When the lunch plates were cleared, Helen’s grandmother would bring out the miniature cake box from Gus’s. Every Friday she would put the box on the table in front of Sol. Every Friday she would say, “I got this cake especially for you, darling.” And every Friday she’d say to Helen, “Of course, it’s for you too.”
The cake was small, more like an oversized cupcake, perfect for two children to share. Thick chocolate icing held it together, and chocolate sprinkles were scattered on the top. An unnaturally red and shiny candied cherry topped it off.
Every Friday, Sol would call dibs on the cherry, and every Friday, Helen would protest. Every Friday, Helen’s grandmother would feign surprise, and every Friday, she’d say the same thing: “Helen, just give it to your brother. It’s only a cherry. You can have it next week.” After years of Fridays, Helen learned the lesson.
Their table at the restaurant was set with a heavy white linen cloth, flawlessly pressed. Red roses, open to bursting, were in the center. Sol took the spot at the head, with Arlene on his right and Helen on his left. Mort sat next to Arlene, followed by Rose. “Wait,” said Helen, remembering her earlier promise. “I’ll move down one. Judith, sweetheart, sit here between me and Sol.”
Rose was irritated. “Judith should sit here, next to me.”
Judith, caught in the middle, stood perfectly still. “Aunt Helen said I could sit next to her tonight,” she said.
“Well, Aunt Helen doesn’t decide where you sit,” Rose snapped.
Helen tried to explain. “I told her on our walk today that we could sit together tonight.”
Mort spoke up: “I don’t want my daughter sitting next to some—”
“Mort!” Rose interrupted before he could say more. “Judith, come sit here. Now.”
“Sit next to your mother, sweetheart,” Helen whispered, as she moved over and ushered Abe to take the chair on her left. Judith took her place next to Rose, directly across from Harry, who immediately passed her the breadbasket. “The rolls are really good,” he said. He was trying to be kind, but Judith was too embarrassed to reply.
Sol was busy lighting a cigarette for Arlene. He was so attentive to his wife that he barely noticed the spat over Judith’s seat. When the waiter arrived, Sol ordered scotches for himself, Abe and Mort, and a bottle of champagne for the ladies.
“I don’t drink scotch,” Mort said, but Sol hadn’t heard. He was too busy making sure Arlene could reach the butter for her roll.
“Who do you like in the Dodgers-Phillies game tomorrow?” asked Abe cheerfully.
Sol took a sip of the scotch that had just arrived. “Don Newcombe is one of the best pitchers in the league. Hank Bowery doesn’t stand a chance against him. The Dodgers will take them tomorrow for sure.”
“I don’t think so,” piped up Joe from the far end of the table.
“Oh yeah? You don’t like the Dodgers?” Sol’s interest was piqued.
“They’re my favorite team! But I heard Newcombe’s got a bum arm. That’s why he only pitched one inning in Thursday’s game.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d you hear that?”
Joe shrugged, “I’ve got my sources,” he said.
Sol laughed. “Did you hear this one?” he said to Arlene. She nodded and sipped her glass of champagne. “He’s got sources.”
“He’s adorable,” Arlene told Helen.
“Joe knows a lot about baseball, Uncle Sol,” said Sam solemnly.
“Yeah, plus he’s got the best baseball card collection in our whole grade,” affirmed George.
“Well, Joe,” said Sol, “if you’re so sure about the game, how ’bout you and I make a little wager?”
“Sol!” warned Helen. “Don’t.”
Sol held up his hands. “Calm down, calm down, I was only kidding.”
“See?” Mort said to Rose, loud enough for Helen to hear. “Do you see what kind of a person he is?”
Abe jumped in: “No one’s making any bets. But if I were you, Sol, I wouldn’t bet against Joe when it comes to baseball.”
Sol smiled. “You wouldn’t, huh? Well, Joe, maybe you’ll come work for your uncle Sol one day.”
“God forbid!” said Mort.
“What did you say?” Sol was agitated now.
