Perele broke in. “Butter? Marjorie, I told you, we never, ever use butter when cooking meat meals”
“Look, sweetheart, I’m running late,” Abe said, as he carefully checked his black leather bag to make certain all his equipment was there. Stethoscope and sphygmomanometer: check. Tongue depressors, flashlight, reflex hammer: check. Local anesthesia, syringes, dressings, assorted pills: check. Yes, all medical equipment in and accounted for. His wife was certainly a wonder. “Thanks for packing it up for me. Big day today, nonstop patients until three, and then six kids with flu symptoms to visit at home. Can we talk about Artie on Shabbos, when we have more time?”
Annie sighed as she sliced the cucumbers to add to Abe’s tuna sandwich. Doctor’s house calls certainly made sense: why schlep a child with fever and chills outside, and have him sit in the crowded waiting room, infecting others? But they took so much of Abe’s time, and he would certainly be coming home late, exhausted from a hard day’s work.
“It’s really important, Abe. Since he failed that math test he’s hardly said a word to anyone.” She handed him a brown bag, knowing he’d barely find five minutes to gulp down the sandwich. “And lately, he’s been staying out late, not coming back until well after midnight. When I ask him where he’s been, he doesn’t answer. The boy is really upset.”
Abe, already out the door, turned back. “He’s not a boy, Annie, he’s 25 years old. A man.” His voice was impatient, almost stern. Then he softened. “Tell you what. Why don’t you have a conversation with him. Talk to him about his future plans. Then we can discuss it on Shabbos.”
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