delicatessen

My great uncle recently died, and in his will he left me, his only heir, the delicatessen he had owned and managed for most of his adult life. 

The will had several stipulations. First, the delicatessen mustn’t be sold and upon my death must pass to my own heirs—who, however, I had none, having never married or fathered any children.

“That,” my great uncle’s attorney and executor said, “can be worked out later. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll marry and bear children eventually. You need only convey to me your intent to honor his wishes in good faith. As his executor, I hold considerable discretion in such matters—we can revisit the subject later.”

I wondered at that likelihood, D. himself about to retire, the attorney old and frail, my great uncle’s lifelong friend and confidante who I’d known since early youth. He too had produced no heirs, though the sign in his office window proclaimed D. and Son. Then I remembered he did have a son who, however, had died soon after joining his father’s practice.

 the old neighborhood

Upon leaving the attorney’s office, I returned to my room at the Y which I shared with three other travelers. Initially, I had planned to return to my home city on the early morning train (D. having insisted we meet at daybreak which was when his office hours typically began). 

But I had decided to stay, visit the delicatessen and perhaps move into my uncle’s rooms that same afternoon, “home” being an anomaly or at any rate easily transportable, even from city to city.

Certainly, I wouldn’t miss my former quarters, which were cramped, filthy, and noisy. I was also in arrears with my rent. Moreover, I had left nothing behind of consequence, everything I needed—passport, photo ID, bank book, a few meager clothes—already in my possession. 

The day lay before me and with it new possibilities. I even felt grateful to D. for our early meeting, ensuring me a head-start on the day.

 father (a fragment)

After my mother died of colon cancer I’d stop by the deli after school to pick up sandwiches for my father and me. 

We’d sit at the kitchen table, father still in his bathrobe mid-afternoon. He worked until losing his job as a machinist, then worked part-time days and weekends at the deli.

My great uncle questioned me about father.

“How’s he doing?” He’d sigh then shake his head. “They say you should never hire your in-laws. Now I see why . . . .” 

Artwork: from Shtetl, My Destroyed Home, A Remembrance (1922), 30 lithographs by Russian artist Issachar Ber Rybeck. Courtesy, Public Domain Review.