All Evelynna wants is a bagel with lox.

Part 1 

One bag of Matzos stared apologetically back at Evelynna from high in the cupboard. She was hungry, but not that desperate. Just craving something familiar, but she didn’t know what. A peek in the icebox proved fruitless. Even her fruit bowl was fruitless. She sighed.

Then the scanner in the living room crackled. “Base to Johnson?” Evelynna instantly recognized her husband Tom’s grainy voice. 

“Go ahead, base,” said Officer Peterson.

“Gonna need you at 30 Mason for an unattended.”

Evelynna’s eyes flitted to her window, locking on a vine-covered 2-story house with grey clapboard. “10–4,” Peterson acknowledged.

Her eyes lingered for a moment on a green car in the driveway that wasn’t usually there. 

Then she returned to the cupboard, yanking open both doors as if the matzos might have miraculously transfigured into something with more flavor. They hadn’t. With a clap of the doors, she resorted to a heavy spiral-bound green recipe book from a drawer. Its lined pages were crisp, batter splattered, and yellowed with age.

She paused two or three times, considering a recipe, but moved on.

Crackle. “Peterson to base, I’m here with the granddaughter now. Requesting backup.”

Evelynna glanced out again to see a black and white patrol car parked behind the green car. A young woman hugging herself was talking to Officer Peterson who held a notebook in his hands. 

Evelynna slowly tugged a loose yellow card from the back of her green book. It was worn, handwritten, and folded down the middle. Reading the scripted ingredients on the page, she made up her mind. 

Evelynna needed a bagel. A real one. Topped with schmear, lox, and a sprinkle of fresh dill. Her mouth watered. She could practically smell it already. 

“Base to Peterson. Smith and I are en route,” Chief Tom DeLancy’s voice crackled over the scanner. Evelynna raised an eyebrow, stirring some yeast into hot water. 

Minutes later, two more patrol cars parked along the side of the street. Evelynna cranked a flour sifter over a large glass bowl, humming softly to herself. A knock on her back door drew her away from the kitchen. 

Wiping her fingers on the hem of her apron, Evelynna greeted Mrs. Embleton, who was clutching a clipboard to her chest. 

“Good morning dear. I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d ask if you’d like to bring a little something to the community Independence Day picnic?” Mrs. Embleton flashed her trademark molar-revealing grin.

“Well, four months is short notice, Mrs. Embleton, but I can make it work,” Evelynna deadpanned. 

“Yes, I do apologize, Mrs. DeLancy. You know how it is, first it’s Saint Patrick’s Day and the next thing you know it’s Halloween,” Mrs. Embleton snorted, then she cleared her throat. “Say, you didn’t happen to hear anything about Mrs. Wilson across the street?” She leaned in, peeking past Evelynna into the foyer as if the chief might materialize in the hallway. 

“The police are over there,” Evelynna deadpanned. 

“Well, I just thought maybe you’d have heard something. Mrs. Wilson just means the world to me don’t you know. I’ve been worried sick about her all morning.” 

Somewhere behind Evelynna, the scanner crackled. 

“Chief to dispatch. Detectives just arrived.”

“10–4, Chief.” Crack. Evelynna’s shoulders stiffened. She sighed. 

“Put me down for a strawberry blueberry gelatin,” she said.

“Huh? Oh, right. Splendid,” Mrs. Embleton chuckled, suddenly remembering the clipboard pressed against her bosom. “Well, if you hear anything, dear, please give me a ring,” Mrs. Embleton turned on one heel and clopped away jotting “strawberry blueberry gelatin” on her empty prop. 

Evelynna returned to the kitchen and frowned. Her yeast wasn’t bubbling. It hadn’t done anything. With a huff, she stabbed it testily with a fork and a single clump of yeast sank to the bottom of the bowl. 

Evelynna grumbled. If she wanted unleavened bread, she’d be eating matzos. Hastily, she untied her apron and marched across the street, slipping between the swarm of cars now surrounding the little gray house. A man in a fedora was busy setting up a tripod. 

