“No, of course not.”
“You’re not lying to me now?”
“Of course not. Why would I lie?”
“To get me off your back about it.”
Dewey smiled and turned the conversation around, asked after Jack, how he was doing at Harvard. He didn’t seem surprised when George told him he was sending him down to New York to learn the ropes at Davidson’s when he finished his business degree.
“Throw him in the deep end,” Dewey said. “It’s what my father did to me. It’s the only way to learn.”
“I have high hopes for him,” George said. And then, after a pause: “How’s Sarah?”
There was a long silent moment. Sarah was a subject they had both studiously avoided for so long. “She’s fine. She’s a good wife, George, though I know you find that hard to believe. We’ve grown comfortable with each other.”
“Do you love her?”
Dewey nodded.
“Does she love you?”
A shrug. “I guess she does, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Maybe not the way I love her. But what we have, it’s enough for me.”
George shook his head. “You could have had any woman you wanted.”
“I’m happy with my choices, George. Perhaps Sarah is not your kind of choice, not a choice for many men in my position, but she’s more than enough for me.”
“Seven years,” George said. “I didn’t think it would last seven weeks.” He dropped an inch of ash from his cigar into a thick onyx ashtray. “Always glad to be wrong.”
“Water under the bridge. Why don’t you swing by the apartment this evening for dinner?”
“I was supposed to have dinner tonight at the Waldorf. Business.”
“Be great if you could make it. Time to bury the hatchet, George.”
“I know,” George murmured, and then the talk moved on to other things. Dewey tried again, with no success, to sell George on getting a piece of the market. As he was leaving, George said, “How’s the girl? Liberty, isn’t it?”
“She’s not a girl anymore. She’s sixteen. Got herself a Dutch bob and a hemline that gives her mother pink fits.”
“Last time I saw her, she was giving Jack boxing lessons.”
“She’s still not the kind of girl anyone should mess with. Like her mother. Hope to see you tonight, George. Let me know, and I’ll call ahead, get Cook to make something special.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Dewey’s secretary brought George his hat and cane and showed him out.
Dewey watched him walk out onto the street, two floors below. He smiled. He hoped he’d change his mind about dinner. He was sure George and Sarah could be friends, if only they gave it a chance.
It was stifling hot when George reached the street, and an assault after the ordered calm of Dewey’s office. The peanut vendors and hawkers selling soda drinks were trying to outdo each other like barkers at Coney Island. He was jostled this way and that by the crowds. If that wasn’t enough, there was the construction hammering of all the new buildings going up, newsboys trying to shift their morning editions, cars and trucks beating their horns in the traffic. He jumped in a cab, eager to get away from it all. A circus was all it was. He had a bad feeling about it; Dewey was supposed to be the ringmaster, but George could not shake the ugly suspicion that his friend had jumped in the lions’ cage himself.
Mary Donnelly was in a corridorlike ward that had fifty other beds in it. There was a screen around her bed, and Liberty knew what that meant, that she must be dying. A nurse brought a chair for her, and Liberty sat down and watched Mary sleep. She would not have recognized her if they had not told her it was her. Her cheeks were so sunken, all the flesh wasting off her. And her breathing, it sounded like there was a pair of broken bellows inside her, leaking and wheezing. A single tear had dried on her face.
She did not want to wake her, so she sat quietly and waited, shuddered at all the antiseptic smells, the person groaning in her sleep in the next bed.
At last, Mary’s eyes flickered open. She blinked, and her tired face creased into a smile. “Libby.”
“Hello, Mrs. Donnelly.”
“What a surprise. Really, you shouldn’t have bothered. I’ll be out of here soon enough. How did you know I was in here?”
“Frankie told me. I saw her yesterday. We went out to Coney Island.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Mary said, but the way she said it made Libby want to cry. What did she remember about what was nice, being so sick and so worn out like she was?
“Frankie said you’ve not been well, Mrs. Donnelly.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I brought you flowers.”
“Thank you, dearie. Oh, and look at you, all grown up. What a beautiful young woman you are these days. I remember when you were just a straggly young thing, proper fright you were. Now look at you.”
“Had my hair bobbed.”
“Is that what they call it? You look like a film star.”
“Frankie says she’s going to get hers cut just like it.”
“Our Frankie always looked up to you. You’ve been a good friend to her.”
“She’s been a good friend to me as well.”
“How’s your ma?”
“She’s fine, Mrs. Donnelly.”
“You know she sends us checks every month, on the first, never misses a beat. She’s a champion woman, your ma. I never took any of the money for myself, but it’s helped out Frankie and her brothers and sisters no end.”
“Frankie told me.”
“That mother of yours, she’s a heart of gold, she h—” She started to cough, couldn’t stop. On and on until she was clawing at the air as if she could take the oxygen by the scruff of the neck and drag it into her. Her cheeks turned purple. Liberty shouted for the nurse, and two of them came, sat Mary up in the bed, and one of them hammered on her back to try and clear her lungs as she struggled and twisted on the bed. Finally, she drew in a long gasping breath, and after a few minutes she lay back, soaking wet and exhausted, on the bed. Her eyes had rolled back in her head.
