Modern Girls

by Jennifer S. Brown

  A rap came on the front door. “Everything all right in there?” Mrs. Kaplan called from outside the front door. “I thought I heard crying.”

  I rolled my eyes at Dottie, but she didn’t even glance at me to notice. “We’re fine, Mrs. Kaplan. Thank you for checking.”

  “Oh,” she said, disappointment ringing in her voice.

  I pulled Dottie closer. Her tears warmed my neck, slid down my shoulders. Her body shook. I held her, my baby girl; I held her as I hadn’t in many, many years, rocking her back and forth and back and forth as she gripped me with the desperation of a little girl who wants her mamelah. That moment held a lifetime, yet lasted mere moments, before the boys came bounding in, oblivious to the grief of women.

  Dottie

  AFTER everyone retreated to the roof, I remained sitting on the couch, unable to move. Ma hadn’t wanted to leave me alone, but I promised I would get ready for bed and join the others soon. And I would, as soon as I could lift my heavy limbs. Usually I craved solitude, but that night, the night on the precipice of my life before and my life after, I knew I would evaporate on my own.

  Finally I slid on my nightgown and climbed slowly to the roof. Looking out at the sea of sleeping bodies, I sought my family. Finally I recognized the mounds on mattresses. Carefully stepping around the others, I crouched next to Eugene.

  “Shove over,” I whispered into his ear, and in his sleep he smiled and rolled over. I stretched out next to him, staring at the stars that dangled overhead. I listened to the sounds of the roof—the snores, the sighs, the simpering, and the staccato breathing—and the sounds of the street—the rumble of cars, the shouts of boys out too late, the cries of a baby in another building.

  Eugene turned toward me, his arm snaking over my body. His breath was warm on my face, and when I nuzzled closer to him, I smelled its sweetness. I leaned into him and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  Eugene stirred momentarily, mumbling, “Sweet dreams, Dottala,” before rolling back on his other side. I turned onto my back and stared at the stars, which the lights of the street made dim.

  I knew sleep would help, that I needed my strength for the next day, but every time I closed my eyes, the image of my baby formed beneath my lids. How clearly I could envision her, the way her entire newborn face would pucker, seeking me, her mother. Her wisp of a hand. The downy hair. The softness of her belly. A tightness in my throat made me gulp for air. I let myself cry silently, the tears leaking down the sides of my face, wetting the mattress. Ma said this wasn’t my baby, that my babies were yet to be. Why couldn’t I accept that?

  When my tears were spent, I pulled Eugene close to me. I lay there, looking upward, unaware of when the stars receded and sleep overtook me.

  Rose

  Thursday, August 29

  I was a bundle of nerves.

  Dottie arose an hour earlier than usual. She came down from the roof and changed into her work clothes even before Ben awoke.

  Sitting at the breakfast table, alone, she moved as if in a fog. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said, and the sorrow in her voice made me want to pull her into my arms, want to run away with her, protect her, my sweet, darling Dottala. But of course, that wasn’t possible. “I thought it might rain, but the skies are crystal clear.”

  I nodded. “Do you want some toast?”

  She looked at me with the glassy stare of a Flossie Flirt doll. “I thought I wasn’t to eat. Is toast permitted?”

  “I’m sure a piece of toast and some tea won’t hurt,” I said, but what did I know?

  I put a plate in front of her as well as a glass of tea. I brought out a bowl of sugar cubes. “Help yourself. I won’t look,” I said, trying to cheer her. Normally I doled out the sugar, watching how much she took, but I’d do anything to see her smile.

  “One o’clock?” she said.

  Swallowing hard, I nodded. “One o’clock, it starts. You must be there at twelve thirty. You have the address?”

  “Do I need to bring money?” Her voice was monotone. “You said we need to pay more?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it, my Dottala. I have the ten dollars. You save your money. Spend it on something pretty.”

  She nodded, but I wasn’t sure she heard me.

  Not knowing what else to say to her, I retreated to the kitchen. But there was nothing for me to do there, so I leaned on the sink and stared at the sky.

