by Jenna Blum
He hung his shirt and jacket on the back of the door, lowered the ring, and sat waiting as his brethren did their business. The bathroom rang with voices, with the sounds of running water and zippers being undone and done and flushing and other noises Peter had gotten very adept, during his enforced years of communal living, at tuning out. He kept an eye on his watch and drank his Courvoisier—really, it was an insult to good brandy to drink it in such a place, but it was better than tending obligations he had no desire to fulfill. Such as Miss Rebecca, sweet as she might be. Or enduring Prokofiev . . . But that was his own fault. Peter should have been more vigilant; he should have called the hall for the program beforehand, as he usually did. He had never liked the modern composers, even before; it had been Masha who loved them. “You stodgy burgher,” she’d said, laughing over Peter’s preference for Bach and Brahms, “next you’ll be telling me you don’t like jazz!”
Peter leaned his head back against the cold metal stall and employed the technique that served better than most to blot out unwelcome thoughts: he took inventory, cataloging what the restaurant had in its storeroom and what he would have to order come Monday. A bushel of onions. Two of shallots. Three of potatoes—fingerlings were mostly done for the season, but maybe Peter could find some Kennebec at that farm in Patchogue? If he went out to Long Island, he might as well go all the way to Montauk for blues and bass. And squash; Peter was not a fan of pumpkin, which he found mealy and bland, but he could perhaps do some variation on his regular tzimmes using acorn, even butternut—
“Hey, pal, you fall asleep in there?” somebody said, rattling Peter’s door.
“Sorry,” said Peter, “I’m not well,” and he sipped his brandy.
He had finished planning the week’s menu—he would also offer a beach plum and cranberry torte—by the time the intermission bathroom tide had receded. He was reaching for his shirt when he did hear, over the pump of paper towel dispenser, Sol talking to somebody, probably Choppers, at the sinks.
“I’ll give you he’s got chutzpah with the technique,” Sol was saying. “But I don’t see what the big deal’s all about.”
“Dontcha?” said Choppers—it was definitely Choppers. “I think the guy’s a giant.”
“If you gotta have a Russki, I’ll take Horowitz any day,” said Sol. “Now there’s an interpreter,” and then, presumably to the attendant, “Hey, you, got any more towels over here?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the attendant.
“Great,” said Sol, “I’ll just drip on my shirt like a schmuck. By the way,” he said as their voices moved off, “nice niece you brought tonight.”
“Yeah? You like her? You can have her—I don’t think the kid was too impressed.”
“You know I don’t play around,” said Sol, “but if I did—hotcha! She’s some dish. As for my little cousin, don’t take it personally. He only shtups shiksas.”
“Yeah, so I heard,” said Choppers, “but Ruth said I should keep trying. What is it with him?”
“He’s always been that way,” said Sol philosophically. “It’s like a disease with some guys. You know his wife was goyish too. Looked like one of those Nazi propaganda posters, with the braids and everything.”
“Oh yeah, the one the Nazis killed,” said Choppers. “That’s a sad story. But you’d think maybe he’d want to try a different flavor this time. . . . Here you go, pal, here’s a dollar, don’t spend it all in one place.”
The attendant thanked him, and there was the whoosh of the outer door opening, and then Choppers asked as if he’d just thought of it, his voice growing ever fainter, “Hey, where’d he go, anyway?”
Peter ran through the meat delivery one more time as he finished buttoning his shirt—thirty young chickens, forty pounds of bottom round for the brisket, and had George at Primo’s remembered to set aside the Moulard magrets for him? Peter put his jacket on over his shirt, which was damp but tolerable, as if a too-enthusiastic laundress had overspritzed it while ironing, and walked out of the stall. The men’s lounge was empty again, except for the attendant. Sol and Choppers and the dozens of other men might never have been there. Sol wasn’t right about everything—in fact, in Peter’s opinion, he was wrong about a great many—but he was correct about two: Horowitz was the Russian pianist of more colorful interpretation. And although Peter had sex only when it was necessary, and then quickly, in the dark or clothed, preferably standing up, with stewardesses, waitresses—not his—and other pretty strangers he would likewise never see again, it always seemed to be with non-Jewish women, though this was by coincidence or subliminal inclination rather than design.
