The Lost Family

by Jenna Blum

  “I heard a noise,” he said, “I thought it was a raccoon.”

  “They’re nocturnal,” said June.

  Gregg pulled down his goggles. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  June was about to make some witty comeback, like, Oh yeah? when Gregg asked, “Are you crying?”

  “No,” said June, “allergies.”

  “Then the last place you should be is in a shed full of grass seed,” Gregg said reasonably. He squinted. “Your face is all swollen. I can get you some ice . . .”

  Later June would tell herself she didn’t know who started it, or rather that Gregg did, that he came a couple of steps closer and the next thing she knew, she was in his arms. But the truth was that it was June, that without thinking about it, she launched herself at him the same way she had reached the high bar in high school gymnastics: step step step bounce! Gregg had to act fast to catch her, to hold her steady as he staggered backward, June’s legs locked around his big wet slippery belly and his hands cupping her ass in the ridiculous bloomers. He was clutching her like a bag of groceries or a child, and he walked forward until he could set her on the nearest stack of sacks, which crunched beneath her like rice.

  “What the hell, lady,” said Gregg, staring at her. He was breathing hard, and his eyes without any lenses turned out to be brandy-colored. Steam rose from his skin.

  Then he must have kicked the door shut behind him, because all June remembered after that was how dark it was again in the shed, only sparks of light coming in between the cracks in the walls, and how hot it was and how strongly it smelled like lime and chlorine, and how Gregg had held his hand over her mouth to keep her from making any noise, how hard it was to not be heard by anyone who might have come up the path to the pool, and how unlike anything June had ever known, it was so wet and simple and easy and free.

  8

  Larchmont, 1975

  The last Saturday of every month the younger Rashkins visited the senior ones, piling into the Volvo that Sol had given them when they moved to the suburbs and taking the Garden State Parkway to the George Washington Bridge to the Cross-Bronx to the Hutch and, eventually, to Larchmont. Peter drove; he was always fretful on these Saturdays, though only someone who knew him as well as June did would be able to tell. Peter in a bad mood looked much like Peter in a good mood or even at peace: polite, elegant, contained. Impenetrable. The only signs that he disliked being away from the Claremont for even a day were his blotting his forehead with his handkerchief more often than usual and his shifting in his seat, as though he were sitting on his keys.

  June herself usually dreaded going to Larchmont—despite her best efforts, she knew she was not Sol and Ruth’s favorite person, and vice versa—but today she felt reprieved. She was grateful to be away from the club—and from Gregg, with whom she had had three more encounters. One in the men’s locker room. One in Gregg’s car, which had proven awkward, since he drove a Pinto. And one in the wooded no-man’s-land near the Club’s property line, up against a chain-link fence that had rattled alarmingly and imprinted June’s back with diamonds for the rest of the afternoon. Each episode, irresistible at the time, now had the quality of dream.

  June looked at her husband. What had she been thinking? She and Peter had their troubles, but what couple didn’t? Was that any reason to risk everything? Peter frowned as he guided the Volvo down the steep, curly off-ramp from the George Washington Bridge; he sweated in the fetid air coming off the Hudson, which flowed so slowly through the bridge’s great cement legs that it didn’t seem to be moving at all. Beyond Peter’s window, a homeless man slept in the dirt; glass glittered on the expressway, testimony to an earlier accident. It was a tough old world—as Peter knew better than anyone. What he had seen and endured! What he had survived! He moved in his seat again to get at his handkerchief, but June used a tissue from her purse to catch the sweat that trickled toward his spade-shaped sideburn, his sole concession to fashion. Peter glanced at her and smiled his thanks, and June vowed that there would be no more calls to the pro shack, no more meetings. If only her dear, square husband was spared knowledge of June’s activities, she would find another way to broach the subject of work; she would be an ideal wife from now on.

  She lit a cigarette with the Volvo’s lighter, and for a change Peter didn’t say anything; maybe he was regretting their recent discord, too. “What’s up?” she said, for he was still frowning.

  Immediately she wished she hadn’t asked—because what if Peter knew? Or suspected? Had June said something in her sleep; did she have a bruise in a strange place, smell different; had she somehow given herself away?

