Modern Girls

by Jennifer S. Brown

  In the kitchen, Tateh was bustling about trying to start the soup, which needed to simmer all day to be ready for the Shabbes dinner. He wore one of Ma’s aprons, and as silly as he looked in that floral print, I could see the despair in his movements, the heaviness of his body as he shuffled about, his sorrow filling the room. The last time I’d seen him like this was after Joey died. How much worse would it be if he knew the truth about Ma’s loss? I would make sure he never found out. As it was, I knew my news was going to devastate him.

  “Come, Tateh. Give me the apron.” I held out one hand, the other balled on my hip.

  For a second it looked like Tateh was going to protest. He shook his head. “You look so much like your mother, standing there.”

  Glancing down at my body, I realized I’d mimicked Ma’s stance when she was waiting to retrieve something—a bottle of milk, the morning paper—from one of us children. With my curving belly, I looked all the more like her.

  Tateh untied the apron and handed it to me. I took it and tied it around my waist, as if I had done it my whole life, which was not the case. The motion was familiar—how many times had I seen Ma do it?—and it was one to which I must become accustomed. This was my life now. Wearing an apron. Cooking. Retrieving things for and from children.

  “Sit,” I ordered Tateh.

  Without a word, he sank into the chair by the small kitchen table.

  I surveyed the counter. “Look,” I said. “You forgot to put in the chicken bones. The bones need to be boiled first. Otherwise the vegetables will become soggy.” Ever since grammar school, when Tateh and I spoke without Ma in the room, we used English. His English was as good as his Yiddish.

  I reached for the carcass and broke it down into smaller pieces. It’s astounding how much I knew simply from observing Ma all those years.

  “I told her not to work so hard,” he said. “I told her to let you take some of the burden. Look at how well you do. She shouldn’t have worked so hard.” His eyes were blank, and my chest ached at what I had done. He clearly blamed himself for what had happened, and yet it was my fault.

  With a chop chop chop, not daring to look up, I said, “I’m sorry I haven’t been more help.”

  “Look at you in the kitchen. A balabusta in the making.”

  I sliced through the thick tendons, separating the bones, dropping them in the pot of boiling water as I pulled each one free. “Tateh, I have to tell you something.” I put down the knife and rested my hands on the counter. I could feel myself hyperventilating, the breath coming hot and fast. I needed to spit this out quickly, yank off the bandage.

  “Tateh, last night, Willie Klein and I were married.” I wanted to turn to face him, but my body was leaden, my head bent, the weight of it too much for me to hold up. I stared at the wooden counter, grooved and nicked. The linoleum floor needed a mopping; dirt was beginning to show in the crevices.

  “You were what?” His voice sounded confused, sounded old.

  “We were married.”

  “Married?”

  I nodded without turning. I couldn’t look at him, knowing how much disappointment I was about to cause him.

  “What do you mean, ‘married’?”

  I was being a coward. I turned around. “Last night, Willie Klein and I were married.” I held up my hand with the band. “Khasene,” I repeated in Yiddish, so there’d be no misunderstanding. “Willie Klein and I were married.”

  Tateh looked wild, like one of those men from Hooverville. “I understand the word,” he said in English, fury in his tone. The shock of Ma, the shock of this. I dreaded telling him my next piece of news. “Married to Willie Klein? Married to that . . . that schmuck?”

  My skin chilled. While Ma occasionally let her language become coarse, Tateh never used vulgarity. I wanted to defend Willie, defend myself. Giving in to my misery would have been the easiest thing to do, but I reeled in my emotions. Falling into a hysterical mess would do neither of us any good. As I turned back to the counter to continue breaking down the bones, I said coolly, “Willie Klein is my husband.”

  “But what about Abe?”

  “Abe has nothing to do with this.” Tossing the last bones in the pot, I began with the vegetables, which Tateh had already started. I counted the pieces as I cut them. The carrot, sliced in half, made two pieces. Slice the halves again, and there were four.

  Tateh leaned heavily on the back of the chair. “Willie Klein.”