“Is she going to be all right?” Libby said.
“You’d best be running home now,” the matron said to her. “She needs to rest.”
Liberty watched the nurses, how gentle they were with her, like she was their own. She could see now where Frankie had got the idea of being a nurse, and why she wanted to do it.
“You’re very kind,” Liberty said to them as she turned to go.
“It’s our job.”
“You do a good job, then,” she said. Poor Mary. What a way to die. The world wasn’t fair, how it took all the good ones. She remembered how many times she had slept at the Donnelly house, how many dinners Mary had cooked for her, how many times she had tucked her up in Frankie’s bed when her mother was home late. Broke her heart to see her like this.
And her mama sent her checks! Why did she never come to see her? Her mama said she never missed being poor, but it seemed to Liberty there was something wrong with money if it made you hard.
36
Once, the world had crowded in on her with its smells and its people and the poorness of it. It was all so far away now; that New York was somewhere over there, through the haze. She was safe up here, in her private writing room of duck-egg blue, with its thick Persian carpet and macassar writing desk, its view over Central Park and the Manhattan skyline. That world over there could not touch her here.
Except, she thought, it does. It touches me through my Libby.
She turned away from the window and tried to concentrate again on the letter she was writing. She picked up her pen and stared at the blank pages in front of her.
Dearest Etta.
Seventeen years now since she had left, but it was not just a different time back then, it was a different world. Hard to remember sometimes what she was before she married Dewey, and almost impossible to think of herself as that young girl on t
he sled in the woods of Tallinn.
There were half a dozen crumpled balls of paper in the wastepaper basket at her feet. What was she going to say to them? The last letter from Etta said that her vati was sick, that she thought soon he would be in the world to come. Their poor sister Gutta was gone too, dead of a lung rot, leaving seven children and a husband. Gutta had always seemed so much older, it was hard to grieve for her. She had been like an aunt who came to visit sometimes, never like a sister. Vati had found her a husband when Sarah was still playing with her dolls, and Gutta had gone away to live with him before she even got to know her.
The only one of her little nephews and nieces she really remembered was Bessie, of course. In her letter, Etta reminded her that Libby was almost the same age as her Bessie now. Hard to imagine it. The last time Sarah had seen Bessie, she was still in swaddling, with a tiny heart-shaped mouth and a warm-milk smell.
For years, even before Sarah met Dewey, Etta had written in her letters how she and Yaakov wanted to come to America too, but then the Bolsheviks took over, and they couldn’t get a visa. Now Estonia was its own republic, and she said things were so much better that they had changed their minds about coming to the Golden Medina. Tallinn was a good place for Jews now, she said. There were no more pogroms, and a person could live in peace. After what Etta said, Sarah had even thought about going back for a visit, but she could not imagine her Dewey walking on duckboards through the mud of her shtetl, getting mud spattered on his trouser cuffs.
Besides, it was always at the back of her mind, how could she go back? What would everyone say when they saw her Libby? While she kept her family world and her America world apart, she could hold tight to her secret. Ashkenazi eyes! Micha was no Ashkenazi, and everyone in Haapvinni knew it, and no Ashkenazi had hair that color red.
She unlocked the drawer on her desk and took out the leather-bound diary. It was so old, some of the pages were already faded and had worked loose. One of Libby’s childhood drawings fluttered to the floor. Sarah picked it up, smiled at the three stick figures: her, Micha, Liberty, with their brown tenement in the background, a fierce red sun with a smile on its face.
She slid the drawing back inside the diary and shut it. It was the past, what was done, was done. She would not think about it anymore. That was the best way.
She looked down at the blank piece of paper on the desk. What can I say to Etta about my big sister being dead when I cannot really remember how she was when she was alive? What do I say about Vati when I do not even know if right now my sisters are saying Kaddish for him?
She heard Constance tapping at the door.
“What is it?” she said.
Constance peered through the door. “Sorry to disturb.”
“It’s all right. Come in.”
“Mr. Dewey just rang me, ma’am. He said to tell you he is bringing a guest home for dinner tonight.”
“A guest? Did he give a name?”
“A Mr. Seabrook, I think he said.”
“What? But he can’t . . . Ring him back, please, Constance. Tell him I am not feeling well. I cannot possibly receive guests at this late notice.”
Constance looked confused and her face fell. It was the first time she had ever been asked to do such a thing. She licked her lips, thought about protesting, then fled the room.
George Seabrook, coming here? He couldn’t. Sarah stood up and sat down again. She tried to think. This was what she had been dreading for years. Liberty as a child was nothing like Liberty as a young woman. She was so different now. What if he took one look and saw, not her daughter, but his dead wife?
She paced to the window, went out into the foyer, saw Constance on the telephone, snatched it from her. “Who is this?” she said.
“This is Eleanor at reception.”
Sarah recognized the voice. It was Dewey’s personal secretary. “I need to speak to Mr. Dewey. This is his wife, it’s urgent.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dewey. I’m afraid he’s left for the day.”
“He’s what?”
“He said he was meeting a Mr. Seabrook and then going home for the day.”
