Enchanted Islands

by Allison Amend

  I coughed meekly. I was embarrassed to stand up, knowing that my chemise would show through my thin cotton dress, so I sat in the shallow water. A powerful flash of hatred made me kick a wave of water toward Zeke, but he merely turned around, holding his pipe in the air, and laughed as he waded back to shore.

  Elsie came up to me. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Men are like children.”

  “My dress will cling.”

  “I have a shawl you can wear until you dry.”

  I began to cry. Elsie took me in her clammy arms. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s just a dress. It’ll dry.” I couldn’t articulate why I was crying. At that moment I missed my mother and Duluth so much. There my older brother would have defended me, would have picked up Zeke and dragged him out to sea until he said uncle. My mother would have a towel ready, and a nice tongue sandwich, and I could be far away from the world where men wrote secret newspapers and tossed poor young girls into the lake.

  The day was ruined for me, so I sat apart from the others while my dress dried, and then went home, toting my ruined gelatin mold. When I got to Mrs. Klein’s apartment, I was crying again. In the kitchen, I ate the whole thing with a spoon, then tipped the mold to my mouth to slurp down the rest of the juices. When I looked in the mirror my face was red around the mouth from the gelatin, like I’d put on clown makeup, and Rosalie of course wasn’t home, so I put myself to bed.

  *

  On Monday, Elsie handed me a note when I walked in. She got there an hour before me and I stayed an hour later after she left, and in that way we covered the switchboard and Mr. Mays’s extended hours. “What’s this?” I asked. I opened it. I couldn’t imagine who would be sending me notes, unless it was Mr. Mays with some sort of complaint. Our three-month trial was only two months in, but I thought he was satisfied with the work I’d been doing. The handwriting was crooked like I imagined Scrooge’s writing in Dickens. I read the note, which I’ll reproduce here, exaggerated spelling and syntax errors included:

  Dear Miz Frances,

  The boys telled me I have to pologize for my actshons. I pologoize.

  Z. Gregor

  Zeke. Trying to be funny.

  “It’s an apology note,” I told Elsie, whose fake surprise told me that she’d been the “boys” to whom Zeke was referring.

  “Well, now, that’s nice,” she said. “He’s not a bad sort after all, is he?”

  “No more than a rotten apple,” I said, and Elsie laughed.

  “I think,” she said, “he’s sweet on you.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “Funny way of showing it.”

  “Men.” Elsie picked up her steno pad and walked down the hall. “As sweet as apples can be,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Or tart!” I yelled back, and I heard Mr. Andrews say “Shush” from his office.

  *

  But I began to wonder if she was right. The following week, at coffee time, Zeke asked Elsie and me an inane question that he already knew the answer to. “See?” she nudged me. “Sweet as an apple.”

  “Maybe he’s sweet on you, did you ever think of that?” I teased back. The half roll I’d eaten turned to a lump in my stomach.

  “Nope, he knows I’m married. And my husband’s a hell of a lot bigger than he is.” She laughed. I was no longer shocked at her language. In fact, some of it I’d begun to adopt unknowingly, swearing “dammit” under my breath when I mistyped.

  The following day, as I was leaving work, I saw Zeke hurriedly stub out his cigarette and fall in step beside me. “Oh, you’re leaving too?” he asked. “How’s your route?”

  “I take the El,” I said.

  “Which way?”

  “South.”

  He nodded. “I’ll walk you there, make sure no one bothers you.”

  No one had ever bothered me in the two months I’d been at Mays, but I let him walk beside me. Still, I made no attempt at conversation. Even though it was apparent that his brusqueness was a mask for some deeper feeling for me (whatever that was), it still smarted, and I wasn’t about to give in to the sharp turnaround now.

  About this time, Rosalie began to talk again about New York.

  “But that’s so far,” I said.

  “The train goes there.” She was home for the rare evening and was engaged in brushing her hair. I hadn’t noticed before how long it was; she had always kept it plaited at home.

  “The train goes a lot of places. Siberia, for instance.”

