by Joani Ascher
“I love Sundays,” said Anne. “I feel so warm here, so accepted. Sometimes it can be so lonely for Irene and me, alone at home.”
Anne Canfield had changed a great deal in the months since she had reclaimed her daughter. Once a sharp-tongued, impeccably dressed socialite, she spent much less time consumed with herself. Now, she did everything she could for her daughter. The bond she had forged with Jane strengthened, but she spent little time with her old friends. Jane worried about that almost as much as about her sister’s relationship with Martin.
“Do you ever go out anymore?” Jane asked.
Anne raised her eyebrows, still elegantly arched. “Why? I am happy with Irene. I don’t need those shallow women with their perfect daughters.”
“I know, believe me. And maybe it is worse for you because of what else you gave up.”
“Do you mean Hugh? Our marriage was close to over before I brought Irene home. Sometimes I wonder if I did it to push him out the door.”
“You lost more than Hugh. You haven’t done any of the things you used to do. It’s as if you divorced yourself from everyone you ever knew and are settling for us.”
“How could you say that? I love all of you.”
Jane put her hand on Anne’s shoulder. “I know. I don’t mean you are insincere. You’re one of the sweetest people I know. Sometimes I can’t believe I thought—”
Anne smiled. “You thought I was a shallow spendthrift socialite.”
“I misjudged you. You always did charitable work,” Jane argued. “And I know you felt fulfilled by it. But since your divorce you haven’t done any of it, or gone to any charity events. You have nothing to be ashamed about, yet you act like you are in hiding.”
Anne was quiet for a long time. A tear rolled downward, and she turned to hide it. “I do miss it. I miss the work, and the feeling of worth, and,” she smiled, her old self-satisfied smile, “the chance to dress up and put those old biddies to shame.”
“I thought so. You have to get back out there.”
“Not to the committees I served on before the…”
“No,” said Jane. “I wouldn’t think so.”
As she watched, Jane saw her friend mull over an idea. “I heard there is a need for a chairwoman on the fundraising committee for the new opera house,” Anne said.
“You’d be perfect! And before you give me another excuse, we both know you can afford a nurse to watch Irene.” Jane did not say another word. She had to give her friend time to think.
Anne put down the dish towel she had been wringing while she tried to decide. A broad smile lit up her face. “I’ll do it. Wish me luck.”
****
Jane presently found out that her friend was not one to do things half way. She worked out a schedule so she could be on several committees and not compromise her time with Irene or her friends. The second committee she joined was one raising money for a new institution that would benefit retarded children more severely affected than either Irene or Z.Z. There she met Schuyler Lewis—“Sky” to his many friends. He was a divorced, understanding gentleman whose own child had been born with mongolism. The child had not lived to his first birthday, and the stress of the ordeal had broken up his marriage. “He is a man with a great capacity to love,” Anne said, when she told Jane about Schuyler.
“He sounds wonderful. Have you agreed to go out with him?”
Anne blushed. “I feel like a teenager. I’m so nervous.”
“If he gets to know you, he will love you,” Jane said.
Soon, Schuyler Lewis started coming to the “family dinners” occasionally. He was a wonderful guest.
And three months later, he and Anne were making wedding plans for the following year.
****
“Jane,” said Mr. Dobbin. “I can’t handle all these orders. What am I going to do?”
“You’ll have to put on another shift. You can’t turn them away. And I think you’ll have to think about expanding. Maybe you could open another factory. I can look into available buildings. Maybe an old army facility.”
Mr. Dobbin took off his reading glasses and wiped them. “I can’t believe I was once wondering where my next meal would come from. Now all I wonder about is when I’ll have time to eat it.”
Jane laughed. “Some people would think this is a good thing.”
“I do. But I’m working so many hours, and sometimes I think if you didn’t have Z.Z. waiting for you, you would sleep here.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Is Martin’s drinking worse?”
“I think if it got any worse he wouldn’t be able to stand upright. He lost his job, you know.”
