Mrs. Rachel Silverman, a nice lady who had been at the Home for only about a year, got on the bus just in time. In fact Andy was already closing the doors when Rachel inserted her foot onto the step and he had to quickly open them again. Such a look he gave her!
Rachel, who is not built for sprinting, or for any running at all for that matter, was quite out of breath from hurrying so as not to miss the ride downtown. She looked around for a seat and saw that there was one open on the long bench next to Mrs. K. She sat down and smiled at both of us, but she seemed unable to speak for the moment.
Andy again closed the doors, after checking carefully that no one else was putting their foot in the middle. He shifted the gears with hardly any grinding sound, and we were on our way.
It was not until after the bus left that Rachel finally was able to say to us, still somewhat breathless, “Good morning.” She paused and took another breath. “I just made it, didn’t I?” Another pause. “I need to do some shopping, so I didn’t want to miss the shuttle.”
Mrs. K put her hand on Rachel’s and said, “We all seem to be running for something these days, don’t we? Even here at the Home it is not always so relaxing.”
“But maybe that is good for us,” Rachel said. “Maybe running to catch a bus is better than sitting and looking out the window at the bus going by.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I told her as the bus hit a bump and I almost fell onto Mrs. K’s lap, “but I don’t like to think that we have to run for buses in order to have some excitement in our lives.”
Mrs. K seemed about to say something, probably about having more than enough excitement in her life at the moment, thank you, but apparently she thought better of it and only nodded in agreement.
After a few minutes of silence, we both noticed that Rachel was looking quite upset about something, as if whatever thoughts she was thinking were not at all pleasant. Mrs. K finally asked Rachel whether there was something wrong.
Rachel looked up as if she was startled. “Wrong? Not really. I was just thinking about my daughter Doreen.” As I recalled, Doreen, who I did not know personally, was one of those “second family” children, born maybe ten years after her brothers and sisters, when Rachel was already in her forties. That would make Doreen somewhere in her middle twenties perhaps.
Mrs. K, although not one to butt into other people’s business uninvited, is nevertheless always ready to give an opinion if it is requested. And sometimes the request requires some prompting.
“I have met Doreen,” Mrs. K said, “and she seems like a very nice girl. Very friendly.”
“Perhaps too friendly,” Rachel said with a rueful tone and something close to rolling her eyes.
“Too friendly?” I asked, now curious myself.
“Yes,” Rachel said. “You see, Doreen is now living on her own, working at a local department store. She is twenty-six. She lived at home until last year, when my husband, Harry, passed away, and I came here to live.” Here Rachel paused and looked down at her hands, and it was clear that it was still painful for her to talk about her husband’s passing. But after a moment, she looked up again, cleared her throat and continued where she left off.
“So she lived at home a lot longer than many children do. Not that there is anything wrong with that; she just wasn’t ready.” We both nodded in agreement.
“Anyway, while at work she met this man, whom I do not like one bit. Now I learn she is actually living with him.”
“Ah, we seldom like the men our daughters take up with,” sighed Mrs. K.
“Nor the women our sons take up with,” I added with feeling, having some experience in this regard.
“No,” Rachel agreed. “But this is a little different. I believe this man Doreen has met is a real nogoodnik, and he is taking advantage of her.”
“In what way?” Mrs. K asked.
Before Rachel could answer, the bus made an abrupt stop to avoid a taxicab that suddenly pulled out in front of it, and everyone was thrown forward, to become much more intimate with each other than we had intended. Andy said some not-so-nice words to the taxi driver, which that person could not hear of course, but we all could. He then turned around and apologized to everyone with a sheepish look, but I think we all understood. Soon we were back on our way and the conversation continued.
“You asked how this man is taking advantage of my Doreen, Rose. But I do not know. All I know is that I have met him, I have seen them together, and I do not like what I see.”
“But Doreen, she does not see the same thing?” Mrs. K asked.