This made Peter think of June Bouquet again—which was very unlike him, or maybe unlike her, to keep appearing in his thoughts this way. He handed the attendant a five from his money clip, then held up one finger and retrieved his empty glass from the sink. This too the attendant received without change in expression.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”
“You as well,” said Peter. He shot his cuffs and went out—and there, in the lobby, leaning against one wall in her confectionary evening gown, Miss Rebecca was waiting for him.
* * *
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” said Peter, “and unnecessary. I just have a headache. Please, go back in. You’ll miss the second half of the program.”
He started to open the door for her, but Miss Rebecca put her hand over his on the brass handle.
“I think I understand,” she said, twinkling up at him from beneath her dual lines of lashes. “I don’t care for Prokofiev myself. It’s so discordant. Jangly. It gets on my nerves.”
“I think it’s supposed to.”
“Now, why would anybody want that,” said Miss Rebecca, inching closer, “when they could have Brahms? Or Beethoven? Why would you want to be disturbed when you could listen to something romantic?”
“I have no idea,” said Peter. He resisted the urge to check his watch. “But I believe the second half of the program is Ravel—”
“I’ll tell you something else I don’t like,” Miss Rebecca murmured. “Setups.”
Peter smiled. For the first time, he felt a genuine fondness toward her.
“I had a suspicion you were not really Arthur’s niece,” he said.
“I’m his dental hygienist,” said Miss Rebecca.
“Ah,” said Peter. That explained the excellent teeth.
“I don’t usually agree to this sort of situation,” she said.
“I don’t imagine you have to.”
She smiled up at him. “Thank you,” she breathed, “you’re very sweet. Just like Ruth said. And I thought you must be from the Times article. I remember it from the day it came out . . .”
You and every other hopeful young lady in the greater New York area, Peter thought.
“It’s not what you think,” whispered Miss Rebecca. “I’m not like all the other girls, just looking for a successful husband—although I’d love to see your restaurant, Pasha’s?”
“Masha’s.”
“Oooh, like the Russian Tea Room? That’s one of my favorites.”
Peter hid a grimace. The Tea Room was a permanent thorn between his toes, his biggest competitor in everything except the nationality of the cuisine. “Something like that,” he said.
“I’m sure your restaurant is infinitely more charming. And I admire what you did with it, dedicating it to . . . somebody you love who was lost.”
“Thank you,” said Peter. He was starting to perspire again. “Really, Miss Dannett—”
“Rebecca,” she corrected him. She tilted up her square little chin so she could look directly at him.
“I was engaged to be married,” she said, her breathy voice a bit more forceful than usual; “did Ruth tell you?”
“She didn’t,” said Peter.
Miss Rebecca nodded. “Yes. My high schoo
l sweetheart. We were all set to be married at the Briar Rose Club last fall when there was an accident. He was driving, and another motorist who had been drinking swerved into him on the Post Road. So.”
Peter bowed his head. “I’m so sorry,” he said. And he was, if even in the abstract way of feeling sympathy for a stranger. There were so many hurting people in the world.
“Thank you,” said Miss Rebecca. She bravely threw her shoulders back. Her eyes glistened. “So you see, although you must meet an awful lot of nieces, I have more in common with you than most. I understand what it’s like to lose the person you love. But I think sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith. Try again.”
She pushed herself up on tiptoes and kissed Peter’s cheek, and then, while he was digesting the surprise of this, she moved to his mouth. Peter tried not to sigh into Miss Rebecca’s lips as she pressed them insistently against his—he meant no disrespect to her, but all he could taste was the wax of her lipstick. It wasn’t that she wasn’t attractive, or intelligent, or cultured or pleasant or deep-feeling or nice—she certainly seemed to be all of these things, and Peter gave her credit for boldness as well. But he had spent the last twenty years avoiding precisely this sort of situation, one that would lead to entanglement, negotiation, obligation. A wedding at the Briar Rose Country Club. A house in Mamaroneck or Rye, visiting Sol and Ruth each weekend. And, of course, children.