“I do. He came in here looking for a position as—what did he call it?—‘second in command.’ That’s what it was. I told him the war was over, but if there was a second in command, it was you.”
“Why would you say such a thing? I’m just a bookkeeper.”
Mr. Dobbin shook his head. “Hardly. And at the rate you’re going, you will be second in command of something very big. That new designer you recommended has great ideas about children’s clothes. If women keep having babies the way they did this year, we’ll be very rich.”
“And very tired,” said Jane. She was definitely uncomfortable when he spoke of them being rich. The company was his; she was just an employee.
“Maybe you should look for a new factory with a sleeping area,” Mr. Dobbin quipped. “When can you start?”
He had never questioned her ability to do what she promised. It felt good that he relied on her, but there was something missing. Well, maybe more than one thing, but the hole in her heart for Prescott Weaver could not be filled. Her chosen career, her goal to trade on the New York Stock Exchange, was not getting any closer, and she was frustrated. Still, she was proud of the job she performed. It had many more satisfying moments than she would have expected, and she was able to be home with Z.Z. during the day.
“On the next school vacation, when Olivia is home, I’ll go look. We’ll get it up and running as quickly as possible.”
“Jane, don’t wait. Get that old coot Mrs. McGill to watch Z.Z. We need that factory now.”
She studied Mr. Dobbin closely. “Is something wrong?”
He just shook his head. “No. But I’m not getting any younger. I want it established so I can get some time off to see my children and grandchildren, if they’ll let me. I love Z.Z. and Irene, but I want to see how my own grandchildren are doing. And I need confidence in my factory’s capacity to fill the orders.”
Jane could not help wondering if he was worried about something else, although she did not detect any signs of illness, her greatest fear. She would not let this man down. “I’ll take care of it.”
****
In less than six months, the new factory was up and running. Jane saw to the hiring of most of the people and got an excellent man to manage things when she and Mr. Dobbin were not present. Martin had applied for the position but had no experience whatsoever. Fortunately, he found other employment, although Jane was not quite sure what his exact job title was.
Chapter Seventeen
Olivia woke Jane a little before six one morning in November. It was still dark outside, and Jane blinked, wondering why she had been awakened. Ordinarily, Olivia took care of Z.Z.’s breakfast and did not wake Jane, who worked until well after midnight. The last few weeks she had stayed especially late, converting Mr. Dobbin’s factories to the spring production line, and Olivia always took the morning shift with Z.Z. until she was ready to leave for the school where she now taught a second grade class.
“Is something wrong?” Jane asked.
Olivia’s eyes were wide and frightened. “It’s Z.Z. He has a very high fever. I called the doctor.”
Jane jumped out of bed and ran to the alcove where Z.Z. now slept. He was so still, his face so red, and his breathing so labored, that Jane could barely breathe herself. She pulled back the covers, to help cool him off, and opene
d his pajama top. His chest was covered with a rash. “Oh.”
“What? What’s wrong with him?”
“I think he has the measles. I remember when you had them.”
Olivia frowned but her shoulders relaxed. “I remember hating having them. I got better, though.”
The doctor confirmed Jane’s diagnosis and mentioned that two other children on the block had measles, too. “The germs must be in the air,” he said. But he cautioned them to watch for signs of distress. “With his weak heart, this can be dangerous.”
For two days, during which Jane stayed beside Z.Z. constantly, he seemed to be improving and dealing with his discomfort. She moved his cot into her room so she could be close to him at all times, longing to hold him but aware that closeness would cause more distress. With his fever down, though, he seemed more himself, and the sparkle began to return to his eyes.
But at midnight on November 14, 1947, the third day, Z.Z.’s cries woke Jane. “My head,” he said, obviously in tremendous pain. Suddenly he lost consciousness and started to convulse.
“Olivia!” Jane shouted, forcing the sound out of her panic-stricken chest. “Come quickly.”
Olivia rushed in. “My God, what’s wrong with him?”
