The Tin Horse: A Novel

by Janice Steinberg

  After dinner, Mama put on her best dress, a hunter-green silk with a draped bustline, one of Pearl’s creations, and she and Papa called a taxi, a luxury, to take them to the Trocadero.

  I settled my sisters in front of the radio for Amos ’n’ Andy, then phoned Pearl to say I didn’t need her offer of a bed tonight because Barbara was staying with a friend. “No, nothing’s wrong,” I said. At least, nothing that wasn’t already destroyed by my hateful sister. I hoped Mama and Papa didn’t succeed in making her come home. Even better than moving in with Pearl would be to have the cozy room off the kitchen all to myself.

  WHEN MAMA AND PAPA returned, a little after ten, Papa had his arm around Mama, and she staggered as he guided her to a chair.

  “Elaine, make your mother some tea,” he said.

  “What happened? What did she say?”

  Papa sighed. “Your sister wasn’t there. She quit her job last night. I’m sure she’s fine, but no one could tell us where she is.… You! Back to bed,” he ordered Audrey, who was crouching on the stairs.

  “I’ll make the tea.” I hurried toward the kitchen, dying to have a few minutes to think.

  “Forget the damn tea!” Mama had shaken off her stupor. Her voice was like a blow. “Elaine, come here and look at me.”

  I did.

  “What went on between you and Barbara yesterday?”

  I’d thought I couldn’t hate Barbara any more than I already did. But she had left me to bare my humiliation to Mama and Papa while she was hiding out at a friend’s, having a good time … wasn’t she? Though why did she quit her job? I thought with my first stir of alarm. If she planned to live on her own, she needed the job more than ever.

  “Elaine!” Mama said.

  “I …” But there was no point in fudging; Mama had guessed it already. “I went over to Danny’s, and she was with him.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Necking.”

  “Necking, that’s all?”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “Elaine!” Papa said firmly. “Did you and Barbara have a fight?”

  “No, I just left.”

  “And went straight to your aunt Pearl,” Mama sniffed. “Not to your own mother.”

  “I just …”

  To my relief, Papa stayed focused on the problem at hand. “Think, Elaine,” he said, “Where would she have gone? Who are her closest friends?”

  I started with Barbara’s friends from the Diamonds. “Susie Graf. Alice Wexler—”

  “Listen to the two of you!” Mama rolled her eyes. “Don’t you realize that now we know exactly where Barbara is?”

  I stared at her. “Where?”

  “Well,” Mama said, “I guess a person doesn’t have to have a college scholarship to be smart.”

  “Charlotte!”

  “Where else would she be,” Mama announced, “but on the train to Canada? With that good-for-nothing Danny Berlov.”

  “No,” I said. “Danny wouldn’t have.…”

  “Why not?” Mama pounced on my hesitation.

  I had thought I had no secrets left, that no corner of my life remained private, but I couldn’t bear to expose the fact that Danny had proposed to me. “He’s enlisting in the army, it’s not like she can be with him,” I said. “He won’t even be staying in Canada. Maybe he’ll have a month of training, but then they’ll send him to England.”

  “You would think of all that,” Mama said, “but would your sister? Would Danny Berlov?”

  “Charlotte, that makes no sense,” Papa said in his let’s-be-reasonable voice. “Elaine’s right. Danny will be going into the Canadian army. And how could Barbara afford a train ticket to Canada? Or a place to stay after she gets there?”

  Mama insisted, though, and Papa agreed to go to Western Union tomorrow and send a telegram to Barbara at the Vancouver train station.

  “Don’t send it to Vancouver,” I broke in, despite my reluctance to say anything that would support Mama’s fantasy about Barbara being on the train. “The train doesn’t get there for another day and a half. Send it to the station in …” I’d gone over the timetable with Danny, a lifetime ago. Sacramento? No, the train had already left Sacramento. “Portland, that’s the next city where the train stops for an hour, and there’d be time to deliver a telegram.”

