by LizBee




It was my custom, in the later months of 1929, to spend two days a week at Oxford, returning to Sussex on Friday mornings.  I would have a leisurely lunch with Holmes, if he were about, and then retire to the nursery to hear my son share his recent exploits, while his nurse packed his clothes and offered the occasional interjection or clarification.

The three of us would catch the train to London in mid-afternoon.  Jonathan usually fell asleep, offering Mabel a chance to give me a slightly more structured recounting of his days.   Once in the city, we separated: Mabel returning to her family's home, while Jonathan and I made our way either to the home of my second cousin, or the Bloomsbury flat I had bought several years earlier.  From either place, it was but a short journey to the synagogue where my grandfather had once been rabbi.  Arrival in London signified the commencement of our Shabbos routine, the time when I sequestered myself from Sussex, Oxford or any other distractions the world might present.

One particular Friday, I arrived home to find that Holmes had vanished on some errand of Mycroft's, and that Jonathan's mastery of mathematics continued unabated.  To say nothing of his other, considerable abilities, which apparently included a keen interest in his father's laboratory.  Before we left, I made doubly sure that the laboratory's door was locked, and that Jonathan didn't see me conceal the key in a high cabinet.

He didn't sleep on the train, which I feared indicated a growing tendency towards mimicking his father's sleeping patterns, or was possibly just a sign of maturation.  He read to me, forming the words with an ease I found both fascinating and curious; he no longer had to follow the text with his finger.  I had already begun teaching him Hebrew; soon, I would have to find a dedicated tutor.  Someone whose abilities I trusted, else I would surely find myself looking over the poor man's shoulder at every turn.

I said as much to Mabel, who gave me the polite smile she always offered when I said or did anything overtly Jewish.  

"I don't normally hold with Hebrews," I'd overheard her saying to the vicar's wife, "but she's not a bad sort."

It was a common enough sort of remark, but it rankled: I was unused to it.  Few enough people even realised that I was Jewish.  Jonathan, with his darker features, might face more problems, but he had an English name, and most people never bothered to see past the surface of things.

We went our separate ways in London, and Jonathan and I took a taxi to my cousin's home.  Perversely, I found myself wishing that we were going to my own flat, where I could enjoy some rest – inasmuch as was possible with a four-year-old – and indulge in the pleasure of my son's company.  I was not given to sentimentality; indeed, an old friend had told me I was curiously detached from my child. Holmes was unabashedly fascinated by the child; I maintained my reserve.  But occasionally, in privacy, I permitted myself to be impressed by this little genius I had apparently helped to create.  

Though there would be no privacy to be had in my cousin's home.  It was a pleasant house, not without pretensions, on the edge of a formerly fashionable suburb, but its size and convenience made it the centre of any Klein family gathering, and my cousin was the consummate hostess.  

When my mother had been alive, and living in London, she had shared that duty.  I had vivid memories of helping her prepare for Shabbos celebrations.  In our last few months in England, I had been a reluctant and deliberately inept assistant.  Occasionally, I regretted that.  Arriving in Sarah's home, however, and seeing the evidence of endless cleaning and cooking – or, more precisely, overseeing the endless cleaning and cooking of the servants – I was merely relieved that no one considered me a potential hostess for any kind of family gathering.

Most of the relatives who greeted us on our entrance still thought of me as that sulky adolescent.  Few had bothered to know me when I was orphaned and living with my aunt.  Some had yet to forgive my mother for marrying a Christian; these few elderly cousins had a curious tendency to look through me when I greeted them.  Even those who knew and apparently liked me were careful to avoid the subject of my own marriage.

At times, when the familial obligations had become too wearing, I would remember these facts, and swallow the nasty bit of lingering hatred that inserted itself too easily into my mind.

In any case, they were united in their affection for Jonathan.  He had a few playmates among the local children, and among the offspring of his parents' friends, but it was with his distant cousins that he permitted himself to romp.  I sometimes saw it in his face, the decision to put dignity aside and have fun.  A powerful decision for a self-aware child; I was careful never to acknowledge that I'd seen those moments, for fear that I might never be allowed to see them again.

