White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

But neither one bothered to move, so it seemed like as good a time as any to give them their presents.

  “Ho, Ho, Ho,” I said as I handed my mother a gift-wrapped box. My father stayed hidden behind his newspaper.

  “Oh, Jordan,” my mother said. “What have you done? You know we don’t exchange gifts anymore.”

  “I know. But I wanted to get you something. And this isn’t about exchanging. It’s about giving.”

  “Well, now you’re going to make me feel bad.” But she didn’t hesitate to open her box of Shalimar. “Isn’t that lovely. Look, Hank—that’s lovely.”

  My father let a corner of the paper droop down, revealing one eye. He nodded before he snapped the pages back up.

  “And here, Dad.” I set a small gift box down before him.

  “What’s this?” The paper flopped forward again.

  “For you. For Christmas.”

  He looked bewildered for a minute, as if I were pushing something poisonous on him. Reluctantly he traded the paper for the box, holding it in his hands, turning it over and over like a Magic 8 Ball about to reveal an ominous answer.

  “Well, c’mon, open it.”

  He muttered as he worked his way through the gift-wrap and lifted the lid. “A watch.” No inflection whatsoever. I didn’t know if he liked it or hated it. He mumbled a thank you as he put the lid back on the box and reached for his Lucky Strikes.

  “Aren’t you going to put it on?” I asked.

  “Sure, yeah, sure,” he said, fishing a cigarette from the pack.

  “I thought this could replace the watch that Mr. Hemingway gave you.”

  “What watch was that?”

  He couldn’t have forgotten. “The watch. You know. He gave you his watch. Remember?” I couldn’t bring myself to remind him of the when and why.

  “Oh, oh, yeah . . . that one.” He nodded, muttered another thank you with his cigarette propped between his lips. He struck a match and pushed the box aside.

  I turned to hide my disappointment. Is there no way to reach this man? What a fool I was to think there was something I could do to make him smile, to make the light return to his eyes. Why did I do this to myself? It would have been easier to let him keep slipping away, but I just couldn’t let him go. He sat there and smoked his cigarette before he excused himself and went upstairs. A few minutes later, I heard the bathroom faucet kick on.

  My mother reached over and patted my hand. “You should really return that,” she said. “Get your money back. You know he won’t wear a watch.”

  “That wasn’t the point.”

  She looked at me as baffled as my father had been earlier.

  I shook my head. “Never mind.”

  • • •

  An hour later, we found ourselves at the Caseys’ along with their forty-some relatives. Christmas carols were playing, eggnog and fruit punch were being ladled out of crystal punch bowls and presents were placed around their magnificent tree.

  When we first arrived, Mrs. Casey came bounding from the kitchen, untying her floral apron. I noticed that she had removed the plastic seat coverings from the good living room furniture. Bustling over to my parents, she hugged and kissed my father and then did the same to my mother. I didn’t come from a family of huggers, and open affection wasn’t something we practiced, so imagine the look on my father’s face when Judge Casey pulled him in close for an embrace. My mother nearly froze when he took hold of her, pressing his cheek to hers.

  My sweaty palms always gave me away. I was a nervous wreck. I wanted my parents to love the Caseys and had a vision of us all getting along, becoming one big happy family. I thought the Caseys were the key to restoring the connection and closeness we’d lost. After Judge Casey welcomed us inside, the five younger brothers, ranging from eight to eighteen, lined up in the hallway to greet us. My father wasn’t good with kids, but he made an effort, limply accepting each well-mannered handshake. My mother propped her cigarette in her mouth as she said hello, waving with just her fingers. Next came the extended family and, then, the matriarch, Grandma Casey.

  Grandma Casey had clear blue eyes, a face full of wrinkles and ankles thick as tree trunks. I’d met her twice before, and both times she’d smelled of mothballs and cinnamon. She sat on the radiator, atop an overstuffed cushion, and had a box of chocolates on her lap, which she fed to the children, giving them out like dog treats whenever they came over to her.

  Thankfully my mother was trying to make a good impression. She joined Mrs. Casey in a glass of punch, but when she set her glass down on the coffee table, Mrs. Casey swooped in with a coaster. I don’t think my mother noticed. My father had his usual whiskey while Jack and his father had a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbons.

  There was picture taking and toasts, and later that day Judge Casey was walking around wearing the necktie I’d given him despite the fact that it didn’t go with his shirt or sweater.

  “Come with me,” he said, leading me over to Grandma Casey. “It’s time the two of you got better acquainted.” He gestured to the empty cushion beside her on the radiator.

