Bereishit: 33:4

The room had mirrored walls. The ceiling was some sort of thick stucco that was popular in the 1960s. And the chandelier that hung in the center of the ballroom was a heavy crystal number that made you think of some old banquet hall from Brooklyn that you had visited in your youth, and it was old then. There was even a disco ball hanging down, but that was probably only lit up on special occasions. The Holiday Inn in Edison would not have been the venue that Bernie and Sam would have chosen for their reunion, but that was where it was going to happen.

They had not spoken in over 20 years. What did they fight about? Bernie wished he could say he couldn’t recall, but he could remember every detail. It was about money. Isn’t it always? Some small picayune thing about Mom and Dad’s estate. Was it Dad’s Lexus? No, it was probably about the furniture that was the last straw. Sam was always so worried that he wouldn’t get what was coming to him. He would always say, “I just want my fair share.” It was so annoying.

So they fought. Then they went their separate ways. And then the years passed. He kept tabs on Sam and his children and his grandchildren through his sister Brenda, but it would have been nice to have spoken occasionally. Just to pick up the phone, or even to send an email. But inertia is a tough thing to overcome.

The funny thing was, they only lived about 30 miles away from each other. He had his house in Highland Park, and Sam was down the Turnpike in Lakewood. Bernie had remained Modern Orthodox, like his parents were, and Sam, now known as Shmuel to all his friends, had donned a black hat and had become charedi. Bernie certainly didn’t see that coming. When they were kids, Sam seemed to have no interest in Judaism at all. But Sam had become involved with the local Chabad house, and before Bernie knew it, Sam had moved to Lakewood and started davening three times a day and learning daf yomi.

Now Brenda’s oldest daughter Malka was getting married, and they were both invited to attend the wedding reception. Bernie wasn’t sure how he would handle seeing his brother. His sister had counseled him to be a mensch and to let bygones be bygones. But old resentments run deep.

The smorgasbord was a delight. There was the usual spread: Hawaiian chicken, stuffed cabbage, franks in blanks and little eggrolls. But there was also a fabulous carving station with roast beef and turkey, and there was sushi. Apparently the accounting business was going well for Brenda’s husband, Marv. But, who knows—maybe the groom’s family paid for the reception.

Bernie kept scanning the room for his brother but couldn’t find him anywhere. Brenda looked wonderful and the bride was the mirror image of what his sister had looked like at the same age. It was remarkable.

Suddenly, a tap on the shoulder. Bernie turned to face a middle-aged man in a black suit. Gray hair, gray beard, payot tucked behind his ears. It took a few seconds for Bernie to realize that he was looking at an older version of the boy he had shared a room with for 15 years.

“Bernie!”

“Sam.”

“What, you don’t recognize your own brother?”

“Your hair, it’s all gray.”

“At least I have my hair. You look like a cue ball.”

Bernie smiled. And then they hugged. Sam had always been a little taller than him. Bernie had always hated that.

What happened next Bernie could not have predicted. He started to cry like a baby. The tears just poured down his cheeks. Sam laughed, and Brenda came over and said “Awwwwww.” The photographer came over and snapped pictures. Bernie cried for a good five minutes.

“I hope those are tears of joy,” Sam said.

“All those years. What a waste,” Bernie said when he finally gained his composure.

“Well, even Esav managed to get over his anger for Yaakov eventually,” Sam said. “I think it took him a few more years than it took us.”

“Just a few,” Bernie said. “And didn’t he try to bite Yaakov’s neck when they embraced?”

“That’s just a midrash,” Sam said. “And besides, who’s to say I didn’t try to bite yours?”

Bernie punched Sam in the shoulder.

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Bernie said.

“Can we do it over at the carving station? I’m dying for some roast beef.”

“Some things never change,” Bernie said with a sigh.

By Larry Stiefel