  I continued dicing. Eight pieces. Sixteen.

  “You have been seeing Willie Klein?”

  Thirty-two pieces of carrots. Using the knife, I slid the orange slivers into a bowl to await the soup pot. Two carrots would give me sixty-four pieces. If I had five carrots, I’d have one hundred sixty. The numbers weren’t working. I could feel the blood rushing to my head, my breath unsteady. “I am married to Willie Klein.”

  “You love him?”

  Looking around the counters, I located the onions behind the salt dish. “I will grow to love him.” I removed the thin layers of peel and put them in the waste bucket on the counter.

  “I don’t understand.”

  When I sliced the first onion in half, the fumes immediately rose, burning my eyes. But I refused to let even onions make me cry. I was done crying. There was no escaping what I had to say. Putting aside the half-chopped onions, I forced myself to look straight at Tateh, to stare him in the eyes, to speak boldly. “I am with child.”

  His eyes were fixed on me, but I could tell they weren’t focused. His mouth was agape. For a moment I was afraid he was having a seizure.

  I knelt in front of him and took his hands. “Did you hear me, Tateh?”

  The silence frightened me. His gaze never left my face.

  “Tateh?” I swallowed a sob. No more tears. “Tateh, please say something.”

  Finally his voice was whisper soft, but ice-cold. “You are what?”

  I looked down at his hands. The moons of his nails were permanently blackened, dark hairs gracing his knuckles. Hands that had comforted me so many times over the years. Those hands had kept me safe. But they couldn’t keep me safe any longer. “I am expecting a baby.”

  He shook his hands free from mine and stood up—to do what? To get away from me? To hug me? To slap me? He paced the small room, his hands at the side of his head, gripping himself as if he was afraid he would burst apart. His eyes darted about the room, refusing to land upon me. “With child?” He paced like a caged animal in that small space. “You are with child?” Finally he gazed right into my face and spit out the words, “You are pregnant?” The word sounded profane coming from his mouth.

  “Tateh,” I said, panic rising. “It’s not so bad.” My voice sounded pleading.

  “Not so bad?” he repeated, shaking his head. “You are head bookkeeper. You had a big raise. You and Abe had a future. Not that shmendrik Klein.”

  I sent up a quick prayer of thanks that he didn’t know about Ma’s plans for me to go to college. That I forfeited an education would have devastated him.

  “You, with your fancy clothes and your uptown accent? You go to the theater—you have a high school diploma, an office job! You were going to do so many things.” He put both his hands on the back of the chair and for a moment, I feared he would pick it up and throw it across the room. But instead he loosened his grip, one hand covering his face, and I realized he was crying. “Pregnant before husband? You were too good for that.”

  “Tateh,” I said, going over to put my hand on his shoulder, but he pushed it off.

  “You are my little girl,” he said, tears flowing down his face, and it terrified me. The only other time I had seen him cry was at Joey’s death. “You were my little girl.” Would he sit shiva for me? Was I going to be dead to Tateh?

  He sank back into the chair and put his head in both his hands on the table.

 
“Tateh, I’m still your little girl.” I could hear the despondency in my voice.

  He shook his head. “What have you done?” He lifted his head so I could see his reddened eyes. “What have you done?”

  I put my hands on his back, and this time he let them rest there. Emboldened, I reached around, hugging him from behind. “It’s okay, Tateh. Willie is a good man. A smart man. He will take care of me. He will take care of the baby. This baby will want for nothing. I will want for nothing.”

  “Did you really want for so much? We gave you all we had.” His tears slowed, but his voice was full of sorrow.

  My chest shattered into a thousand shards at his words. “Of course not, Tateh. You gave me everything. I was never grateful enough. You gave me everything, and I was happy, Tateh.” I squeezed him tighter and he put his arms around mine. Despite all my efforts, the tears were flowing from me. “I love you, Tateh. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But it’s going to be okay. I promise.” I buried my head in his shoulder, squeezing him as tightly as I could. He clutched my arms as if to a life preserver, and quietly we stayed like that.

