The Last Bathing Beauty

by Nathan, Amy Sue

  Hannah drizzled the glaze over the cake and carried the pan to the table. Everyone sat, and Hannah served.

  “So, did you end up ‘going with’ that guy Abe? Isn’t that what you called it?”

  “She did,” Doris said. “He was a good-looking boy. Dimples, right?”

  Boop huffed. “Must you, Doris?”

  “He was, but it’s irrelevant,” Georgia said. “We were young. Everyone was beautiful or handsome.”

  Not true.

  “Do you have any pictures?” Hannah asked.

  Boop shook her head. “Not a one.” At the time she didn’t think it mattered.

  “What happened between you?”

  Boop revised her revisionist history. “It just ended.”

  “And you started going with Pop after that?”

  “She did,” Doris said. “Marvin was like her knight in shining loafers.”

  “Ixnay the opinions, Doris,” Georgia said.

  Hannah smiled at Boop. “I don’t mind. Without Abe, you wouldn’t have ended up with Pop. There would be no Dad, no me, no Emma, no twins. It had to happen for all of us to be here.”

  In almost seventy years Boop hadn’t thought of it that way, that the events of that summer had served only as her circuitous pathway to Marvin. That he had been her destiny all along.

  Even during good times—and there were many—Boop had always believed she and Marvin were each other’s runner-up. What if she’d always been wrong?

  “No matter how you ended up with Pop, I’m glad you did. Obviously.” Hannah laughed.

  “Me too.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  “What happened to whom?” Georgia’s voice rose and she dragged out the m sound.

  “Abe. Who do you think?”

  Boop’s heart pattered. Mentioning Abe in the past or thinking of him in private was one thing, but talking about him as if he were part of her present? She had stopped doing that a long time ago. She’d locked the vault and thrown away the key.

  “How on earth would I know about him now?” Boop asked.

  “People are always looking up their old boyfriends and girlfriends online. I can check for you, if you want.”

  “That seems a little meddlesome, Hannah.” But it piqued Boop’s interest anyway. Was it wrong? Who could it hurt? Silly question. It could hurt her. He might have forgotten her. He might have no memories. He might be dead. He was probably dead.

  “That’s what the internet is for, Boop! Aren’t you curious?”

  “No, she’s not curious,” Georgia blurted.

  But questions fluttered inside Boop like a flung deck of cards. Could it really be that simple? Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She knew how to use the internet. “Well, maybe a little curious now that you mention it. But don’t do anything. Not unless I ask. The last thing I need is a surprise.”

  Chapter 7

  BETTY

  Betty loved summer Shabbos. The aroma of chicken noodle soup floated into the dining room on a magic carpet of sweet brisket, roasted hen, and just-baked challah. Her stomach gurgled as she walked to her grandparents’ table in the center of the room, set with simple silver candles, a pewter kiddush cup, and a bottle of Manischewitz Concord grape wine. Georgia called it the Jewish holy trinity.

  “Good Shabbos, bubbeleh,” Zaide said.

  “Good Shabbos, Zaide.”

  “You look very pretty tonight,” Nannie said.

  “Thank you.” Betty wouldn’t have considered her seafoam circle dress with the white wing collar worthy of notice, but along with her new white gloves, it was appropriate for Shabbos. And it was pretty enough for Abe.

  “My girls sure are lookers.” Zaide stood at attention, his natural stance, as the guests flowed into the room. On Shabbos Zaide didn’t schmooze, or maybe he schmoozed less. Most of the meal he stayed by Nannie, his own Shabbos queen. Once, Betty had seen Zaide pat Nannie on the bottom.

  “Ira!” Nannie had said.

  “It’s a mitzvah on Shabbos, Yetta.”

  She looked up at Zaide and waggled her finger. Betty could have sworn Nannie winked. It was years before Betty understood what Zaide had meant, and then she didn’t really want to think of her grandparents being romantic, even if it was a mitzvah.

  Tonight, Nannie, Zaide, and Betty were to dine with the Goldblatt family—Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Goldblatt from Indianapolis, along with their sixteen-year-old twins, Marsha and Marna, who wanted all the details of Betty’s senior year.

