“Vilde chaya!” we shriek at the same time, and then growl at each other before we both burst out laughing.

“Race you!” says Honey. Then she’s off, swerving into the walking path, speed walking over the hardened mud, and as we emerge onto my street and turn left toward Aginéni’s, running wildly, pushing the old broken carriage down the street, me at her heels.

When we get to Aginéni’s, we are totally out of breath. Honey rings the bell while I start bringing the tinfoil pans up the broken cement steps to the porch. She rings again, and we wait, leaning against the wrought iron railing. Finally, the scrunched-together curtain on the narrow window surrounding the door is pulled aside and a nose pushes against the glass. The door opens, and there is Aginéni.

Instead of her usual groomed wig, Aginéni’s head is covered in a faded pink turban, and she is wearing a pilled and shredded pink housecoat. I suddenly realize I haven’t seen her in shul in a long time.

She glances at Honey in recognition, and then she looks at me with curiosity. I know who she is, of course, but even if she might recognize me as a shul kid, she doesn’t know who I am other than one of the Wine daughters’ friends. I grip the edges of the pan tightly and offer a shaky smile.

“Nu, come in already,” she commands, shuffling slowly out of the way to let us by.

She is stooped over. Her face is bony, and her eyes are dark and watery. When I watch her move slowly toward her kitchen while we lug the food after her, something starts softly tapping on my heart.

“Aginéni, you want me to paint your nails?” Honey says, settling her pans on the counter. The stove and fridge are turquoise, and the brown-and-white linoleum floor is curling in some places. “I do it for all the ladies I visit at Zonnenshein Home.”

As I put my pan next to Honey’s, I grin at the mental image of Aginéni getting a manicure from Honey, but also wonder not for the first time how Honey has the guts to address grown-ups by their names. Even Mrs. Wine—Judy—I don’t actually call her anything. If I need to ask her something, I just awkwardly clear my throat or say “um” until she looks up.

“What, you think I’m ready for the alte kaker house and I’m going to sing tra-la-la while you do my nails because I don’t have a thought left in my head?” Aginéni looks at Honey with venom. “Don’t do me any favors with your foolish nahrishkeit.”

Honey scowls and exhales loudly through her nose. Then she turns her back to Aginéni and stalks toward the oven.

There is something so funny about how Honey thought she was going to tame Aginéni. To stop myself from laughing, I look out the window, opened a crack to let in a sliver of fresh air. The backyard is ravaged by weeds and overgrown plants. Even though it is almost fall and getting chilly, I don’t get the feeling that it looked any better in the spring or summer. But then I glimpse a single pink rose on a bush at the side of the house. It looks like it has been gently placed there by a fairy in the night, perfect and still blooming.