by Evergreen
Aggie took a bottle of wine from her suitcase. "I brought some wine for our wedding toast. Look at the label. Nothing but the best!"
"I don't know a thing about wines. We never had any in our house."
"I got used to it, living in France. You drink it there instead of water."
"Don't people get drunk?" "Just a pleasant haze. Your health!" she said. "And yours, Mrs. Friedman."
So they drank to each other, pulled the shade and went back to bed, although it was only three in the afternoon.
In the morning, after he was sure that his father had left for . work, he telephoned his mother.
"Maury," she said, "oh, how I want to see you! But I can't. Your father has forbidden me." And she cried, "Dear heaven, if only you hadn't done this! It's like a morgue here since yesterday. Iris and I, we can scarcely breathe. And your father looks ten years older."
He was not angry at her. "Good-by, Ma," he said softly, and hung the receiver up.
Between them they had a little more than four hundred dollars. "If we're very careful," Maury said, "we can make this last a couple of months. But I'll have a job long before then." He felt very strong, very confident.
"I'll get something too. I can always teach French as a substitute until there's a permanent opening."
"Meanwhile, we'll find the cheapest decent apartment we can until we decide where we want to go permanently."
Cheerfully, purposefully, they bought newspapers, took subways, and finally found a furnished apartment on the top floor of a two-family house in Queens. The owner was Mr. George Andre-apoulis, a polite young Greek-American who had just graduated from law school into the Depression. On a trip to Greece he had gotten a bride, Elena, a strong girl with a white smile and hairy arms.
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The apartment was newly furnished in yellow maple. There were clean curtains and an ugly imitation Oriental rug.
"I should get fifty a month for it," said Mr. Andreapoulis, "but the times are so bad that, frankly, I'll be willing to take forty."
Maury stood looking out of the kitchen window to the small concrete-and-cinder yard, the endless lots without trees, just dry waving grass as far as the distant billboards on the highway. Bleak, even in the glittering sunlight. If the world were flat this would be the place where you dropped off into the void. Still, it was immaculate, the landlord was respectable and friendly and they wouldn't be here long anyway.
"My wife speaks no English," said Mr. Andreapoulis. "We're newlyweds, too. Maybe you will help her to learn English, Mrs. Friedman? And she will teach you to cook, she's a wonderful cook." He looked suddenly flustered. "Excuse me, how stupid, I only meant that so many American young ladies don't learn cooking—although probably you're a fine cook already."
Agatha laughed. "No, I can't boil water as the saying goes. I'm ready to be taught. Until I get a job, that is."
So it was settled. They made two trips on the subway with their suitcases, a heavy box of books, and their one purchase, a superheterodyne radio which Maury bought for thirty-five dollars. They placed it on the table in the living room next to the lamp.
There was a certain amount of guilt over its purchase, but in the end it turned out to have been a good investment. People needed some recreation, and the movies cost seventy cents for the two of them. For nothing at all, the radio brought the Philharmonic on Sunday afternoons, and a good dance band almost any time. They could dance on the kitchen floor to Glen Gray's Casa Loma Orchestra or to Paul Whiteman at the Biltmore. They could Begin the Beguine, Fly Down to Rio, or turn off the lights and Dance in the Dark, alone together in their private world. Dazed and entranced, they moved like one body across the room to where, still not separating from her, he switched off the sound, and then in the sudden fall of silence they moved again like one body to the bed.
20
They walked up Riverside Drive and turned toward West End Avenue at Iris' street. It was a warm evening for April and people were out, fathers of families walking their dogs and young people singing "When a Broadway Baby Says Goodnight," shoving at one another and laughing boisterously. They were on their way to a party. Iris and Fred were coming back from one.
"Sorry to break it up so early," Fred said when they reached the building where Iris lived. "I shouldn't have left so much homework for Sunday night. My fault," he said apologetically.
"That's all right," she told him. "I've got work too," which was not the case.
They stood a moment. It was awkward; should she ask him upstairs for a few minutes, after all? She didn't really want to and she knew he didn't want to come.
"Thanks for inviting me," he said. "It was a great party. I didn't know you and Enid were friends."
"We're not. It's just that our mothers work on the same charity committee and it happened through them." It occurred to her as she said the word 'charity' that it really was odd for her mother to be doing charity when there was never an extra dollar at home. But then, Ma always said, we must be very thankful, there are so many people far worse off than we are.
"Well, it was a great party," Fred said again. He started to move away. "Don't forget, newspaper meeting after school tomorrow."
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"I won't forget," she answered. She went inside and took the elevator upstairs.
Her mother was reading in the living room. She had a look of surprise. "So soon? And Where's Fred?"
"It broke up early. And he had homework."
"My goodness, it's only nine-thirty. He could have had something to eat. I put the cocoa pot out and some cake."
"We had too much to eat, we were stuffed."