  “Ah, but they don’t have theater there,” she said. She sighed. “Broadway. Dancing. Won’t that be nice? Or California? Sunshine. Real ocean beaches.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Chicago was already fairly overwhelming, and I could only imagine what New York would be like. California was Shangri-la—a desert island from the funny papers, palm trees and coconuts. I was wrong about both California and desert islands.

  Zeke and I began to “go steady” or “court,” which is what we called it back then, and he showed his softer side. We often went for long walks along the lake, where he would sometimes take my hand. His mother packed us picnic lunches, and we’d go to Jackson Park Beach, happily chatting and splashing each other.

  I didn’t tell Rosalie about Zeke. When she asked where I’d been, I said I’d gone to see a Scandinavian choral music ensemble. A couple of times I said I’d gone to Elsie’s. A couple more she wasn’t home to know I had gone out. I enjoyed keeping it from her, savoring the idea like a lollipop I was hiding, taking it out and licking it when she wasn’t around. I would tell her soon, I thought. After all, she didn’t tell me about Peter Leigh right away. Or I’d tell her when there was something to tell.

  I wanted to tell my family. I did miss them and worried that I was causing them pain. I wanted, too, to prove to them how successful I’d been on my own—a job, a boyfriend. But letting them know where I was would be letting Rosalie’s family know where she was, and I couldn’t do that to her.

  Though Zeke was occasionally gruff, he showed himself to be a patient teacher as he instructed me on how to work the printing press. He was passionate about his pamphlet, about the Zionist movement. I wasn’t aware that there had been some sort of Congress in Europe, and I hid my ignorance from Zeke. I was always conscious of his education, his intelligence, and the large holes in what I knew.

  One day as we walked near the lake, I asked him how he’d first gotten interested in Zionism. He’d become active in college. There was a group of intellectual Jews there, he said, mostly Marxists, who conceived of this utopia. They were followers of Theodor Herzl, who was advocating for a Jewish state in Palestine, calling themselves B’nai Zion.

  “Don’t people already live there?” I asked.

  “Yes, but it really should be our land. We were the original settlers.”

  “By that logic,” I said, “we should give Illinois back to the Indians.”

  “The movements have been compared,” he admitted. “And some of the same people are fighting to keep Indian Territory for the Indians.”

  I didn’t know exactly where Indian Territory was, and if you’d asked me I would have said it already belonged to the Indians, thus the name, but I held my tongue for fear of seeming stupid.

  “And what would we do there, in Zion?”

  “Oh, same as everywhere. Farm. Be tailors. Run newspapers. Ship products.”

  I held this thought in my mind for a second, imaging my mother in the desert washing clothes with sand, the sun beating down on her be-turbaned head.

  “There’s a smaller part of the movement that wants to try out Marx’s ideas on a small scale, called a kibbutz, where everyone lives communally and shares in the work.”

  “That’s what my apartment was like where I grew up,” I said. “We all shared one lavatory and we all did the work.”

  “Yes, but this would be voluntary,” Zeke said. When he got excited, little bits of spittle collected in the corners of his mouth. “That’s what’s amazing. All these people bandi
ng together by choice to form a more perfect union. What the United States was supposed to be. And what it has failed to be.”

  This awoke in me an indignant sense of patriotism. “You think the United States is a failure?”

  “Of democracy, yes. It’s an oligarchy of rich people. We don’t even have directly elected officials. For all the talk of liberty and equality and representation, we just appoint people to make our decisions for us.”

  Something was a bit wrong with this argument, but Zeke was so worked up that I thought it unwise to upset him further. His step quickened, and he bent over to pick up a rock and toss it into the lake, listening to it thump dully as it hit.

  I picked up another, this one perfect for skimming, and set it shimmering across the calm surface. Zeke looked amazed. “How do you know how to do that?”

  “My father taught me,” I said. “Sometimes we’d go down to the water and we fished and skipped rocks.”

  “Do you know the physics behind it?” Zeke asked. He was showing off. He knew I wanted to go to college.

  “I don’t need to,” I said. “It skips the same.”

  “It does.” He laughed. “That it does.”