Peter broke the kiss and drew away. Miss Rebecca looked sadly up at him. “Too fast?” she asked.
Peter put his hands on her shoulders. “Look,” he said. “You seem to be a perfectly lovely young woman. And I’m truly sorry for your loss. But this isn’t for me.”
Miss Rebecca nodded. “Are you . . . ,” she whispered and made a delicate flipping gesture with her wrist. “I won’t tell.”
Peter smiled. He had sometimes contemplated just letting people think he was a homosexual—working in a kitchen, a woman’s job, would help the charade. But it would break Ruth’s heart.
“That’s not it,” Peter said. “And it isn’t you. I just can’t . . .”
Miss Rebecca looked confused—but suddenly her face cleared. “Oh!” she said, putting her hand over her mouth. “The war?” She glanced at Peter’s tuxedo trousers.
“Pardon?” said Peter.
Miss Rebecca stood on her toes again to kiss his cheek. “Don’t say another word, I read The Sun Also Rises. Saw the film, too.” She gave Peter a look of immense sympathy. “You poor, poor man. Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” Then, with a last glimmering glance, she was through the door into the concert chamber.
Peter stood where he was for a few moments, letting this sink in. Then he couldn’t help laughing. “Well!” he said. He hoped Miss Rebecca would keep her promise and not share her misunderstanding—he had no wish to be known as an impotent gelding—but it was a relief to be off the hook for the evening.
Peter retrieved his overcoat from the coat check, leaving the chit with a scribbled description of Miss Rebecca so she could get her own, and left the hall. He was thinking of what Miss Rebecca had said, and Ruth too, in the early days when she had caught Peter pretending to comprehend much less of his dates’ English than he did. “Bubbie,” she’d said, “I understand. Healing takes time, nu? But meanwhile—you have to live a little.”
For whatever reason, this advice was now coming back to Peter in a new way. He headed west on Fifty-Seventh Street and turned left onto Seventh Avenue, striding along with his coat unbuttoned and breathing deeply of the frigid air that smelled of metal grates and steam—it was invigorating. He saw a bank of pay phones and beyond it the Carnegie Deli. He would stop in for a pastrami on rye after he made his call, Peter decided. He was suddenly famished.
He stepped into the nearest free cubicle and took out his wallet, plugging a dime into the slot and dialing a number off a scrap of paper he had been carrying around since the day after the blackout, when he had called the Ford Agency as soon as the power was restored. Miss Bouquet was on a shoot, he had been told, and they didn’t give out their girls’ information. But when Peter had dropped his name and mentioned he was considering using June for a new full-scale advertising campaign, the receptionist had provided him with a number: SP1118–7, a Greenwich Village exchange. So this June Bouquet was indeed something of a bohemian, the free spirit she had seemed to be. Peter smiled and tapped his foot between rings until, on the other end of the line, somebody picked up.
“Hello?” June said.
3
Larchmont, 1965
When Peter left the restaurant, June was waiting for him on the sidewalk, smoking. He held up the shopping bag—brown paper, with handles, and “Masha’s” written on its side, the carrier he’d designed himself for all patrons who wanted to take food home.
“Dessert,” he said, “and bread and cheeses. Let’s go before there is some crisis or I change my mind.”
“Done,” said June. She extinguished her cigarette beneath the toe of one platform boot—today, like her fur-cuffed leather jacket, they were oxblood, in homage to the fall holiday, Peter assumed. It was a beautiful morning, cold but sunny, and their breath plumed and mingled as Peter hailed a cab.
Traffic was slow to Grand Central, snarled because of the parade. Above the park, giant inflatable balloons in the shapes of cartoon dogs and mice waited to be cheered throughout the city. So American, Peter thought; only in this bizarre, exuberant, childish country would people celebrate having enough to eat this way. Today he felt like one of them—almost. He was like a schoolboy playing truant, abandoning the restaurant to the care of his sous-chef for the first time in a decade. Today Lena would oversee the preparation and serving of the special menu: pheasant and caramelized yams, Brussels sprouts with slivered almonds, oyster stuffing, apple and pear tortes. June put her head on his shoulder and yawned—they had been out late at El Morocco, which she called ElMo, the night before, and today Peter was taking her to Sol and Ruth’s house for Thanksgiving dinner.
