Irene nodded. “So you won’t be coming back?”
“No,” I said. “I won’t be coming back.” This didn’t feel right, announcing my departure to Irene. “Wait. Let me get my hat. I’ll go tell Mr. Dover myself.”
“Don’t bother. Florence told him you probably wouldn’t be back.” Irene reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. “So he sent me with your pay for the half week, in case that was true.”
I could feel the flush rising in my cheeks. I’d just confirmed all of Florence’s suspicions.
“Thank you. Tell Mr. Dover—” Tell him what? I thought. That this was the best job in the world? That I was so grateful he gave me the opportunity? That I am a terrible person for not living up to his expectations? “Tell Mr. Dover I am sorry.”
“Will do,” Irene said, and, clearly relieved her dangerous mission was now at an end, she turned and bounded down the stairs.
Rose
LAST week had been our final Shabbes together and I hadn’t known it. I tried to recall it, but all I could remember was the bickering. If only we’d talked more, laughed more . . .
Now a pall set over the table, even with Heshie there. Dottie’s absence filled the room in a way her presence never had. It felt like a house of mourners.
It was hard to sit up, but I came to the table to sample the meal Dottie had prepared. The soup was salty, the chicken dry, and the kreplach chewy. But it was passable. At least Dottie and Willie wouldn’t starve.
No one was talking, until Heshie tried to lighten the mood. “Did you see that the Brown Bomber arrived in New York?” he asked Alfie. “Seems to be in good shape to fight Max Baer.”
“Yeah,” Alfie said, his eyes on his soup.
Eugene slouched next to him, using his spoon to play with his kreplach, bouncing them up and down in the broth.
“Get your elbows off the table,” I said to him.
Instead of arguing, he simply slid them off.
“Eat,” I said.
After twirling the spoon a few more times, Eugene brought it to his mouth and slurped the soup.
“Don’t—,” I started, but I halted myself. All eyes looked at me expectantly. Eugene’s eyes didn’t look as fearful as they did tired, as if all the family’s worries made him weary. It was not a look a seven-year-old should have.
“Never mind,” I said. My despair was worse than my pain. I couldn’t help Yussel. I couldn’t help Dottie. And now I was failing Eugene. Was I a failure as a woman?
Silence draped us. We all picked at the food, even Alfie, who usually couldn’t shovel it in fast enough. Looking at Eugene, I worried what would become of the boy. His life was too full of gloom for someone so small.
“I think there is cake for dessert. Perle brought over one of her special babkas,” I said, hoping to bring a smile to someone’s—anyone’s—face. But no one budged.
“Not really that hungry tonight,” Izzy said.
Eugene glanced up from his plate, and he looked around the table, staring each of us in our eyes, one after another. “Is that it?” he said. “Is that all? Isn’t anyone going to do something?”
Heshie, closest to Eugene, patted him on the back. “There’s nothing we can do.”
“But Dottie is going to leave if we don’t do something!” His voice tottered between baby and boy.
“Oh, bubelah,” I said. “Dottie is a wife now. She’s going to be a mother. Her place is no longer with us.”
Eugene threw his spoon across the table and shrieked, “Her place is with me!”
“Eugene!” Ben said sternly, but I shushed him.
“It’s okay. Eugene is angry. We are all angry.”
“Why did she do it?”
“She didn’t mean to,” I said. “Mistakes are sometimes made.” I thought of my own youthful escapades, of Shmuel, and I realized, if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. Shmuel was my mistake. This was my family. My love for them was infinite. And Dottie would feel that way for her own child, her own family. “But sometimes mistakes can end happily. Eugene, you will be an uncle.”
“I don’t want to be an uncle! I want to be a brother.” He jumped up from the table so fast his chair knocked over backward, and he ran to his room.
Dottie’s words echoed in my mind: Eugene was my baby; it was time for me to care for him. I needed to go after him. I needed to cuddle him and hold him tight and make him know he was still a brother and, more important, he was still my son.
