The Lost Family

by Jenna Blum

  * * *

  The Rashkins reassembled on the terrace, where Lionel Webster was fussing with a long-lensed camera on a tripod. June had forgotten about this part of Sol’s birthday: the taking of the annual family portrait, which was then used for holiday cards. Sol sat with Ruth on an iron love seat, and Peter stood behind them holding Elsbeth, who was wearing a dress June hadn’t seen before: another Ruth special, a white frock frothing with lace. Elsbeth looked like Little Bo Peep, except for her bedraggled fabric apron trailing from her waist.

  “Almost there, almost there,” said Lionel, teeth clenched around his pipe. He advanced the film in his camera, and as she moved to her place next to Peter in the humid afternoon, June thought how different this was from the shoots of her youth.

  Peter was stroking Elsbeth’s hair; she was beyond tired now, her head on his shoulder and her thumb in her mouth, a habit she had long outgrown. He put his free arm around June, who stood perfectly straight. How dearly she wished she could share with him what had just happened—but of course she couldn’t; telling Peter that Ruth had not only kept the photo but filled Elsbeth’s head with what had happened to his lost daughters would be like rubbing salt in his eyes.

  “All right?” he murmured.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I owe you.”

  “Yes,” said June, “you do.”

  She slid a glance sideways at him and saw he was doing the same to her. He smiled wryly. Sol said, “Jesus Christ, what’s taking so long?” and Lionel said, “It’s this new lens, it’s temperamental. But I think we’re in focus now. . . . Everybody say Cheese!”

  “Cheese,” they chorused, and there was a pop and a whine.

  “Darn it,” said Lionel, “I forgot a new flash cube. One more second, folks.”

  The Rashkins grumbled and sagged, and as they daubed their perspiration and blew hair out of their faces, June suddenly thought for no reason at all of when Peter came for her in Hawaii, when June had returned to her hotel in Honolulu after their last shoot, laughing with some of the other models, and Peter was waiting in the hotel lobby on a couch. He had risen when he’d seen her, and June was so surprised she’d stopped right inside the revolving door, causing the person behind her to crash into her. Peter had been wearing a rather ill-fitting white linen suit and yellow lei; he was holding a spray of identically colored orchids, and June would never forget the look on his face, equal parts hopeful and wary. He dropped to one knee right there in the Honolulu Continental: “June Bouquet,” he said, “will you marry me?” and she put her hand over her mouth and said “Yes, of course!” and everyone, from the other tourists to the reception staff, clapped. They had been married the next day, by a judge at Waikiki City Hall, Peter in the linen suit and June in a lavender minidress and white go-go boots. They both wore leis, and their witnesses were two tourists they’d grabbed off the street; June couldn’t remember their names now, but they had been married themselves thirty-seven years, they said, and she and Peter had taken that as a good sign. They all had mai tais afterward at the Pink Palace, and their wedding dinner was a luau pig roasted with pineapple.

  June looked at her husband now as he shifted their daughter and murmured to her, his hairline higher, his face tired. How different he was from the man she’d thought he was, the man he’d turned out to be. Was it the same for everyone? Was the magnitude of discrepancy between the person you thought you were marrying and the person you got similar for most couples? Was the barrier in Peter, the territory he kept to himself, the disappointment, the conflict, greater or less for the Rashkins than for, say, Helen and the Carpet King? Or Sol and Ruth, or Lionel and Mary? Peter gave June a sheepish smile. “Almost done, God willing,” he murmured, and Sol said, “Stand up straight, everybody, goddamn it,” and Lionel Webster said, “Say cake, folks!” and Mary pointed and whispered, “Look!” and they turned to see Maria staggering toward them with Sol’s cake on a platter, ablaze with candles. “Happy birthday to you,” Ruth started, in her quivering soprano, and they all joined in: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Sooooooool, happy birthday to you! and many moooorrrre,” and Lionel Webster said, “Three . . . two . . . ,” and took the picture.

