I also told her, with Rosalie’s approval, a highly edited story of our move to Chicago. Now it was after we had finished high school and with the approval of our parents. I sanitized the hotel we stayed in, but told the story of our trip to the Young Ladies’ Aid Society meeting pretty much as it happened. And then, I said, I went to university and we lost touch.
Sylvie liked for me to describe my childhood apartment, with its crowded laundry dampness. She could not believe that so many people would have lived together in that small space. She also liked us to braid our hair in the old style, and describe our long skirts and ruffled blouses. She laughed at how old-fashioned it was. And then I told stories of what it was like before telephones and airplanes, when even automobiles were a novelty, and she stared at me saucer-eyed with wonder.
When I took them to lunch, the library, or simply out for a walk to look at the ships, I found myself sorry, for the first time, that I did not have any children of my own. But this regret, as Mrs. Keane the suffragette would have said, was like closing the barn door after the horse is already out.
*
During those six weeks, I kept Rosalie and Ainslie far apart. This was due partly to instinct, partly to necessity. As I read my clearance manuals, it was emphasized again and again that it was preferable for agents to have few close friends or family. Ainslie never mentioned any of his friends, and I suspected he kept everyone at arm’s length with his charm. So while I was breaking the rules by “consorting” with Rosalie, I simply never mentioned it to Ainslie in a tacit agreement that what we didn’t know couldn’t hurt us.
Also, I hadn’t mentioned to Ainslie that I was Jewish. It just hadn’t come up. Since Chicago I had called myself Frances Frank. It had become my reflex, starting with my residency in Nebraska, not to mention my religion. One was never sure in those days (nor in these) what people thought about Jews. There was growing anti-Semitism in Europe, which either riled up people’s sense of unfairness or their agreement that Jews needed to be restricted. It was ever thus, and probably will always be.
Ainslie never spoke of religion. I wasn’t even sure what religion he was. There were so many things I didn’t know about him, and so few that had revealed themselves to me. I didn’t know his attitude toward Jews. Or his opinion on whether the toilet paper should roll over or under. Or whether he liked Brussels sprouts. So I just never said anything about my being Jewish. I was sure he must have suspected. But if I introduced him to Rosalie and Clarence he would know immediately; Clarence covered his head with a yarmulke. So it was easier to keep them apart, though Rosalie pushed constantly for the four of us to get together. I had to use all my imagination to keep her from insisting.
*
I dreaded telling Rosalie that I was going to the Galápagos. I knew she wouldn’t understand. Our cover story didn’t make much sense, it was true. There was nothing about my life that suggested I’d be interested in going to an island to try to subsist on nature’s bounty, or that Ainslie needed the warm climate to cure tuberculosis. I would have been surprised too, which is why when I finally did tell her, one week before Ainslie was to leave for training, she thought I was joking.
“Oh, the famous Frances Frankowski sense of humor!” she said. We were at the pool of her country club, sipping something frothy and sweet and watching Sylvie play in the water. It was one of those warm spring days that make you love California, especially if you’re from Minnesota.
“I’m serious,” I said. “We’re really going. Ainslie has medical leave from the navy.”
Rosalie pulled her glasses down her nose. She looked at me intensely as if to stare inside and see if I were lying.
“I’ve never even heard of those islands,” she said.
“Yes, you have,” I insisted. I was getting a bit sunburned and I scooted my chair farther under the umbrella. “They’re where Darwin discovered evolution.”
“Where in the heck are they?” Her eyes scanned the pool for Sylvie. There were three lifeguards on duty, and Sylvie had been swimming for years, but Rosalie was a nervous parent.
“The Pacific Ocean, near the equator. You take a boat to Panama and then to Guayaquil.”
“This makes absolutely no sense, Frances. Why on earth would you go to a desert island, at your age?”
“Our age,” I corrected. The children yelling and squealing in the background were percussion accompaniment to our conversation.
“So is it a vacation? How long will you be gone?”