As I stood, my abdomen shot with pain. I leaned on the table to hold myself upright.
Ben leaped up to help me. Placing my arm around his shoulder, he helped me toward our bedroom.
“Eugene,” I said.
“You need to lie down.”
I nodded. “I will lie down. Eugene.”
Ben shook his head, but he led me to the boys’ room. Eugene lay on the bed sobbing.
Carefully, Ben helped me down. He stood there, until I shooed him out.
Lying on top of the bedding, I stroked Eugene’s back. I wanted to pull him to me, but the pain was too great.
Eugene rolled toward me, but when he jostled the bed, I involuntarily moaned and he kept his distance. So instead of hugging him, I wrapped my arm around his neck, and he wrapped his about mine. We lay there, head touching head, just being. I stayed there until I heard his breathing steady and I knew he had fallen asleep. And then I stayed an hour more, stroking the head of my baby boy, before I allowed Ben to help me up and back into my own room.
Dottie
Saturday, August 31
ON my second morning as a married woman, I again woke well before Willie. The sun streaming in gave me a contented feeling, but when I glanced at my husband, my mood soured. Where did he go last night? I wondered. After a torturous dinner with his parents—a Shabbes with no blessings, no challah, no candles—I was left alone in our grand room at the Hotel Pierre, where I put on my silkiest nightie, and tried to lie seductively on the bed as I flipped through magazines and listened to Hollywood Hotel on the radio. I don’t know when I fell asleep, and I don’t know what time Willie woke me with his hands sliding up my gown, but his rough passion was enough to temporarily quell my doubts.
At dinner, Willie’s manner had been polite, solicitous. His arm lay casually about my shoulders. He signaled for Fiona to offer me the serving plate first. When Mrs. Klein looked away, he rolled his eyes conspiratorially at me. A tiny thrill coursed through me when Willie spoke of “we.” “I am sorry you disapprove, Mother,” he said at one point, “but we have made our decision and that is final.” I smiled and nodded agreement at everything Willie said to rebut his mother’s endless complaints. The biggest benefit of leaving the country would be avoiding these horrific dinners with the Kleins, dinners we were apparently still expected to attend while in New York.
Yet, as dreadful as the evening was, Mrs. Klein did seem to be warming up to me ever so slightly. Before the dinner, Mrs. Klein pulled me aside. “You’ll need a great deal to set up a house,” she said. She peeked into the hall to make sure no one was listening. “I’ve left word at my stores—Bonwit Teller, Lord and Taylor, Macy’s—that you may put things on my account.” She gave me a crafty look. “But don’t tell William or Mr. Klein. The accounts are sent straight to Mr. Klein’s moneyman. Mr. Klein has no idea how much I spend.” As chummy as we had been, though, it didn’t stop her at the meal from voicing her displeasure—again—about our traveling abroad.
Despite our pretense of wedded bliss, the moment we walked out of his parents’ apartment, he gave me a peck on the cheek, helped me into a cab, and was gone before I could even think to ask, “May I join you?”
The memory of our late-night passion, though, made his whereabouts less important. He came home to me. That’s a start. I just need to keep him coming home to me.
Wel
l, I couldn’t stay in bed. I had shpilkes, ants in the pants. What was the point of lying in bed when all of New York was waiting for me? It would be one thing to laze about if Willie were awake to join me, to suggest ordering up room service and snuggling in bed, but given how late he’d come in, he would be asleep for a good many more hours.
Once more I found myself dressing alone. A day earlier Ma had reminded me of all the things I needed to do before my departure. Clothing purchased and altered. Basic kitchen supplies found. Towels, napkins, and other household linens. And with Ma still not feeling well, I needed to help with the boys. Not to mention that I still hadn’t told Linda and Edith what I had done. Best that I headed down to my parents’ apartment to begin the work at hand.