  9

  Brigadoon

  By the end of the month, June had started meeting Gregg in motels. They were on Route 23 or 46 or 10, surrounded by diners and car dealers and knockoff furniture outlets, motor lodges where the carpets smelled like mildew and payment was accepted by the hour. June was afraid to take her shoes off in the rooms or guess what might be in the bedspreads. But they were places where nobody she knew would go and safer than their other assignation sites: parking lots, the Watchung Reservation woods, and, once, beneath the paddleball courts at the club, where Gregg spread a sleeping bag and a ball-chasing child almost found them. Also, the no-tell motels, which June despised, were a form of punishment.

  Today’s was called the Pilgrim, although the only sign of those intrepid travelers was a peeling sign in the shape of a buckled hat out front. It was nearly three, which meant that June had to get home in an hour and pay the sitter, little Barbie Ryan from down the street. June had told Barbie that Elsbeth was getting over an ear infection, which was why June was keeping her home from the club today, away from the pool. Had Barbie believed her? Had June explained too much? She wasn’t used to subterfuge, and she wasn’t very good at it. It wasn’t a skill she wanted to perfect.

  She lit a cigarette and sat cross-legged on the sheets, watching Gregg nap. After sex he fell asleep instantly, like a child—which of course he was, although not as young as June had feared. She had sneaked a peek at his driver’s license while he was showering one afternoon, and he was twenty-seven. Eight years younger than June, which made Gregg almost a more suitable match for June, chronologically, than Peter with his nineteen years’ seniority. Almost.

  It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t last. Every time June did this, she swore it was the final time—until the next. It was like eating chocolate, which June never, ever did, because she knew if she took one bite, allowed even one dark square into her mouth to melt, she would not be able to stop. And if Peter was marzipan, an interesting taste June enjoyed, Gregg was a jumbo Hershey bar. Time would take care of it, June told herself; if she was too weak to break it off, the club’s courts would be closed in fall, and Gregg would do—whatever pros did in winter, probably go south to teach in warmer climes, and June could do . . . what? Make amends to Peter for the damage he didn’t know she’d wreaked; figure out what to do with her life. But no. She couldn’t wait that long. She’d have to tell Gregg today. This afternoon. No more. It was over. June screwed her cigarette out decisively in the Pilgrim ashtray.

  “Stop looking at me,” Gregg said without opening his eyes.

  “I’m not looking at you.”

  “Yes, you are. I can feel it.”

  He bolted up without warning, seizing June’s ankles and pulling her onto her back.

  “It’s rude to stare at people when they’re sleeping,” he said, licking her neck. “Don’t you know that?”

  “I wasn’t,” she said breathlessly. “Conceited.”

  Gregg kissed her—June had forgotten how delicious kissing could be—and then just as suddenly as he’d sat up, he flopped onto his back, tugging June on top of him. He took her hips and slid her against his hard-on.

  “You’re sopping,” he said and smiled. “I love that. Do your worst.”

  This was the thing: it was wrong, of course; it was morally reprehensible; it was no answer to a marriage’s problems—but Gregg talked. “Oh, June,” he said. “That’s it. You’re almost there. Oh, God, yes.” Yes, he was young, and his skin had that lovely satiny rubbery bounce-back quality—somehow he had managed to survive his tours of duty without a single shrapnel mark. He was giant, his legs like tree trunks and his cock a huge purple club—with a little freckle June had discovered at
the base, like a secret friend. Gregg was the only man next to whom June had ever felt dainty. Most importantly, he didn’t shut her out. He told June what she felt like to him, and what he wanted to do to her, and he kept his eyes open until the very end. Sometimes even then. He was there. “I love watching you,” he’d say. “Do you know your face flushes when you’re about to come? Like right now. Oh yes. I can tell. Do it, June. Come for me.”