  A few moments later, the door closed, in a quiet, gentle way. Going back to the dining table, I saw Dottie’s food, completely untouched, the sugar still stacked in the bowl.

  I cleared the table and began to fix breakfast for the boys.

  Dottie

  Thursday, August 29

  MY plan was to go to work early. I would get through a few stacks of papers in the morning, and then tell Mr. Dover that my ma was ill, that I was taking her to a doctor’s appointment and would need to leave work at the lunch hour. On Friday I’d send Alfie to Dover Insurance to let Mr. Dover know I needed to take care of Ma for the day, but I’d be back at work bright and early on Monday morning.

  That was my plan.

  • • •

  ON my way to the streetcar, I detoured south a block to pass by Abe’s store. Mrs. Rabinowitz was cranking open the awning, and I stopped to greet her. “Good morning, Mrs. Rabinowitz.”

  She looked up, startled. “Morning,” she replied. She didn’t invite me in to see Abe or encourage any conversation, so I stood outside, staring at the lettering on the window, debating what to do. RABINOWITZ MARKET, it read first in English and then again in Yiddish beneath it. Kosher, read the sign below it, this word only in Yiddish.

  My eyes focused on the letters, so I didn’t notice for a few moments that Abe had spotted me and was making faces in the window. Relief washed over me. He wasn’t still angry about our Camp Eden “sin.” I laughed at his goofiness. He popped outside.

  “Dottala.” His warm voice filled me with hope. It was a voice I could sink into, lose myself in. “What brings you out so early?”

  “Going to work. Trying to catch up on the stacks of numbers that need inputting,” I said.

  “So diligent.” He smiled at me, and it made my stomach drop. I wanted to let him comfort me and take care of me and make the world right again. My face must have betrayed my emotions, because Abe came out of the doorway and put a hand on my arm. “Dottie? Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. Mrs. Rabinowitz said, “Do you need to sit down, dear? Is the heat too much for you?” Her words were caring, but her voice lacked even a smidgen of sympathy.

  Ignoring her, I said to Abe, “Perhaps we could sit somewhere alone? Have a little chat?”

  “Alone?” Abe said, glancing at his mother. I was sure he was thinking of last weekend at Camp Eden, but it was not even seven in the morning on a Thursday. What kind of beast did he think I was?

  I chewed my bottom lip, not sure how to respond. But I think he realized the foolishness of whatever he was thinking, so he said, “Of course. Let’s have a cup of coffee upstairs.” Abe’s family lived above the store, and as we walked up, Abe said, “Tateh is at shul. I’ll put on the coffee.”

  “I don’t want any coffee,” I said as we entered the front room.

  “Well, I’d like a cup.” Abe was a focused man, always finishing what he started. It was a trait I both admired and found to be exasperating.

  When the percolator was finally set on the stove top, he sat down at the kitchen table. I hesitated before taking a seat across from him. I didn’t know how I was going to begin.

  “Abe,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  What exactly was I trying to say? “I hate my job.” The words surprised me. They were the furthest thing from the truth, and yet here they were flowing from me.

  “What?” Abe laughed. “You love your job.”

  I
shook my head. “I love the numbers. But trudging uptown. Dealing with those girls. My demanding boss.”

  “But your promotion,” Abe said.

  I nodded. “So much pressure. I didn’t realize how much more work would be involved.” I took Abe’s hands in mine. I glanced around the room, as if looking for answers in his kitchen. “I want to be working in a smaller business. A family business.” I looked into his eyes, which stared at me quizzically. “Our family business. Abe, it’s been three years. It’s time we married.”

  The coffee percolated, and Abe stood slowly, deliberately. “Are you sure you don’t want a cup?” he asked, as he poured the steaming liquid. I shook my head.

  “Abe, are we going to be married or not?” I put all my cards on the table. What was it going to be?

  “Of course we are,” he said. “In the spring, perhaps.”