  But Peter said, to her relief, “Just the usual,” then admitted: “I wish we didn’t have to go today.”

  June didn’t voice agreement even to show solidarity; she’d learned long ago that while Peter could gripe about his relatives, it was like blond, Jewish, Polish, or Negro jokes: you had to be one of those things to be able to make fun of it.

  “It’s a bad time to be away from the Claremont,” Peter added.

  “More than usual?”

  “I think Maurice is stealing,” Peter said.

  “No way,” said June, although it didn’t surprise her in the least. Maurice, the manager Peter had brought with him to New Jersey, had once been a waiter and then maître d’ at Masha’s and at the Claremont continued to exude an unctuous Mediterranean charm June had never trusted. Though she did find Maurice much less sinister than Peter’s former sous-chef, Lena, who had not made the transition and was now overseeing something called a brigade kitchen on a cruise ship. And good riddance.

  “If it’s not Maurice, it is somebody on staff,” said Peter, “but he is the only one besides me with access to the safe. And the books are badly out of balance.”

  “That’s a drag,” said June. “What are you going to do?”

  Peter sighed. “Make sure. Set a trap. Leave cash in the office, and if it’s gone . . . I’ll have to look for somebody else.”

  June tsked. Peter slowed to toss a quarter in the Cloisters tollbooth basket and smiled over at her. “It’s kind of you to be concerned,” he said.

  “Sure thing.”

  The driver behind them honked and shouted, “Move it, buddy!” As Peter pulled forward and cleared the tolls, the guy shot around them—a man with a crazed Afro and huge smoked sunglasses. He gave Peter the finger.

  Peter sighed. “Sometimes it seems like the whole world is angry,” he said, and then, “I like your outfit today.”

  “Thank you,” said June. It was a silk jumpsuit with bold horizontal stripes of white, orange, and navy blue, the material gossamer and see-through. Originally June had tried it on at Gimbel’s with the idea of somebody else appreciating her in it, but she was glad she’d worn it today.

  “And your hair,” said Peter. “I am happy you cut it. I am not fond of short hair on women as a rule, but it suits you. It reminds me of when we met.” He touched June’s neck beneath the wispy ends. “Maybe later . . .”

  “Daddy!”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Our little contraceptive device is awake,” he said, and June laughed. He looked into the rearview mirror at Elsbeth with a mock scowl that was designed to send her into paroxysms of laughter. “Yessssssssss, Ellie?”

  Elsbeth giggled madly. “Daddy, did we pass the Wash Georgington Bridge?”

  “The George Washington, Ellie. We did indeed.”

  “Nooooooo,” cried Elsbeth. She drummed her Mary Janes against June’s seat. “I wanted to see it!”

  “You’ll see it tonight, darling, when it’s all lit up,” said June. Elsbeth gave her a scowl so fierce it was comic, then whipped her face away to stare lovingly at the back of Peter’s head.

  “Daaaaaaddyyyyyy,” she said.

  “Yes, Ellie?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Time to get a watch.”

  Elsbeth fell over herself, laughing. “Can I have some Nilla wafers?”

&nbs
p; “May I,” said Peter, “and ask your mother.”

  “After lunch at Nana and Papa Sol’s,” said June, “all right?”

  “No,” said Elsbeth.

  She aimed such a kick at the back of June’s seat that June was thrown forward.

  “Hey,” said June, turning. “Do not do that. Do not be wild in the car.”

  “You shut up,” said Elsbeth.

  “Hey,” said both parents, and Elsbeth started to buck and thrash beneath her seat belt. “I want Nilla wafers,” she howled, “I want them now!” and she would not stop wailing even when June told her Peter was going to pull over, and what did Elsbeth think would happen then? Did she want to find out? Did she want a spanking? Did she? June was going to give Elsbeth three seconds to stop behaving like an animal, and then Elsbeth was really going to get it. One . . . two . . . two and a half . . . two and three-quarters . . . Finally June handed her daughter the sleeve of cookies in her purse. It was after lunch somewhere.