  When they were done—when June had ridden him until she was soaked and shaking and Gregg had made sure she was satisfied, then flipped her over and held her ankles up like wheelbarrow handles and thrust into her until he roared—after this, he collapsed on his back with June’s feet still locked around his neck, which was sweet but a little awkward. She withdrew them, and they both lay getting their wind back. June reached for her cigarettes and checked her watch: 3:30. She had a half hour left.

  “That’s so bad for you,” said Gregg of June’s Marlboro. “It’ll kill your wind.”

  “That’s okay,” June said, “I don’t think I’ll be Chris Evert anytime soon—hey, you hypocrite!” and she laughed, because Gregg had taken a baggie from the pocket of his tennis shorts and was rolling a joint. He did it quickly, methodically, and expertly, producing a reefer the size of a lollipop stick.

  “Ladies first,” he said, offering it to June, but she shook her head. Gregg lit it with a Zippo, punched the thin pillows into shape, and lay back.

  “You don’t turn on?” he asked.

  “I used to, sometimes,” said June. “Not anymore.”

  “How come? Your old man doesn’t like it?”

  “Not really,” said June. That was true; the one time Peter had smoked hashish, with June and some of her friends at Electric Circus, he had had a bad reaction to it; he’d gotten severe leg cramps, and of course because June and the other models were high, it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen. Peter hopping first on one leg, then the other, swearing in German! Or maybe it had been Russian. Whatever language it was, it had been energetic. Poor Peter. He never smoked again, and June abstained partly to keep him company but mostly to keep her figure. Pot in any form gave her terrible munchies; the last time she indulged, in the laundry room of their East Ninety-Sixth Street building while Elsbeth was napping, June had eaten a whole jar of peanut butter, scooping it into her mouth with Elsbeth’s zwieback biscuits. She just couldn’t afford that kind of thing.

  “Your old man strikes me as kind of square,” said Gregg ruminatively. He was following the path of the smoke straight up toward the ceiling, where it then got tangled in the fan.

  “Oh, really?” said June tartly. “You’ve met him?”

  “No,” said Gregg, unoffended, “but I think I’ve seen him at the club. Tall blond guy, a little older—always wears a suit and tie, right?”

  June nodded. Gregg squinted one eye, then the other. “Never takes off his shirt, even on the hottest days. Real formal. Establishment type.”

  June reached for the joint after all and took a small toke. What the hell—there was no food in this awful place, and her appetite would wear off by the time she got home.

  “That’s not why he keeps his shirt on,” she said, her voice squeaky from holding in the smoke.

  Gregg turned on his side to look at her. His hair, unleashed from its rawhide and tennis headband, was a wild black electrical tangle. “Why is it, then?”

  June released her breath. “It’s because of his scars.”

  “What scars?”

  “From the war.”

  Gregg sat up. “He was in ’Nam?” he said. “No way. He must be at least fifty—what was he, an admiral or something?”

  “Not your war,” June said. “World War II.”

  She got up and went to the mirror over the sink. “I look like A Clockwork Orange,” she said, running water.

  “Atlantic or Pacific?” Gregg persisted.

  June looked at him over her shoulder. “What?”

  “Where did he fight?” Gregg clarified.

  June drew a washcloth under her eyes to get rid of the pooled mascara there, then reapplied it. “He didn’t. He was in the camps.”

  “He’s Jewish?” Gregg said.

  “Yes.”

  “I never would have known.”

  June glanced at him again as she rubbed in some blusher. “And how would you know a thing like that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gregg. “My pop always said Jews had a look.”

  “That’s what I heard growing up too,” said June, “but it isn’t true. If you go by stereotypes, Peter’s the least Jewish-looking guy I’ve ever seen. And his wife and little girls looked like Alice in Wonderland, but they still all went to the camps.”

  “What? Oh no. Really?”

  “Yes, there was some mixup, and . . . I really don’t know much more,” she said. “He never talks about it. Everything I know, I know from his cousin’s wife.”