“Sorry to bother you, Isadora,” she said sweetly from the porch of the brown house, “may I borrow a packet of yeast?”

“Of course,” Isadora replied with a wave of her hand, “please, come in.” The women walked silently to the kitchen. Evelynna waited with hands folded in front of her while her friend rummaged in a tin canister.

“A lot of people outside today,” Isadora stated. 

“Quite,” Evelynna replied. 

“But you’re probably used to this sort of thing, coming from Chicago,” Isadora said, passing a small red and white packet to Evelynna.

“You never get used to death, Isadora.” 

“Aman,” she gasped, reaching for her cross necklace, “is that what’s happened?” Evelynna shrugged. She opened her mouth, then closed it, glancing toward the window. 

“Thank you for the yeast, I appreciate it,” she said finally. 

“Oh goodness, anytime,” Isadora replied, rushing to hold the screen door open for her friend to leave. Evelynna kept her head down crossing the street, her flats scuffed along the pavement. 

“Yes sir, I have it on good authority they called in detectives from Chicago,” Evelynna overheard Kathy Embleton saying to the man in the fedora on the sidewalk. She had changed into her blue dress suit and held her dog’s leash loosely with gloved hands. The man with the fedora jotted something in a small notebook. 

“When she didn’t show up for church on Sunday, I just knew something was the matter. Like I told the authorities already, I saw a man dressed in black walking by there Tuesday before last. Looked up to no good if you ask me,” she continued as the man scribbled furiously. Evelynna rolled her eyes. 

She wondered whether the market downtown sold capers. Checking her little silver wristwatch, there was just enough time to knead the dough and return from the market before Tommy walked home from school. 

Part 2 

Yeast, sugar, salt, flour. Evelynna covered the soft ball of dough with a dishcloth and grabbed her keys. But a big green van was parked across the end of her drive with another black vehicle right behind it. Evelynna’s jaw tightened and a low growl erupted in her throat. 

“Excuse me,” she said, parting through the men standing on the lawn across the street. “Excuse me, sirs, can anyone tell me who drove the green van?” A huddle of men in uniforms carried on what they were doing. “Can anyone please—oy vey.” Evelynna griped. She dropped her keys into her pocketbook and harrumphed toward the main road on foot. One way or another, she was getting to the market. 

Mason Street was just under a mile from the little huddle of shops downtown that sold things like deli meats, produce, and baked goods. Evelynna could use some fresh air anyway, she told herself. 

A sudden gurgle in her stomach told her she was still feeling hungry as she neared the iron fence outside the public school. A metal clip banged against the flagpole outside the large brick building and chains squealed on a rusty swing set in the yard. 

Evelynna rubbed the goosebumps prickling her arms. Behind her, the final bell on the school rang. Tommy would be dismissed from Holy Trinity school soon as well. She picked up her pace. 

A few minutes later, a small bell hanging above a door let the butcher know a customer was at the front counter. Evelynna scanned the display. The air inside smelled cold and salty. The butcher appeared with a white blood-stained apron and a smile. 

“Hello, I’m wondering if you have any lox?” Evelynna asked timidly, looking around. 

“Is smoked okay?” asked the round-faced butcher, already bending down to pull a cut out of the case. Evelynna sighed.

“Smoked is just fine,” she replied curtly, checking over the display. “Is that shrimp,” she asked, indicating a bowl of pink curls on chopped ice next to the salmon. 

“Yes, ma’am,” the butcher beamed, “35 cents a pound.” Evelynna closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath.

“I’m very sorry to have bothered you,” she replied. “This is a lovely shop, but I’m kosher, I’m afraid.” 

“You don’t say,” the butcher scratched his scruffy chin. “Well, I have my pork in a separate case over there,” he pointed, “but there’s a Jewish place over on Second Street if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Second? Thank you so much for your help, sir,” Evelynna grinned. The bell above the door drowned out the sounds of her grinding teeth. It wasn’t the butcher’s fault. It was her fault for expecting anyone in Milford to care about Kashrut.

