Unexpected Gifts
Page 12
She soon realized how different she was from everybody else. As far as she was concerned, people sitting around, jawin' about how good Flapper Steaks were deep fried, or how George Johnson from down the hall and his bebop frames were looking so thick “you can't even see his eyes, the fool!” might serve as entertainment for them, but not for her.
“Dat girl got a dizzy dreambox on her shoulders an' don't you talk any of that gutter talk to her neither! It don't sit well with her,” her mama used to tell everyone, her voice thickened with pride for her erudite daughter. She might be strange to some folks, but, as her mama gloated, at least she was headed for higher places. At least she wasn't going to end up useless like her no-account-juicehead father, pissing away a fine job as an elevator operator at the Empire State Building as he drank himself into oblivion.
Rose's Journal:
Of course Lily had to have her friend Debbie over that day. Of all days! I told them they had better entertain themselves because I needed to get some things done.
But when Lily put on that stupid Gotta Whale of a Tale song from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, I couldn't take it anymore and sent them outside to play, leaving plenty of time to make my vegetable jello mold, a Betty Crocker cake, and the Brown ‘n Serve rolls that Peter loved so much.
“Mommy, we're coming in now!” Lily yelled as I moved towards the living room.
Three steps in, I stopped, horrified. Damn that girl! I thought, looking down at the dirt they'd tracked in.
“Lily, come in here this instant! I called out, wondering why her friend looked so frightened after I had given Lily a spanking. And why her mother gave me the cold shoulder when she picked up her little girl.
Sadie's Story:
Like her mother told Sadie on their wedding day, “Sadelah, hold onto this man, your David. He's a gemstone, in between the pebbles.”
So she complied. They went everywhere together; museums, art galleries, concerts, leisurely walks in Central Park, poetry readings at the Coffee and Confusion club in Greenwich Village, moonlit suppers on top of their apartment building on Bleecker Street.
She tended to brag to everyone all about David's photographic proclivities, but when a call from Life magazine, offering a well-paying assignment accompanying the 24th Division near Pusan came, his face glowed, her heart stalled.
He drew her into his arms and held her close. “Look, this is just a tactical maneuver in Korea, no real war. Don't worry…I'll be home by Hannakkah!” And then he was gone.
His abundant letters told her otherwise. Ill-trained and ill-equipped, the inexperienced American soldiers were floundering.
He also mentioned the terrifying, sleepless nights, when the enemy picked them off one by one like a shooting gallery at a county fair. But Sadie's real terror began when he no longer described the pillage and destruction, just the local terrain: the Juniper bushes that spotted the rough, mountainous ranges, and the snow starting to fall, gently at first, then with a vengeance. She knew her husband too well—he was trying to protect her.
His last letter was uncharacteristically short—he had simply run out of words, except for its end. “You are the love of my life. It would have been such a joy to grow old together. I love you, David.”
Bimmy's Story:
By sixteen, Bimmy thought her nickname might as well be Mellow-Yellow it was aimed at her so often. She hated the term, but her mama tried to set her straight.
“Chile, you light-skinned. People, they jest tryin' to compliment you, that's all. They ain't callin' you Nappyblack like they do with yo father. Jest you stop complainin'.”
At eighteen, she met dark-skinned Marcus Johnson, who smelled so fine, unlike her musky papa, and who got the nickname, He got flashsport as he sauntered by.
“You got the prettiest set of ham hocks I ever seen!” he commented, strolling by her, grinning the grin of a seasoned man.
At the time, she paid him no mind, but that night, as she inspected her legs and ankles, she giggled, and against the advice of her mother, searched the street corner for this stranger the following day.
“Bimmy. He may fool you girl, but he ain't foolin me! He's no good, no matter how much he perfume it, chile',” her mama warned. But for all her intelligence, all her book reading, she up and married this Marcus Johnson, this man-about-town, who got her a son nine months later and got himself plenty of outside action within the first month.
Sadie's Story:
Sadie's first year out in White Plains, the days were spent with Lily from next door. Playing Hide-and-Seek, cavorting in the back yard, baking pies, and getting hugs at every conceivable opportunity somehow eased the ache left by David. Her nights were a different story. In the autumn, after the sky had melted into a navy blue and the frigid winds tumbled dried bits of colored leaves across suburban lawns, it was time for Sadie to pour some wine into David's favorite goblet, light a fire, and let the memories wash over her like a tsunami.
When winter came soon after, the filled goblet was still supplemented by memories, and it did cross her mind that perhaps she was going insane. But then spring and summer arrived with the infinitesimal hope that perhaps life could move on. She got a secretarial job nearby and at Rose's urgings, was just beginning to entertain the idea of going out on a blind date when the doorbell rang on a particularly hot summer's day.
She opened up to a lone man in a dark gray suit and shiny black shoes. A minute later, she found herself stretched out on her couch, getting fanned with her New Yorker magazine.
“Why me?” she managed.
“Because, of your late husband's Communist affiliations, Mrs. Moskovitz.”
“What affiliations? He went to two Artist Guild meetings, mostly to take some photos for an idea he had.”