  And for the first time he bent over to kiss me. His lips were warm and slightly salty, wet from his saliva. He let them linger there for a second, then pulled away. My first kiss! I thought. Now I would have something to report to Rosalie.

  Then he put his hand on my breast and I was so shocked I took a step back. Even safely away from him, I could feel the place he touched me grow hot—with shame? Desire? I didn’t know which. I stepped back and he resumed walking as if nothing had happened. We continued awkwardly by the lake until we reached the back door of Mrs. Klein’s house.

  “Well,” Zeke said. We’d been silent for the past fifteen minutes; the kiss had stolen our breath. He leaned forward and pecked my lips again. “That’s okay, right?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He turned and took a step away. “See you at work tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I said.

  “Right. See you Monday.” He stumbled a little. I giggled and waved and didn’t wait for him to go down to the end of the alley before I let myself in.

  *

  I would like to skip this part. But it’s important, or the rest of my story won’t make sense.

  As the weeks went on, I got used to his touching me under my blouse, and his flattering happiness when I touched him back.

  One afternoon, he and I took the train to the South Shore in Indiana. It was a relief to be out of the overheated city; the dunes undulating before us looked like our own planet. Lake Michigan is as big as an ocean, with waves to match. I was too afraid to get in over my waist, but Zeke dove through the waves like a dolphin. He’d grown up at the beach; his father believed in regular exercise, and they swam every day in the summer, though they lived on the Near West Side. Zeke came out of the water and stood over me, dripping. I laughed. I had purchased a bathing costume especially for this outing. It was the first new piece of clothing I had ever owned. I remember it: It was wool with a sailor collar and a skirt down past my knees. I was proud of it. The ties hid my lack of chest and the belt emphasized my waist. I felt beautiful.

  The water fell off Zeke and he moved so that his body cast a shadow over mine like he was lying on top of me. “When can we, Fanny?”

  I knew what he was asking me. It was what he’d been asking me since we started going steady. But I was barely sixteen and terrified. I wanted to, both because I too had urges and also because I wanted to make Zeke happy, but the consequences seemed potentially too dire. Every time he put his hands on me I could hear the warning of the flashbulb’s pop, and I pushed him away.

  “Do we have to be married, Fanny? Because I do want to marry you, when I’m a bit more settled.” He smiled and knelt beside me, taking my hand and miming putting a ring on my finger. “Ani l’dodi v’dodi li,” he said, the Hebrew wedding vow that tied a couple as beloveds.

  I wanted to believe, but I couldn’t. I didn’t trust myself. “Soon,” I said, meaning the opposite.

  He growled in frustration and let my hand drop, lying back into the sun.

  I had ruined our day. We rode back to the city in sunburned silence.

  I felt terribly guilty. I was a tease, his stony face said as much, one of the worst things a girl could be called. I had no idea how to remedy this, other than to give in to his demands.

  He met Rosalie that afternoon; we arrived back at the house at the same time.

  “Well don’t you look sun-kissed and rosy!” she said. “You must be Zeke.” The wall of teeth.

  He shook her hand. “You didn’t tell me your cousin was so pretty,” he said. Rosalie smiled. I knew he meant it as the compliment one is supposed to give women when one meets them for the first time, but I felt jealousy’s sticky grip.

  “Oh, stop! How was the beach?”

  “Beachy keen!” I said. It was a terrible pun. Both Zeke and Rosalie laughed tepidly, with politeness.

  “Why don’t we all go out, maybe next Saturday? I’d like to get to know the man who is occupying all of Fanny’s time.” I was surprised to hear Rosalie say this. Did she miss me? I hadn’t even thought that she might feel neglected. I assumed she was out with her acting teacher.

  “Zeke observes Shabbos,” I said.

  “How’s Sunday?” he said. “I can take you both out for ice cream. Bring your beau,” he told Rosalie.

  “I would if I had one. Do you mind doing double duty?”

  “A girl for each arm, I’m a lucky guy.”

  I wanted to interject myself into the conversation. “That sounds fun.”

  “Then it’s decided. I’ll call for you at two?”