“Slow down,” said Abe. “Mort just means the boys will work at Box Brothers one day. Just like you’ll have Johnny to take over your business.”
“I want to work in the family business too,” interrupted Mimi. “Can I?” she turned to her mother for an answer. Rose just put her finger over her lips. “Shh.”
Sol tried to be conciliatory. He held up his scotch glass and made a toast. “To family.” He turned to Rose and Helen. “May your new children be happy and healthy.”
Sol swallowed his drink, and Mort downed his as well. “I thought you said you didn’t like scotch,” Helen said.
“I don’t,” he admitted. “But it’s bad luck not to drink when someone makes a toast.”
Luckily, Gino arrived then, distracting them all with the menus. Sol handed his back to Gino without even opening it. “Bring us whatever you think we’ll like, Gino. You choose for us.” Gino made a small bow and collected the menus back from everyone. “It would be my pleasure.”
It was a good time for a visit to the ladies’ room, so Helen excused herself and left the table. Why was everything going so wrong?
When Helen came out of the stall, Rose was sitting at the vanity table, waiting for her.
“Helen, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have come. Mort gets … uneasy around Sol. I knew he wouldn’t want Judith to sit next to him.”
“It’s fine,” said Helen. “You know Sol just likes to joke. He would never say anything inappropriate with Judith sitting next to him.”
“I know,” said Rose, though she didn’t sound convinced. It bothered Helen that Rose so obviously disapproved of her brother. She knew Mort did, but that was different; Mort disapproved of almost everyone.
“We should get back,” Rose said, and she opened the ladies’ room door for Helen. There was an awkwardness between them that hadn’t been there before, and Helen was surprisingly uncomfortable. Having walked out of the ladies’ room first, Helen tried to slow her pace so that Rose could catch up. But no matter how hard she tried, she was always a little bit ahead. For the first time since they had known each other, the two women were out of step.
Chapter 11
MORT
(October 1947)
After the news of Rose’s pregnancy became public, Mort became increasingly annoyed with his coworkers. Most of them seemed to think he had nothing better to do with his time than to answer personal questions about Rose’s condition and their family life. If it were not for his daily point quota, he would have refused to acknowledge the questions at all. But he knew what he had to do to keep the covenant he had made. It would be so much easier to be nice to people if only they would stop talking to him.
Mort tried to prepare himself as he approached the company coffeepot Monday morning. It was a place where he was often drawn into conversation, and he wanted to be ready.
“Good morning, Mort.” It was Sheila, the only woman who worked at Box Brothers. Sheila answered phones and did the typing for Abe and Mort. She arrived on time and was generally pleasant and efficient. Abe referred to Sheila as a “gem.” Mort felt she was adequate.
“Good morning,” he responded. This was a classic one-point encounter for Mort, but the next moment was critical. He could take his coffee, keep his head down and walk back to his office. Or, he could prolong the meeting with a follow-up remark, thereby creating a multiple-point situation. It was the sort of decision Mort had come to dread. The follow-up remark was dangerous—who knew how much time he might waste if he risked it? On the other hand, the possibility of earning extra points was tempting. The weekend had not been a good one for him. He had made some unkind remarks to Judith about a book she was reading, and his weekend score had plummeted as a result. Here was an opportunity
to get himself back on track.
He took a deep breath and spoke. “I hope you had a nice weekend,” he said to Sheila.
As the words came out of his mouth, he congratulated himself on his phrasing. He had not made the mistake of asking the open-ended question How was your weekend? Through trial-and-error he had come to realize that asking open-ended questions led to long, drawn-out answers from people. The question Did you have a nice weekend? was slightly better (if you were lucky, you might get a quick yes or no) but still risky. In stating he hoped Sheila had a good weekend, Mort felt certain he had bypassed the need for Sheila to provide any answer at all. The most appropriate way to respond to such a statement, Mort felt, was to nod. Certainly no more than that was necessary.