“About a year,” I said. The sun chased me even farther under the umbrella.
“A year? I absolutely forbid it!” Rosalie was joking, but there was an undercurrent to her voice that she used when her children misbehaved.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a say,” I said. “I’ll be back, don’t worry.”
“But what will you eat? How will you live?” She had completely turned away from the pool and pushed her glasses up onto her head. She did look remarkably young, I had to admit.
“Well, you take provisions with you and then you construct a house from materials on the islands. It’s always warm there, so you plant a garden. It’s very fertile.”
Rosalie was struck dumb. “You’re just going to up and leave?”
“Well, not tomorrow,” I said. I sensed that this was about more than my yearlong adventure.
To my surprise, Rosalie started to cry. “You can’t,” she said. “I just found you, you can’t leave again.” There was an anguish to her crying that really touched me. Perhaps Rosalie had been as lonely as I had. I considered how a few months ago I’d had no one and now I had two people in my life, important people, who wanted my company. My cup ranneth over.
I held Rosalie while she wept, and when Sylvie got out of the pool and came over, questioningly, I said her mother was sad. I would cheer her up, and Sylvie should go get a sandwich at the clubhouse.
Eventually, Rosalie calmed. She wiped her eyes and smiled, embarrassed. “Crying makes you look older,” she said. “But Frances, really, you have to explain this to me. Otherwise it seems like your husband is kidnapping you. This is his idea, isn’t it? This can’t have come from you.”
I could lie to many people, but I still found it difficult to lie to Rosalie. I had to turn my head to the cement beneath the chairs so I didn’t have to meet her gaze. “It’s Ainslie’s drinking,” I said. “It’s a real problem, and he can’t stop. He’s going to a sanatorium for a month to dry out and then I think if we go somewhere where there’s no possibility…”
Rosalie’s mouth opened into an O. She patted me on the shoulder, consolingly, as though I were the one who had been weeping. I realized as I said this that it was true, that I wanted Ainslie away from the bars and the distractions. I wanted him to myself.
Rosalie leaned over to her purse and took out her compact, powdering her face and reapplying her lipstick.
“I’ll let you go on two conditions.”
“What?” I chuckled.
“First, you have to promise me not to die and to write me constantly.”
“That’s two already.”
“And second,” she said, ignoring me, “I’m meeting this Ainslie before he whisks you away to the ends of the earth.”
*
I tried to make it sound like a casual invitation: Oh, Ainslie, by the way, we’re invited for dinner at my friend’s on Friday. I must have pulled it off, because he amiably agreed.
I could not have been more nervous that night than if I were about to take center stage at the Lyric Opera. When we arrived at Rosalie’s house, Ainslie’s wide eyes betrayed his surprise at its grandeur. I had told him very little about Rosalie and her family, only that she was an old friend. I should have warned him so he would have been prepared for the prayers before dinner, so he would have been prepared to discover that I was Jewish. I had accepted Rosalie’s invitation in part because it would force me to tell him, giving myself an ultimatum. But each time I began I found a convenient excuse not to do it. So
now we were here at her front door, Ainslie in perfect ignorance. A good phrase—perfect ignorance, in contrast to flawed enlightenment.
The maid showed us to the parlor and Ainslie kissed Rosalie’s hand. I saw him stare for a second at the yarmulke on Clarence’s head as confusion and then worry crossed his face before he composed himself. We sat down. Clarence and Ainslie smoked cigars before we ate. We made small talk; Ainslie and Clarence compared service in the Great War, which was always the topic Ainslie discussed when he met men of his age, but Clarence had served at a desk in Washington, while Ainslie was in Morocco and France. Rosalie had honed her gift for hostessing, so while our conversation wasn’t fluid, neither was it filled with awkward silences.
Soon we moved into the dining room. Clarence said the blessing over the bread and wine and Ainslie shifted uncomfortably.
