“I’m sure that will be lovely,” Bess answered, casting limpid eyes at Lillian and thanking her enthusiastically with a straight face. Lillian had mentioned for about the fiftieth time that she was spending the summer with her intended’s family in classy Saratoga. Bess was practicing holding her tongue.
Actually, she was thrilled when she tried on the hand-me-downs. They looked like new, and she looked terrific in shorts. The other things would be perfect, with maybe a little tuck here and there, and hems let down on the slacks and skirts. She was sorry she had resented Frima’s mother even for a minute when that good women offered to do the alterations for her. Hannah Eisner was a professional dressmaker and could make adjustments in ways that would be invisible to any but the most practiced eye. Beyond these few items, she would need only a bathing suit. She could use the one she wore on the rare occasions she got to Orchard Beach, still in good shape since Bess almost never ventured into water over her knees. Also sandals, tennis shoes (not for tennis, of course), and a summer dress or two. With her height she never needed high heels.
Monticello, Bess learned, was the center of the vacation country and the town nearest to the hotel, the Alpine Song, and the area was hopping with Jewish vacation hotels sprouting up to replace struggling farms, boardinghouses, and small bungalows. Socially, these resorts could be goldmines, according to Lillian. “You’d never believe there had ever been a depression up there,” she said. With luck, Bess could land herself a nice young Jewish doctor or lawyer, like Lillian had. Actually, Lillian’s intended was a dental student, but still a catch. An “alrightnik,” Mama would call him.
The Alpine Song, according to the brochure Bess had quickly committed to memory, was “nestled in the lovely Catskill Mountains on acres of sunny green lawn and unspoiled woodland, surrounded by Catskill lakes, walking and hiking trails, and a nearby golf course. Guests enjoy luxurious accommodations, a private pool, tennis courts, and superb cuisine. Dietary laws strictly observed.” Which meant that the people who went there were prosperous (who else could afford all that?) and Jewish. A veritable happy hunting ground, Lillian assured her.
Bess had no wish to husband hunt. Her immediate experience of husbands—her mother’s sorry specimen—wasn’t exactly encouraging. But the rest of this Catskill adventure sounded just fine. She had quite deliberately lied to her parents about how much money she would make. She figured fifty dollars for the ten weeks would be believable to them, especially since her father didn’t consider that she was worth much. Besides, that noisy adding machine he had for a mind would tell him instantly that he’d be better off pocketing her room and board, even if she earned nothing this summer. She hoped that she’d be in a position to not turn any of it over to him. But she wanted very much to give something to Mama. And then there were tips. Bess had never even thought about a tip before. But Lillian said if she smiled and looked cute, honest, and harmless, she could rake them in. She was curious as to how much Lillian herself had earned this way but was reluctant to ask. Still, she’d feel happy about any tips she got. Surely, this was money for her alone.
Surprisingly, it was her mother who was doubtful about the whole adventure. “So who is this Lillian? How come I don’t know her? She never came to visit our house. She’s from downtown? She’s too good to meet us? And if this is such a great job, how come she doesn’t want it for herself? Also, I don’t like you should be all alone up there.”
“So, for what do you worry about nothing? Money is money.” This from the adding machine, of course.
Ignoring him completely, Bess explained gently and reasonably. “Mama, Lillian is a nice girl. She lives all the way over in Jersey, but she’s Myra’s cousin. You remember Myra—you liked her. And don’t worry, I’ll be surrounded by nice respectable Jewish people.” Bess paused for the clincher. “And the reason Lillian is not taking this job is she’s getting married this summer. A boy from a very good Jewish family, whom she just happened to meet at the Alpine Song.”
So, hallelujah! Bess had crossed the ice. She was a free woman, ready for experience. When she took a break from the joyful labor of painting without someone looking over her shoulder, she would ride down country roads with carefree young men in convertibles. She would dance on moonlit patios in scented air. She would listen to the sweet rhythmic caress of the water as she reclined in a canoe, hidden in the shadows of purple mountains’ majesty in the arms of one special young man: handsome, debonair, and sensitive—deeply sensitive—who understood her and adored her art.