"So you had a good time, then," her mother said. "Don't bother your father, he's doing the income tax. I guess I'll go read in bed, it's more comfortable."
Iris went to her room and took her dress off. It was emerald green, the color of wet leaves. Her mother bought it when Fred first took an interest in her. That was when they started to work on the school paper together. Her mother said she ought to pay more attention to her clothes now that she was fifteen.
Fred was a serious boy. When he filled out he would be a fine-looking man in spite of his glasses. Right now he was very tall and skinny, but he had a nice face. And he was one of the smartest boys in school.
They had been having such good discussions all winter, working in the editorial room, and sometimes walking home in the late afternoons. He was interested in politics and they had great arguments, although mostly they agreed on things.
"I respect your mind," he told her. "You reason things out. You think for yourself."
They felt, although they did not say so, rather superior to most of the other kids. They filled their lives, they didn't waste time. Fred did a lot of reading too, and they talked about what they read.
She knew he liked her, and this was one of the happiest things that had ever happened to her. It was like having something new to look forward to every day.
A week ago he had invited her to a wedding. One of his cousins was getting married and he had been told to bring a girl. It was to be a big formal wedding, and everyone would wear evening clothes. Iris had never been at any wedding at all, and she was excited about that and about having been asked by Fred.
Her mother said, "Well, we shall have to get you something very nice to wear." She had an idea. She went to a box on the top shelf of her closet and took out a dress. It was pink silk and Iris
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recognized the dress in the portrait of her mother, her Paris dress.
"We can take it to a dressmaker and have it altered for you," her mother said. "Look," and she pulled the skirt out into a fan, "ten yards of material, and such material! We can make a magnificent dress for you. And shoes dyed to match. What do you think?"
It was truly beautiful. Iris wondered, though, what the other girls would be wearing and wondered how she could find out.
Now she hung up the green wool dress. At this party tonight there was a girl who kept looking at I
ris' dress. She was one of those girls who look good with an old sweater tied around their shoulders, the sort of girl who is born that way and cannot be made. This girl gave Iris' dress a long, slow look, so that she sank lower into her chair and knew that her dress must be awful, must be all wrong. (Years later she was to meet this same girl at someone's house and the girl was to tell her: You had a dress once, emerald green, the most beautiful color; I never forgot it. But of course Iris could not know that now.)
It had really been a dreadful, miserable party. She was sorry she had invited Fred, but Enid had told her to bring a boy. All those friends of Enid's were the kind of people Fred didn't like: shallow and showoffy, speaking in wisecracks which you were supposed to answer with more wisecracks. It had been very tiring. Fred and Iris had exchanged looks and she had known he was thinking the same. She telegraphed her regret, and Fred brought her a plate of food. "The food's good anyway," he said, and went back for more. He had an enormous appetite.
Iris had watched the girls. It had been almost like a show, to see them giggling and giving the boys that arch look, the sideward and upward sliding of the eyes. Boys were so stupid they didn't see how affected it was. Except for Fred, who would see and understand. It was remarkable how his mind and Iris' worked on the same track.
"My goodness," Enid had said, "you look as if you'd lost your best friend! Aren't you having a good time?" She had smiled, but it was a cold smile.
Iris had been mortified in front of Fred. "Of course, I'm having a very good time," she had answered stiffly.
Perhaps she really ought to smile more. Cousin Ruth had told her once that she had an unusually nice smile. In fact, what Cousin Ruth had really said was: "A light seems to turn on in
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your face when you smile." After that Iris had gone home and practiced in front of the bathroom mirror. It was true. Her lips did draw back sweetly and her teeth were very bright. When the smile withdrew her face fell back into severity, although she didn't feel severe. She must remember to smile, but not too much, or she'd look like a nut.
Enid and some of the boys had taken up the rugs in the hall and put the phonograph on. Everyone got up to dance. Fred held his arm out. Iris loved to dance. She must have got that from her mother; her father danced well but he didn't love it all that much. She remembered the day she came home and found her mother all alone, dancing in the living room. Mama hadn't heard Iris come in and there she had been, whirling around in a waltz, with "The Blue Danube" playing on the phonograph. It was an- Edison, with thick records; you had to wind it up when the record was only half over. Iris had been so embarrassed for her mother, but Mama hadn't been at all. She had only stopped and said, "Do you know, if I could be reincarnated for a few days, I would like to be a countess or a princess in Vienna and go whirling in a marvelous white lace dress, waltzing under the crystal chandeliers. But only for a day or two. It must have been a very silly, useless life."
"I wish they would put on a waltz," Iris had said to Fred.
"They won't," he had answered, and laughed and put his cheek on hers. She had felt very excited, being that close to him. It had started to be a good time, Iris thought now.
She went to the bathroom and ran the water for a bath, although she had taken one before getting dressed this evening and was certainly quite clean. But she wanted to lie in the warm water and think. There was great comfort in warm water.