  After a good while, with a deep breath, Tateh regained his composure. He let go of my hug and stood, saying, “We better get this food made. The soup won’t cook itself.”

  I nodded. With a deep breath, I moved back to the onions while Tateh sliced celery. We worked in silence, moving about the kitchen, preparing the beginnings of the evening meal.

  As the soup was set to simmer, the front door banged open. Tateh and I exchanged glances; I’d have to tell the boys.

  Wiping my hands on the apron, I called out, “Don’t slam the door. Ma is resting.”

  Tateh nodded toward the living room while he cleaned up our mess in the kitchen. I knew what I had to do. Walking out to the front room, I passed Izzy as he went in the bedroom to check on Ma.

  Alfie was splayed on the couch like a bum, but I could tell by the way he kept looking sideways from the corner of his eye toward the bedroom that he was worried. “How is Ma?”

  “She will be fine,” I said, sitting down. “I need to talk to you.”

  Eugene looked up, as if expecting more bad news. The boy had had so much grief in his short life. And here I was about to deliver more. I despised myself for what I was doing to my family.

  Izzy came back out. “Ma’s feeling better, though we should probably stay at Tante Kate’s a little longer.”

  “No,” I said. “She needs her family here.”

  Izzy said, “But the noise—”

  “The noise will be fine,” I said. “She needs her boys around her.” I knew the silence of the apartment would make her crazy, make her think too hard about all that was done, about all that was missing. “Sit, Izzy. I have something to say.”

  With a quizzical look, Izzy squeezed onto the couch between Alfie and Eugene.

  “I know this will come as a shock, and things certainly didn’t turn out the way I expected, but last night, Willie Klein and I were married.”

  Izzy’s eyes locked on mine, and with sadness I realized he wasn’t surprised, that he’d heard the same rumors that Mrs. Klein had.

  “Willie?” Alfie said. “But what about Abe?”

  “Abe and I split up. I married Willie.”

  “Congrats, I guess,” Izzy said.

  I nodded crisply. “I need to finish getting the Shabbes dinner ready. If you’ll excuse—”

  “Will Willie move in here with us?” Eugene asked.

  I didn’t want to look at Eugene. I knew he had the power to make me fall apart. But how could I not look at my sweet baby boy? I regretted it the moment I did. His eyes were so trusting, I could barely get out my next words. “No, Willie will not be living here.” I toyed with the gold band, which still felt alien on my finger, as if trying to make it fit better. “Willie has a job writing. In Europe.”

  I heard a knife clatter in the kitchen. Looking up, I saw Tateh standing in the kitchen doorway. “What did you say?” he asked.

  Closing my eyes for strength, I said, “Willie has a job with The New Yorker. It’s in Europe. He will be a foreign correspondent.”

  “Does he not understand what is happening in Europe?”

  “He understands, Tateh. That’s why he’s going. To write about it. To make sure Americans know about it.”

  “So when he goes to Europe, you’ll still live with us?” Eugene asked.

  Tateh’s hands balled into fists at his sides. Speaking slowly, as if daring me to disagree, he said, “What kind of a mamzer leaves his pregnant wife and travels to Europe?”

  “Pregnant?” Alfie said, eyes wide.

  “This is ridiculous,” Izzy said.

  Willing myself not to collapse, I enunciated carefully, trying to sound resolute. “I am going with him.” Somehow I managed to keep my voice steady.

  “What?” Tateh’s voice was thunderous. I could hear movement in the hallway and I knew Mrs. Kaplan was listening to our every word. “Absolutely not!”

  “I am leaving for Paris two weeks from yesterday. My husband and I are moving to Europe.”

  “But what about me?” Eugene asked, on the edge between fury and sadness.

  “Oh, Eugenie,” I said, bending down to take his hands. “I need to be with my husband.”

  “But it’s far, isn’t it?”

  “On the other side of the world,” Alfie said, and I realized even my middle brother would miss me, and that I would grieve for him.

  “No,” Tateh said. “I will not allow it.” His hands shook, and while I knew he would never strike me, I feared he would hurt himself.