  “Perfect!” Rosalie said. “Nice to finally meet you, Zeke.” She opened the door.

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said.

  Zeke kissed me, holding me tight so I could feel how much he wanted me. “Ow,” I said as the embrace turned too forceful.

  “Sorry.” He backed away from me. “Bye.”

  I didn’t turn back at the door to wave. I didn’t want to see him and feel bad about what I was denying him.

  *

  Zeke arrived on Sunday with a daisy for each of us, and we linked arms as we walked toward the El. We went all the way up to Vogelsang’s Drug Store for a soda. What did we talk about? I don’t remember exactly, but fashion, probably, or our favorite foods. At the fountain we laughed and drank Coca-Cola. We walked to nearby Lincoln Park and visited the zoo and the conservatory, the glasshouse steamy and close. I don’t remember anything in particular about that day, I just know that I felt so happy, like I was part of a real family. I imagined us in fifteen years, Rosalie and her husband, our children with us. The future seemed certain.

  When we were alone that night in bed, Rosalie said, “You’re so lucky. I’m happy for you, Fanny. He’s wonderful.”

  “I know,” I said, “isn’t he? I mean, he’s a bit square and he can go on about Zionism, but I think he might be my Melvin Shumwitz.”

  Rosalie laughed. “Don’t lose him, now.”

  I started. “Why? Do you think I’m doing something wrong?”

  “No, no,” Rosalie said. “I just mean, hang on to him.”

  “I don’t know how,” I said. “He wants…he wants to…you know.”

  “Of course he does.” Rosalie’s voice sounded loud in the dark. “They all want to.”

  “I’m afraid,” I said.

  “It’s kind of fun.”

  I switched on the light and sat up. “Rosie, have you? Did you?”

  She nodded, full of a secret. “With Peter.”

  “Your acting teacher? But he’s married!” I laugh at myself now to think that that was what I was concerned with.

  “He loves me,” she said, wounded.

  “And you…Aren’t you worried about getting…You know?”

  “He uses a French letter.” Rosalie ex
amined her fingernails.

  “He reads to you in French?”

  “No.” Rosalie laughed condescendingly. “It’s a sort of glove, over his thing. It makes you not have a baby.”

  I’d never heard of such a thing. “And it’s fun?”

  “Not at first, but then yes. And they are so appreciative.”

  They? I had nothing to say. Rosalie was again a thousand leagues in front of me. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “He will,” Rosalie said confidently.

  *

  First Mr. Andrews fell sick, and we were all worried because his health was fragile. Then one of the clerks went down—he sent his son with a note excusing his absence using the most unnecessarily graphic descriptions of his symptoms. Then the men on the floor caught it, and production fell thirteen percent, a statistic that I painstakingly calculated with my mediocre math, so take it with a grain or sack of salt. Then one day Zeke didn’t come to work.

  At coffee time I felt a bit off, and my stomach had turned by noon so that I was racing into the lavatory every fifteen minutes, thinking I was going to lose my roll, only to sit facing the porcelain forlornly, wondering whether I would feel better if I got sick.

  I emerged to find Elsie standing there. “I’m sorry to keep it occupied,” I said.

  “I don’t have to use it,” Elsie said. “I’m standing here to tell you to go home.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, leaning against the wall. “I’ll stay.”

  “Frances, you’re positively green,” she said. “You make grass look dull in comparison.”

  I had to agree that I was a bit woozy, and the room was tilting dangerously. So far I hadn’t done much work and probably wouldn’t be capable of any.

  “Don’t worry,” Elsie said. “Mr. Mays gives two sick days a year.”

  I wanted to tell her I didn’t need a sick day, but I felt the need to rush back into the lavatory and this time I was successful in my purging.

  Then Elsie had no trouble convincing me that I should go home and lie down. She even gave me a dollar for a hansom cab, a luxury that I had trouble accepting but ended up taking, not even enjoying the plush velvet in my stupor. I had only been in a carriage a handful of times, and combined with the queasiness of my stomach, I had the sensation of flying, like my spirit had been released from my body and I was hovering above myself.