Bess and Frima

by Alice Rosenthal

  “Well, I didn’t think he was that. He didn’t think much of Lillian, I gather, though he didn’t go into any detail.” She said this rather carefully, not quite sure of her ground.

  “Why would he think well of her? She pulled a fast one on him.”

  Bess was dying to know what she meant, but afraid of seeming overly curious. “She certainly wasn’t very honest and open with me,” she ventured. “I mean, if she had at least told me about the mosquitoes around this cabin, I could have come more prepared.”

  “She probably didn’t know anything about them.”

  “But didn’t she share with you last year?”

  “Why would she? She was a guest.”

  “A what? She told me she worked here!”

  Muriel was evidently as surprised as Bess. She was silent for a few moments, then sighed. “I guess you are entitled to an explanation, though, I beg you, don’t say a word to Max or to anyone else. He’d die of shame if anyone thought he’d been hoodwinked. I only know because I’m his secretary and bookkeeper, and, even so, I don’t know all the details.”

  “I won’t let a soul know about it. But I’m sure there are some lessons for me in this story, so, please, let’s have it.”

  “Well, Max is a friend of Lillian’s parents. They’ve been guests here for a number of years. Evidently, Lillian felt ready for a little husband hunting, so she joined her parents last summer. As far as I could tell, she worked pretty hard at it, and at the end of the summer she seemed to have a good prospect. Anyway, at that time she begged Max for a job here this summer—probably because the prospect wasn’t yet a sure thing. A few months later she borrowed on her future earnings here. A month or so before she’s due to start work, she lands the guy and doesn’t have to work here, but she owes Max money, so she can’t just quit. She has to find a substitute—you—who will accept wages for the summer low enough to pay Max back for what she owes. I thought you would have known. She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she?”

  “No, I’m happy to say. She was a cousin of a friend, or something like that. Jeez, what an operator!”

  “That’s a polite word for her,” Muriel said. “But I hope she doesn’t really affect your feelings about this place. I’m certain you’ll have a good time here and you’ll be glad you came.”

  Muriel certainly knew what was what, and the smartest advice she gave Bess that summer was to keep her mouth shut about things she was ignorant of (which was practically everything), then ask Muriel, who was beginning her third year at the Alpine. She was happy to be indispensable to Max so she could be near her fiancé, Jerry, who worked as a waiter at one of the grander Catskill resorts. That’s where the really big money in tips was, Muriel said. He worked like a dog, but the money he earned allowed him to continue at City College during the next two semesters, at which time he’d graduate. They had planned very carefully. Jerry was earning a degree in mathematics; he had chosen math because there were no lab hours, which would free him to work part-time. Muriel had ambitions too. She wanted to become a librarian. After they married she would work for Max or someone like him until Jerry had a secure job, and then she would study for her librarian exams.

  Bess couldn’t help but be impressed by the detailed, determined planning involved, but it seemed such a respectable, plodding, predictable path, so lacking in the romance and excitement she herself craved. Nevertheless, she found herself liking her roommate quite a lot. Muriel was from the first very good-natured about sharing the cabin. It would all work out very well, she assured Bess. They would be company for each other during the week, but there would also be time for privacy. As soon as her work was finished on Friday evening, Muriel was off to spend the weekend nights with Jerry, leaving the cabin to Bess. She wouldn’t return until early Sunday morning, in time for the guests’ check-out and check-in crush.

  Now here was a revelation. Clearly Muriel was sleeping with her fiancé. Here was this girl—neither a femme fatale, a fallen woman, nor a tramp, but good-hearted, intelligent, and, to be honest, rather plain—this girl spent Friday and Saturday nights in her boyfriend’s bed. Evidently, the famous mama’s warning that “nice girls don’t let” wasn’t the last word. Muriel was a nice girl and she was letting, and she seemed neither guilty nor frightened of the consequences. Quite happy and enthusiastic, actually. It was food for thought, and Bess did think about it a lot. Just where would she, Bess, find herself in this would-be, could-be wonderland of summer romances, courtships, and less respectable, less permanent connections?