  “Write to Danny Berlov, too,” Mama said. “Say we hold him responsible for our daughter’s safety … or for marrying her. What if that no-goodnik got her pregnant? And then he runs off to war and gets killed, and there she’ll be, alone with a baby, in Canada.”

  She couldn’t be pregnant! They hadn’t gone that far, Danny had sworn to me.

  While Papa gave in to Mama’s whim, he also asked me to make a list of Barbara’s friends for us to call and ask if she was staying with them.

  “What if I go tomorrow and talk to some of them?” I suggested.

  “Don’t you dare,” Mama said. “Start asking where she is, and you’ll get everyone in Boyle Heights gossiping that the Greensteins’ wild daughter has run off.”

  “Elaine,” Papa said, “you go to the university and keep up with your classes. And I don’t see any point in contacting anyone right away. Let’s wait another day, and I’m sure she’ll come home on her own.”

  “She’s on that train, you’ll see,” Mama declared. Then she came over and stroked my arm. “Oy, Elaine.”

  “What?” I said, more wary of her sympathy than of her third degree. I could defend myself against Mama’s probing. But if she switched to her rare comforting mode, I feared I’d melt into an inconsolable three-year-old.

  All she said, though, was, “Don’t waste any tears on Danny Berlov. You’re well rid of him.”

  THAT NIGHT I MADE the list Papa had asked for, starting with the girls in the Diamonds—though if Barbara really meant to hide, she would never go to anyone in Boyle Heights. I had met a number of her dance school friends, too, or heard her talk about them, and I added the names I could remember.

  I also considered the Trocadero. They had let Mama go into the dressing room this evening and talk to the chorus girls, and they’d all claimed to know nothing about where Barbara might be. I wished I knew if she had a special friend there, a girl who might reveal something one-on-one—and to Barbara’s sister, a girl her own age—that she wouldn’t have told Mama. But Barbara and I had had so little contact all summer, I had no idea who her friends were.

  Even as I prepared to look for Barbara in Los Angeles, though, I couldn’t help finding a crazy logic in Mama’s theory. Not that I thought she’d left with Danny, that the two of them had planned it—it was one thing for him to succumb to the temptation of the moment, but not even the Danny I currently reviled would run away with my sister scant hours after asking me to marry him. But Barbara must have panicked after I walked in on them, afraid of my anger and even more terrified I was going to tell Mama and Papa and she’d catch hell the minute she walked in the door. Desperate to get away, what if the first thing that popped into her mind was the one train she knew left the next morning? It was a rash act—an infuriating one—and just the kind of thing I could see my sister doing.

  When I went to bed that night, I discovered that in addition to the note she’d left for Mama and Papa, there was a second note under my pillow.

  Lainie, I’m sorry. I love you.

  I had an urge to rip the note into shreds in rage. Instead something made me slip it into the treasure box I’d gotten from Aunt Pearl as a child. Did I have some premonition that the note would be the last thing I heard from Barbara? What I remember feeling toward her was still-fresh anger and rage, along with a hint of worry—but no more than a hint. I was able to sleep that night. And the next day at school, I found I could focus on my studies. I even held my own with my economics professor, who quizzed us with the bloodlust of a tiger tearing apart prey. Not even my anguish over Danny dimmed the glow I felt after I answered a tough question and the professor nodded as if he were making a mental not
e of me; it was the kind of recognition I experienced at the start of every school year, the moment when a new teacher identified Elaine Greenstein as one of the smart students—only this time it was happening not in the Boyle Heights public schools but at the University of Southern California.

  Nevertheless, Barbara’s absence afflicted me with a need to do something. After my last class, I called home to see if there’d been any word from her. Not a thing, Audrey reported. So I went to Barbara’s dance school in Hollywood. I found four of her friends there. I told them she’d gone to stay with a friend but forgot to leave us the name, and did they know who it was? They said no but gave me the names and telephone numbers of a few other people to try.

  I planned to make the calls as soon as I got home, but Mama wouldn’t hear of it. I’d blabbed about Barbara too much already, she fumed.

  “Mama, none of those girls lives anywhere near Boyle Heights!”

