“I’m not sure,” Boop said. “I think it’s time to face it all, or as much as I can.” She motioned to the box. “I can’t seem to open it.”
“Is that what I think it is?”
Boop nodded.
“You’ve had it all this time.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll open it for you, if that’s what you want,” Georgia said.
“I do.”
With that, Georgia flicked the latch on the tackle box but left the lid closed. “Ready?”
Boop couldn’t believe she was frightened, as if a physical reminder would have more heft than emotional ones. She was as jittery as she’d once been turning the crank of her jack-in-the-box. But in this box she’d tucked her happiest and her saddest memory—which happened to be the same thing. Love and loss, comedy and tragedy, past and future. It all had the same face, the same voice, the same touch—that’s what would pop out this time.
She and Georgia had hidden the box so carefully that day so long ago. Boop had moved it years later, carrying the box as if it were as fragile and priceless as a Fabergé egg. Then, like the kids say, life happened. Most people might have been surprised at what she’d saved and have thought it an unlikely totem. Yet it had enraged Marvin.
Boop squeezed her eyes tight against the memory of flashbulbs and sunshine; she covered her ears against words of judgment and disappointment. Then she allowed herself to sneak into her past at the moment before her world shifted. Perfume. Pretty dresses. A purple swimsuit.
She opened her eyes. What was she waiting for?
Boop inhaled deeply. “I’ll do it.”
She lifted the lid, and the box unfolded like a child’s pop-up book. Fewer lures in the top tray than she’d expected. A few pennies in the second tray. None of this seemed familiar, but then again, sometimes she forgot what she’d stored in her kitchen cupboards.
But she wouldn’t have forgotten this. Boop’s throat constricted. In the bottom section lay a box of twenty-four Crayola crayons and torn pieces of construction paper in a rainbow of colors, so faded and crackled it was as if they would disintegrate if she blew on them. She removed the crayons and scrambled the papers with a few frenetic slaps. She found a plastic protractor, a six-inch wooden ruler, random lengths of blue and yellow yarn, tongue depressors, and a jar of rubber cement.
This wasn’t her box. She closed it and flipped it upside down. Scratched into the corner with a straight pin were her initials, BCS. It was her box.
“What is all this stuff? Did you know this was in here?” Georgia asked.
“No!” Boop dumped the contents of the tackle box onto her bed, fanned them out, flipped them over, turned the box upside down, and shook it, hoping her keepsake would materialize as if by magic. But it didn’t. Her bed was littered with craft supplies a young Hannah or Emma might have collected then forgotten about by the following summer.
Boop spotted wisps of silky thread caught in a hinge. She yanked them loose and held them toward the glow of her night-light. She exhaled, and the translucent strands of pink fluttered from her breath.
The box was full but empty of meaning.
Boop closed her hands around the delicate fibers and, once again, prayed to find something she’d lost.
She rifled through her memories with the same fervor Marvin had flipped through his Rolodex when he’d wanted to negotiate a deal or beat out his competitor. The last time she’d seen the contents of the box was the weekend of their tenth wedding anniversary.
Ordinarily, Boop and Stuart would spend summers in South Haven while Marvin stayed in Skokie, buckled into his job running the five Peck’s Popular Shoes locations on the North Shore. He was a workaholic before Boop had known what to call it, but she knew he also didn’t share Boop’s affection for her grandparents’ resort and house. She had longed for the familiar food, scenery, and creaks on the stairs. She reveled in watching Stuart play with the children of the children she’d known growing up in town and at the resort. He followed Zaide around, and her grandparents set time aside from working to spoil him.
Boop hadn’t minded time apart from Marvin. It seemed normal to her. The wives at Stern’s spent summers mostly without their husbands, who would join them on weekends.