  Mrs. Alice Goldblatt, nicknamed Mrs. Gallbladder by the staff, crowed about extensive dietary restrictions, though no one at the resort had witnessed an attack during an entire decade of summers. Still, when the Goldblatts arrived for their three-week stay, Chef Gavin prepared ample portions of boiled chicken and steamed vegetables at every meal, as requested. But every day, after feasting on a platter of bland, medicinal food, Mrs. Goldblatt finished off her family’s plates in full view of the other guests and staff, right down to wiping the fattiest bits of chicken skin in gravy. She tucked Danish into her handbag each morning and shnecken into her evening clutch. Rumor swelled one summer, something about a cheese blintze found between the sheets.

  Maybe Mrs. Gallbladder had thought that was a mitzvah.

  Betty loved this craziness as much as she loved the familiar view of her lake. These were her people, her family. She knew their quirks and foibles, and they’d watched her grow up—more so than her own parents, who feigned interest no more than one weekend a summer during a break in their performance schedule. That’s when they showed up in South Haven, gussied up and gorgeous, both of them. They talked about cities and theaters and musicians and even soldiers, when they toured with the USO. They talked to Betty as if she were someone else’s child, cooing over how tall she’d grown, or how she had all the brains in the family. Zaide never said much while they were there. Zaide was the best talker Betty knew, so this unsettled her. Nannie spoke higher than her usual voice and was on her best behavior, not uttering one “Nannie-ism” during the visit.

  Betty bet Nannie would have done anything to get her parents to stay in South Haven.

  Not Betty.

  She learned one thing from her parents—the one thing she’d never do: abandon a child. She gulped a mouthful of air and scolded herself.

  “Self-pity isn’t pretty,” Nannie would have said.

  Nannie, inspecting the rosebud-embroidered challah cover, was right: Betty couldn’t really pity herself when she had full-time doting grandparents and a revolving door of quasi aunts, uncles, and cousins three months a year.

  Mrs. Goldblatt pulled off her right glove, finger by finger, revealing a double-strand iridescent pearl bracelet with a diamond clasp. Her wrist, as slim and fragile as a chicken wing, didn’t seem strong enough to support it, belying Mrs. Gallbladder’s reputation. Then she smoothed her napkin between her thumb and forefinger, no doubt planning for her evening snack. A few tables away, Betty noticed Marv in a fashionable black suit with narrow lapels, looking more dapper than she’d have expected. He stroked his chin. She looked at the Teitelbaum table to avoid his gaze, rather than be rude should he glance her way. She’d dodged crossing Marv’s path since he’d trailed off after Eleanor on the beach two nights ago. How easily boys were distracted.

  A reverent hum swirled around the room like a distant swarm of bees. Soon all the adults had settled in their seats and the children had been shushed. An anticipatory silence signaled the start of Shabbos as brashly as cymbals.

  Nannie and Betty stood.

  “Good Shabbos.” Nannie turned to greet all her guests. Betty’s grandmother was as at ease in the spotlight as a pinup on a poster.

  “Good Shabbos” reverberated through the dining room as the women and girls at each table pushed back their chairs and stood to say the prayer over the candles set out for each family. This was one thing the men couldn’t do. Oh, there were other things, of course, but women striking matchsticks on the surfaces of
matchboxes distracted Betty. Flames glittered. Nannie struck a match and set the wicks aglow on their smooth white candles. She circled her hands over them three times, and then shielded her eyes.

  In faux contemplation, Betty squinted at the basket chandelier hanging above the table. Her thoughts had already skedaddled to the kitchen, where Abe, in his waiter’s white tails, would be gathering soup-filled bowls for his table and balancing a silver tray on his shoulder with his hand. The flickering candlelight rebounded off the crystals like a pinball, from praying to playing and back again. The female voices blended to bless the Sabbath. As Nannie recited the ancient prayer in Hebrew, Betty lifted her palms to her face and whispered along in disobedient unison.

  Dear God,

  If you could possibly have Abe waiting

  the way he did last night,

  I’ll take it

  from there.