  “How do you know they don’t have relatives here?”

  “We aren’t living in Jane Austen’s time. It’s not going to ruin our whole family if people know—”

  “There’s no reason to go stir up trouble,” Mama grumbled. “We know where she is—on that train.”

  The train was due to reach Portland at seven-forty, and that evening after dinner, Mama’s anticipation became so palpable that just sitting in the same room with her, I wanted to jump out of my skin. I retreated to my bedroom and opened Beowulf, which I had to read in Old English as well as in translation. But though I forced myself to stare at the book, all I could see was the train speeding closer and closer to Portland. At seven-thirty I gave up on studying and joined the rest of the family in the kitchen. They were gathered around the table, within grabbing distance of the wall-mounted telephone. Papa was playing a game of fish with Audrey and Harriet, and Mama was aimlessly straightening things in the cupboards.

  At seven-forty we started stealing glances at the phone and the clock, and by eight we simply sat and stared at them. When the phone finally rang, at eight-fifteen, Papa lunged for it. “Barbara!” Mama exclaimed, hovering at his elbow. We all hovered, listening to his end of the conversation.

  “Sol, how are you?” Papa said.

  It was an ordinary call, and I started back toward the table. Then I heard Papa say, “Burt called you long-distance from the train station in Portland? That’s good.”

  “Sol Weber,” Mama mouthed. Burt Weber’s father.

  “She’s not missing, of course not,” I heard Papa say. “Just thoughtless. She went to spend a few nights with a friend and didn’t tell us who.… Just this crazy idea my wife had.” He frowned at Mama. “But of course, she’s at a friend’s.… No, we don’t need any help. Thank you for letting us know.”

  Papa hung up and then told us what he’d heard from Burt Weber. Papa’s telegram, delivered when the train arrived in Portland, had made Danny so frantic that instead of just sending a telegram in reply, he had insisted that Burt call home (Danny’s father still had no phone of his own) and make it clear that Barbara wasn’t with Danny. And in case anything had given us the idea she might be on the train, Burt assured his father that he and Danny regularly stretched their legs during the long trip by walking up and down the entire length of the train, and they would both swear Barbara wasn’t there.

  “Sol Weber!” Mama groaned. “He’s got a bigger mouth than the worst yenta. What did you say in that telegram to make Burt Weber get so upset?”

  “Who was so sure she was on that train?” Papa snapped in retort.

  “Papa?” Audrey said, her voice tight with anxiety. We had seen Mama and Papa argue, but not like this. Usually Mama nagged and Papa got coldly disapproving; he rarely raised his voice.

  “What is it, Audrey?” Papa tried to smile at her.

  “If Barbara’s not on the train, is that bad?”

  “No, in fact, it’s very good news. It means that your foolish sister is here in Los Angeles, after all.”

  “When is Barbara coming home?”

  “Soon. Look what time it is. You and Harriet should be in bed.”

  “What if we write to Mr. Keen?” Audrey persisted. She was referring to Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, a show on the radio.

  “Go to bed!” Mama said. “Now!”

  Audrey’s eyes brimmed. Poor kid, she was nervous by nature, and with all our attention glued to Barbara, no one had attempted to ease the impact of the family crisis on her.

  “Hey,” I said to her. “How about if you get ready for bed, and I’ll read to you from Nancy Drew?” I put my arm around her, took Harriet’s hand, and led them to their room.

  Harriet was too young to fully understand what was happening, and she was too naturally cheerful to be distressed by family storms. (At least, that’s what I assumed at the time, observing my ever-smiling youngest sister.) Audrey, however, was visibly frantic. I did my best to respond patiently to the questions she flung at me: What kind of job did Barbara have, and why had it been a secret? Why had Mama and Papa thought Barbara had left with Danny? Wasn’t Danny my boyfriend? I was able to answer those questions, albeit in edited form. But what could I say when she asked, “Is Barbara all right? Why doesn’t she call? Did something bad happen to her?” How could I soothe her anxiety when my own was churning?