If that girl hadn't arrived it might have been lovely, after all. The minute she walked in everything had changed. She was one of those lively girls who make everyone look at them. They don't even have to be pretty.
"This is Alice," Enid had said. "She's just moved here from Al-toona. We went to camp together."
"Alice from Altoona," Alice had said and everybody laughed, although it wasn't funny. Right away everybody was interested in her. They all wanted to know: When did you move? Where are you going to school? This your first time in New York?
She had taken all the attention as though she expected it. No doubt she had always had it. Iris had watched her, thinking again:
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It is like a play, only now the leading lady has come in; the others were just bit players up to now. Iris had observed what she did, what was different about her. She saw that Alice didn't talk too much. When she did say something, it counted; usually it was something to make people laugh. Or else it was a compliment, not too thick, just a comment almost casual, something to make the other person feel important. It looked so easy, the way she did it, never overdoing it, but Iris knew it really wasn't.
She had told Enid's mother that the apartment was just beautiful and she'd love to have her own mother see it. (Her mother would be invited.) She had let everyone know that her brother was a sophomore at Columbia. (The girls would ask her to all their parties.) She had told every boy there that he was a simply marvelous dancer. "I couldn't help noticing," she'd said. (Immediately, they all wanted to dance with her.)
"You're so tall!" she had said to Fred, as though, Iris thought disgustedly, he were some sort of giant that she had never seen before.
But Fred had been pleased and asked her to dance. They did the Peabody; Alice knew some variations. "We know a thing or two in Altoona," she said and did a whirl. Her skirt swirled high till it showed the lace on her panties. Fred picked her up the way they do at the ballet and everybody stepped back into a circle to watch the performance of Fred and Alice. Fred was delighted and exhilarated.
Iris had tried to look as if it were really fun to stand there and admire. When Enid had changed the record, Fred had gone right on dancing with Alice. Soon everyone was back on the floor except Iris. Then a boy came and invited her; she was so relieved until she found out that he was Enid's little brother. He was almost thirteen. His hand was sweaty on the back of her dress and he didn't really dance, just walked around the floor. He kept on and on as the record changed; perhaps he would have liked to get rid of her and didn't know how? She would have liked to get rid of him and didn't know how. After a while she told him she wanted to sit down.
Fred had seen her sitting and had come over. No doubt he remembered his duty as her escort. Besides, someone had cut in and taken Alice away from him.
"You know," Iris reminded him then, "it's Sunday and don't you think we ought to get going home soon?"
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She had been surprised when he agreed. He said he still had homework to do. She had thought that now probably he would want to stay to the very last. But he had agreed.
Now she ran more hot water. Her mother always warned her not to fall asleep in the tub, but it was such a soothing place to think. Perhaps Maury would know what I do wrong? Everything Fred always said he didn't like is what that girl did. Perhaps Maury would know. So often she wished she could ask him about what she always thought of as his golden charm, but he would be so embarrassed. Once, when she was perhaps eleven, she had peeked through the crack of his door and seen him sitting at the window for minutes and minutes. And finally she had gone in and asked him, "Are you unhappy about something?" And he had been so cross. "Damn pesky little kid!" he had yelled at her. But then later that night, she remembered, he had come to her room and said he was sorry, and asked her whether she had wanted anything. He could be so tender, Maury could, but he didn't like to show that side to people.
I feel so sorry he has left us this way. I suppose he couldn't help falling in love with Agatha. Anyway, religion never meant very much to him. I used to see on his face that he wasn't feeling anything when we went to services. Not the way Pa or I do. (I never could tell about my mother; I know she loves the music.) But I truly love it, I love the old, old words and the ancient people. I think of a long caravan of people, trailing back in time, I think of all the people in all the rows as if they are a part of me and I them. Afterward, when they get up and go out, they will be strangers again, not caring an instant's worth about Iris Friedman, but while we are there and the mournful, plaintive music sweeps over us it dra
ws us all together and we are one. When I was very little, I used to think that God was like Pa, or Pa was like God and could do anything, could make anything happen. Now I know he can't. ... He couldn't do anything about Maury. He is so sad about Maury; I know he is, because he doesn't talk about him anymore. When Pa isn't home my mother talks about Maury. She talks so much about when he was a baby. She never says: When you were a baby, Iris.
The water began to grow cool. She climbed out of the tub and put her nightgown on. The telephone rang in the hall. Her mother answered and called her.
"For you," she said.
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Iris looked at the clock. It was almost eleven. She picked up the phone and Fred said, "Iris? I'm awfully sorry to call this late, but I just found out something and I wanted to tell you—" "Yes?" She waited.
"It's about the wedding," he said. "I'm so embarrassed. But it seems that I or somebody made a mistake and I'm not supposed to bring a girl, after all. I feel lousy about it, but—well, I know you'll understand."