  My voice caught in the back of my throat and a burning sensation began in my chest. “Not perhaps. Now. I am ready now. I want to marry you. I want to run your business. I want to start a family.” At that, I choked on the words. “I need to be married now.” I closed my eyes briefly. Why did I say need?

  Abe looked at me curiously. “Why now?”

  “Because I’m nineteen and it’s time for me to be married.”

  “But why not when you were eighteen? Why not when you’re twenty? You know your ma was here making the same suggestion to my ma.”

  My cheeks warmed. Ma was here? Should I be angry at her for meddling? Grateful she had tried to help me avoid . . . unpleasantries? “I didn’t know.”

  Putting his cup on the table, he sat down across from me. “Why the push now for marriage?” His voice took on a discouraging tone. “Does this have to do with what happened last weekend at Camp Eden? You were quite determined.”

  I reached for his hands, but he pulled his away, so my hands were left open in the middle of the table, untouched. “I don’t understand,” I said.

  His voice was now harsh. “I don’t understand. Why do you want to marry now?”

  “Last weekend at Camp Eden made me realize how much I want to be with you. Be married to you. I’ve been wanting to be married for years. It’s no secret. Everyone knows,” I said, unsure of what I was defending.

  Abe pushed away from the table and paced the small space in the kitchen. “You know I don’t listen to lashon hara. I don’t believe in gossip.”

  Gossip? I placed my hands in my lap and fidgeted with the buttons on my dress.

  “But perhaps there’s something to it? I’ve heard the things Willie Klein has been saying.”

  I didn’t mean to. I don’t know how it slipped out. But I gasped. And that gasp gave away everything I was trying so hard to keep secret.

  Abe stared at me. The seconds lengthened into a lifetime, but flashed so quickly. “Get out,” he said.

  “Abe, let me—”

  “Get out!” He yelled his words, and the sound was terrifying from a man who never so much as raised his voice even to cheer at a baseball game. I was looking down, so when I heard the smash, I jumped, banging my leg on the table. When I looked up, I saw a streak of coffee across the tablecloth, and the remains of Abe’s cup splintered on the floor. Abe looked venomous, and for the first time, I was frightened of him.

  “Abe, no!” The tears let loose, and I sat frozen until Abe came over and grabbed my arm, lifting me from the chair, shoving me to the door.

  “Get out. Now!”

  Rapid footfalls sounded on the stairs. The door opened, and Mrs. Rabinowitz yelled in, “What is going on?”

  Abe pushed me toward the door and said, “Dottie was just leaving.”

  Anger contorted his face into an ugly scowl, and I couldn’t help but notice the pleased look on Mrs. Rabinowitz’s face.

  Without another word, I ran out the door, down the stairs, and out of the store. I sprinted to the streetcar. Maybe I’ll trip, I thought. Maybe I’ll fall and lose the baby, and then everything will go away and it will all be out of my hands. But of course, it was too late for that. Even if the baby were gone, I’d still be lost. Abe was gone. Forever.

  Rose

  HOW does one dress to take her daughter to rid herself of a baby? Clothing was not something I cared about, but I needed to be strong. Dottie told me many times that clothing could change the way you feel. But I had no choice. I put on my Shabbes dress, leaving the buttons at my waist undone because they wouldn’t squeeze closed.

  So much had to be done. Dinner needed to be started. The floors were filthy and should be washed before Shabbes. The kaffeeklatsch was meeting at Perle’s. I needed to write letters for Mrs. Friedman for the Women’s Socialist Conference. I’d promised to make a meal to deliver to the immigrant society. Alfie’s pants needed altering so they could be passed down to Eugene. And the entire day’s worth of work needed to be squeezed into the hours before noon, when I would leave to meet Dottie.

  Placing my hat on my head, I took my clutch in hand and sat on the couch. All that work to do. And for the next four hours, I could only stare at the clock and wait.

  Dottie

  BY the time I reached the Third Avenue streetcar, I was out of breath and my feet hurt. My ankles were swollen, and I longed to slip off my shoes.