Sarah slammed down the telephone and went into the drawing room, found a bottle of Dewar’s Scotch, and poured three fingers into a crystal glass. It burned all the way down. Constance hovered in the doorway.
“Ma’am?”
“Where’s Miss Dewey?”
“She’s not here, ma’am.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“I thought she was in her room.”
“She went out this morning, ma’am. She didn’t say where she was going.”
With luck, Sarah thought, she will stay out past dinner. But what if she doesn’t? Constance was staring at her. Sarah looked down. She was shaking so hard, the whisky was spilling out of the glass onto the marble floor. “Thank you, Constance,” she said. “That will be all.”
When she heard the door open, heard Constance hurrying across the foyer, Sarah thought Dewey was home. She rushed out of her study, thinking: I have to take charge of this. But it wasn’t Dewey, it was Libby. She handed Constance her little burgundy beret and gave Sarah a look she didn’t much care for. “Hello, Mama.”
“Libby,” Sarah said. “Can you come in here please?” She went back into her study. Libby followed her, and Sarah shut the door behind them.
Sarah crossed her arms. “Where have you been? I told you, you must not leave the apartment without asking me.”
“You weren’t here to ask, Mama.”
“Do you know what I think? I think you stayed in your room until I was gone out so that you do not have to ask. Was deliberate. From now on, I forbid you to go out on your own. Do you understand me? You are only sixteen years old.”
“You never worried so much when I was nine and you were a dancing girl. I managed pretty well then.”
“How dare you say such a thing to me.”
Liberty shrugged, all innocence.
“Do not call me dancing girl. And you will not talk back at me like this. You want the servants to hear us making such a fuss?”
“Of course, we mustn’t let the servants hear.”
“What is gotten into you?”
“Nothing has gotten into me.”
“Where have you been?”
“I went to see Frankie’s mom.”
“How is she? I’ve been meaning to go and see her.”
“You’ve been meaning to go and see her for seven years.”
Liberty saw the diary on Sarah’s desk, one of her old drawings peeking out of the top of it. Before Sarah could stop her, she picked it up. “What’s this?” she said.
Sarah took it from her and put it back in the drawer.
“I didn’t know you kept a diary about me.” In her voice there was puzzlement, tenderness, suspicion.
“Every mother, she has a baby book.”
“A baby book? Why didn’t you ever show me?”
“Is just a silly thing.”
“It’s not a silly thing to me.”
She went to the drawer, but Sarah stood in the way. “Not now. It’s not the time.”
“I want to see it.”
Sarah locked the drawer and looped the key chain around her neck. “No,” she said.
She heard men’s voices in the foyer. Not now. Why does it have to be now? She wanted to scream, everything was coming apart at once. She heard Constance through the door, fussing over their visitor.
“Who’s that?” Libby said.
“Stay in here.”
“Why?”
“We have a guest.”
“Who?”
“Don’t matter who. Stay in here, don’t move, all right? I am your mama, you do as I say.” She wagged a finger in Libby’s face, all the while thinking: Who is this shrew? What kind of woman did America make you?
She put on her hostess face, a big smile, and went out to the foyer. Dewey was standing there with Seabrook, Con
stance taking their hats and canes, Dewey about to lead his guest into the drawing room. Dewey gave her a peck on the cheek. “Sarah. Caught you out. What mischief have you been up to?”
“What?”
“I’m home early,” he said, and grinned. He frowned, smelled the whisky on her, and realized that perhaps his joking had fallen a little flat. “Did Constance tell you? We have a guest for dinner tonight. You remember George?”
Seabrook gave a bow of the head, the perfect Boston gentleman. “Mrs. Dewey. I’m sorry for the late notice, but Bill insisted. Thank you for having me in your home.”
Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak, put her hands behind her back so the two men wouldn’t see she was trembling.
“You’re the only man that’s ever scared my wife,” Dewey said, making a joke of it.
Then the door opened, and Liberty flounced out, all green-eyed charm and fire-haired bob, the deb of the ball. She smiled at Sarah, and the look in her eyes said it plain: Don’t you tell me what to do.
“Hi, Dewey,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she turned to George Seabrook, her arm out straight, offering him a handshake. “You must be Mr. Seabrook,” she said.
“You must be Libby,” George said, and took her hand and gave another little bow over the top of it. “How you’ve grown since we last met.”
“How’s Jack?” Libby said. “Is he over his black eye?”
The two men laughed. Sarah froze, watched George Seabrook’s face for some sign of recognition, waiting for Libby’s likeness to register with him. But there was not a flicker, nothing at all.
37
The moment seemed to go on forever. Sarah could hear the somber ticking of the ormolu clock on the sideboard in the drawing room. Then George laughed.
“You look quite lovely,” he said to Liberty. “I never would have recognized you. Your father talks endlessly about you, of course. He says you’ve done rather well at Westover.”
“I do my best,” Liberty said with a sly look at her mother.
“She’s very modest,” Dewey said. “We get nothing but glowing reports. We’re sending her to Bryn Mawr next year.”
Loving Liberty Levine Page 20