“We’ll be there in about ten minutes,” Moe informed her, waking from his latest catnap.
“Oy vey!” she muttered to herself.
“Not another sigh. You’ll have Monticello at your feet!” He picked up his satchel and blew her a kiss. “You need advice, you come to Woodridge and ask. Everybody knows me there. Remember, the only thing you need to know about Monticello is Thomas Jefferson never slept there.”
She grinned and waved a kiss back, abandoning both panic and rhapsody. “Okay,” she told herself, “keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut, except to smile sweetly and show those pretty white teeth.”
CHAPTER 2
Six a.m., and Frima, clad in rolled-up dungarees and a faded plaid cotton shirt, slipped bare feet into old loafers, quickly braided her hair into a single plait, and pinned it to the top of her head, where the flaxen end of the braid bobbed around like a crest atop a bird’s head. Very fitting, she thought with a sigh, for a chicken coop. Her hair was a trial to her, even though it was the envy of all the mamas in the city. They thought it made her look all-American, like a shiksa. What did they know? Did they ever try to curl corn silk or keep a hairpin in it? Well, never mind. She wasn’t going to worry about it now. If she had to wear a braid or tie it back with a rubber band for the rest of her life, it wasn’t the end of the world, was it? Jack probably wouldn’t notice it anyway. Besides, he wasn’t here yet.
She grabbed her basket and bounded down the back steps. Most times of the year, this ungodly hour would not find her so cheerful and energetic, but as she walked down the path to the chicken coops, she was aware of a gladness that made her want to skip like a child. She felt this way most mornings during the long summer days in Ellenville. At this first hour of daylight, she collected the eggs as she did every morning during the season. She enjoyed this task. Papa had taught her to gather them when Eisner’s was still a modest little egg and dairy farm, and she’d acquired the same firm gentleness with livestock that he had.
Mama, now. She considered chickens to be witless, mean-spirited, and prone to hysterics. They evidently returned her hostility, for she could barely enter a henhouse without being pecked. Were it not for their obvious practical worth, she would have loved to see every laying hen and certainly any rooster slaughtered and turned into a roast or soup, preferably when she was not there to see it done. The Jersey cow and her yearly calf she tolerated, for although most of the hotel’s milk came from a local dairy, there were still a few old timers who enjoyed the fresh unprocessed Jersey milk. Besides, what’s a farm without a cow? The old horse of all work, Jessie, was pastured and would live out his life here because Grandpa and Frima loved him, and he had proved to be a major attraction to the kids. The aging hound, Rufus, also beloved by the two of them, Mama could put up with as long as Frima kept him clean, flea-free, and out of the main house. After all, she wouldn’t deprive her father-in-law and daughter of the comfort of these old companions. The acquisition of more animals was another story. Mama was always against it, whereas Frima and Grandpa maintained a gentle conspiracy to increase their number. Frima grinned as she walked by the pasture and spied their newest freeloader, a shaggy donkey that had belonged before this summer to the kids of a neighboring farmer. The kids, growing up now, were no longer interested in their old pet, and the man’s wife was delighted not to hear any more braying. Grandpa and Frima, mustering their arguments, had said nothing about the braying.
“Donkeys are
strong, hardy animals,” Grandpa said. “And this fellow is very gentle. He comes with a clean bill of health, also a cart and harness. He’ll be pastured with the horse and will use the same shed in the summer and winter. Believe me, Hannah, it will cost us nothing. A little goodwill exchanged with another Jewish farmer. Who can it hurt?”
“Jessie will love the company, Mama. Horses are herd animals, you know,” added Frima. “We’ll call him Toby, like in Louisa May Alcott—you remember, Little Men? And just think how much fun the small kids will have going for a ride in the cart, which Grandpa is going to paint a bright red. It will be the most popular attraction for them.”
“Until some three-year-old gets kicked in the head!”
“I’ve already talked with Moe, and we won’t be liable. Everything is hunky dory, Hannah.” Grandpa lit his pipe, signaling that for his part there was nothing else to say.
