Maggie follows the sound of his voice, bumping into the edge of the table. Mickey clicks on a small lamp. Maggie blinks at the sudden light. “Dinner smells great, Mickey. Come upstairs and you can tell me about the pool table. It’s a beaut.”
Mickey stands, running his hand along the top. “It is, isn’t it? I’ve always wanted a pool table at home. Do you play, Maggie?”
“No. You’ll have to give me lessons once the felt’s on.”
Mickey starts to drift toward the stairs. “Yes, that would be nice.” He makes his way upstairs. Maggie shuts off the lamp and follows.
Chapter 6
T oday is an ‘on-day’ and Maggie is downtown at the office. And she’s not just ‘on’, but ‘really on’; corporate clients are expecting year end statements. She and Ron NcNeely, the office’s accounting clerk, are swamped.
Maggie has stacks of file folders on the table in her office. On her desk, alongside her trusty adding machine, are the files of the current client. Her notes are beside her as she jots down missing information, or questions she’ll have for the client later in the day.
She stretches out the kinks in her neck, closes the file folder, and walks down the hall to Ron’s desk. On the way, she passes her father’s closed door. She’d called her mother earlier, like she does every day now, and had been told that her father, Howard, was up and sitting downstairs, reading. This was good news.
“Okay, I cry uncle. I can’t stand the thought of another column of numbers. Let’s go grab lunch and get out of here for a while,” she says to Ron. She finds herself admiring the good looks of this young man with his pencil moustache.
“I must admit, I could use the break,” Ron answers with a smile just for her. Maggie’s tummy does a little flip, and she slips on her coat to disguise the flustered emotions. Silly girl.
Bundled up against the January cold, Ron and Maggie make their way to a corner deli. Steamy storefront windows promise warmth. The smell of hot corned beef, and the sharp tang of brined pickles, gets their stomachs rumbling. They are seated and have ordered before they’ve even warmed up.
“Any news on your father?” Ron asks, grabbing hold of a mountain of a sandwich that has just been delivered to the table.
“Mother says he came downstairs and is reading. But he’s not coming into the office. How are you managing?”
“Holding my own as long as nothing new is added. How about you?”
“The file for Tony’s barbershop is a real mess. It’s basically a shoebox of scraps of paper that I’ve got to sort through to figure out what is claimable and what is garbage. Who brought him into the firm, anyway?”
Ron laughs. “You did, Maggie. He’s one of your Marshall Street referrals.”
“Ah, then I only have myself to blame. We’ll get through this, Ron. There’s light at the end of the tunnel.”
“You mean from that oncoming freight train?”
They laugh. While they eat, Maggie watches the occasional patron come in and be shown round to the back where the kitchen is.
“What’s going on back there?” She nods to another disappearing customer. “Surely this place isn’t a front for liquor or gambling?”
Ron chuckles. “Where do you get these ideas? No. I imagine they’ve got a free hot lunch set up back there. Some soup and day old bread is my guess. Jews have been hard hit with the layoffs. Immigrants and Negros are always the first to be let go in a downturn.”
“We were talking about it at dinner the other night. Dick says over a quarter of the workforce is now gone. That’s hundreds of thousands of unemployed men. And their families. Hungry.”
“And probably needing a roof over their head as well. No job means no money for rent. And out onto the street you go. I know of places that have a whole family living in one small room. And they feel grateful for that.”
“How come you know so much about this?”
“I’ve been coming here for lunch since I started with your father. The owners, Saul and Miriam, are good people. I’ve gotten to know them quite well. I sit at the counter and we talk. Both of them were born elsewhere and came here to build a life. I guess I’m in awe of the strength that took.”
“You sound just like my late husband. He worked with newcomers down at the shipyards, and I still live in Northern Liberties. A lot of our neighbors are from Eastern Europe. I’d often find him with a pal or two on the back step, talking… and eating pickles with their vodka.”
“With so many out of work, it’s going to stir up a lot of resentment. When times are good, people are more tolerant of the ‘other’ but, in tough times like these, people circle the wagons and keep the ‘other’ out. There will soon be headlines claiming immigrants are stealing the few jobs we have left. That they are taking more than their fair share. Hard times bring out the nasty side of people.”
“With all those breadlines and the unemployment, have we lost any clients yet?”
“One or two. But looking at the financials, it’s only a matter of time until the trickle becomes a flood. A barbershop can’t make money if nobody can afford a haircut,” Ron says, and finishes the last bite of sandwich.
“I won’t complain about the amount of work anymore,” Maggie says, ruefully shaking her head.
“Yeah, it’s a good problem to have.”
“How are your folks, Ron? Now that you’re a certified public accountant, I bet you got lots of pressure from them over the holidays to go back to the family firm.”
“Oh, the usual. My father would like to see all his sons involved. But I put him off. I won’t leave you in the lurch, Maggie. Your father’s been too good to me.”
“I wasn’t fishing, Ron. I know what kind of pressures family expectations can create. I ran away from them myself years ago. But I guess I didn’t run far enough, because here I am.”