“Get me some wet towels. He’s burning up again.”
“Why is he bouncing around like that?”
“I can’t explain. Get me the towels!”
Olivia brought them in, and Jane wrapped them around Z.Z. “Call the doctor,” she pleaded.
A few minutes later, Mrs. McGill rushed in. “Olivia called me,” she explained, taking matters into her own hands. “Put him in the tub. We’ve got to get his fever down.”
“I’ve already run the water into it,” said Olivia. “Doctor Mann said the same thing.” She helped Jane carry the boy into the bathroom. “Doctor Mann will be right here,” she whispered into Z.Z.’s ear. “You’re going to be fine.”
Z.Z. showed no sign of having heard his aunt. His convulsions had stopped, but he lay listless in the tub, after the initial shock of the water. Jane’s hands, which supported him, were so cold she wanted to pluck him out right away, but Mrs. McGill said no, not until the fever came down. When it finally did, Jane wrapped him in a dry towel and carried him back to bed, smoothing the covers around his still form.
Soon after, the doctor arrived. He examined Z.Z., spending a lot of time listening to the little boy’s heart, not smiling once. Finally he straightened up and put his stethoscope away. “Acute encephalomyelitis,” he said. “And his heart has weakened.”
Only Mrs. McGill could find her tongue. “Will he get better?”
Z.Z.’s breath came in labored gasps. Jane bit her lip, and Olivia went pale, waiting for the doctor’s answer. But in a moment, there was no need for one. Z.Z.’s body arched up again, and his face turned blue. As Jane watched in horror, her son’s life seeped out of him.
“No!” she cried, pulling his blanket back to cradle him in her arms. She rocked back and forth, willing him to breathe. “Mama is here,” she whispered. “Open your eyes. Please. Don’t leave me.”
While Z.Z.’s small body became limp on her lap, Jane stroked his blond hair, tenderly smoothing it down, and hummed a lullaby to her little boy.
After a few minutes, with Olivia sobbing on Mrs. McGill’s shoulder, Dr. Mann gently pulled Z.Z. away from Jane and placed him back on his cot, tucking in his blanket as if he were asleep.
“He can’t be gone,” Jane murmured, feeling as if part of her were being ripped away, but knowing in her heart it was true. “I can’t believe I’ve lost him.”
The doctor took Jane to the living room, where Mrs. McGill and Olivia sat with her. He made a phone call, whispering, while Jane’s tortured mind struggled to make sense of what had happened. She refused to take a sedative, knowing nothing could ever make her sleep peacefully again.
****
At the graveside funeral, Jane, Olivia, Mr. Dobbin, Mrs. McGill, and Anne Canfield with her fiancé and Irene were the only people in attendance. Martin said he had to work and could not attend.
It was a cold, drizzly day, and a shaft of ice formed in Jane’s heart that she knew would never thaw. She looked around at the other mourners, knowing they truly loved her child.
Anne gasped as she turned to leave. “What is it?” Jane asked. “Are you afraid for Irene?”
“No,” Anne said, shaking her head. “It’s nothing.” But her gaze turned again to the distance, and Jane’s followed. For just a second, she thought a man she saw looked like Prescott Weaver. But it seemed so unlikely she put the thought out of her mind.
****
Prescott wanted more than anything to go over to Jane at the funeral. She stood stoically, staring into the deep hole that had been dug for the little pine coffin, until the coffin was lowered in. Then she shook so, Prescott feared she would fall. He had to will his feet to stay in place, so he would not run to her side.
Her friend Mr. Dobbin held her steady by the elbow on one side, while her sister draped herself across Jane, sobbing loudly enough to hear all the way across the cemetery where Prescott stood.
Jane turned to Olivia, pulling her away from the edge of the grave. Olivia’s husband was nowhere in sight. Where was he when his wife needed him?
Prescott knew who all the people gathered by the grave were from his conversation that morning with Anne. She had urged him to greet Jane and express his sorrow, but he had told her point blank he would not intrude. Even her intimations that he was being cowardly did not change his mind. This was simply not the time.