“You mean we’ll have a notice: APPROACH AT YOUR OWN RISK. How wonderful! Some heartbroken guests—probably dear friends of mine—with a child maimed for life or even worse can’t sue us. That makes everything alright?”
“Now you know nothing is going to happen, Mama. I will personally supervise their time with the farm animals, as I always do. Here. I already have a new sign: OUR ANIMALS ARE GENTLE BUT ALSO LARGE. CHILDREN UNDER THE AGE OF 10 MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT WHEN VISITING THE BARN OR PASTURE.
Mama had sighed and eyed them sternly. “No goats!”
“Come to Eisner’s and enjoy the matchless experience of a family farm vacation!” Frima quoted her mother’s very own promotional slogan, softening her irony with an intimate smile. She and Mama, living alone together for most of the year, had developed an unusually fine judgment of each other’s moods and limits. She had squeezed Mama’s shoulder as she moved past her, noting as she often did lately that she had grown markedly taller than her mother. But this time the realization pierced her with a bittersweet tenderness. Was this because she knew, somehow, that she would be leaving this phase of her life soon enough?
As if reading her thoughts, Mama peered at her sharply. “It’s all very well for you to think that you can take care of all this,” she said, pointing to the pasture and outbuildings that were situated a distance from the guest accommodations. “But you are a young lady now, and I need my beautiful daughter at the desk and in the office to refresh the guests and the staff with her charming ways. A barnyard is not the aroma they should associate with you. And besides, you need to take care of your hands. There’s no piano here at the moment, which is a pity, but there is the rest of the year to think of. And I think next year I will try to acquire one, provided you two can refrain from adopting any more four-legged refugees that do little more than eat, produce manure, and attract flies. Now Grandpa will have to hire another local boy to take care of those we have. I certainly can’t spare Jack for such chores; nor would I expect him to do them.”
Winning arguments was one of Mama’s favorite pastimes, and she had certainly covered all the ground. Her parting shot about Jack was masterful. Frima wondered how often his name would come up this summer whenever Mama decided to rest her case. It was also true that a readily available piano was a joy to her, the intimate companion—and sometimes the solace—of her hours alone. Still, she could do without it quite easily for the summer. She was gifted musically. Her pitch was virtually perfect, and she had years of training under her belt. She was quite capable of studying a piano score and hearing the lines of music in her head, something she could do in a hammock in her off-hours or, if need be, in her own room with the aid of a silent keyboard. Besides, this was her summer life, as physically and spiritually uplifting to her as Mozart or Beethoven.
Domestic animals, of course, as well as the vegetable and flower gardens—everything really—needed year-round maintenance, but Grandpa lived here the whole year and hired local boys and maintenance people as necessary. He still had a dwindling but cooperative and friendly community of small dairy and egg farmers around him, and they had always looked after each other. It was essential to their survival. Most of these were Jewish, but Grandpa was a lively, genial man and seemed to dwell in harmony with neighbors of all persuasions. Unlike most of the small farmers who had turned to boardinghouse and hotel keeping, Grandpa would not leave the place during the harsh winter months, even after Grandma died. He was still a farmer, he insisted, and he intended to live and die here. Mama and Frima also suspected that more than one widow or single lady of a certain age contributed to his care and feeding.
As far back as she could remember, Frima had always wanted to be involved in the care of the animals. As a child, she had tried to adopt any stray tomcat or mutt that passed by, to say nothing of the wounded wildlife she was forbidden to touch. Perhaps it was because she was an only child. But she was never really lonely up here, and she would also have them increase the orchard, garden, and vegetable plots. She had the gift, if you could call it that, of understanding and enjoying this rural life. She was sure she had got this from Papa, who had spent his youth on the farm.