“I’m glad you are, Maggie.” Ron holds her eyes for an extra moment.
Her pulse racing, Maggie blushes and pushes back her chair. “Come on then, those financial statements won’t reconcile themselves, you know,” she says. Oh my, Maggie girl. Get a hold of yourself. You work together in the same office. As Ron helps her on with her coat, she’s very aware of how close he’s standing. It’s almost electric. She turns slightly, caught in the woodsy smell of his aftershave. Oh heck, what would Edith do? Ha, I know exactly what she’d do, heaven forbid, naughty girl. Maggie smiles to herself, imagining.
On the way back to the office, Maggie’s romantic woolgathering comes crashing to a halt as they pass a long line of men standing on the sidewalk warming themselves near burning barrels. The line snakes into one of the many soup kitchens that have sprung up in the past year.
“At least they’re getting a good, hot meal.”
“But at what cost, Maggie? People say it’s free, but it’s not, really. It does something to a man to be seen in a bread line. Sometimes pride is the only thing he has left.”
Maggie pulls her coat collar close. “How bad can it get, Ron?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?”
Chapter 7
H enry Mercer grips the steering wheel of his Cord L-29 automobile. The top’s up on the convertible, and its toasty warm inside, but the car’s efficient heating system isn’t responsible for the fogged windows. No, the blame for that rests squarely with the gorgeous gal in the passenger seat. Long, thick, dark curls caught up in a top-knot rather than cut short in a more fashionable bob, hazel eyes surrounded by sooty lashes, flawless skin with just a touch of olive: Sadie Bloom is a beauty, and Henry is wild about her.
When Henry, bored with retirement, had approached fellow bootlegger and sometimes partner of Mickey Duffy, Max Hassel, with the offer to manage his breweries, he had no idea that it would lead to romance. In addition to bringing Henry into the brewery business, Max had become a generous friend, and would often invite Henry along when he paid calls on acquaintances in the Jewish community. There, Henry was well known and liked, even if he was a goy, and outside th
e faith. At loose ends, Henry became Max’s constant sidekick.
Sadie is the youngest daughter of Ezra Bloom, a baker on Marshall Street, and a committed blackjack player, although never for money he’s quick to point out. Max and Henry were often invited for dinner and cards. Evenings with the Blooms were filled with riddles and jokes, strong opinions, good food, and warm companionship, although, lately, Henry was growing uncomfortable with the secret they were keeping from Sadie’s parents.
“We can’t keep sneaking around behind your pa’s back. Or Max’s either, for that matter. They’ve been good to me, and I’m letting them down. Besides, we got a great thing going here, darlin’. Let me talk to your pa. Ezra likes me. I’m sure that I could get him to agree to letting us get married.”
Sadie pushes away from Henry, panic in her eyes. “Don’t you dare, Henry Mercer. My father would kill me, literally, if he found out I was seeing a goy. Maybe in some families that’s allowed, but not in mine. They’ve even got the matchmaker working on finding a couple of good Jewish boys for me to think about.”
Henry pulls her in close again. “Whoa, you’re my gal, Sadie. You don’t need no matchmaker.”
“You don’t understand, my motek. My parents will decide who I marry, and it certainly won’t be someone like you, Mr. Henry ‘the goy’ Mercer. It will be someone who can sit at table on Friday nights for Shabbos, and who keeps the high holidays. No, Henry, my father would never allow it, nor accept us a couple. Let’s just enjoy this for what it is. Don’t be a shediker.”
Henry looks over at her and smiles. “I like the sounds of that. What is a shediker?”
“A trouble maker, and you are certainly all that and then some,” she says, cupping his cheek in her hand.
Henry laughs. “Yup, that’s me. A shediker. Always have been and always will be.” Henry slides his hand along the back of her neck and slowly unpins her hair. It tumbles down in soft waves around his hand. “Oh, Sadie. This mess is hardly my fault, doll. If you weren’t so beautiful, I wouldn’t be in this jam.”
Sadie, against her better judgement, lifts her face to Henry. “No one has ever called me beautiful.”
“I find that seriously hard to believe. Good Jewish boys must have terrible eyesight.” And he leans down and kisses her.
Chapter 8
L ying in bed that night, Maggie tosses and turns. She punches her pillow and gazes up at the ceiling. Lines. This whole town is made up of lines right now. People lining up at soup kitchens, people lining up in bread lines, people lining up at the unemployment office, people lining up at shuttered banks.
Maggie yanks the covers up close to her chin.
Banks. What am I going to do about my mortgage? Walking up the front steps of the Bankers Trust building almost five years ago. And that awful Mr. McKim. But I got the roof fixed and, after a bit of a rocky start, managed to meet all the repayments on the loan. I don’t think either one of us thought I’d make it through to the end.
Maggie smiles to herself in the darkness.
Now I’ve got to decide how to pay that final balloon payment. I can borrow again, at atrocious interest rates no doubt. The federal government really ought to do something about banks. There is no way they should be allowed to get away with what they do.
