Nestlings

by Nat Cassidy

It was an old bronze paperweight in the shape of a chai—the Jewish word for life, a combination of two letters that Reid always thought looked vaguely cow-shaped. It was big and heavy, about seven inches in each direction. The story went that it was made from candlesticks that had been secreted out of the synagogue in Reszel, the village where Reid’s grandmother had been born and from where she’d fled. Dull, clumpy seams marked where the metal had been merged together, like scar tissue.

He sat down on the couch, looking at the chai, holding it by the one safe side along the top side of the letter chet. Even if it didn’t cause a single monster to recoil, he felt safer having it near him.

The other Lubavitchers knew this, and so Isaac’s one big task this morning was getting coffee for anyone else working the Mitzvah Tank who wanted some.

“Well, of course, first there’s Lilith. Good old Lilith, Adam’s first wife. Great-grandmother to all sorts of supernatural nasties. There’s the Alukah, and the Motetz Dam…”

“I found something while reading up on estries—I mentioned estries earlier, yes? I was skimming through the Sefer Hasidim and came across some detailed descriptions. How estries are undeterred by religious iconography, how they can stroll into a temple or a church and not bat an eye. Heh, no pun intended with the bat part.” Ana squeezed the phone. “Anyway, there was one particularly novel method of killing an estrie. Surprisingly simple. Ready? You stuff earth into their mouth. Isn’t that interesting?” “Earth?” Again, like a language she didn’t know, yet spoke. “In fact, two things seem to be consistent among most ancient vampiric creatures. One is a shared aversion to earth and dirt, which I think is why later vampires like, say, Dracula, need to sleep in a coffin full of their own, special soil. The other thing is a particular hunger for babies. They crave babies. Spooky, huh?”

“What else did you talk about?” “Why, the relationship between Jews and vampires! Jews are vampires, Mrs. Reid! At least, according to those who hate us! Foreign interlopers who don’t belong, who use good Christian blood to maintain their longevity, who hypnotize and pull strings from the darkness? Heh, who wear dark clothes and have vaguely Eastern European accents and are insidiously interested in real estate? We’re meant to be fundamentally homeless parasites, aren’t we? Of course native soil would be a weapon against our analogue! Reid found this all very interesting.”

Isaac had bought Reid’s lie—inspired in the moment by remembering the book Ana was currently narrating—that he was writing a vampire novel from the Jewish perspective, with a Jewish hero who wanted to use tactics “predating the cross” to fight ancient evils.

“He’s fucked. If you truly want it to be a Jewish story, he can’t defeat the monsters. Not really. He’ll become food for them in the end. That is the true lesson of Judaism.” “Jesus, dude.” “Jesus is just another Jew who can attest to what I’m saying, Reid.” He took a deep swig of his spiked coffee, then added some more vodka.

Reid stared at him. So did Charlie. “When we speak of creatures like the vampire,” Isaac continued, “we speak of metaphors. We give them little Achilles’ heels so we can feel better, but tell me: What vulnerabilities does grief have? How would a hero defeat that monster? He can’t, can he?” His welling eyes latched on Charlie again. “I could’ve saved my boy, you know. A simple vaccination might have done it. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just our lot to suffer. That’s what our people are ‘chosen’ to do. Our birthright. Our curse.”

“The lesson of Judaism is we survive. We’re survivors.” “But why do we always have to survive so much, Reid?” Isaac leapt to his feet. “Is that really survival? Running from one set of jaws to another? What did we do to deserve the Shoah? Or bondage in Egypt? The destructions of our Temple? The pogroms? The ghettos? Why do we need armed guards at our synagogues now, today? What did I do to deserve my son’s death? What did you do to deserve your own sorrows? ‘Happy is the person You discipline, Adonai!’ Why are we so damned disciplined? I know you agree with me! What was it you said when we first met? When you were asked if you were Jewish?”

Real Jews know not to answer that whenever strangers are at the door. “That was a joke.” But Reid burned with the embarrassment of recognition. Isaac laughed poisonously. “No, Reid. That was memory. And that’s why heroic stories of fighting monsters with symbols of some glowing Messiah’s godhood aren’t for us. They’re for them.” He indicated the other people in the park. “Hey, but don’t let that keep you from whatever you’re writing, huh? We deserve our own silly fantasies, too, dammit!” He shouted this at the passersby. Most ignored him. He chuckled, pleased with himself. This man is a vampire, Reid realized. He’s not a monster, but he thrives on misery. He

needs to drink from my cup of sorrows to digest his own. Reid wanted to tell...

let him know just how pathetic he sounded. He wanted to argue, say, Maybe suffering is a birthright, but maybe you just didn’t do eve...

“Why do you think we must suffer so? Why does HaShem test his chosen people? Is there even a God at all?”

Obviously, Isaac was just one damaged human being, but … was he right? Reid had expressed similar sentiments himself, but now, hearing them like that, he felt a loathing for them. More disturbing, Isaac’s fatalism reminded him of someone else. Ana. “Our curse.” The same word Ana had used when they’d first won the Deptford lottery. Something fundamental was shifting inside of him.

What does it mean to be a mother? But that was the trick. There was no one meaning. Motherhood was her, was Cathy, was Reid’s mom, was this monstrosity in the

bowels of a Manhattan skyscraper. Motherhood was joy, was pain, was standing over the crib with a knife, was standing over the crib with a lullaby. Motherhood was breakage, was expansion, was depletion, was fulfillment, was creation, and an endless series of goodbyes. Motherhood was contradiction. That was its beauty. That was its horror. And if it drove you mad trying to square its inconsistencies, well, tough luck, because motherhood cared nothing about what happened inside of you. Motherhood had already taken what it needed from inside of you and had given it to the world. Anything else was up to you and fate. Bashert.

Grief is the space between two states of being: who you were and who you are.

I think Healing begins when you finally recognize there is no moving on. Only moving forward. You don’t actually leave anything behind. You carry it with you. That’s why the process of healing can feel so slow: you’re carrying more weight now.