I let my son go about his business, earnestly persuading his older cousins that his way was better than theirs, and permitted Sarah to draw me into conversation with her sister-in-law.  This chiefly involved listening to the woman's litany of complaints about her family: her husband worked all day, her son was ungrateful and her daughter was full of unsuitable and impractical ambitions.  

I listened and nodded, and privately wished I had chosen to attend evening services at the synagogue, although they were not required for women, who could fulfil their religious obligations at home.  The candles were lit, and the house was closed against the outside world.  We said the prayers that welcomed the Sabbath, with their evocative allusions to the Shabbos bride.  Then the men came home, and the family gathered around the dining table to sing the shalom aleichem and the aishet chayil: A woman of valour who can find?  Her value is higher than pearls.  Her husband's heart depends on her and he shall lack no fortune.  Jonathan caught my eye as we finished, and I smiled in spite of myself.  I looked away quickly, but my great-uncle had already turned his disapproving gaze on the pair of us.  He nursed the fond belief that we were tainted by our Christian fathers; oddly, he seemed to like Holmes.  

I resolved to behave myself for the rest of the evening, and tried not to feel like a rebellious adolescent.  Sarah, assisted by a maid – presumably a Gentile – served the meal, and we ate, and prayed, and tried to get along.  The scent of challah always brought my mother to mind, a quiet ghost hanging over my shoulder.  Mine was but a poor imitation.  I thrust the thought aside and concentrated on being sociable.

Later, long after I had put Jonathan to bed in the room he shared with his third cousin, the telephone rang.  For a moment – for several moments – it went unanswered, for such tools were never used on the Sabbath.  And who would call, at such a time?

In the brief, awkward silence, I heard the maid rushing from the kitchen to answer it.  And I was only slightly surprised when she emerged a few moments later, looking terribly uncomfortable, and said, "Miss, uh, Russell?  It's for you.  It's your husband."

I stood up, squared my shoulders and, ignoring at least three cold glares from my more Orthodox relatives, followed the girl out.

"Holmes?"

"Russell.  I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever be permitted to speak to you."

"I thought you were in Monaco.  Are you all right?"

"What?  No, perfectly fine, but things have taken a rather interesting turn.  I'm at Scotland Yard, by the way, with Lestrade and a rather competent man named Parker dancing attendance.  Are you free?"

"Free?  What?  Holmes, it's Friday night."

"And if the drug smugglers of the world had any decency, they would surely recognise the significance of that fact.  Unfortunately, they are not, on the whole, a group known for keeping the Sabbath holy, and since they've branched out into a rather cheap form of espionage, I'm afraid the rest of us must make our own sacrifices."

"Must we?"

There was a creak on the floor behind me, and I could feel a pair of eyes boring into my head.  All at once, I was furious, partially at my family, but mostly at Holmes and his damned arrogance.

"I thought you'd find it interesting."

"Sitting out in the cold, by the river, in company with a lot of policemen?"  To say nothing of my husband, who coped with rheumatism through peevishness.  "Holmes, I think I'll have to decline your charming invitation for now."

"Russell!  They have managed to steal or duplicate some very important government papers--"

"Belonging to the War Office?"

"That," he said with disapproval, "was a lucky guess."

"No, Holmes.  Absolutely not.  I shall see you when I get back to Sussex.  Give my regards to Lestrade."

I replaced the receiver with more force than necessary, stood still for a moment to catch my breath and sooth my temper, and turned to face my great-uncle.

To my surprise, he was watching me with something like compassion in his face.  He lowered himself carefully onto a slightly worn sofa, and after a moment, I joined him.

"Your mother used to get that look," he said.

I blinked, and presented him with a perfectly smooth face.  "What look?"

"Frustration.  Anger, sometimes."

"My mother was never angry.  She was far too disciplined."

"She certainly never let you see."  That hit home, and he nodded in satisfaction.  "This is why we tried to stop your parents from marrying.  Her mother was dead by then, thank goodness.   She'd never have forgiven Judith, and there was no fighting with Ruth.  It would have been the end for both of them.  But then, Judith would never have dared dream of marrying outside the faith with her mother alive.  Her father was another matter: she could fight him.  And she did.  With great spirit.  And charm."  

He gave me a look implying that spirit I might have, but charm I most certainly lacked.  "He gave up in the end, and I suppose your birth swayed him.  But your father never understood us, and neither does your husband."  He slowly rotated his cane in his hands, and I watched the light reflect of the dark polished wood.  I felt utterly ill.  "I doubt he cares to try."