How wrong he was! “Aren’t you sweet for asking,” Sheila replied. Asking? He had asked nothing. In fact, he had gone out of his way specifically not to ask. Did no one understand grammar? Syntax? The etiquette of language? He gritted his teeth.
“My girlfriend Pamela and I met for lunch and a matinee on Saturday. They were showing The Red Shoes.” She sighed. “It was such a wonderful film, Mort. Just lovely. Have you seen it?” Mort shook his head. Why did she feel the need to suffocate him with the specifics of her weekend?
“No? You really should take Rose to see it one of these days. Maybe try to have a night out before the baby comes.” The baby. There it was. He braced himself for the inevitable interrogation.
“How is Rose feeling?” What is it about pregnancy that makes people so comfortable prying into personal matters?
“She’s fine.”
“When my sister was pregnant, she was sick every day. I’m so glad Rose is having an easy pregnancy.”
It might be easy for Rose, Mort thought, but it certainly isn’t easy for me. He was having difficulty keeping the “smile” on his face.
The phone rang and Sheila stopped stirring her coffee. “Sorry, Mort, I have to grab that. Can’t keep the customers waiting!” She was back to her desk in a flash.
Mort exhaled. He filled his coffee cup. It had taken several weeks for him to learn that if he filled his cup at the beginning of a conversation, his coffee would most likely be cold by the time he returned to his desk. Is this what office pleasantries had come to? Wasting time and cold coffee? He was relieved his conversation with Sheila was finally over. He would go back to his desk and decide exactly how to score it. It was lucky for him that the phone had rung when it did.
Chapter 12
ROSE
From the minute Rose got out of bed that morning, she felt changed, lighter somehow. Mort had gotten up early to go to Philadelphia with Abe, and the whole day lay ahead of her, unencumbered. Once the children were off to school, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Mort was always gone by this time of the morning, so the day shouldn’t have felt different from any other. But it did.
The first thing she realized was that she didn’t have to make pot roast for dinner. It was Wednesday, and Wednesday night was pot roast night, at least according to Mort. If something else was served, or if she made pot roast on a Saturday instead, Mort would be visibly disappointed. His absence freed her of this restriction.
It came to her then, pot roast and enlightenment entwined: the reason why Mort’s absence affected her so. She hadn’t known what it was until it wasn’t there. The daily dread of being judged, of being measured and found lacking in some way, no matter how small, was a burden she carried, compact and profound. It was a too-heavy purse, worn and comfortable on her shoulder, which she did not know the weight of until she set it down.
Ever since Judith was born, Rose realized, Mort had been struggling to maintain control. He could not manipulate the outcome of her pregnancies, and he could not change their daughters into sons. Faced with these setbacks, he was determined to control whatever else was left—what their girls were allowed to read, what they wore, where they went, how much affection he would show to his wife and, though it seemed trivial, even what Rose made for dinner.
Rose opened up the cabinet next to the sink and took out her mother’s recipe box. The box was yellow painted tin, with black and red flowers etched onto the sides. The top was copper, faded with brown spots or stains. Some of the recipes were typed onto cards, and some were handwritten on scraps of paper. Others were just torn pieces of magazine pages, folded haphazardly and stuffed inside. None of the recipes was in any particular order, and every time Rose looked through them, she had to spend at least ten minutes searching for the one that she wanted.
That was the fun of it, though. The recipe box was the only part of her mother that Rose had left. When her mother died, Rose didn’t care about the jewelry. All Rose really wanted was the box. Their mother rarely wore her earrings or necklaces, but Rose knew she had opened the recipe box almost every day. To Rose, it was her mother’s touchstone, and she was certain it had absorbed a small part of her mother’s essence. Sometimes, Rose talked to the box as if her mother were inside it, like a genie in a bottle.
She thumbed through the recipes, looking for something to make for the girls that night. Salmon croquettes? Too messy. Chicken Marbella? Too complicated. She remembered there were lamb chops in the freezer, but she just couldn’t bring herself to defrost them.