From his vantage point, he had a clear view of Anne, Schuyler, and Irene. They stood together, facing their anguish. Despite their own troubles and sorrows, they were there for their friends, united and strong. All Prescott’s good health, and that of his wife, could not compare to the love they shared.
The sadness he felt for Jane included some for himself, Prescott realized. That was all the more reason for him to stay away.
****
Jane could not openly dwell on her grief. But every evening, when she went to bed, she went over to Z.Z.’s cot and cried into his pillow until she fell asleep. Mrs. McGill urged her to take the cot away and give away Z.Z.’s clothes, but Jane would not even allow her to move the books that had been on the little boy’s chair so he could sit at the table.
Yet she could never allow her sister to see her suffering, because Olivia had gone into such a deep depression herself, exacerbated by her husband’s good cheer following Z.Z.’s death. Martin seemed to have increased his volume in the way he talked and walked and even the way he turned the pages of the newspaper.
“You should be more quiet, Martin,” Olivia said, on one of her rare visits to the living room. “You are disturbing us.”
“This is my home, just as much as it is Jane’s,” he said, excluding his wife from any consideration. “And I don’t have to worry about Z.Z. sleeping anymore.”
Glancing at Jane, who pretended not to see, Olivia started to weep. But that was what she did most of the time anyway.
She had taken to her bed as she had when Horace died, and did not emerge for days, calling in sick to her school each morning but promising to return the next day. Martin spent some time by her side but got weary of playing nursemaid to his wife and told her she had better get over it. One night, after he returned from the bar at the end of the street, he stormed into their bedroom, shouting.
Jane followed him in, fearful for her sister. She tried to quiet him, putting her hand on his arm and reminding him how delicate Olivia was. He pushed Jane aside, nearly knocking her to the floor.
“She’s my wife,” he roared, drunkenly. “Stay out of it. This is none of your business.”
Jane tried again to reason with Martin, but Olivia put up her hand. “Let him be,” she said. “He won’t hurt me.”
But he did. Jane could hear through the bedroom wall, Olivia pleading and Martin insisting. “I’ve waited long enough,” he s
aid, and muffled sounds followed. Jane covered her head with her pillow and cried herself to sleep.
For a while afterward, it seemed Olivia was getting up the courage to split up with Martin. She went back to work and started each day with a purpose, happily anticipating the students in her class. Jane promised her she would do whatever it took, pay whatever lawyers, to get rid of that man. Olivia seemed pleased but then suddenly stopped her efforts, leaving Jane confused.
By spring, she understood. Olivia had started to wear their father’s old sweater, and Jane realized her sister was pregnant. She broached the subject one afternoon.
“How far along are you?”
Olivia sighed. “The baby is due in September.”
Although Jane did not believe the baby would have a good father in Martin, she said, “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”
Olivia brightened. “Are you really? I’ve been so afraid to tell you, because of how you feel about Martin.”
Jane’s eyes filled with remorseful tears. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, hugging her sister close. “I don’t mean to be so judgmental about him. I just can’t stand seeing you hurt.”
“I know you love me,” said Olivia, with tears in her own eyes. “And he doesn’t really hurt me. A man has a right to…” Her brows furrowed for a moment. “But anyway, now with the baby coming, he’s been very nice to me.”
Jane had not really seen a change in Martin, but she didn’t mention it. “He must be so excited.”
“Oh, he is. He took me all the way to the Bronx to see his mother and tell her the news.”
“Will you be able to finish this school year?” Jane asked.
“I’m hoping to. That’s why I got the sweater out. If I’m lucky, no one will notice.”
She was not lucky. Two weeks later, the school district asked her to leave because of her pregnancy. The loss of her job proved devastating. The children in her class, who had cheered her up and given her a reason to get up in the morning after Z.Z.’s death, were no longer a part of her day. She fell back into depression, only somewhat lessened by the prospect of her own child.