  A soft voice floated from the bedroom. “Beryl.”

  “Rose,” Tateh hollered, “stay in bed.”

  “Beryl,” Ma said again, as she appeared in the doorway, leaning on the frame, her face pale. “She must go. She must be with her husband.”

  “Rose Krasinsky, under no circumstances am I—”

  “You are going to argue with me now?” She waved her hand weakly. Her housecoat was wrapped loosely around her, showing her long nightgown. I had never seen her in nightclothes during the day. Guilt flooded me anew. “Dottala has to leave.”

  “But—”

  “Keep your voice down,” Ma said, heading back to bed. “I need my rest.”

  “Can I c-come with you?” Eugene asked, his voice breaking midsentence.

  I bent over to hug him. “Oh, sweetie,” I said, but as I reached my arms out, he pulled away. He looked like he was going to say something, as if he was about to cry, but instead his face twisted into a fist of anger, and he stormed away, slamming open the door and running from the apartment down the stairs.

  Rushing behind him, I yelled, “Eugene!” but an arm pulled me back into the apartment.

  “I’ll get him,” said Alfie, running after his brother.

  “What are you thinking?” Tateh asked. “Europe? Now?” His words had lost their anger and were tinged instead with despair. His hands lay flat against his sides, as if the emotion had simply drained from him.

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Of course you have a choice.”

  Embracing my stomach with both arms, I shook my head. “No. There is no choice.”

  Izzy came up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. It had been a long time since Izzy and I had touched, and it felt nice.

  “You’ll be okay,” Izzy said. “I know it. You have to be okay.”

  I nodded and felt an emptiness when Izzy pulled away his hand.

  “How in Hashem’s name did this hap—,” Tateh began, but I couldn’t let him finish, couldn’t answer the questions he wanted to ask.

  “Let me finish cleaning. Then I need to pack. I have to get back to Willie.”

  Tateh looked at me, as if trying to comprehend a foreign language I was speaking
. “Help me understand,” he said.

  How gray Tateh had become over the years, from the struggles and the heartaches. And now here I was, causing yet more sadness. I wanted to explain to him I hadn’t meant to make this mess, but now I was taking responsibility for what I’d done. I wanted to promise him I would be an excellent mother and give him a houseful of grandchildren. I wanted him to know I would make this marriage work. The passion Willie had exhibited last night must mean something. He had to care about me at least a little. I wanted to tell Tateh that Europe wasn’t all bad—I would see new places and not live in a crowded tenement anymore. That Willie was smart and he could be decent and he was doing the right thing by me. That I was exploding with joy at the thought of becoming a mother. That having a baby was one of the things I’d always wanted. That it was going to make me happy.

  But I couldn’t get out any of those words. So all I said was, “I’m not sure I understand,” and I returned to mop the kitchen floor.

  • • •

  A couple of hours later, dinner was on the stove, and I packed my meager belongings in my old Camp Eden suitcase to return to the hotel. Would Willie still be there? He’d said he was going to his office—it was a workday—but I had no idea how Willie spent his time; a writer could theoretically be anywhere, with anyone. We hadn’t made any plans and part of me feared he would disappear.

  A knock sounded at the door. I assumed it was Perle, who had come over earlier to check on Ma and make the challah dough. She’d run home to prepare for Shabbes, but I knew she’d be back.

  Opening the door distractedly, I was surprised to see Irene from the office. She stood uncomfortably in the dark hallway, grasping her pocketbook with two hands, as if afraid someone was going to run off with it.

  “Oh, Irene,” I said. “I meant to send a note.” Of course, in all the madness, I had forgotten. My chest felt hollow when I realized I’d skipped out without a word.

  “Mr. Dover sent me over. Said you didn’t have a phone. Wanted to make sure you were all right.” Shifting from foot to foot, Irene seemed ready to fend off attackers. The lower East Side was foreign territory.

  “I’m all right,” I said. With a meek smile that I hoped belied my misery, I held up my left hand. “I got married.”