  * * *

  When they pulled into the motor court at Larchmont, Ruth was waiting for them on the terrace; she clasped her hands triumphantly over her head in a boxer’s salute, then laboriously descended the stone steps. “Hi, you people!” she called. “Hello, dolly,” she said to June when she reached her, standing on tiptoe to take June’s face in both palms, and June knew she’d have Louis Armstrong in her head for the rest of the day. You’re looking swell, Dolly / it’s so nice to have you back where you belong!

  “Hi, Ruth,” she said, “don’t you look elegant.”

  “Sha,” said Ruth, who was wearing a caftan printed with peacock feathers and a head wrap to match, secured by a turquoise brooch. “I just didn’t have time to get to the beauty parlor. And you, what’s this you’re wearing?” she asked, fingering the silk of June’s jumpsuit.

  “It’s just something I picked up. I thought it’d be nice and cool.”

  “Glamour puss,” said Ruth. She turned to Peter next. “How are you, movie star?”

  “Fine, Raquel Welch,” he said, bending so she could kiss him. Ruth licked her thumb and swiped at the orange mark her lipstick had left on Peter’s cheek; he held up a Claremont shopping bag.

  “Some treats,” he said, “and the special dessert.”

  “Ooooh, let me see,” said Ruth, and they all peered in at a cake June knew would be yellow with vanilla frosting and strawberry filling, a little quotidian for Peter’s taste but Sol’s favorite. “Happy 67th, Sol!” was written in cursive across the top—Sol’s birthday was really the middle of next week, but they were celebrating today.

  “I even brought candles,” said Peter, shaking a small box. “How many are we?”

  “Not so many,” said Ruth, “just us and the Websters from across the lane.”

  “Great,” said Peter, and then the garage door rumbled up in its tracks and Sol boomed from the interior, “Wait’ll you see Lionel Webster’s new Leica—that thing’s got a zoom lens that could shoot Mars. And take a look at this,” he added to Peter, rattling the ice in his highball glass—for Sol, the time was always after lunch. “New rod. Top of the line. And lures.”

  Peter, who didn’t care a fig for cameras or fishing, smiled politely and went into the garage nonetheless, and Ruth bent to the back seat of the car. “Sweetheart,” she cried, holding her arms out. “Bubbeleh, shayne madele, come give Nana a kiss!”

  Elsbeth was flattened like a badger against the far door, one of her ponytails undone and her face streaked with drying tears. She shook her head.

  “What’s going on with her?” Ruth asked June.

  “She had a tantrum on the way here,” said June. “She’s pouting.”

  Ruth leaned in again. “Bubbie, how would you like a nice glass of fruit punch?”

  “No,” said Elsbeth. “I’m staying here. I’m baking—I’m a cake in the oven!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said June. “She’s doing it for the attention. Just leave her.”

  “Leave her,” said Ruth in horror, “as if she were a dog in a hot car? Bubbie,” she crooned, “I wonder if you know any little girls who like Pepperidge Farm cookies?”

  Elsbeth sat up. “I do,” she said.

  “Mint Milano? Are they still your favorite?”

  “Yes!” said Elsbeth, and just like that she bounced out of the car past Ruth and her mother and bounded up the stone steps, the taffeta ruffle of her dress, a gift from Ruth, bouncing over her rump like a duck’s tail. “Maaaaarrriaaaaaaa,” they heard Elsbeth scream to the maid, and the screen door banged behind her.

  “There you are,” said Ruth, “you just have to know how to talk to her,” and she took June’s arm. “Come, let me show you what I’ve done with the gardens.”

  Insects chattered in the tall trees as they crossed the grass, the pool gleaming in the natural bowl of the grounds. The sun beat down on June’s head; her heels sank into the lawn, and she paused, sitting on the stone lip of a pool into which a waterfall chattered, to slip her sandals off. June was more interested in the insides of houses than their outsides; to her, a garden was for vegetables—like the VE plot her mother Ida still had pictures of from the war. But June had to admit Ruth and her gardener Yoshi had done a gorgeous job here, creating a fairyland of Japanese maples and rhododendrons, mini pagodas and exotic blooms. June had never met anybody who lived like Sol and Ruth before she came to New York: people who took several trips a year just for pleasure and brought back trinkets and treasures; who had season tickets to the Met, the symphony, and the ballet; who spent their weekends at museums and art exhibits, when not at their club. “Oh my,” Ida had whispered, the only time she’d visited Larchmont, for a hastily arranged get-together after Peter and June’s elopement, so the small families could meet. “It must be true what they say about Jews: they must have so much money.” June had said “Shhh, Mom!”; since dating Peter, she’d taken much more notice of anti-Semitic slurs—Everybody knows Hebes stick with their own kind; I Jewed him down good. But she had to agree Sol and Ruth had done beautifully for themselves, all the more impressive since Sol’s own father had been, on the Lower East Side, a plumber.