But the summer of 1961, Marvin was the exception to this rule, belying the norm, the routine, and the odd comfort of distance. He left the stores in the care of his father and stayed in South Haven for a full week, including the weekends on either end. Every time Boop had turned around, there he was behind her. On the beach, in the resort kitchen with Mabel, out in the garden, even while she was making the beds. At first, she’d found it charming, even romantic. Then she realized: Marvin was bored. In Skokie he would divide his time among the stores, golf, cards, and as Cubmaster for Stuart’s Scout den. On Saturday nights they’d socialized as a couple with the neighbors or with people from the synagogue. But in South Haven the lack of an agenda made Marvin antsy.
“I’ll take Stuart fishing. There must be fishing supplies here,” Marvin had said, drumming his fingers on his pants. “Do you know where your grandfather keeps them?”
“Since when do you fish?”
“Since today.”
Boop had been scraping Duncan Hines yellow cake batter into two round pans, greased with Crisco. She hadn’t inherited Nannie’s from-scratch gene but had wanted to create something for the occasion of Marvin’s visit.
“You used to go fishing with your grandfather, and I know you wouldn’t get rid of anything he gave you,” Marvin had said.
She’d wiped her hands on her apron. “Please just give me a minute; I’ll do it as soon as I get the cake in the oven.” Boop didn’t want Marvin going through her grandparents’ things. Her things. She’d moved her tackle box into the shed when she’d filled her old bedroom closet with packed-away baby clothes she thought she’d need again one day. She had been only twenty-eight then, and still hopeful for another baby.
“Fine.” Marvin had looked at her askance.
Betty had trembled inside but kept her gaze steady.
“I’ll go fix the window in Stuart’s room,” he’d said.
Marvin had found Boop in the backyard shed, in front of an open metal storage closet. It had been just enough time for Boop to have finished with the cake, for Stuart and his summer friends to have licked the bowl and the wooden spoons, and for her to find what she needed. But not enough time to have hidden it again.
She’d felt like a child caught with her hand in a candy jar, when in fact she had been a twenty-eight-year-old married woman and the mother of a young boy. Still, Marvin had demanded she open the tackle box, as if he’d known what was inside. He had, hadn’t he? He glanced at the box, then stared into Boop’s eyes. He hadn’t raised his voice; he never did.
“I’ll take that.” Marvin held out his hands.
“Everything in here is old,” she’d said. “You should take Stuart to the tackle shop. They can give you some pointers.”
“Give me the box. No need to keep it if it’s old.”
Boop had slammed the box and snapped it shut. Her throat had seared with pain from a muffled scream or a cry or a combination of both. She was angry with him for the first time in a long while, maybe years. She had done as she’d been asked and told for the past ten years. She’d fulfilled her duties as mother, homemaker, and wife. That day in the shed, tears had dripped onto her cotton plaid culottes. She’d kept her head down, maybe in an effort to be submissive, or respectful, or maybe because she hadn’t known what would happen next.
“I’m sorry, Marvin. It’s all I have.” She hadn’t let go of the box until he’d turned and left the shed.
They never mentioned that incident—or the tackle box—again.
And there she was, decades later, with the same box. The one that had been important enough to anger her husband, or maybe to break his heart, just as it was breaking hers at that moment.
Boop looked at Georgia. “It was all I had.”
Chapter 13
BETTY
The next Saturday night, Betty positioned herself sideways on the window seat in her bedroom. She wrapped her arms around her knees and wiggled her toes, to show off her toenails painted Petal Pink. She stared at the dark, clear night. The stars sparkled like rhinestones, glittering bold to the north, twinkling pale to the south over the lighthouse, as if a deliberate design. She supposed it was.
In two hours, she’d look at that sky with her head on Abe’s shoulder, her heart pounding as it whispered a thousand wishes.
Betty glanced at her girlfriends, lying across her bed—as usual—still flipping through the issues of Vogue, Seventeen, and the latest Spiegel catalog she’d handed them thirty minutes earlier. Words like hemline, neckline, and bustline floated around the room with rayon, silk, and tulle. The girls didn’t know much about fashion, but they knew it was important to Betty.