Rachel sighed. “No, she only sees an older man who is taking an interest in her. Doreen, you see, was never what you would call pretty. She seldom was asked out on dates when she was in school. Harry and I thought that was a good thing at the time, as we did not have the tsuris that some of the other parents of teenage girls had.”
“Yes,” Mrs. K said. “Those can be some of the hardest years for parents, can’t they? Especially parents of pretty girls.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Rachel. “We knew plenty of other parents who would have been only too happy to trade places with us.”
“But now you are not so sure?” I asked.
“No, I’m not. Because Doreen didn’t have the experience of dealing with men at a time when we were there to advise her. Not only advise her, but run the really bad ones off with a shotgun, if necessary, as Harry would have done, I’m sure. Instead she stayed, well, innocent. Now that she is out on her own, she is not well prepared for men like this ‘Eddie’ she has met and now she is living with.”
“Is he at least Jewish, this Eddie?” I asked. It is always one of the first questions we Jewish mothers all ask when discussing the boyfriends and girlfriends of our children. Maybe we are looking even with the bad ones for a redeeming feature or two.
“Well,” Rachel said with a little laugh, “his last name is Christensen. You may draw your own conclusion.”
So much for redeeming features.
As I had thought, the van stopped at the Lutheran Home and the bridge ladies got off, and then it proceeded toward downtown. Mrs. K looked out of the bus window. We were getting close to our stop. Mrs. K turned back and asked Rachel, “So what makes you think the fellow is a nogoodnik?”
“Well, for one thing,” Rachel said, “he is extremely rude, even to me, Doreen’s mother.”
“Ah, many young people are rude these days,” Mrs. K said. “It is as if they did not learn any manners when they were growing up. And they probably did not.”
“Yes,” Rachel agreed, “but it is more than that. When I asked him what he did for a living, he kind of smirked and said, ‘Oh, a little of this and a little of that,’ which to me means either he does nothing, or it is not something he wants to talk about.”
“Maybe he works for the FBI or he is a spy and he cannot reveal what he does,” I said, trying to put in a bit of humor. No one thought it was funny, however.
“And once,” continued Rachel, “when I was speaking to Doreen, and he was standing next to her, I asked Doreen whether they had any plans for that evening, thinking I would invite them to dinner with me. Do you know what he does?”
From the tone of Rachel’s voice, I was not certain I wanted to know, but she told us anyway: “He gives her a kind of a wink, and a potch on her tuchis, and says, ‘Oh, I think we’ll stay in tonight, huh, Doreen?’ The chutzpah! And in front of her mother yet! At least Doreen had the decency to look embarrassed. I was speechless. A man who is a mensch would never do such a thing.”
“Did you say anything to Doreen about it afterward?” I asked.
“I tried to, but Doreen said it was ‘no big deal’ and something about good manners being an ‘arbitrary and temporary social construct’ while ‘love is eternal.’ I don’t know where she gets that kind of narishkeit—that nonsense. Maybe from reading those trashy romance novels.”
Mrs. K was quiet for a moment, shaking her head slightly. She was no doubt thin
king that Rachel might have good reason to be concerned about this man. I know that is what I was thinking. Meanwhile, however, I could see that we were almost at our stop. Just before we got there, Mrs. K asked Rachel, “Where exactly does Doreen work?”
“At the Emporium Department Store. In the lingerie department.”
“If there is time, maybe I will stop by and say hello. I have not seen Doreen in a long time.”
“Please do,” Rachel said. “And if you have any thoughts on how to talk some sense into her, please let me know.”
Mrs. K laughed. “If I had that kind of advice,” she said as we got to our feet, “I would write one of those Dear Abby newspaper columns.”
Abby Schmabby. Mrs. K has a lot more common sense than those yentas in the newspaper.
“Anyway, enjoy your afternoon,” she said to Rachel, “and we shall see you back at the Home.” The doors opened, and we stepped down onto the sidewalk.