After making sure my hat was just so and my lipstick smoothly applied, I walked to the door. Something on the dresser, though, made me pause. Lying beside Willie’s money clip and handkerchief was a blue-and-white zebra-striped matchbook. I’d recognize those stripes anywhere. I picked up the matches and turned it over in my fingers. The El Morocco. One of the swankiest clubs in town, where the rich and famous gathered. I’d always wanted to go there. Holding up the matchbook, I thought I smelled the faintest wisp of perfume. No, I told myself. Just the pregnancy playing tricks on my nose.
I set down the matchbook, glanced back at my husband, and left for what still felt like home.
• • •
CLIMBING down from the elevated, I surveyed the neighborhood I’d never thought I would miss. But seeing the families hastening to shul, the kids playing, the goyishe vendors hawking their wares, I was struck with nostalgia for a life I’d never thought I desired. Had I married Abe, this would have been my forever, and that had seemed just fine. Now, from my view as an outsider, it seemed even better. Compared with the cold formality of the Kleins’ dining room, the scene in front of me exuded life and warmth. My reverie was broken when a ball rolled into my foot, and a ragamuffin, no more than seven, came running up to grab it, with a mumbled, “Zay moykul.”
This was what was going to set me off? I batted away the unwelcome tears, suddenly struck with an urge to find my brothers. A peek at my wristwatch reminded me that they should be at shul for the late minyan. I turned south, hurrying the few blocks down to our large synagogue, which dominated the block.
Inside it was bright, with a large, ornamental chandelier in the center of the sanctuary and stained-glass windows allowing in the summer light. The wood pews gave the room a pleasantly musky scent, and I was sorry I hadn’t come more often in recent years.
Climbing to the women’s balcony, I was so busy looking down at the men’s gallery to see if I could spy my brothers that at first I didn’t notice the women sliding away from me and covering their gossiping mouths with their prayer books. It was only when I caught my name that I looked up. Disapproving stares followed my every move, and the women not-so-subtly skimmed their eyes down my body to peer at my belly. Several clicked their tongues.
I froze, unsure whether to give in to my humiliation and run from shul or stand my ground.
Before I could make a decision, I was saved by a firm hand on my elbow. “Dottala,” the voice said in a loud whisper. “Your mother sent you to get me? Thank you for coming.” And with that, Perle led me from shul as she shot a ferocious glance at the women who were still blathering.
On the street, I turned to Perle and asked, “How do they all know?”
Leading me back toward my parents’ home, Perle said, “How could they not know? That Molly Klein called around to check up on you. Mrs. Kaplan heard quite a bit through the apartment walls. Abe’s mother talks.”
How could I have been so naive as to think I’d escape undetected? Of course people knew.
As Perle led me home, every eye seemed to stare at me; every whisper sounded like tale-telling. The neighborhood, which a half hour before had felt like home, was now enemy territory.
Without thinking, I began to walk up the avenue toward Tenth Street, but Perle turned me onto Seventh so we would have to walk up First Avenue.
“This is the long way,” I said.
“Best we not go up Avenue A.” Perle’s voice was gentle.
Only for a moment was I befuddled. On Avenue A, close to Tenth Street, was the Rabinowitzes’ home and market, where Mrs. Rabinowitz often sat outside on a Shabbes, gossiping with passing neighbors.
Swallowing hard, I said, “Of course.”
With a knowing smile, Perle patted my arm. “This too shall pass.”
The tightness of my waistband and the heaviness of my bosom, though, belied the sentiment. Some things, I realized, never passed.
Rose
Saturday, August 31
EARLY that morning, I remembered twelve more things that needed to be done. From my bed, I called out, “Bring me my list and a pen. Dottie left them in the front room.”
For once, Alfie jumped. “I got it, Ma!” I cringed hearing him stomp around the front room, looking for them.
“Look on the credenza,” I said.