I stood up, swallowing my nausea.  I opened my mouth to speak, but thought better of it; instead, I turned on my heel and went upstairs, to wash my hot face and put myself to bed in the spare room allotted to me.

I couldn't sleep.

Downstairs, I heard Sarah and her husband bid farewell to the visitors.  Around me, the household settled down for the night.  I wished that I'd had the presence of mind to storm out; at least in my own flat, I could read and pace and attempt to write.  But Jonathan had already been asleep, and one couldn't storm out with a four-year-old, not with any dignity.

The clock downstairs chimed one, then two.  I wondered if Holmes was having fun.  I hoped it was cold and foggy, and a complete waste of time.  In the room beside mine, I could hear Jonathan stirring.  If he were awake – but no, one couldn't sneak out like a guest avoiding a hotel bill.  I pulled the blankets up to my chin and conjugated irregular verbs.

I had fallen into an uneasy sleep when there came a loud rapping on the front door.  I sat up, heart pounding, and heard it again.  I was halfway down the stairs before anyone else had even moved, and as I ran, I noted absently that my head was suddenly clear.  I fumbled with the unfamiliar lock and wrenched the door open, wishing abruptly that I'd thought to bring a gun to this peaceful family gathering.  Then Holmes collapsed in my arms with a groan.

I was, I realised, only slightly surprised.

Holmes lifted his head as I half-carried him into the parlour, and gave me a rueful smile.  There was a worrying amount of blood covering his side and arm, but his grip on my shoulder was reassuringly strong.  I set him down on the sofa and turned to find that Sarah had materialised by my side

"Get hot water," I ordered her, "and bandages."

She nodded and vanished, reappearing in moments with all that I'd asked, plus a bottle of brandy.  I blessed her silently, and turned to my husband.  If he felt any remorse for disturbing a peaceful household, it wasn't evident.

"Check the pocket of my coat," he said.

I continued to clean the blood from the wound in his side.  Revealed, it was a long slash, shallow but no doubt painful.  Not serious, despite the blood, but it could easily have gone deeper.

"What you're carrying, it was worth your life?" I demanded.

He chuckled, winced and said, "Take it out.  Mycroft will be very unhappy if I've bled so much as to render it illegible."

"I'm sure he'd be slightly put out if you'd bled to death, too."

"Russell..."  The shock of the injury had begun to fade, and he suddenly looked grey and exhausted.  His breathing was laboured.  I sighed, and pulled a wad of folded papers from his pocket.

"Well?"

"Only the final pages are damaged, and I can still make out the words."  I turned to the front.  "A trade agreement.  Not even as glamorous as a naval treaty, although I'm sure Doyle could make something of it.  I'm not sure it was worth coming all this way, risking further injury and waking up my family just to show it to me."

"The police," he said with a fleeting smile, "did not know about the theft of the agreement.  And Mycroft preferred not to inform them."  He looked past me.  "Is discipline in this house so lax that small children are allowed to roam freely after midnight?"

I stuffed the agreement into my dressing gown and turned to glare at my son.

"Some people," I said, "are immune to the commoner forms of discipline.  Jonathan, if you don't return to your bed instantly, I shall lock away your books and set you to learn irregular verbs for a week."

Even this was apparently insufficient: he pushed past me and clambered up beside his father, who – treacherously – squeezed his shoulder and said, "Not to worry, old man, she'll be in Oxford for two days of it."

I cleaned the remaining blood from the wound with rather more force than necessary.  He was lucky, I considered, that the injury wouldn't need stitches.  I never did get the hang of using a needle.

"There," I said savagely as I finished, "and while your son may be content to spend the night on the sofa quietly adoring you, I'd rather get some proper sleep."  

I turned away, and he chuckled quietly.  I shouldn't have stopped – I should have left in a dignified silence, but instead, I paused in the doorway long enough to hear him say, "One generation removed from Cockney Jew.  You're a marvellous mimic, Russell.  I must say, I'd wondered where the boy had picked up that intonation."