  “Wow,” said Gregg. “I can see why. I wouldn’t talk about it, either.”

  June suddenly felt unbearably lonely, the shabby room depressing. She also realized she was naked. It was surreal, to be talking about this. Maybe the pot was stronger than she’d thought.

  She retrieved her halter top and shorts from the floor and sat on the side of the bed to put them on. Gregg tied the strings of the top for her, then touched the nape of her neck. June shivered. “He’s still in love with her,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “My husband. With his first wife.”

  “June,” said Gregg, “do you really think so? Maybe he’s just really sad.”

  June was struggling to buckle a sandal—it was hard to see the little holes on the strap in the dim room, let alone guide the tiny prong in. She gave up and said, “She wasn’t very pretty—Masha. I think at best she was kind of elegant, in a certain light. But she was so brave. And the little girls . . .”

  “How old?”

  “Three. Twins.”

  Gregg made a sound in his throat.

  “She died trying to save them,” said June. “Try to compete with that.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Gregg. “You can’t compete with ghosts.”

  All the breath went out of June. It was true. She would never win.

  Gregg reached for his glasses and got off the bed, kneeling in front of June to fasten her sandal straps.

  “I’m sorry for both of you,” he said. “And now I understand why you’re so lonely . . .” He looked up. “Hey. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  June shook her head. “You didn’t. It’s just this whole situation . . .” She waved around the dismal little room.

  “Well, let’s cheer it up, then,” said Gregg. “You know what I do when I’m sad?”

  “What, Julie Andrews, jump on the bed?”

  “No,” said Gregg. “Dance.”

  He stood and pulled June into his arms before she could think. She staggered a little, her heel catching in the shag carpet. Gregg caught her and whirled her, humming:

  Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson

  Jesus loves you more than you will know . . .

  “Very funny,” said June, but she was laughing. Gregg was still naked except for his glasses. He dipped her expertly. “Where’d you learn how to dance?” she asked breathlessly, upside-down.

  “Arthur Murray,” said Gregg. “My ma made all us boys take lessons.”

  He planted a kiss on June’s throat and pulled her upright. “Thank you, Mrs. Robinson.”

  “You’re welcome,” said June. She looked around for her purse. “I really have to go.”

  “Wait up, I’ll walk out with you,” said Gregg. He pulled on his tennis shorts—today he was wearing them with leather sandals and a red-and-blue-striped polo shirt. June couldn’t help rolling her eyes. What a fashion sense! But she smiled as Gregg tied his hair back with its rawhide, and for the first time, as they checked the room to make sure they hadn’t left their wallets or keys, she felt a little sad. Usually she couldn’t
get away fast enough, guilt driving her—but today she wanted an ice cream. She wished they could go to Applegate Farm, just her and her boy lover, and split a mint chocolate chip cone, or maybe watermelon sherbet.

  “So your name wasn’t on the sheet for the July Fourth tourney,” said Gregg, opening the door. “You out of town?”

  “Yes, I’m taking Elsbeth to see my mom. We fly out every summer.”

  “To where?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “Minne-soda? You’re a farm girl?”

  “Not exactly,” said June. “My mom owned a dress shop.”

  “Still,” said Gregg. “I can see you in gingham, baking pies. That kinda turns me on.”

  He slid a hand into the back of June’s shorts as they stepped into the parking lot, and she jumped away—they were out in public now. She went to her tan Dodge, Gregg his orange Pinto. The air smelled like melting tar.

  “I’ll see you when you get back?” he said, squinting at her—the lot was dazzling after the darkness of the room.

  “Sure,” said June, sliding on her sunglasses. “I’ll call you.”

  Would she? She didn’t have to get in touch with him when she returned. Maybe over the long holiday weekend, this whatever-it-was would die a natural death.

  Gregg smiled at her over the Pinto’s roof as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.