12
“I’ll be back to pick you up here at three o’clock,” Andy told us all as we left the bus. “Please don’t be late.” He was looking especially at old Mrs. Bloom. (She is at least eighty-five, so even by me she is old.) Last time she forgot where the bus stop was. Andy became very upset and waited fifteen minutes before finally leaving without her. Poor Mrs. Bloom had to take a taxi home. This time I saw that she was with one of the helpers from the Home, which I’m sure made both her and Andy much relieved.
After helping down the steps those who needed assistance, Andy drove off. I am never certain just where Andy goes when he leaves us with the shuttle bus. I doubt he has some other bus route to attend to. Perhaps he parks the bus and takes a nice nap on the backseat. Someday I will have to ask him.
Meanwhile, Mrs. K and I both had some shopping to do before our tea. We visited first the Peerless Shoe Store, where I bought a nice new pair of fluffy slippers, as my old ones were almost worn through. I do like fluffy slippers on a cold morning, or a cold evening for that matter. The new slippers were pink, instead of blue like my old ones, and I was pleased that I even found them on sale.
Mrs. K needed some items in the drugstore, so we stopped in there next. It was busy, perhaps because they were predicting unusually warm weather the next week and people were stocking up on things for sunburn—the creams to stop you from burning, and the other creams to make you feel better when you burn anyway. I suspect the same company makes both products and this result is no coincidence. Personally I do not use any of those products. A nice chair in the shade keeps the sun off better than anything in a bottle.
Mrs. K found the two things she was looking for—foot powder and Milk of Magnesia—and took them to the clerk, while I thumbed through a magazine on the long rack in the back of the store. There must have been a hundred magazines to choose from, but most of them I would not know from chopped liver. From the look of it, there is almost nothing you can do with yourself that someone has not made a magazine about. I will bet there is even a magazine for people who like to look at magazines, although I did not happen to see it on this occasion.
As we were leaving the drugstore, Mrs. K said, “Shall we go and find Doreen and say hello? I told Rachel we would.”
“Certainly,” I said. I knew Mrs. K was anxious to find out more about the nogoodnik, and I have to admit I was also.
We turned right and walked toward the intersection. As we were walking, Mrs. K turned to me and said, “You know, Ida, I have been thinking, ever since Rachel mentioned the name of Doreen’s friend, that his name sounds familiar. I think I have just remembered why.”
“Oh? To me it did not ring any bells. So what have you remembered?”
“Do you recall we used to have a cleaning lady at the Home, maybe five years ago, named Molly?”
I thought for a minute before answering. “Yes, wasn’t she the nice plump lady who would sneak outside to smoke cigarettes whenever she could?”
“That is her, yes. Well, I’m certain her last name was Christensen. Molly Christensen. And I know she had a son, because on occasion he showed up at the Home, to pick his mother up when her usual ride was not available. I am trying to remember whether the son’s name was Eddie. If so, it is possible that this boyfriend of Doreen’s is Molly’s son. Perhaps that is how Doreen met him.”
“Yes, it is possible. What happened to her? I only remember that there was something interesting about why she left.”
“If she is the one I am thinking of,” Mrs. K said, “she left after she won some money in the lottery and retired from cleaning. She was always buying lottery tickets at the grocery store where she bought her cigarettes, and one day she won a large amount of money. Not like a million dollars or anything—I think it was maybe a hundred thousand—but enough for her to decide she did not have to remain a cleaning lady. I remember the pleased look on her face when she told me this on her last day. Oy, such naches, such joy.”
We were by now starting to cross the street, and we stopped talking so we could pay attention to the traffic. Drivers are in such a hurry these days, even for old ladies like us they sometimes don’t bother to stop. But we made it across safely, and there in the middle of the next block was the Emporium Department Store. It is an old building, but in good condition, five stories high. The Emporium has been here a long time, and it still is what it used to be—a “full service” department store they call it, in which a person can buy anything from bathing suits to bicycles (not that I or Mrs. K would be looking for either). The aisles are wide, the ceilings are high, and the counters are made of polished wood. Macy’s basement it is not.
