“Just Esther. I’m not missus anything. That bastard died years ago.” That settled that. “Is there wheat in that? What about thaaaaat? Is there wheat in thaaaaat?” She had stashed her cane under one arm, in order to fully concentrate on the sandwiches. She went from sandwich to sandwich, asking that same question. Considering the sandwiches were quartered, you can imagine how long this exercise took. I hadn’t had a chance to answer any of her questions—all the same—not just because she didn’t allow me to but, more important, because I didn’t have any answers.

The corned beef was on rye. The liver on pumpernickel. The pickled fish on some sort of black bread. What had wheat? What didn’t? She had exhausted the platter and was staring at me: “Well? I’m hungry!” Rye? Rock, paper, pumpernickel! “Well!” she demanded, pounding her cane. Spiral, spiral. What was the worst that could happen? It was just wheat, after all.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Matthew came over, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Hi, I’m Matthew,” he said, extending a hand to Esther. She smiled, batting her long fake lashes.

“I am Es-TER,” she carefully enunciated. Bat bat bat.

“Hi, Esther, nice to meet you. Can I help you?” She smiled at him, then shot me the evil eye.

“That girl, she doesn’t know anything. I just want to know what doesn’t have wheat!” He nodded, grabbed the pickled mess, placed it on a plate, put some potato chips next to it, led Esther to the couch.

“Here, this doesn’t have wheat. Enjoy.” And then he returned to me. I looked at him incredulously.

“How do you know that doesn’t have wheat. I mean, she can die or something, I think.”

“Sheila, that doesn’t sound like such a bad thing, now does it? And who is that? She looks like the judge, only slightly less gross.” In a little less than a year, Matthew had gone from a God-fearing Ivy League graduate to a premeditating food poisoner. We gazed at Esther, who was licking pickled herring from her bony fingers. “OK, maybe the same amount of gross,” Matthew corrected himself. I started explaining the who, what, where of Esther, when the judge jumped onto the brick platform in front of the fireplace. She clinked her plastic cup with a plastic fork crusted with mayonnaise. The crowd hushed, but for some loud potato chip chewing. The way everyone was eating, you’d have thought these people had just been bussed in from a refugee camp.