  When the trolley pulled up, I swung aboard. The car was crowded, so I stood, even though the fatigue was almost unbearable. A young man caught my eye and, with a smile and a wink, stood to give me his seat. Gratefully, I slunk into it, and it took a moment for me to realize that the young man continued to stare at me, his eyes roving up my legs. Shame swept through me, and I tugged at my dress, crossing my ankles.

  My future was written. I would have nothing. Not Abe. Not my baby. Nothing.

  At Twenty-third Street, a young woman came aboard with two small children. She held a shopping bag and the kids pulled at her dress. “Not now,” she snapped at the two, and I wondered if I should be relieved this would not be my fate.

  Despite my tiredness, I stood up, gesturing for the mother to sit. She did, without a thank-you, as if it were her right to a seat on the car. The two children leaned on their mother’s knees. I couldn’t help but observe them, and I was taken aback when the mother turned a tender look to her kinder. “I’m sorry I yelled, my little angels,” she said.

  “That’s all right,” said the older of the two, a boy no more than five.

  “That’s all wite,” mimicked the younger, a girl probably three.

  The mother laughed and the girl leaned over and gave her mother a kiss.

  It was as if a dagger assaulted my stomach. My hand went of its own accord to rest on my belly.

  When the streetcar pulled up to Thirty-fourth Street, I had every intention of getting out. I was going to get off, walk up the street to Thirty-fifth and Lexington, and open the door to the office building. I would press the button for the elevator and stand in the lobby staring at the oil painting of a Cape Cod seascape, waiting for the doors to open. Others would gather beside me, all staring ahead, all waiting for the little box to arrive. When it did, one of the gentlemen, also waiting, would hold open the doors as I stepped in. As the elevator was a new, automatic one, he would ask me what floor, and when I said, “Three,” he would push the button for me. We would stand, close, but not touching, each looking forward, pretending the others weren’t there, at least until the elevator stopped, at which time the gentleman would hold open the door for me and wish me a pleasant day.

  I would step out of the elevator, and approach the frosted-glass door stenciled with DOVER INSURANCE COMPANY. I’d open the door, walk through the room, which would surely be empty, and arrive at my desk. I’d remove the pin holding my hat in place, and set my hat and clutch upon the desk before situating myself in my seat, and letting myself disappear into the numbers.

  That was what I intended to do.

  • • •


  MY feet were still firmly planted on the floor when the streetcar reached Sixty-fifth Street, and I had to shake them loose. I pushed my way through the crowd and stepped off. Up here the roads looked different. Wider. More trees.

  As I walked westward, I considered what I was doing. This could end badly. But with each footstep, I grew more determined. What was it Willie had said to me? “You need to take control of this situation. You need to fix it.”

  Abe was lost. Whether or not I had the procedure, Abe was gone. The procedure was meant to guarantee my future with Abe. But he was no longer my future. Abe was my past. I thought of the doctor, of what he would do. Would he use knives? Needles? Would he cut or scrape? Would I be numb or would I feel every movement? Would the baby? A shiver of horror broke through my anesthetized feeling.

  With each footstep, the words played in my mind like a Victrola stuck in a groove: “You need to take control of this situation.” Well, that’s what I was going to do. Take control. Fix it. Ma always told me where to go, whom to see, what kind of work to do. Ma was the voice of the family. I’d never needed mine before. It was time for me to find my own voice.

  I had stared at those letters from Willie often enough to memorize the return address. Of their own volition, my legs walked toward Park Avenue. The apartments here were larger—I could tell by the size of the windows—but there were fewer people on the street.

  Upon arriving at 654 Park Avenue, I hesitated for the first time. The building was grand, with ornate flowers carved around the entrance, and an expansive awning jutting out. The street was broad and lush, like something in a movie, not existing in real life in New York City. At least not in my New York City. This isn’t right, I thought. I should turn around now. But then the doorman smiled at me. “May I help you, miss?”

  Too frightened of what lay ahead of me if I walked away, too terrified of what I would face if I went upstairs, too mortified by the morning’s encounter with Abe, I did the only thing I could: I dropped into a faint.