Rose was halfway through the box when her fingertips came upon a white recipe card with frayed edges. The blue printing across the top read, “From the Kitchen of Sylvia Pelt.” It was a recipe for cheese blintzes, and Rose’s mouth started watering as soon as she saw it. Sylvia had been her mother’s good friend.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had made blintzes. They were time-consuming and complicated. Plus, Mort didn’t like them. And even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t approve of having them for dinner. Rose remembered one night years ago when all the girls were recovering from the flu and she had made them scrambled eggs and toast for dinner.
“What is this?” Mort had grumbled as soon as he sat down.
“Eggs. The girls don’t feel well and the doctor said to give them something plain when they felt ready to eat again. Eggs and toast is the right thing for them to eat.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Mort. I’ll make chicken and dumplings tomorrow. It just seemed like a waste to make it today.”
“No, tomorrow is pot roast night.”
That was how she knew he expected certain dishes on certain days. And that breakfast food wasn’t to be served for dinner. Oh, there were variations for sure. But they weren’t usually successful. He would give her a look, close a door too hard or do something else to let her know he wasn’t pleased.
She had to admit that Mort had been kinder lately, more attentive, caring. He was no longer indifferent to her. But it wasn’t enough. Mort’s efforts were because of the new baby—her biggest test yet. If she failed, she knew what it would do to him this time, and what that, in turn, would do to her. It wouldn’t be like making eggs for dinner or having pot roast on the wrong night of the week. He would never forgive her. “This has to work out,” she said to the recipe box. Rose tried to imagine her mother in miniature, dressed like a genie in harem pants and scarves, but all she could come up with was a vision of her in a housecoat and apron. Whatever her mother was wearing, Rose hoped she was listening. She rubbed the tin box a few times, for luck.
Chapter 13
HELEN
(December 1947)
Why did Abe have to go away today? Over the past few months Helen had grown accustomed to his new schedule of traveling to Philadelphia every two or three weeks. It wasn’t so terrible—he’d stay for one night and she could get a good night’s sleep without listening to his snoring. But today she wasn’t happy about it. It was late December and the weathermen were saying a storm was coming. The idea of Abe driving that far in the snow made her nervous, and the whole thing was giving her heartburn. Of course, everything gave her heartburn now. She was due in less than a month, and whatever food she ate seemed to rest in her esoph
agus. Today was worse than usual.
Helen had terrible indigestion when she was pregnant with the twins. It intensified right before she went into labor, so that she couldn’t eat anything for a few days before she gave birth. She looked up at the clock. It was 10:37. The boys had left for school a few hours ago. By now she was usually sitting at the kitchen table having a mid-morning snack. But she wasn’t hungry, and the thought of eating made her queasy. She decided to bring one of the cinnamon coffee cakes she had made last night down to Rose.
When Judith answered the door instead of her sister-in-law, Helen was surprised.
“Hi, honey. Why are you home from school? Aren’t you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” said Judith. “Mom asked me to stay home. She said she didn’t feel well and she didn’t want to be alone. In case something happens with the baby.”
Helen felt that all-too-familiar wave of jealousy again. She wasn’t feeling so great either, but the idea of asking Harry or Joe to stay home with her had never even entered her mind.
“Well, I brought you a cake,” she said, handing it to Judith. “I’ll go say hi to your mom. Is she in her room?” she asked.
“Yes, she’s lying down. She’s really tired.”
Rose was sitting up in bed and knitting, but she frowned when Helen came into the room. “Helen! You’re supposed to be resting! What are you doing here?”
“Why didn’t you call me this morning? I would have stayed with you.”
“Yesterday you were having heartburn—I thought you’d be in bed too.”
Helen laughed, but there was an edge of bitterness to it. “Who can stay in bed with the boys screaming all morning? Stay right there—I’m bringing you a slice of cake.”
A few minutes later, Helen was sitting on the edge of Rose’s bed watching her eat. “You’re having cake and I’m not hungry,” she observed. “That’s a switch! There’s definitely something strange going on here.”
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