  There was for sure a lot of what Max called hanky-panky going on. Bess had only to keep her ears and eyes open to realize this. The whispers of girls in the restrooms and the disappearance of couples after hours told her a lot. It was disconcerting that she, the city mouse, was less experienced about this then the country mice. She had in the last few years engaged in a very discreet amount of necking. Lack of privacy, and her own sense that school boys’ fumbling advances were not worth the gossip or the risk, kept her from further experimenting. She had, after all, an older brother who was very popular with the girls. Stretching her ears to catch words of wisdom from his conversations with his friends, she was clear about the fine boundaries between nice girls and those they called pigs or bums. But here a lot of girls seemed to be “doing it,” and the gulf between those doing it and those who hadn’t yet done it yawned as wide as an abyss. It was humiliating that girls younger and far less sophisticated than she were in the know, while she wasn’t.

  “They don’t know more,” Muriel corrected her. “They just do more.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Opportunity and boredom,” said the sage Muriel. “Bored female guests and lots of young energetic busboys and waiters. Also, Max likes to hire local kids as maids and custodians—good community relations. And these kids, they don’t have a lot of movies, museums, performances at the 92nd Street Y, concerts at Lewisohn Stadium, you know. But their boyfriends can get their hands on cars with back seats. And since most of them aren’t planning on going to college or taking a grand tour of Europe, they figure they’ll be getting married anyway. Result: too many pregnancies too soon.”

  Bess, sniffing a lecture in the air, backed up slightly. “You know, I’ve never been to Lewisohn Stadium. My brother goes to City College, but he’s never even mentioned it.”

  “No? Well, that tells me you haven’t been hanging out with the right crowd. Maybe in the fall you can come to a concert with Jerry and me. Who knows? We might be able to fix you up with some nice guy. Not like the ones who come here—you really need to watch your step with them—they’ve got more money than brains, believe me.” Muriel gave a little laugh. “And that doesn’t mean they’re all that rich.”

  Bess just smiled. For herself, she couldn’t be as dismissive of money as Muriel was. She hated not having any when it was so clearly a ticket to the freedom and experience she craved. She felt, also, though she would never be so unkind as to utter this, that she didn’t really need Muriel’s help finding men. She was very aware of the admiring glances they gave her. Muriel and Jerry were very nice and kind, but from the papers and magazines they read and the activities Muriel told her about, they appeared so earnest and socialistic. It didn’t seem that the men they knew would be much fun or very exciting. Bess felt she only needed opportunity to do very well by herself when it came to guys. And weren’t there opportunities here? There must be. All she would have to do is eighty-six the calamine lotion and wait.

  CHAPTER 4

  Frima turned in early the night before Jack arrived so she’d be sure she got her beauty sleep. “Idiot,” she muttered to herself out loud as she slipped under the light cover and closed her eyes. “No schoolgirl fantasies or what ifs about tomorrow, please.” She gave a mighty yawn, turning to her right side as she always did, but instead of slipping into sleep, she found herself caught up in a vivid memory. It was of a summer afternoon that she hadn’t given a thought to in years. There was this boy, a very nice
boy of her own age. She couldn’t remember his name. Perhaps she had never known it—it didn’t matter. She sat up, arms wrapped around her knees, eager to set the memory in its concrete time and place, recall specific details, lest it seem a dream, with time and images and sensations distorted and fleeting. But it wasn’t a dream. It had really happened, and she was glad of it.

  It was the summer before she turned twelve. Papa was still alive, and he and Mama and Frima were having an afternoon visit with some older couple her parents knew. These people were staying at a bungalow colony in the country, but it wasn’t Frima’s country. It was pretty far from Ellenville. Not in the Catskills at all, actually, but rather on the eastern side of the Hudson, in an area unfamiliar to her. It was very warm and sunny, but there were few people outside, so it must have been in the week after Labor Day when summer visitors had already departed. Otherwise she and Mama and Papa would have been in Ellenville at the farm. Perhaps they had stopped on their way back to the city. They were in the town of Rhinebeck. She recalled that without hesitation. Funny how that was the only name she remembered from that afternoon. But then, almost all of her memories of those few hours were sensory.