His tone was a pure upper-class drawl, condescending and calculated to infuriate me.  And it worked, damn him, the final blow on an unbearable night.  I didn't stop to argue; I could barely even speak.  I turned on my heel and left him alone to laugh.  I went to bed.  To my own surprise, I even slept.

Some time before dawn, he climbed into my bed, wrapping his arms around me in an uncharacteristic display of affection.  Remorse, I wondered sleepily, or merely a new method of annoying me?  I was acutely conscious of his heartbeat.  After a few minutes, I went back to sleep.

He was running his hands through my hair when I woke again.  The sun had risen, but the sky, when I opened my eyes, was grey.  The previous night's anger had been replaced with a kind of dull emptiness.  I sat up, pulled my hair sharply from Holmes's hands and said, "What time is it?"

"A quarter to eight."

"Damn."  I climbed out of bed, reaching for my clothes, shedding my pyjamas.  "We'll be late.  My uncle will no doubt see it as further evidence against me.  How is your side?" I added belatedly.

"Rather sore, but healing nicely.  Although I can't say I found your cousin's sofa comfortable.  What did you do with the papers?"

"Oh, here," I pulled them from my dressing gown's pocket.

"Russell!"

"I had nothing secure about my person.  It seemed as good a place as any."  I managed to pull one stocking on without laddering it and added, "I doubt my relatives are in league with dope smuggling traitors, anyway."

"Nevertheless—"

I wrestled for a moment with my suspenders and my temper, and finally said, "If you were truly concerned about security, Holmes, you would have taken the papers straight to Mycroft."  I pulled my skirt over my hips and added, "you might have had a warmer welcome, too."

"Will I be forgiven for violating the family's privacy on the Sabbath?"

"I expect the general consensus will be that you simply cannot be expected to know better."  I finished buttoning my shirt and pulled my hair into a severe knot.  "But you've reminded them all that I'm an outsider.  I can't say I'm inclined to thank you."

"Russell—" He sat up, not without discomfort. "Why you put so much stock in the opinions of these people--"

"My relatives?"

"Who left you alone in your aunt's hands when your parents were killed."

"Yes."  I put the final pin in my hair.  "But they're Jonathan's relatives, too, and that means something to me.  It's worth a few sacrifices on my part."

"It's beneath you."

"Is it?"  I looked over at him. "Get some more sleep, Holmes, you look exhausted.  I'll take the agreement to Mycroft when I'm finished at the synagogue."

"I thought you were forbidden to ride in cars on the Sabbath."

"That's certainly the Orthodox interpretation," I agreed.  "But I suppose one must make sacrifices in the service of the crown, and Mycroft can enjoy a surprise visit from Jonathan." Who would be overtired and fractious.  I would send him back to Sussex with Holmes, I decided.  By train.  And spend an extra night at my flat, sleeping.  Alone.  "Speaking of whom, Sarah has no doubt woken him up, but he is apparently determined to do his own buttons, his nurse tells me, and his fingers aren't quite up to the job.  So I shall see you when we return."

I tucked the trade agreement into my handbag, found my good hat, and set off to face the day.

Walking to the synagogue, I attempted to set my frustration aside, and occupied myself telling Jonathan about Esther, and the differences between the Greek and Hebrew versions of that particular book.  I didn't know if he listened, understood or cared, but I found it soothing.

I truly began to feel better when we arrived, taking our places among the other women and young children.  One day, I mused, Jonathan would take his place with the men, alone with no father to guide him.  There might come a day when he no longer welcomed my tutelage.  I hoped that one of our relatives would prove willing to take that role.  Providing that I did nothing to cause further offence over the coming years.

Not for the first time, it occurred to me that it would have been easier to raise my son a nominal Anglican, like his own father.  But one couldn't escape the rabbinical law that made him a Jew; why trouble the child with ambiguities?

(A memory arose: my father, escorting me up the steps of an Anglican church.  How strange it had seemed that first time, familiar from books, but also exciting and new.  I had been seven, so we must have been living in London; it was the first time he'd visited us since Mother left San Francisco.)

I wrenched myself back to reality.  The rabbi was a young man with an adenoidal voice that never held my attention for more than a few minutes.  But his Hebrew, when I did listen, was remarkable.  Some temples conducted services in the vernacular, a trend which I abhorred with all the strength of a sixtheenth-century Catholic reviling the upstart Protestantism.  What would become of us if we lost our language?  On Monday, I promised myself, I would see about finding a dedicated Hebrew tutor for Jonathan.