Maggie punches the pillow into a different shape, lying on her side to stare out the window at the darkness beyond.
I suppose I could pay off much of what I owe with my savings, but I’m not sure about giving the bank more money right now. I wonder what happens if my bank goes under before my loan is due. Does it just go away? Maybe I could just play the odds and see what happens. Although, if the bank closes, I’ll lose my savings and, with my luck, still have to pay back the loan. I’ve got to get that safe that Archie was talking about. It’s better to take my money out. I’ll do it tomorrow.
With a sigh of frustration, she rolls over on her tummy, wrapping her arms around the pillow. Most of the time, I’m quite happy on my own. But there are times like these that I’d really like someone to talk to about this. Not to make the decision, mind you, but someone that I could bounce ideas off of. I could talk to the Inspector, but sometimes he doesn’t understand the latest nuances of finance and banking. Things were so different back in his day. I suppose they had banks? Sure they did. He’d said some of them closed. I know he’ll support me in whatever I decide, but I need help getting to a decision.
I wish I could talk to Father about it. He’d have good ideas and helpful advice. But I can’t right now. He’s too sick. I don’t want to give him anything troubling to think about. Poor Mother. She’s carrying on like a real trooper.
Rolling onto her back again, she straightens the covers that had become twisted. Could I talk to Ron about it? He’d understand, and I could see him coming up with some clever solution, but do I want him knowing that much about my finances? I like him well enough, but this is personal. No, I don’t think I could talk to Ron. What to do, what to do?
At the foot of the stairs, Maggie can hear the phone ringing. Alarmed, she pulls on her bathrobe and hurries downstairs.
“Hello?... Mother? What’s wrong?... I’ll be right there…. All right, but first thing in the morning then. I’ll be there before breakfast.” Maggie puts the phone down. I’m going to go. I don’t care what she says. It’s not like I’m going to sleep anyway. Should I say anything to Tommy?
“Mother? Is it Grandfather?” Tommy is standing at the top of the stairs, rumpled from sleep.
“Yes. Get dressed, son. That was Grandmother on the telephone. We need to go.”
“But it’s the middle of the night,” he says, yawning.
“It always is. Bad news like this never happens in the daylight. Grandfather has taken a turn for the worse. We should go now, so that we can say goodbye. Hurry now.”
Throwing on her clothes, and packing a small bag just in case they’re there for a few days, she scribbles a note for Archie and Dick, leaving it propped up by the phone. She explains what has happened, and asks Archie to let the school know that Tommy will be away, maybe all week. Mentally, she runs through the contents of the refrigerator. Pickings are lean as it was an ‘on-day’ and she was planning to go to the market later this morning. Oh well, they’re adults. They’ll manage.
Tommy comes down the stairs and slips his hand into hers. “Mother? Is Grandfather going to die?”
“It’s not looking good. You know how sick he’s been, sweetie. In a way, I hope not, but maybe that’s being selfish. He’s earned his rest, Tommy. It may be time to let him go.” She gives him a squeeze, surprised that he lets her, and together they go out into the cold night to start the car.
Chapter 9
R on’s perched at the deli counter, the smell of the corned beef making his mouth water as he waits for Miriam to finish stacking his sandwich. He can almost taste the sharp tang of the rye bread and the heat of the mustard cutting though all the fatty goodness of the meat.
“I should charge you rent for the time on the stool, boychick,” she says, putting down the sandwich. “You don’t have a home to go to? Morning, noon, and night, always on the stool.”
“You’re my home away from home, Miriam. You and Saul.”
“And what about that sweet girl you bring the other day? She special? Time to settle down, maybe?” Miriam, a dynamic four foot eight, takes swipes at the counter with her rag.
“You’re the only girl for me, Miriam. You know that,” Ron says, giving her his best smile. She snaps the rag at him.
“Enough. Saul will hear, and then we’ll be in trouble.”
“She’s more trouble than she’s worth, Ron,” Saul says, laughing from the back room.
Miriam rolls her eyes and then leans close on the counter. “No, really, Ron. Why a nice boy like you—easy on the eyes, a good earner, good teeth—why you not find somebody?”
Ron chews thoughtfully. The same question had been on his mind lately. “I don’t know. I look at Pops and Mother and see
what they have. It’s not good, Miriam. My mother is always shut away upstairs with a headache or one of her spells every time Father wants to go out. He’s cut himself off from everyone but family because he can’t leave her alone. I don’t want that. I want a strong woman, a partner. I want someone who’s going to stand beside me.” He pauses again, “I got plans, you know. I need someone who can believe in those plans and will be part of them.”
Miriam pinches Ron on the cheek. “You know, boychick, it’s not where you go, but who you travel with. You should be like me and marry for character, not for looks. Take Saul. He’s lost his hair and he wears his belt too high, but we’re still together, you know? All the time. Every day, all day at the deli, all night at home. It sounds like that might be a bad thing, all that time together. But it’s not. It’s good. So, what about that girl from the other day? She works with you, right? A girl like that understands a man who’s going places.”
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