The slap of bare feet coming down from the split-level kitchen to the conversation pit is a sign that everyone should sit on the couches and get organized. She puts the chips and dip and sodas onto the recessed round table, bending over, her breasts wobbling, her bare foot kicking back to balance herself, almost hitting Leah in the face. “Sorry!” Now the agenda is collected as she circles around, everyone attaching notes to the little lanyards she has just clipped to her nipples. She sits cross-legged down on the floor, next to her husband up in his chair, and the Endowment Committee is called to order. One by one she unclips each note from the lanyards and hands it up to Ephraim. They vote to collect next week for the Quemoy and Matsu Fund. Do they contribute to the baseball team’s trip to Milwaukee for the World Series? They did last year. “The Braves are so good that we can assume they’ll go next year also, three in a row.” Isaac disagrees. “Burdette is fading, I think. And Spahn is getting old.” They vote “yes” anyway. “Anyone who can make the Yankees lose, has my vote,” Saul says. Now, a vote on adding to the Kibbutz Scholarship.
Mitzi, being the Recording Secretary, diligently and obediently takes down the proceedings in her quick but neat left-handed script, her arms splayed wide to stay clear of the swinging lanyards. When the meeting ends she unclips them and holds ice cubes from her soda against her nipples, exhaling with relief.
She stands up in front of the fire facing everyone and warms her bare butt with rubbing hands, breasts jiggling, her iced, stiffened nipples poking out at everyone. Behind her on the mantlepiece are pictures of her family, Ephraim’s, various friends, their wedding day, at the beach, at the new synagogue dedication. Mitzi can’t help but upstage people in every photo she’s in.
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