Second street was a few blocks away. Evelynna remembered it because the police station, where Tom worked, was on Second. She checked her watch. Tommy would be home by now. She trudged forward.

Tovah’s Kitchen was a modest rectangular shop with a slanted roof. Evelynna watched a woman with a tan scarf covering her hair flip over a sign in the window: “CLOSED FOR SHABBAT”. Evelynna double checked her watch. It was five minutes until three.

“This is a test,” she muttered. And then she waved at the woman through the glass, smiling. The older woman opened her door a crack and gestured for Evelynna to come closer. 

“We close early on Fridays,” she said. Her thick accent reminded Evelynna of her mother’s.

“I understand,” she sighed. “If you wouldn’t mind, I only want a bissel of lox and schmear.” The woman checked her own watch.

“Zikher,” the woman smiled, fully opening the door and standing aside. The woman bagged the order quickly and the women exchanged a few crinkly bills. With a click of her pocketbook, Evelynna seized the brown paper bag in front of her. 

“A dank,” she said, turning away.

“Shalom.” 

Evelynna scurried out of Tovah’s Kitchen and bounced down the sidewalk feeling lighter than she had all day. Some teenagers gathered around the pharmacy sipping milkshakes. Evelynna hoped Tommy wasn’t making a nuisance of himself with the police outside their home. 

Once she turned on Mason Street, she was pleasantly relieved to see the green van was gone, along with all the cruisers. Just a handful of personal vehicles remained on the lawn in front of the gray house. Evelynna spotted Tommy shooting marbles with Graham in the Embleton’s driveway and slipped inside her house to check on her bagel dough. 

Part 3

Evelynna peered over the counter and poked the cool ball. It dimpled and shriveled. A sharp sour smell wafting from the bowl indicated it had sat too long and overproofed. Her eye twitched. Suddenly she dove, strangling the dough in her fingers for refusing to cooperate. 

“A broch!” She spat bitterly before snatching a rolling pin from the drawer in front of her. Waving it threateningly at the flat dough, she formulated a new plan. 

She’d just wanted a bagel. 

Fluffy, warm, and topped with schmear. 

With sunset closing in on the day, she hastily scattered some flour onto the counter and attacked the dough with the roller, flattening it to a lumpy circle. A large rip opened in the middle, eliciting a string of curses under Evelynna’s breath. 

One can of tomato sauce, fresh basil, and a sprinkle of mozzarella later, the pie was in the oven with a final slam of the door. 

“It’s no deep-dish,” she grumbled, “but it’ll do.” 

Evelynna’s stomach rumbled again. She hadn’t eaten all day. 

Glowering, she unsheathed a matzo from the bag in her cupboard, plopped onto a kitchen chair, and crunched one corner of the cracker aggressively with her teeth.

“Honey, I’m home!” Tom announced, hanging his hat in the foyer. “Whew, what a day,” he added, kissing the top of Evelynna’s head. 

“What’s for dinner? It smells delicious,” Tom complimented. 

“Pizza,” Evelynna replied flatly. 

“I guess you probably heard about Mrs. Wilson,” Tom said solemnly, peeking out the window at the gray house across the street. Two vehicles remained in the driveway and a single light shone from a downstairs window. 

“I saw,” Evelynna confirmed, taking another loud bite of matzo. 

“Yep. Went peacefully in her sleep. Her granddaughter found her,” Tom remarked, shaking his head. “Poor woman.” Evelynna sighed, staring past Tom at the folded recipe on the counter. 

“My Bubbe stayed behind when my family left Germany before the war,” she stated quietly, setting the dry matzo onto a white plate with a soft clink. “That was the last time I saw her.” At last, she met Tom’s eyes with a half smile. “She used to bake the most wonderful bagels.”