  And let us say amen.

  As dinner dishes were cleared, Betty lifted the edge of her glove to uncover the coral-gold face of a wristwatch that had once belonged to her mother. The color reminded Betty of apricot and strawberry jams mixed together—more orange than pink or more pink than orange, depending on the light. She couldn’t deny its beauty and hadn’t the strength to decline the gift. She’d admired it each time she’d seen Tillie wear it over the past decade. Her mother must have noticed. The watch had arrived special delivery the day before Betty’s graduation with a note that read, “Time flies. Happy graduation. Affectionately, Tillie and Joe.” Her parents weren’t known for their sentimentality, yet Betty preferred to think of the Hamilton as an heirloom rather than a hand-me-down, something she could show off.

  The minute hand suspended between the X and the XI. One, maybe two minutes had passed since the last time she’d looked, and it would be a lifetime until she was excused from the Shabbos table. As Betty bounced her knee like a jackhammer, the napkin on her lap slid toward the floor. Nannie whisked it away before it fell.

  “Abe is working,” Nannie whispered. “And shaking us all won’t change that.”

  Heat rose all the way up Betty’s cheeks. Abe set plates of apple cake and cookies onto his table on the other side of the room. It was the same table he would serve three meals a day, all summer.

  For the first two weeks Abe had waited on the Mason family, and when they departed for St. Louis tomorrow morning they would be replaced by the Tisch family. The Tisches would stay through July Fourth.

  “Maybe the girls want to play a game of hearts with you after dinner.” Nannie nodded once toward the twins. There was no music, no skit, no scheduled entertainment on Friday nights, so the guests played cards and board games or headed back to their cabins earlier than usual. Zaide said Shabbos was reserved for family time. Unless you were a waiter.

  “I have plans tonight, Nannie. You said it was okay.”

  “You have plans?” Zaide placed his hands on his hips, and even while seated it was an imposing stance. Or it would have been if Betty didn’t know he was a big pussycat who cherished her. “Does that mean I get a rain check for our Friday night Scrabble game?” he asked.

  “Oh, Zaide, I’m sorry.”

  Betty should have asked to be excused from the table while everyone devoured their apple cake. She remembered Marv had said it was his favorite. Betty whispered to their waiter to wrap a big slice in wax paper and hand it to him before he left the dining room. It was something Zaide would have done.

  But sitting at the table through the requisite coffee and cigarettes would only lead to trouble getting away at all. She needed to change out of her Shabbos dress and into something more suitable for what she had planned.

  Zaide tapped the table. “It’s fine. Have a good time with your friends. Girls, you can snag Betty during your calisthenics one morning to tell you all about her senior-year academics. And her antics.” Zaide winked at Betty, who hoped he was teasing her.

  Betty rose and stepped to Zaide’s chair, kissed him on the cheek, and leaned in for a little squeeze around her grandfather’s shoulders. In the summers he rarely sat still long enough for this kind of affection.

  Betty had asked Georgia to meet her in the lobby, so of course she was there, leaning against the wall, gazing into the air. She grabbed Georgia’s hand and pulled her into Zaide’s office, closed the door, and turned the lock. Changing here would save Betty time—at least five full minutes—instead of running home and back.

  “Okay, now tell me what I’m doing here instead of the arcade,” Georgia said.

  “You’re here helping me look blasé.”

  “This is about Abe.”

  “Of course this is about Abe. Unzip me, would you?”

  Georgia unzipped Betty’s dress and she stepped out of it. Georgia lifted it from the floor and slipped it onto a wooden hanger, as if she were a handmaiden. Then she harrumphed. She grabbed the dungarees and white cotton blouse from the back of Zaide’s desk chair and flung them at Betty.

  “Remind me why you didn’t go home to change clothes?”

  “I didn’t want to waste a second.” Betty stopped fussing and laid her hand on Georgia’s shoulder. “Thank you for going late to the arcade on account of me,” she said, not wanting to take Georgia for granted.

  Lickety-split, Betty was out of her silk stockings and satin slip and on with the dungarees. She buttoned the blouse almost to her neck and flicked her hair out of the collar. She tucked in her shirttail and added a thin white patent-leather belt.