What did we talk about? I’m not sure. I’m not certain I said two words. What would Ainslie say when we were alone? Would he be more angry at the lie of omission or the awkwardness? What was his attitude toward Jews? What if I had married an anti-Semite?
The main course was a large steak, bone in. At least I knew that Ainslie would appreciate this part of the meal. He loved to eat meat; it wasn’t a meal unless an animal died. There was a side of pasta with tomato sauce and some carrots and we all ate heartily until Ainslie said, “Do you possibly have some cheese for the pasta?”
“I’m sorry?” Rosalie said.
“Some parmesan or something. It’s very good on pasta; Italians always use it when they eat noodles.”
“These are the meat dishes,” Clarence said, confused, as though Ainslie had suggested using them as pillows.
“The what?”
“Jewish dietary laws,” Rosalie said.
Ainslie’s face showed plainly his confusion. “Hebrews don’t eat cheese?”
“We don’t mix milk and meat,” Rosalie said, speaking slowly as if stating the obvious.
“I’ll explain later,” I said.
“You’ll explain later?” I saw his mouth turn down as he took in the meaning of this phrase. It was dawning on him that if I understood these laws, I must be Jewish as well. Had he really not guessed? He was a consummate professional, I’ll give him that; he recovered instantly. The only betrayal of surprise was his napkin crushed tight in his fist.
The children came in to share dessert with us, and Ainslie entertained them with his amateur magic, which was entirely too young for Barbara and Dan, though they played along sportingly. Sylvie was delighted. “Magic is okay, right? Not against rules?” he asked.
Rosalie smiled her old strained smile, the white teeth stacked in a wall. “It’s fine,” she said. “Oh, Frances, I have a dress I want your opinion on. Do you mind coming to my dressing room?”
This was thinly veiled—no one on earth had ever asked my sartorial opinion. When we got upstairs Rosalie sat at her vanity and I sat on the bench at the end of the bed. I looked at her reflection in the mirror while she powdered her nose.
“Ainslie seems so outgoing,” she said.
“Yes. He’s the social one. Drinking a bit too much as usual.”
“Hmm.” Rosalie always wore the same shade of bright red lipstick; her lips were chrysanthemums constantly in bloom. “You met at work, right?”
I nodded. I could see Rosalie trying to formulate a question. She didn’t look at me but at herself in the mirror we were sitting in front of.
“He seems…tall.”
“He is tall,” I said. “And goyishe, I knew you were going to say that.”
“Actually, I wasn’t,” she said. “I was going to say sensitive. He seems sensitive.”
I actually found Ainslie to be thick-skinned, able to take a lot of ribbing, which was one of the things I liked about him, but I didn’t want to contradict her. “He’s very kind.”
Rosalie took my hand. “Don’t let him cut you off from me, from us,” she said. She leaned over and painted my lips with her lipstick. In the mirror, my mouth looked bloody, like a cat after a kill.
*
In the taxi on the way home, Ainslie lit a cigarette, breathing in deeply. The pleasure and relief he took from smoking made me smile. “Your friends are nice,” he said, but his tone was devoid of sentiment. “Had a nice chat with Clarence about real estate.”
“That was kind of you to come to dinner. I should have said something about…how they live.”
“Well, yes, you should have, Frances. Not that I’d care.” He continued to look out the window, not at me. “But it does put me in a bit of a spot. I don’t care,” he said again. “It’s just one more thing that people could find out about you, about us. The more secrets we have to hide, the more insecure our cover. It’s leverage against you.”
“It’s hardly a big deal,” I said. “It’s not like I keep kosher.”
Ainslie looked at me and furled his brow.
“It’s not like I have separate milk and meat dishes.”
“Why on earth would you? Why would anyone choose to be so…different?”
This rubbed me wrong. “I think to them you’re different,” I said.
“Maybe,” Ainslie said. “Although, I have to say, I’m surprised a bit.”
“At?” The taxi swung left and I leaned into Ainslie. Did I feel him flinch?
“I didn’t know you were religious.”