Last night I had tackled the chore that rankled me the most: I wrote to Molly Klein. As much as it churned my stomach, she was now my daughter’s mother-in-law, and basic courtesy required we invite her family for Shabbes. This marriage might not have been made under ideal circumstances, but manners were manners, and I would do what was right. Certainly that Molly Klein would never think of it herself.
“Got it!” Alfie burst like a firecracker into my room.
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for the pad and pencil, but when I went to pull them toward me, he held fast.
“I can write down what you need. I can help you, Ma.” His eyes were wild, and I realized for the first time how terrified he was seeing me as an invalid. And why wouldn’t he be? He was young when he lost his brother, but a memory like that can’t be erased by time.
Taking Alfie by the wrist, I stared steadily into his eyes. “I am going to be fine, bubelah.”
“But how can you be sure?” The sadness in his voice cracked open my own heartache.
With every ounce of energy I had, I brought the strength back to my voice as I said, “Because I have to prepare your sister’s trousseau. Because I have to make sure you and Eugene have clothes for school next month. Because your father needs someone to cook and clean for him. I’m needed too much to go anywhere.” I granted the boy a rare smile. “Now give me the paper. I have lists to make.”
Reluctantly he handed over the paper. But before he could leave, he threw his arms around my neck and planted a kiss on my shoulder, something he hadn’t done since he was still in short pants. “Swear to me, Ma. Swear you’ll be okay.”
My children wouldn’t stop breaking my heart. Trying to sound firm and healthy and like my normal self, I said, “No swearing. It’s goyishe.”
He pulled back and looked at me, his eyebrows creased over his nose in concern. “Please, Ma.” His nose was running.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nodded. “I swear.” He leaned back in to give me another kiss, and I whispered again in his ear, “I swear.”
Dottie
Sunday, September 1
SUNDAY morning I woke with a mission: to make up with Eugene and Alfie. Saturday they’d left before I arrived, and didn’t come home till after I’d gone, even though I dawdled at the apartment until the last possible second, hoping to catch them. The whole day was spent tending to Ma and running errands. But now, I needed my boys. I couldn’t bear my brothers’ anger.
Down on the lower East Side, I searched the stoops and lots till I found them in a stickball game in an alley. Eugene was coming up to bat. He swung at the first ball, cleanly missing it, to the jeers of his friends.
“You’re holding the stick too high up,” I called to him.
He looked over at me with a glare.
“Hold on,” I said, coming to stand
next to him. “Here, you hold it like this.”
“I got it,” he said, twisting away from me.
“Don’t be dippy,” I said, getting behind him. I placed my hands over his and slid them farther down. “Go ahead,” I yelled to the pitcher.
“You can’t have two players,” the pitcher yelled. “And what kind of baby needs his sister to play for him?”
I squinted into the sun. “Saul, is that you? Aw, you’ve gotten so big since I was changing your diapers.” I grinned maliciously and Eugene giggled.
“Aw, jeez,” Saul said, and he tossed the ball. I swung with Eugene. The ball went sailing.
“How did you do that?” Eugene asked.
“Go on, silly. Run. I can’t do it for you.” He dropped the stick and ran.
I stood to the side and watched the rest of the game. Alfie’s movements on the asphalt field, his leaps and turns, were almost balletic. Eugene still played awkwardly, but his throwing skills were improving. Someday he would own that game and it made me tear up, knowing I wouldn’t be there to see it. I dabbed my eyes discreetly. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry.
When the game ended, the boys dragged their feet coming out of the alley. My brothers were torn—wanting to see me, yet still upset with me.
“C’mon,” I said. “I’m buying you ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” Eugene said. “It’s only ten thirty in the morning.”
“So don’t tell Ma, you dope,” Alfie said, running ahead to the parlor. Eugene didn’t need to be told again, and he took off in a sprint.
By the time I caught up to them at the store, they had already chosen their flavors. I bought them each a scoop and followed them to a table.
Alfie shoveled his ice cream into his mouth, taking huge spoonfuls. Eugene was more meticulous, taking small, careful bites to make it last.
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