Doris dropped from her side to her stomach. “I can’t believe you haven’t decided on your dress or your swimsuit.” She tapped a page in Vogue as if she were a teacher pointing to a lesson in a textbook. “This one’s sophisticated.” The photo showcased an elegant blond model wearing a black-and-white taffeta ball gown, nothing like what Betty needed for Miss South Haven.
Betty shrugged. “There’s plenty of time.”
“Plenty of time?” Doris asked. “I thought that’s why we were here. The pageant is in August!”
Doris closed the magazine and rose from the bed. She lifted the dictionary from Betty’s desk and held it out toward her. “For posture practice.”
Georgia grabbed the book and placed it atop her own head. She held her arms out to her sides and looked as graceful as a ballerina, though Betty knew she’d never taken a dance lesson. Georgia’s fingers were long and elegant, posed without effort, rehearsal, or knowledge. Those hands would save lives one day, Betty was sure of it. Georgia walked like a circus performer on a tightrope, and the book didn’t fall until she tilted her head.
Betty accepted the book into her hands but laid it in her lap. Her posture was fine.
Doris closed Seventeen and stood. She smoothed out her shorts and sat next to Betty. “I can’t believe you’re head over heels for a boy who doesn’t even take you out on a proper Saturday-night date. And then you gave up the nightclub for this?”
For years, Betty had waited for summer Saturday nights with the eager anticipation of a child walking into the lake, arms up, waiting for waves to crash. But she did not miss the nightclub. Not tonight. Not at all. “We all seem to be on our own tonight,” Betty said.
“You asked us to come,” Georgia said.
“You could’ve said no! I didn’t want you to give up dates or plans for me.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t have a date,” Doris said. “Maybe next week.”
Doris had always been the most hopeful and romantic of their trio, although Betty seemed to be catching up fast.
“I’m just pulling your leg,” Doris said. “Friends first, right?” She scooped Betty’s hand into hers. They both reached out their hands to Georgia, and the girls linked together the way they had since they were children.
Gratitude stung Betty’s throat. She squeezed their hands and they squeezed back.
“I have a secret to tell you,” Betty said.
Doris dropped Betty’s hand. “I knew it.”
“Shush,” Georgia said.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Betty said.
Without another word, the girls crossed their hearts.
Betty’s conscience eased. Georgia and Doris would say it was okay. They would make it okay.
“Abe’s not really Jewish,” she said.
Doris smacked her hand over her mouth and opened her eyes as big as Ping-Pong balls.
“Oy gevalt,” Georgia said. “He lied to get the job?”
“No, his father is Jewish,” Betty said. The statement sounded weak and apologetic.
“So he lied. You know his father doesn’t count.” Doris placed her hands on her hips, then crossed her arms in front of her, then folded them at her chest, all while tapping her foot. She was trying to be calm and nonchalant, but her jitters made that impossible.
“What do your grandparents say?” Georgia asked.
Betty glanced out the window as if they might be peeking into the second floor and eavesdropping. “They don’t know. And they don’t know we’re . . . serious.”
“What do you mean you’re serious?” Georgia pursed her lips.
“We’ve talked about the future. Our future.”
Georgia stomped around the room. “Your future is at Barnard.”
“And Abe wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s going to move to New York when he graduates.”
“A gentile,” Doris whispered. “I guess that’s why he’s so handsome. He doesn’t look like any Jewish boy I know.”
“Don’t be childish,” Georgia said. “Jewish boys—Jewish men—are very handsome. Look at the husbands who show up every weekend.”
“Eww, they’re old.” Doris giggled. “But you’re right, some aren’t half-bad in their swim trunks.”
Betty rolled her eyes. “I don’t care about the guests. What do I do about Abe?”
“I think you have to end it,” Doris said.
Georgia shook her head. “If you want to be with him, even though you know it’s wrong, there’s only one thing I can tell you to do.”
“Anything,” Betty said.
“Pretend you don’t know,” Georgia said. “Sometimes it helps.”
“You want me to lie?”
“She shouldn’t lie,” Doris said.
“It’s not lying if you didn’t know. You want to be with him the rest of the summer, right?”