  The bungalow was warm and muggy, and Frima was bored. Every few minutes a little breeze would come through the screened windows, but it was tainted with the smell of rotting meat. The area had been plagued with flies, she was told, and some residents had hung a piece of meat high on a pole to draw the flies away from the houses. Maybe the meat was poisoned. Frima didn’t really want to know. She thought it was a disgusting device, even though it seemed to work. Mindful of her manners, she made no comment, but she was relieved to know that they would be there for only a few hours. Luckily she had her bathing suit with her, and Mama, after some consultation about the safety and depth of the pond that was in full view of the screened porch, said she could go down and swim. She put on her light-blue suit with the red piping that Mama had bought for her new that summer. She was proud of it, for it made her look grown up, even though she was fully aware that she hardly needed the top at all yet. Still, she looked nice in it, and she had hopes of next summer bringing some longed-for changes.

  Frima tentatively put a foot into the water. It was cool, very clear, and its bottom seemed free of any mucky stuff. It was lovely, actually, with shimmering rainbow colors when you looked at the water up close, and tiny minnows swimming among the water lily pads. The lake was shallow, just deep enough to swim, and silent, except for hushed and secret little water sounds. The air was fresh and sweet, without a hint of that tainted breeze. Were there other people there? The lake was so inviting, there must have been, but the only person she remembered there was this one boy. She couldn’t recall his name. Did he tell her? Did they even bother with names, exchange any history? All she remembered clearly was that he was slender and tan and a good swimmer. Did she think he was beautiful then? Who knows? But she thought of him so now. He looked like he’d be popular in a schoolyard and good at outdoor games. He was friendly and unself-conscious in seeing her there, which put her very much at ease. They swam out to a small white raft together, and Frima couldn’t hoist herself up on it, but he helped her, and there was no awkwardness or embarrassment. She was exhilarated at having been able to swim so far without tiring. They spent the entire afternoon in the water. He showed her plant and rock formations on the almost transparent pond bottom, the minnows and even a few sunnies—he was sorry he didn’t have a fishing rod with him, she recalled—but mostly they would surface dive and swim between each other’s legs. They didn’t say much, but they were entirely absorbed with the water and with each other until their respective mothers called them home.

  “I hope you aren’t burned to a crisp,” said Mama, who worried about Frima’s fair skin. “I called you to come out of the water and put a T-shirt on, but obviously you didn’t hear me,” she said pointedly.

  “I’m fine,” Frima replied. She felt profoundly happy that afternoon and deliberately said nothing about her encounter. She had really liked this boy, and he’d liked her. They’d had a lot of fun. If only they had lived close to each other, they could have been boyfriend and girlfriend. It was a delicious secret she wanted to think about at will. She felt clean and refreshed and so natural. Yes, that was the word, natural.

  Sitting there in bed, Frima smiled. She had been in the sixth grade before that summer, a year in which she had discovered boys, and they had become the preoccupation of every unscheduled moment, it seemed to her now. She was not alone in this, of course. Virtually all her girlfriends had more or less the same reaction to these creatures, who only a short while ago had been ordinary brothers, cousins, playground and sandbox buddies, or rivals. They must now be approached with shrieks, giggles, and posturing, or conversely with pretenses of ignoring their very existence. But with this boy, there was nothing like that at all. They had touched each other a lot; they had held hands, and he had lifted her onto the raft. They held each other’s legs and arms without shame or pretense. She felt that had they more time together, he might have kissed her. She would have liked that. He would have been nice to kiss.

  Just like Eden before the apple, Frima thought. And tomorrow in this place that was so natural and refreshing to her would come this other boy, and this one she knew was beautiful. Could it be like that little bit of Eden again? She sighed, feeling a telltale wetness between her thighs. How could it be? They both had already tasted the apple.