Beyond Peter’s window, June’s face, twelve feet high, sprayed silver and encased within an astronaut helmet, slid past on the side of a bus. He squeezed her knee.
“Look, there you are again,” he said. “You are ubiquitous.”
June lifted her head to look. “Oh, that shoot. I had that shiny makeup in my hair for days. I felt like the Tin Man.”
She reached for the Masha’s bag, from which a ficelle, a baguette nearly as slender as June herself, protruded. “May I?”
“Certainly—though why didn’t you eat at the restaurant, goose?”
“I wasn’t hungry then,” said June. “Plus I wanted to get out of there before that Lena fileted me. She always looks at me as if she wants to make me into soup.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Peter, though it was true Lena had no fond feelings for June, muttering things like blyad and tupa shlyukha—whore and stupid whore, respectively—and, whenever June was in the restaurant, standing in the doorway and sharpening her knife more dramatically than necessary. Peter handed the bread to June, who nibbled the end of it. Peter looked away again, June’s otherworldly face having now been replaced by a cab, from which a very old Negro woman stared at him stoically as an oracle. Peter knew June had to eat very little to stay slim for her work, but still it bothered him.
June handed the ficelle back to Peter. “I’m nervous. Should I be nervous?”
Definitely, thought Peter. “Of course not,” he said.
“Will they like me, do you think?”
“What’s not to like?”
“What about my outfit?” June unbuttoned her leather coat and held it open. Beneath, she wore a gold brocade dress, higher-necked and a little longer than her usual minidresses—this one was mid-thigh.
Peter slid his hand up her knee. “With legs like this, who cares what anyone thinks.”
He leaned over and kissed her, her breath tasting of bread, smoke, and the alcohol of the night before. June put her hands on either side
of Peter’s face and pulled him closer. She bent her back like that newfangled wire toy—a Slinky. She was the most flexible woman Peter had ever met, and he wondered whether it was her job—her body a maneuverable object—or June being June. Whichever it was, he was grateful.
“Break it up, kids,” said the cabbie. “Here’s your stop.”
In Grand Central terminal, Peter bought tickets and consulted the board: they had fifteen minutes before the next train to Larchmont. Somebody somewhere was playing Vivaldi on a violin. White sunlight slanted in through the high windows, and Peter experienced a moment of such well-being it could almost be called bliss. He was unprepared for it. It had been years. He shut his eyes and turned his face into the light.
“I used to work here,” he said to June.
“You didn’t. As what? A ticket taker?”
“No, goose,” he said, “there,” and he nodded to the Oyster Bar.
“Ugh, oysters,” said June, “slimy.” She shuddered.
June herself tasted like an oyster fresh from the Sound, Peter thought, Blue Points or Peconic Pearls. “That means you’ve had only bad ones,” he said. “When we get back to Masha’s, I’ll change that.”
“I’ve never actually had one,” she said, and Peter laughed.
“Then how do you know you don’t like them?”
“I can just tell,” said June.
She took his elbow and they strolled across the concourse. “How long did you work here?” she asked.
“Not very long,” said Peter truthfully. “It was my first job when I came to this country, after . . .”
He trailed off. Their footsteps echoed with everyone else’s in this vaulted space, along with the flap of trapped birds’ wings and stir of voices, but for a moment Peter fancied that the special acoustics of the terminal allowed for time preservation as well, that every soul and moment that had ever been through here was collected and preserved under the high roof, where they mixed and mingled. The boy he had been then—in his mid-twenties, barely speaking English, waking every morning at Sol and Ruth’s and remembering where he was and wishing he were dead; that boy who had spurned Sol’s offer, more like a demand, to work in the law firm and instead took the first job he saw off the train, a busboy at the Oyster Bar; the boy who had then been fired because the tattoo on his forearm, the small line of crooked greenish numbers his shirt had slid up to reveal, had upset the prosperous diners—that boy was gone. Peter had left him twenty years behind. He had worked very hard to. Still, for a moment Peter could feel him—his fathomless terror, the hopelessness and bleakness of those days.