“Right.”
“And you don’t want your grandparents to interfere.”
“Right.”
“Then forget he told you.”
“But Abe wants to know I’m okay with it.”
“You being okay with it and your grandparents approving are two different things. I wouldn’t want to go up against your Nannie if she found out you’re planning a future with a boy who isn’t Jewish,” Georgia said.
Doris nodded. “I wouldn’t want to be there if she found out about the canoodling, let alone this!”
Guilt trickled into Betty’s heart. She owed her grandparents everything. But that’s what the pageant was for. If she won, they’d have bragging rights while she was off at Barnard. It was her way of contributing to the business when she wasn’t leading jumping jacks or ironing curtains.
Canoodling with a gentile boy didn’t change any of that.
As far as guilt for staying home that night, she’d only half fibbed to convince her grandparents. Betty did want to choose her dress and swimsuit outfits for the pageant, and this was the only time that she and her friends were off work at the same time. Nannie and Zaide had thought it a fine idea. They were all for having an advantage when it came to the pageant, and, like Zaide had said, “Three girls’ heads are better than one.”
Betty felt a twinge in her side, a reminder that she’d conveniently omitted another reason she’d wanted to stay home. Abe. The glamour of the nightclub, the rhythm and sway of the music, the elaborate displays of jewelry and fashion—yes, even fashion—didn’t matter to her without Abe. If he couldn’t be there, there was no way she’d spend an hour and a half primping, or dance with guests—even her new, old friend, Marv Peck.
Betty could see the lights in the main house from her window, but the music was muted by the distance. She flopped onto her bed next to Doris. Then Betty flipped open a magazine and turned pages one at a time and stared. She wasn’t reading the words or noticing the advertisements. She was counting minutes till Abe arrived.
Betty’s grandfather rarely summoned her, especially not in the middle of a summer Sunday. To Nannie and Zaide, summer meant tending to the guests, maintaining the property, and safeguarding their social status—each a full-time
job on its own.
Betty inhaled and shook her hands by her sides so she wouldn’t fidget once she stepped inside. She knocked.
“Come in.” Zaide’s voice rang clear, as if the six-panel solid-wood barrier between them didn’t exist.
Betty turned the knob and opened the door just wide enough to poke her head in. “You wanted to see me? If you’re busy—”
Zaide beckoned her with his crooked index finger, and Betty felt as if there was a string attached to her conscience and every motion weakened her resolve.
Betty gulped. Deny, deny, deny. Georgia wouldn’t steer her wrong.
Betty stepped inside and shut the door. She was still wearing her shorts and staff-issue white blouse, her name embroidered in Stern Blue on the left breast pocket. “I can change out of these clothes first, if you want.”
Zaide pointed to the walnut and leather captain’s chair in front of his desk. “Sit, bubbeleh.” Betty sighed. He wouldn’t have called her that if he was angry. “You’ve been busy lately, haven’t you?” Zaide said.
Betty wasn’t sure if this was a trick question. “No busier than usual.” Maybe she should have said yes, she was busy.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. I want to show you something.” Zaide leaned to the right. The large bottom desk drawer clicked open and squeaked as it slid out on its tracks. Zaide reached down and seemed to jimmy something out of the drawer with one hand.
Betty tapped her toes in a rapid rhythm to match her heartbeat. She wasn’t a liar. If Zaide asked her about Abe, she’d tell him. No, his mother wasn’t Jewish. Yes, she was keeping her eye on the prize, as Zaide liked to say, though Betty wasn’t always sure if that meant his prize or hers. No, she hadn’t neglected any of her responsibilities at the resort. Had she? Yes, she still understood what it meant to be a South Haven Stern.
After a sturdy yank, Zaide placed a box with a crushed pink bow on his desk and slid it toward Betty. She breathed hard, like she sometimes did after calisthenics. This was a present, not a punishment.
“The pageant is coming, and well . . . what do you kids say? I want you to feel swell when you go up against those other girls.”
The Last Bathing Beauty Page 14