  Georgia fixed Betty’s collar. “You’re keeping something from me.”

  “I just want you to wait with me, is all.”

  “Abe walked you home twice. I didn’t even know about the second time until now. What happened?”

  “He walked me home from the bonfire, and again last night after dinner.”

  “That’s why you didn’t go to the movies with us?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Betty perched on the step stool in the corner and pulled on white bobby socks, then slipped her feet into her new penny loafers and cuffed the pant legs. She set her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. “And we talked for two hours.”

  “Two hours? And all you did was talk?” Georgia smoothed her bold polka-dot skirt behind her bottom, sat on the floor in one fluid motion, and wrapped her arms around her knees. She stared at Betty like a child ready for story time.

  Betty never hesitated to tell Georgia anything, but the conversation with Abe was tucked into her heart and not for sharing. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did he kiss you?”

  “I told you, we talked.”

  “I thought you were kidding.”

  Betty stomped as she stood. “I wasn’t. It was wonderful. Maybe it was better than kissing.” Betty didn’t believe that, but she did believe the simple act of talking had jump-started their romance. Which was more than just romantic. “We talked about our families and what we want to do with our lives. He cared about everything I said. Every single word.”

  Georgia stood. “Be careful. All the girls have their eyes on him.”

  “You included?”

  “Don’t be crabby. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. He’s big man on campus up in Ann Arbor.”

  “This isn’t Ann Arbor, and I don’t need to be careful with Abe. He—” Betty stopped. She’d already said too much. Let them all think she was just having fun.

  “He what?”

  “He’s different.” Betty wasn’t going to tell Georgia that after two days she felt like she’d known Abe all her life. She slid from the stool and hugged her best friend tight. “Don’t worry about me.” Then Betty opened the door of Zaide’s office storage closet and tugged on the chain dangling from a naked bulb. She looked into Zaide’s full-length mirror and traced her index finger around the perimeter of her lips, then retrieved her purse in search of Revlon’s Stormy Pink and a Kleenex. She applied a fresh lipstick coat in front of the full-length mirror. “Abe really cares about me.” Bett
y blotted her lips. “He’s not going to hurt me.” She blotted again. She looked into the mirror at her face, then up and down at her body. She turned to the side, then the back, to investigate her curves from all angles. “I thought you could get to know him a bit tonight before he walked me home, but maybe that’s not a good idea.”

  “Oh no,” Georgia said. “I think it’s the perfect idea.”

  After saying good night to her grandparents, and circulating through dawdling guests in the lobby, Betty grabbed a peach from the fruit bowl on the lobby’s side table. God forbid anyone go hungry before the midnight buffet. She held the ripe fruit out to Georgia as a peace offering.

  “Is it poison?”

  Betty cocked her head. “That’s only apples, silly.”

  Georgia accepted the peach, but set it back into the bowl and slid her hand into Betty’s. “Don’t be angry with me for watching out for you.”

  “You don’t have to protect me from Abe. But I adore you for wanting to, I really do. Now come with me and say hello.”

  “And then leave?”

  “Yes, please. Anyway, isn’t the gang waiting for you at the arcade?”

  “They won’t miss me if you want me to stick around.”

  Betty shook her head as she squeezed Georgia’s hand, and then released it to push open the front door. The sun had set, and the bluish-purple sky was fading to ink.

  Abe stood on the bottom step, just as Betty had hoped. Just as she’d prayed. A smile of relief and joy tugged at the insides of her cheeks. He leaned against the iron railing, hands in his trouser pockets, with one foot crossed over the other in a casual pose. He faced the beach, then leaned back and laughed, his voice bellowing like a love song. His demeanor was suave and serious, but fun—a combination usually reserved for men in cigarette advertisements.

  Then Abe stepped aside.

  There stood Eleanor. Again. Betty had heard the crowd call her “Easy Eleanor” behind her back. Insults like that one made her stomach churn, and she refused to take part or chime in—as long as Eleanor stayed a respectable distance from Abe.