Afterwards, as everyone was filing out, I tapped Sarah on the shoulder.  

"I have to run an errand for my husband," I said softly.  "I don't think I'll be long."

"But it's--"

"I'm afraid it's urgent, you see.  And unavoidable."

Sarah gave me a sympathetic look.  "Is your husband all right?"

"Recovering and unbearable, I'm afraid.  I'll take him off your hands as soon as I'm finished."

"You're welcome to stay until tomorrow."

She did not, I noted, specifically include Holmes in that invitation.  Then again, she didn't specifically exclude him.  I pasted a smile on my face and said, "No.  I think it would be best if I went home as soon as possible."

"I understand."  She squeezed my arm.  "It's been a trying weekend."

"Oh yes.  Very trying."

I led Jonathan out before the general exodus, hoping to escape attention.  My great-uncle gave me a furious look from the other side of the room, but no one stopped us as we fled.  

In a spirit of vague and pointless defiance, I hailed the first taxi that passed us, and directed the driver to Mycroft's rooms.

"Why are we going?" Jonathan demanded as we drove.

I leaned back against the upholstery and explained that we had to pay a visit to his uncle.  Jonathan's face fell slightly.

"Why are we taking a car?  Rabbi says--"

"Because we're in a hurry," I snapped.  He fell silent, and his expression became closed.  We were both tired, and it was unfair to inflict this business on him.  I squeezed his hand and made a weak apology.

"I don't understand," he said – carefully, so as not to provoke my wrath again – "why we can run errands for Father today.  Uncle – Great-Uncle – says it's wrong."

"It's complicated," I prevaricated.  "I wouldn't, normally, but there are some important papers that your uncle needs, and Holmes is in no condition to deliver them himself."

"More important than the Law?"  By which he meant Jewish law.

"There are different kinds of laws."

He looked like he had a million questions, but fortunately the taxi pulled into the kerb at that moment, saving me from an extended theological discussion.  I paid off the driver and we made our way upstairs in a companionable silence.

Mycroft concealed his dismay at Jonathan's presence with admirable aplomb, and went so far as to engage his nephew in a stilted discussion for several minutes.  Seventy-one years lay between Mycroft and my son; the disparity was apparently too vast to accommodate conversation.

The table had been hastily cleared of papers – for Mycroft paid no more heed than Holmes to the weekend close of business – to hold a light lunch.  "Light", in Mycroft's world, still encompassed enough food to accommodate a small child.  I suddenly remembered that I hadn't eaten breakfast.  

We ate and made conversation until the plates were empty and the remnants cleared away, and Mycroft leaned back expectantly.

The look on his face when I withdrew his trade agreement from my handbag was a fleshier echo of Holmes's when I had pulled it from my dressing gown this morning.

"Anyone would think my relatives were entirely untrustworthy," I said.

"Your second cousin, Stephen, was a conscientious objector in the War, and has current ties to the Communist Party."

"Does he, indeed?  I thought he seemed unpopular.  How long have you kept files on my family?"

"Since you met my brother.  Well," he amended, "since he saw fit to mention your existence.  You were sixteen, I believe."

There seemed to be nothing to say to that extraordinary statement.  I rose to my feet.

"Will there be anything else, Mycroft?"

"Is Sherlock all right?"

"He's recovering well."

"I was surprised when you declined to join him last night."

The man had ears everywhere.

"It was Shabbos," I said simply.  "It still is, in fact, and we should be going."

"Sherlock might have escaped injury, had you been there."  It was an observation, not an accusation.

"It's too late to do anything about that.  Come on, Jonathan, we should see how your father is."  

I kissed Mycroft on the cheek as I left, and was rewarded with a look of surprise as I turned away.  It would be good for his soul, I considered, to find some corner of the world that he could not utterly control.  Even Jonathan had been forced to learn that lesson.

On the journey home, my son asked no awkward questions, and I clung to his small hand.  To give comfort, or take it, or to simply reassure myself that I wasn't alone, I couldn't have said.

Arriving at Sarah's house, I found the family at home.  And Holmes, damn him, was engaged in an energetic conversation with my great-uncle.  About Tibet, of all things.  My uncle looked positively animated; it added a certain strength to the scowl he directed towards me as I approached.