“Nevertheless, he was a member. You'll have to appear at a closed HUAC meeting to clear things up,” he clipped before leaving.
That night, Rose came over to console and advise her on her wardrobe for the upcoming occasion and when the doorbell rang a week later, this time it was two official looking men and a black sinister car, ready to shepherd her into the city.
Shafts of light seeping in through the Venetian blinds made the small hearing room smoky as a middle-aged stenographer sat with her reading glasses half way down her nose, poised for action.
Sadie was hand signaled to sit at a long wooden table, directly across from a panel of three identical looking men with tight, pinched mouths and beady eyes behind black rimmed glasses. In front of each interviewer was a microphone and a glass of water.
The hearing began.
Q#1: Mrs. Sadie S. Moskovitz, are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?
Sadie: I have not and I am not.
Q#2: But according to our records, your husband was part of it.
Sadie: (Let the record show the interviewee's voice changes.) Yes. But that was a very long time ago when we were fighting the Nazi's and it was okay to belong to a group like The Artist Guild of New York. Besides, he was never an active member. I believe he only went about two times.
Q#3: Yes, our records do show that. But the fact that this organization has been considered subversive and the fact that you lived with him leads us to think that perhaps you were influenced by his, shall we say, Communist affiliations.
Sadie: We hardly ever discussed these two meetings, except (Let the record show the interviewee laughs a little) for discussing how bad the food was at the meetings.
Q#4: Do you believe this hearing is amusing, Mrs. Moskovitz?
Sadie: No, I most certainly do not. I just wanted you to understand just how unimportant those meetings were to my husband and myself.
Q#5: Are you aware of any other members of that organization?
Sadie: (Let the record show the interviewee hesitates before answering.) Are you asking me to name names, sir?
Q#6: I'm only asking if you know of any one else that might have been involved with this so-called artistic organization.
A different man continued.
Q#1: Now, Mrs. Moskovitz, it has come to our attention that you are employed at a company called Wakins Insurance. Is that correct?
Sadie: Yes, it is.
Q#2: Are you aware that the president of Watkins Insurance, a Mr. Berman, is cooperating with us fully today?
Sadie: I suppose…(Let the record show that the interviewee has placed her hand up to her mouth.)
Q#3: Yes, Mrs. Moskovitz, he is. He is a good American and as such, wants to make sure all of his employees are loyal to this country, as do we.
(Let the record show that the interviewee is beginning to cry.)
The three men cupped their hands over each microphone and conferred quietly for several minutes before the third man took over.
Q#1: Are you acquainted with a Mr. Peter Hanson, Mrs. Moskovitz? (Let the record show the interviewee is no longer crying.)
Sadie: Yes, of course. He's my next door neighbor. Why?
Q#2: Ah, Mrs. Moskovitz, we are the ones asking the questions.
Sadie: All right. (Let the record show the interviewee's voice sounds annoyed).
Q#3: Now, Mrs. Moskovitz, Mr. Peter Hanson is an outstanding member of the local White Plains community. Because of this and because he has personally vouched for you, you are free to go today. However, if we need to ask you anything further, we will definitely contact you. Do you understand?
Sadie: Yes. May I say something further?
Q#4: What is it, Mrs. Moskovitz?
Sadie: Are you aware that my husband died in Korea in the service of his country?
Q#5: Well, actually, according to our records, he just happened to be there as a paid photographer. He was not fighting in the military. We don't really consider that to be in the service of his country, Mrs. Moskovitz.
Sadie: (Let the record show the interviewee is standing up, looking angry.) Fine. Whatever. Good day, gentlemen.
She resisted screaming, “You bastards! Not die in the service of his country? And by the way, if you knew you were going to let me go, why did you put me through this hell?“
She gathered up Rose's stole and purse and slipped out the door as fast as she could, more attuned to the Communist cause than she would have ever thought possible.
Rose's Journal:
I was glad Peter stepped in to help Sadie. She deserved any help she could get, poor woman. First her husband was killed and then this! But if I do say so myself, I think my fox stole added a certain respectability. If she had worn one of her usual Greenwich Village outfits, they'd certainly have locked her up as a Commie the minute they saw her! I'm also glad she took my black Leatherette & Patent Kelly purse, and my light gray Molly Parnis mid-calf length suit. She looked so good…wish she would dress like that more often.
And she was so sweet coming over when she got back, to thank Peter in person. She actually had tears in her eyes. I just didn't quite get why he hugged her for so long, and why his hand moved a little too low on her back. It practically rested on her fanny.
Bimmy's Story:
Over the months, as Bimmy's front puffed out like a giant rubber ball and her once shiny eyes dulled, little Leroy finally made his way out in the world on a wet October night, up in Mama's bed, with the midwife trying to hold Bimmy down while she screamed bloody murder and her husband Marcus nowhere in sight. Finally, she got the message.
Two weeks later, she calmly informed her spouse, “Hit the road, Jack,” a phrase she had heard her whole life but had never had a reason to use.
“Kiss me where the sun don't shine, Sister,” was his instant retort and in short order, Bimmy found herself back at her parents' apartment, caring for her baby and the rest of the family like she had never left at all.