The lingerie department was on the ground floor. There were several counters strewn with “intimate” things, and a few headless and armless mannequins on them, each wearing either a brassiere or some other item of underwear. The ones that were wearing panties had legs, but just down to the knee. Perhaps they think putting only underwear on a model with arms and legs would be too suggestive. As it of course would not suggest anything to me, I cannot say.
What I could say is that department stores like the Emporium have changed a great deal since I was a young woman. They would never have displayed such things as underwear out in the open like that in the old days; it would be tucked away under the counter. But I suppose they must “keep up with the times” if they are to stay in business.
After a minute of looking around, Mrs. K spotted Doreen behind one of the counters. She was showing a young woman of about her own age a black lacy brassiere and something else that I assume was either what they call a “thong,” or a fancy slingshot for her son. Either way, it is difficult to imagine that a person would actually wear such a device, or, for that matter, why they would want to. It certainly would not cover anything, or protect anything, or absorb anything, and it looks like it would be extremely uncomfortable. I had a sudden picture in my head of myself and Mrs. K wearing these things, and I could not help laughing. I’m sure Mrs. K was wondering what was so funny, but I wouldn’t dare tell her.
So we waited and browsed the department until Doreen was finished with her customer. We then went up to the counter and said hello to her. At first, I don’t think she recognized us, probably because we were “out of context,” as they say. This was not a place Doreen would expect to see us. But after a few seconds she recognized us and greeted us affectionately, as if we were her close relatives.
A shayna maidel—a pretty girl—she is not, as her mother said. In fact she is quite plain and more on the zaftig side. But although she is not beautiful or slim, she makes up for it with a friendly manner and a bright smile that is as warm as a bowl of chicken soup.
As I looked at Doreen I was remembering what Rachel said: “Too friendly.”
Mrs. K told Doreen how we had a nice chat with her mother on the bus—she did not, of course, tell her the nature of our chat—and when Rachel mentioned that Doreen was working at the Emporium, we decided to stop by and say hello.
We were just beginning to make small talk when
a young man walked up to the counter from behind us and said in a voice louder than ours, “C’mon, Dor, let’s go get some coffee.” He reached across the counter and took her hand.
Einstein we did not have to be to figure out that this was Eddie the nogoodnik himself. He was a slim man of maybe thirty years old, with a face like one of those birds that you see on television picking apart dead animals. His nose could open letters, it was so thin and sharp. He was dressed in nice clothes, but the colors did not match and were loud enough to make your ears ring. Not that I was judging the book by its cover.
In this case, the pages of the book were worse than the cover. To say he was being rude would be like saying Hitler was unkind. He totally ignored the fact that we were standing there and having a conversation with Doreen. It was as if we were invisible. Many things we ladies might be said to be, but believe me, invisible we are not!
Doreen at least had the decency to look embarrassed and try to pull away from his hand holding hers. She looked sheepishly at us with an apology in her eyes. We probably were looking stunned at the man’s chutzpah!
Doreen turned back to the man, this Eddie Christensen, and said in a nice way, “Please, Eddie, I’m talking with these ladies at the moment. And besides, I can’t just walk away from my counter. It’s not my break time yet.”
If we were expecting Eddie to say something like “Sorry, I’ll wait until you’re finished,” or “Okay, we can have coffee when you’re on your break,” we were greatly misjudging the man. What he actually said was, “They can wait! And no one will notice if you’re gone for a few minutes. I haven’t got time later!”
Needless to say our mouths were now hanging open, as we could not believe someone could be so rude and ill-mannered, especially to a sweet young lady like Doreen. Not to mention two nice older ladies like us, of course.
Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death Page 5