  I hadn’t really believed Barbara was on the train, but Mama’s speculation had given me a narrative to set against her absence, a story in which she combed her hair, drank coffee, and sat safely watching through the window as California passed by and then Oregon. She must be hiding out with a friend in L.A.—that had always been the most likely explanation—and it made me want to shake her until her teeth rattled. But she’d been gone for two days now, without a word, and I was no longer just irritated, I was scared.

  The news from Burt had affected Mama and Papa the same way. When I returned to the kitchen, Mama was no longer trying to keep Barbara’s absence a secret; instead, she was going down the list I’d made of Barbara’s friends and calling them. Between calls, she moaned that this was God’s judgment for the heartache she’d inflicted on her parents. Then she took a deep breath and called the next number on the list. And Papa … I’d never seen him so unnerved. Pacing and chain-smoking, my usually deliberative father careened between railing against his thoughtless daughter and worrying that she was in real peril. One minute he said we shouldn’t put ourselves through the aggravation of searching for her, since she was certain to waltz in tomorrow, blasé about the havoc she’d stirred up. In the next breath he wanted to call the police. “But why would the police get involved?” he said. “She’s eighteen, and she left a note, and look at where she worked … But that’s the point. A girl with a job like that, how is she going to have the good judgment to stay out of trouble? Elaine, what do you think?” He turned to me with imploring eyes. I started to stammer out a response, but he’d shifted back to cursing Barbara’s selfishness.

  Since he was already on his feet pacing, Papa bolted into the living room when we heard someone at the front door. I was a few steps behind, and Mama quickly finished her latest phone call and followed, calling out, “Barbara!”

  But it was Pearl, her face scrubbed of makeup and her hair in pin curls, as if she’d been getting ready for bed and rushed over. “I tried to phone, but your line was busy,” she said. “I got a call from Ruth Eder. What’s this about Barbara going to Vancouver with Danny?”

  “Let’s sit.” Papa switched on a lamp and sat down heavily, as if he had just that moment turned old.

  He got out Barbara’s note, which he’d been carrying neatly folded in his wallet, and told Pearl what had happened over the past two days. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Pearl exclaimed at one point, but she clearly wasn’t going to waste time being miffed.

  When Papa had finished, she sat silently for a moment, her eyes closed in thought. Then she asked, “Does she have much money?”

  Mama shook her head. “She gives most of her pay to me. Why?”

  “I wo
ndered if she could afford to get a hotel room for a night or two. Or even leave town. There are plenty of places to go, not just Vancouver.…”

  Suddenly my map of where Barbara might be swelled from Los Angeles to the entire world, a universe in which she was lost forever. I choked back a sob.

  But Mama was saying, “She has a little spending money, that’s all.”

  “Well, she’s going to need any money she’s got,” Pearl said. “Why don’t we leave a message for her at her bank?”

  “What bank?” Mama said. “Since when does she have a bank?”

  “She asked me about opening a savings account—it must have been last winter. I told her I use Union Bank downtown, and I think she was going to go there.”

  “You didn’t think you should tell us about this?” Mama said, ruffled as always that one of us had confided in Pearl. And her nerves were frayed; she’d just called eight or nine of Barbara’s friends, fighting to keep the panic out of her voice as one girl after another told her they had no idea where Barbara was.

  “Charlotte, I assumed you knew,” Pearl said. “But I didn’t see it as something I needed to warn you about. I thought it was a fine idea, very responsible, for her to get a bank account.”

  Mama bristled. “Isn’t that up to her parents to decide?”

  “This note,” Papa broke in. “You’ll ask them to give it to her?”

  “I’ll take it there first thing tomorrow and talk to my banker. He can alert the tellers and ask them to give it to her when she comes in.”

  All of us went back into the kitchen so Papa could sit at the table to write. Mama resumed making phone calls, although it was ten-thirty by now. She woke several people up and had to endure their irritation, and she was no longer keeping the panic out of her voice.

  Papa started several letters but kept crumpling them up. “I blame myself,” he sighed to Pearl. “I never should have let her take that job.”