  “Tell me, doll,” said Ruth, gripping June’s elbow for balance as the two drifted toward the pool, the garden tour over. “How are things? How’s my Peter?”

  “Fine,” said June, “busy. You know how he is—always at the restaurant.”

  Ruth clucked her tongue. “He works too hard. And you? Everything all right? You look a little . . .” She swirled a hand in front of her own face to indicate how June looked. “Something. Are you maybe pregnant?”

  “Oh, no,” said June, and she must have had a tone because Ruth stopped walking and lowered her big tortoiseshell sunglasses.

  “Would that be the worst thing in the world?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” June said, although it would. She had never told Ruth and Sol, and she had made Peter swear not to disclose it either, that she had almost died having Elsbeth. Elsbeth had been breech, so June had a cesarean, and then she hemorrhaged and they had to pack her uterus, and June’s obstetrician told them he didn’t recommend having any more children. Fine with me, June had thought; she was still so weak that she was unable to hold infant Elsbeth for more than a minute. Clearly her body was not designed for pregnancy: she had miscarried her first and nearly died with her second. She had been on the pill ever since to make sure.

  She was spared further inquisition by Elsbeth charging down the terrace steps and across the lawn, now in her Jantzen one-piece and water wings, her bedraggled fabric apron knotted around her waist. “Not so fast, Bubbie,” called Ruth, “you’ll give yourself cramps.” Elsbeth ignored her and shot toward the pool.

  “Mommy,” she called, “no bathing cap!” She held her nose and jumped in.

  “Oy gevalt,” said Ruth, feeling behind her for one of the lawn chairs and lowering herself into it. She patted her chest, smiling and waving as Elsbeth climbed out, raced around to the deep end of the pool, and
hurled herself in again. “What’s that schmatta she’s wearing?”

  “That’s her princess apron.”

  “Princesses wear aprons?”

  “Tell me about it,” said June. “I can’t pry it off her. She even wears it to bed.”

  She readjusted the back of her own lawn chair to a comfortable angle. Ruth called up to the house to ask Maria to bring drinks; the phone, a source of fascination to Elsbeth and, June had to confess, to herself, had been installed in a Plexiglas box strapped to a big oak so Sol could take calls down here by the pool as if he were a Hollywood mogul. “Iced coffee for me and Peter,” said Ruth, “mint tea for June, Scotch for Mr. Sol, and extra ice. And maybe some of those purple grapes. Thank you, Maria.” She set the phone down. “Hoo,” she said, fanning herself from the exertion. Sol and Peter came strolling across the lawn, Peter now in his swim trunks as well.

  “Daddy,” called Elsbeth, “Papa Sol, watch, watch!” She threw herself in backward and emerged sputtering. “I’m a mermaid princess!”

  “You are, snickelfritz,” said Sol, “you surely are.” He set his highball glass on the cement walk surrounding the pool to adjust the camera around his neck. He was wearing a Guatemalan shirt today, his skin dark as mahogany. The first time Ida met Sol, with his golf tan and crinkly gray hair, she’d whispered to June, “He’s colored? I thought you said he was Jewish!”

  Peter entered the pool using the steps, his white button-down shirt belling up around his waist. “Come to me,” he said to Elsbeth, “let’s see your crawl,” and Elsbeth swam over, kicking wildly. “Good girl,” said Peter. He sank down under the water so Elsbeth could climb on his shoulders, then sounded, spouting water like a whale. “Are you ready?” Peter asked. Elsbeth shrieked. “One . . . two . . . ,” and he leaned forward and tipped Elsbeth into the water.