There was so much of Papa here. Even though he had been taken from them nearly eight years ago, she always felt his nearness in the country. In truth, almost any time she thought of Papa, she saw him here in Ellenville. Workdays in the city, which actually constituted most of his time on this earth, he was a more shadowy figure to her, gone from early morning to suppertime to his other life, where he labored at a civil service job in downtown Manhattan at the Customs Office. Often he came home tired. Probably, she realized now, because of the heart weakness that had cut his life short. Most weekends in the city he devoted to visiting friends and family with Frima and Mama, or taking them on outings to the zoo, the botanical gardens, the Museum of Natural History, as well as to concerts that he often slept through but which Frima and Mama adored. Nevertheless, the gentle refrains, “Shh, Papa’s resting” or “Papa’s studying,” were repeated too often for Frima’s satisfaction. It was only in the last few years that she realized what a feat it had been for him, through dogged work and long hours of study, to climb the civil service ladder and so bring his family through the Depression free from fear and want.
But here during his precious time in the country, mostly summer weekends and his too-short vacations, Papa had been a new man. He was invigorated by the outdoor life and work, and he seemed to exist only for Frima’s care and amusement. He taught her to swim, to groom the horse, gather eggs, to know when an ear of corn was ripe or a berry sweet for picking, to identify poison ivy and sumac, which mushrooms and berries were poisonous and which good for eating. He had sown these acres with love and security for her, sufficient to last the year round. And Mama, that champion of urban culture, knew this. She might be finicky about manure and flies, but she had made these acres a charming, almost pastoral respite from the ordinary workaday city life. It was her tribute and memorial to her husband, and a way of telling her daughter that she was still loved by both of them and that she was safe. Frima’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. She stifled an impulse to run back to the house and bury her face in her mother’s lap. It was over in a minute, but she needed time to compose herself. She laid the egg basket aside carefully and sat down on the grassy knoll hugging her knees. What was wrong with her? Why was she acting like a twelve-year-old? It didn’t take long to realize that it wasn’t adolescence but womanhood that faced her. And it was because of Jack.
He was arriving tomorrow. What would he think of this place? She had been in such a tizzy since her mother had hired Bess’s older brother for the summer. Bess was her best friend, but Frima had been so secretly relieved—and guilty that she was relieved—when Bess had refused Mama’s offer to work up here also. She had said not a word to Bess about her crush on Jack. It was something she couldn’t share with anyone, let alone his sister. She was even vicariously embarrassed when the neighborhood girls kidded Bess about her dreamboat brother. Fear, embarrassment, delicacy—any and all of these kept Frima quiet. And now that
she suspected he was returning her interest, she was quieter still. As if her hopes would dissolve if she voiced them. But would Jack even like it here? Oh, please, God, make him like it here!
So, what’s not to like? That’s what Mama would think. Mama was so proud of the place, and she had every right to be. It was her vision, her driving energy that had made it into the charming vacation spot it was now. The Catskills were changing rapidly, vacation hotels growing and expanding from small farms; but Eisner’s was in Frima’s eyes unique. Through Mama’s management, it maintained a carefully balanced position someplace between a boardinghouse and a resort. Frima looked around critically, trying to see it with a stranger’s eyes, but she couldn’t be objective. She loved every acre, and she approved of how Mama had preserved so much of the farm’s rusticity, while making it comfortable and inviting.
The old barn had been rebuilt and painted a bright red, and the new whitewashed chicken coops were situated beyond a slope in back of the house, far enough from the guest accommodations to be out of sight and to keep the endless flies, droppings, cackling, and crowing from being a nuisance. Frima, still a child when the building and renovation began, had wanted storybook white structures with red trim. But with a mature eye, she saw that her mother’s choices had been very smart indeed. The natural shingle Mama chose for all the hotel buildings, old and new, weathered beautifully and blended harmoniously with the selected old trees and lilac bushes that she retained for their beauty and shade. She and Grandpa had gutted the old farm house, adding a wing for the professional kitchen and dining room and a ground-floor modernized room and bath for Grandpa, whose knees were not what they used to be. The upstairs bedrooms were chopped up and renovated, and new bathrooms added. A large bungalow behind the main building housed the summer live-in help, with the cook ruling the roost. Jack would share space there this summer.
Bess and Frima Page 2