"Your mother would be appalled at you," he said by way of greeting.

"I think you overestimate her taste for orthodoxy.  Good afternoon, Holmes.  You're looking much better."

"Thank you, Russell.  There is something very restoring about sleeping until midday.  How was Mycroft?"

"Oh, inscrutable and hungry.  Would you mind if we left soon?"

"Of course not. Russell--"

I was already walking away, to pack my bag and bid Sarah a proper farewell.

Jonathan fell asleep as the train pulled out of the station, curled into a ball with his head on Holmes's arm.  I envied him.

Eventually Holmes said, "Are you feeling any better?"

"I don't have a five inch rip in my side."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then no.  I'm not feeling better, and I cannot properly articulate my mood."  With less heat I added, "I shall let you know when the situation changes."

"Very well."  Holmes opened the newspaper.  "I shall endeavour not to theorise ahead of the facts."

"Thank you, Holmes.  That's very decent of you."

In the end, I left him to his paper, one hand absently stroking Jonathan's hair, and paced up and down the length of the corridor until I began to attract attention from passengers in other compartments.  Then I stepped outside and watched the scenery fly past, until we reached Eastbourne and changed trains.

It was late afternoon when we finally reached the cottage.  Holmes went straight out to inspect the bees.  Jonathan – now wide-awake and doubtless going to remain so until the early hours – went upstairs to retrieve his books, doubtless hoping I had forgotten my threat to have him spend the week learning irregular verbs.  

I poured myself a gin and tonic, went to reassure the housekeeper – a pale imitation of Mrs Hudson, who had moved to Australia a year earlier – that none of us required an elaborate meal.  I finished my drink, made myself a second, mixed a whisky-and-soda for Holmes and went outside.

He was just finishing, and accepted the drink with pleasure.  Glasses in hand, we made our way through the orchard, towards the cliffs.  We sat down on the low wall that marked the orchard's boundary, and drank together in silence for several minutes.  The air was cool, and I was conscious of Holmes's warmth by my side.

I said slowly, "I am in the unfortunate and awkward position of being an outsider wherever I go.  There are those who take it amiss when they learn I am Jewish.   They're always very polite, but it is obvious what they are thinking."

"I've seen it," said Holmes.  "It's a curious attitude.  'All very well for the lady to be Jewish, but must she conceal it until it's too late to snub her?'"

"Yes.  Precisely.  And then I have the extra problem, of being merely – tolerated – by my family."

"Because of your marriage?"

"That. And my mother's.  It was difficult to cut ties with her, because she was so charismatic and," I spat the word, "charming.  In any case, once her father had forgiven her, everyone else followed.  But it's surprisingly easy to treat her daughter with thinly veiled contempt, because she has no charm, and few graces, and didn't even have the decency to die along with the rest."

My voice was shaking as I finished, and my throat was tight with anger.

"They surely don't believe that," said Holmes.

"No." I took a deep breath.  "Perhaps not.  But I am quite certain that if it had been Levi who lived, and chose to come to England, they would not have foisted him off on his mother's unpopular sister and forgotten about him."

Holmes said nothing, but his jaw was set.

"I'm resigned to it, really," I said.  "But neither of us could be said to live sedate lives, and when I think of Jonathan – I don't want him to be a stranger to his family, or his religion.  Bad enough," I managed a smile, "that he's been saddled with you and I for parents."

"A disadvantage he may have trouble living down," Holmes agreed.

"I miss my mother," I said suddenly.

Holmes had the decency not to tell me this had been obvious to him for years.

"I think, ever since Jonathan was born – I don't think I could ever match her ability to teach or nurture, but I'm trying."  I swallowed my drink.  It burnt my throat and nose as it went down.

Holmes squeezed my hand and let it go, rising to his feet.  His stiffness, I deduced, derived less from his injury than rheumatism.

"Go inside," I said.  "I'll follow in a few minutes."

He nodded and left me alone with my thoughts.  But I was exhausted and empty, ready to set this day aside and prepare for tomorrow.

The sun was setting.  Shabbos was over.  I closed my eyes and offered a brief prayer.

Then I stood up and went inside, and locked the door behind me.


end