Bimmy was sure she would never hear the end of Mama's gloat, “I always pegged him as a loser,” but her mother was far too busy watching her husband waste away from The Likker, his skin the pallor of black strap molasses bread dough, his bloodshot eyes taking over his shrinking face.
At his funeral, a beaten Mama, in her washed-many-times-over black dress and her see-through black veil, didn't shed any tears. She was all cried out. All she muttered was, “He finally met Old Man Mose, that's what it was. He done drank hisself to death! Yessir, he finally met Old Man Mose…”
Bimmy, in a brand new dark thrift store dress, sat still. Truth be told, she was unable to even listen to the sermon about her father. How were they going to survive on Mama's small income from house cleaning jobs she could no longer perform well? How was she going to take care of Leroy?
Outside, an old family friend approached. “Here, girl, take this employment agency card,” and within two weeks, she was hired by Rose at a higher pay rate than she'd ever get in Manhattan and enjoyed hearing the neighbors say how she had lucked up. But Mama stayed silent while Bimmy raved about how her new employer was so actress pretty and so democratic, how she didn't even have to call this White Plains woman and her husband by their last name or wear a uniform.
“Don' ‘spect too much from this lady,” Mama grumbled as she put on fresh, clean Dreamers on the beds one day. “I ain't even met de woman, but I can sure feel a draft. She's white, you black, and there ain't no getting’ ‘round that, chile.”
Rose's Journal:
Everything would have been smooth as ice if I just hadn't had to deal with Leroy that day. I mean, really. How could I have ever brought him with Lily and me to Peter's boss' apartment? The very idea.
For the party, I picked out that little pink number I bought at Saks just two weeks ago, the one that went so well with my little white scalloped sweater with the little pearls sewn on it. The trip didn't take that long into the city, and when we got there, well, their apartment wasn't that fancy.
“Lily, Sam, you both have fun while I talk to the grownups. Run along, have fun.” I told them, looking for the nearest adult.
“Excuse me, I'm Rose Hanson. Peter Hanson's wife? How do you do?”
“How do you do?” The woman seemed nice enough. Very well dressed.
“Tell me, my dear, who is your child?” She looked me up and down.
“Over there. The little girl talking with her friend in the corner.”
“Oh, I see. That one.”
“Yes, Lily's her name. She's going to the best school in White Plains. Very hard to get into, I might add.” Two other women were suddenly staring at me.
“That's nice, dear. Must go circulate now. You do understand.”
What was her problem? I remember wondering as I headed for the bathroom which turned out to be quite an experience. Were those faucets real gold? And the towels—so rich. I hoped Lily and Sam weren't in the same, silly corner. Never too early to meet new people who might matter, I thought as I started back towards the living room. Suddenly, I heard two female voices.
“Did you see what she was wearing? Straight off the rack! My husband says her husband could really go places, but obviously she's probably holding him back. Such a country bumpkin.”
“I agree. Wasn't it pathetic that she had to go on about her daughter's school? As if some little nothing school in White Plains could even begin to compare with our schools here in the city. She's really something.” The two women had trouble controlling their snorts and giggles.
In the end, I was so glad I grabbed two Davy Crocket caps on the way out—at least I got something for free from those people.
Bimmy's Story:
Bimmy knew Mama's “That Rose, she got money to burn, but she wears nothin' but ice around her heart!” rang all too true. She also knew that after hearing Leroy's nightly tears of humiliation, he would have to return to Harlem. Because no matter how much he liked that school out in White Plains, no matter how much he loved Lily and Sam, no child of hers was going to be treated like that. No sir!
No sir! she repeated to herself as she watched her boy hug Lily and Sam good
bye, trying with all his might not to break down. No sir! she muttered as their cab (Rose had given her enough money to return Leroy in style) went past the Cotton Club, the Apollo Theater, and the Hotel Teresa, past the dingy streets that looked the filthiest and garbaged as they had ever looked, past wearied people who knew they were never going to climb out from the quick sand.
So Monday through Friday, she was once again away from Leroy. She wasn't there when he came home every afternoon from his local school, sad, frustrated with the non-caring teachers and unmotivated students. She wasn't there when he told his grandmother he didn't want to take any of Lily's phone calls, it hurt him too much. Nor was she there when the street kids tried to indoctrinate him into their gangs and their drugs. And when his teenage hormones blasted in with a vengeance, she wasn't there when Mama desperately tried to lasso him in.
“Put yo punk ass down and listen to me! I'm gonna fold yo' ears back and tell you what the real world is about!” she'd shout at him from time to time as he grabbed a slab of bread on his way out the door to be with his new pals. He never even heard her.
Sadie's Story:
Sadie hadn't asked him over. Why was he standing there on a Tuesday evening, all alone, his business suit still fresh from work? Did he need something? Did Rose need something? Oh, my God, Lily, was she okay?
“Why, Peter, ah, come in. Is everything all right?”
“Does there have to be something wrong for me to be here? Why can't I just come and visit, neighbor-to-neighbor?”
“Of course you can. I owe you so much.”
“Maybe you do.”
Sadie jerked her head up as the soft, smooth vocals of Ella Fitzgerald coming off of the Victrola filtered through the air.