  The next afternoon, as soon as Grandpa drove off to pick up Jack at the bus station, a decidedly unnatural Frima dashed upstairs to primp. Gleaming newly washed hair behaved itself when parted on the side and held off her forehead with new barrettes. With clean smooth fingernails and hands giving off a subtle floral scent, she changed into a thin, light blue, cotton dress, nothing fancy or out of the ordinary, but still highlighting her fair coloring and slender figure. She had calculated the time it would take for Grandpa to drive back from the station so she could be doing something fetching but casual when they arrived. Nothing involving chicken droppings, hayseed, or dirt under her fingernails. Arranging flowers for the reception area—that would be perfect. She didn’t want to be seen awaiting him too eagerly. The only problem was that Grandpa was late returning to the hotel. Flower arrangements could take only so long, and even with stalling, she was finished before the station wagon appeared. So she stood with Mama, ready to greet him on the front porch.

  Funny how when Jack stepped out of the station wagon, he seemed diminished in stature compared to the man of her dreams. He was wilted from the heat, and he mopped his brow with a clean white handkerchief and dried his hands before he shook hands rather stiffly with Mama and Frima. His eyes darted around nervously, and he barely looked at Frima while he greeted them and made small talk about his journey from the city. It was questionable if he even noticed Frima’s efforts to be enchanting. Her disappointment was momentary, however, for she quickly realized that he was only rather nervous and shy, as well he should be. He’d never been to the Catskills before nor worked at a hotel. This was entirely new to him. She couldn’t expect him to be the smart, cocky, wise-cracking Jack who charmed the girls on the Bronx street corners. Those city streets were his natural milieu, it dawned on her. For so many of the young men of her time and place—girls too—real life was on those Bronx streets. That’s where you went for connection, pleasure, recognition, and, paradoxically, peace and solitude. Small space for any of these comforts in apartments crowded with overworked and overwrought families. Her own experience was different and rather privileged, she knew, for she could find so much that enhanced her life at home. Frima felt suddenly a keen sympathy for Jack that went beyond her attraction to him. She smiled her understanding and encouragement. In a couple of hours they had both loosened up, and Jack’s stature miraculously returned to normal.

  Back in her bed and ready for sleep, Frima suddenly thought of that unnamed boy again. His natural milieu was the country lake. Jack’s was the city streets.
What was her place? Was it both? Profound as the idea seemed to her, she was too drop-dead tired to think about it now. Besides, she had all the time in the world, didn’t she?

  —

  Jack’s first hurdle was to transform himself into a driver and a mechanic. He knew how to operate a vehicle and had habitually discussed the features of the new-model cars with his friends, even though none of them could yet dream of affording a car. He had decided to take his driver’s test up in the country where it was less of a hassle. For his first two days, he spent most of his time in the hotel station wagon with Grandpa, driving the country roads with his permit, practicing changing tires, and probing the mysteries of the internal combustion engine. The ease and enthusiasm with which he learned won him Grandpa’s admiration and trust—which was no mean feat—and on the fourth day he drove into the yard, elated. Jack waved the license at Frima as he got out of the car. Then he grasped her around the waist.

  “This means, Frima-Dreamer, I can take you out for a night on the town if we can find one!”

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll find one. We’re not a complete bunch of hicks here.” She was very happy, though careful not to gush. She was relieved that Mama was not there to witness her enthusiasm. As for Grandpa, he just beamed. Jack had won a friend for life.

  Frima ran the encounter over and over again in her mind for the pure pleasure of it. Frima-Dreamer, he had called her. Now just what did that mean? Was it just a silly rhyme you might use to amuse a child, like Josie-Posie, or higgledy-piggledy? Or was she a beautiful dreamer à la Stephen Foster? A lovely girl with the gift of imagination and dreams? Could he mean, by chance, that Frima was dreamy—gorgeous and sexy? That would, of course, be best. No matter how she interpreted his words, they were personal and intimate and complimentary—altogether fine.