He was hinting at something, and I was not going to help him. “I’m not.”
“I didn’t know you were a Hebrew, all right?”
“I’m Jewish. I was born Frances Frankowski.”
“Polish? I thought you were German.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
Ainslie tossed his cigarette out the window and lit another one. It was cold in the taxi and I wished he’d close the window. He didn’t answer me.
“Well, I’ve been friends with Rosalie since we were kids. You know how it is. Old friends are just like family. You simply accept them, no matter how they change.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Ainslie said. He never talked about his family. His parents were deceased, and though he had two brothers, they never spoke.
“Rosalie wasn’t like that as a kid. My family was a lot more religious than hers. They were American. Mine were the immigrants. It’s Clarence who’s made her so devout.”
Ainslie took a long drag.
“We don’t have to spend too much time with them,” I said.
“We can spend as much time with them as you like,” Ainslie said, exhaling smoke.
*
I lay in bed that night, ashamed. Rosalie and her husband were too Jewish for me and my husband. I hated myself for not calling Ainslie to task. I hated myself for hating myself. Germany’s Nuremberg Laws had shown that no matter how much you think you’re part of a society, when you’re Jewish you’re always that first, no matter how you act, what you look like, or what you eat. I was a horrible person, I thought. But I had so many secrets, so much of a desire to please my stranger of a husband, that it was easier to blame everything on Clarence and his devotion. Why did they have to be so different? Why couldn’t they eat in restaurants and go bareheaded like everyone else? Why couldn’t they be more like Ainslie? Why couldn’t I be more like someone Ainslie would love?
On Monday, Ainslie departed for Carmel. We would be apart a month until I joined him. I walked him down to the car and he kissed me quickly on the lips before getting in and pulling a screeching U-turn. When I went back into the apartment, it was at once devastatingly empty and wonderfully large.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I was jolted out of sleep one night by a pounding on the door. At first I thought it was the wind; spring in San Francisco was not kind, and it had been raining for what felt like years. I got up and put on a dressing gown. It was full, deep night. I was too asleep even to wonder who it might be.
“Aunt Fanny, please open up.” Rosalie’s older daughter, Barbara, stood at my door, her hair flat, her eyes red. “I’m sorry,�
�� she said.
“What are you doing here? Come in.” I ushered her inside. “What on earth?”
She burst into tears. “It’s Momma. We had an enormous fight. You know how she can be.”
I did, but I said nothing, handing her a tissue. “A fight about what?”
Barbara looked at the tissue, folding and unfolding it. “A boy,” she said.
“Oh.” I was relieved. For a moment I’d worried that something was really wrong. I do have a tendency to expect the worst. “I’ll make tea,” I said. I set the kettle on to boil. I’ve always disliked tea, but I kept a few bags around for guests.
“She found me with a boy. And I know it’s wrong, that we shouldn’t have been together without someone else around, but we were only kissing. And she went just crazy. She hit him with her pocketbook and screamed things at me…I don’t even know what some of them mean.” Barbara was crying quietly now. “And Pat left and now he’ll never talk to me again. And I love him.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The kettle began to rattle and I stood up to turn it off before it whistled.
While I made the tea, Barbara told me a long, dramatic story. Some afternoons she took Sylvie to the playground, and she and this boy would arrange to meet to talk. Then they began to hold hands. Then they would sneak off to kiss behind the gazebo. On this day, Rosalie stopped by the park. Sylvie, though sworn to secrecy, easily gave Barbara up when pressed and Rosalie found them.
I held my cup between my hands, letting it warm them. “What do you think she was most angry about?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Barbara looked at her teacup. “I’m almost sixteen.”
“Practically halfway to the grave,” I said.
“Don’t poke fun, Aunt Fanny.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Seriously, what do you think? Was it that you left Sylvie alone? That the boy isn’t Jewish? That you were sneaking around?” I took a small sip of the tea and encountered uninspiring flower water. I put the cup down.
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