  She held out her box of chocolates. “Frango mint?”

  “No. No, thank you.”

  “Why not? Don’t you like chocolates?”

  “No. No, I do, but I just don’t care for any right now, thank you.” I was aware of the radiator heat rising up through the cushion. Her chocolates were sweating, on the verge of melting.

  “I see.” She helped herself to a Frango mint. “Good,” she said as she chewed and licked her fingers. For a second she seemed to drift off, but I knew better. Jack told me Grandma Casey was sharp as could be. Never missed a thing, like she had eyes in the back of her head.

  “I remember when I first met Jack’s mother,” she said. “When Jack’s father brought her home and told me this was the girl he was going to marry, I asked Katie why she loved my son. And now I ask the same of you. Why do you love my grandson? Why do you want to marry him?”

  I couldn’t believe it, but I went completely blank. I was never good at expressing my feelings, but of all the times to freeze up, why now?

  “He’s a good boy, you know,” said Grandma Casey, as if prompting me.

  “Yes. Yes, he is. And he’s kind. And smart.” I wished I could have been more articulate, more specific. I knew I loved Jack, but I couldn’t come up with the reasons why. “He’s a good, loyal friend, too.” My backside was roasting on the radiator.

  “And don’t forget, handsome,” said Grandma Casey.

  I smiled. “And yes, he is handsome. Very handsome.”

  She nodded and looked at Judge Casey, who had appeared at my side. “I like her,” she said. “Here, have a chocolate. Take it for later.” She handed me a mint and turned to her son. “And for goodness sake, Patrick, take off that ridiculous tie—it looks terrible with your sweater.”

  Judge Casey removed my necktie and walked me across the room. “You passed with flying colors,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Sweetheart, as far as I’m concerned, you’re already a member of this family.”

  His genuine warmth made my heart swell as we joined my father on the couch. My father, ever the reporter and not one to tolerate small talk, launched into a series of questions for Judge Casey.

  “So how long have you been on the bench?” he asked.

  “About ten years now.”

  “Circuit court?”

  Judge Casey nodded.

  My father pressed his lips together and reached for a cigarette. I could tell that he didn’t like Judge Casey, but I wasn’t sure why. It could have been as simple as Mr. Casey’s gold pinky ring or his brand-new Lincoln in the driveway. Or maybe he was jealous of the bond that I’d formed with Jack’s father.

  “What sort of cases are assigned to you?” my father asked as he struck a match.

  “I’m a municipal judge.”

  “So traffic court and city ordinance violations, eh?”

  Judge Casey nodded. “For the 1st District.”
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  My father lit his cigarette, but the match was still burning. Just when I thought it would scorch his fingers, he shook it out, dropping it in a crystal ashtray that was probably just for show.

  Mrs. Casey called to me, “Jordan, dear, would you give me a hand here in the kitchen?”

  My mother and I exchanged puzzled looks as if to say, Me, help in the kitchen?

  I headed through the swing door. “Is there something you need?”

  Mrs. Casey—perfect, smooth and crisply pressed Mrs. Casey—wiped her hands on a towel and said, “I just wanted to have a word with you. In private. We haven’t really had a chance to talk since you and Jack became engaged, and after all, we’re talking about a mixed marriage here.” She gave me a look that I hadn’t seen from her before. She had an edge to her. It threw me, and like with Grandma Casey, I found myself standing there speechless once again.

  “Naturally, Jack’s told us all about your plans to convert to Catholicism. As you know, it takes a long time, so we’re going to speak with the bishop and see if he’ll grant you permission to be married in the church before you’ve completed your Christian Initiation.”

  “That—that would be—”

  “I’m assuming you haven’t been baptized.”

  “Well, no, I haven’t, but I’m—”

  “Now, I realize you’re making an enormous sacrifice here, but I hope you’re ready to embrace your new faith. I’d hate to think you were doing this just for the sake of getting married and for the sake of the children. And I’m sure you’ll have more time to meet with the parish priest once you stop working.”

  I didn’t know how to tell her that I wasn’t planning on quitting my job. Or having children right away.

  I was still thinking of how to respond when she said, “And by the way, we haven’t said anything yet to Jack’s grandmother about you converting. We think it would be best if she got to know you a little better before we tell her that you’re really a Jew. Or I guess technically you’re only half-Jewish, aren’t you? Grandma Casey’s old-fashioned when it comes to these things. We wouldn’t want to upset her.”

  “Of—of course.” I didn’t know what to say. I felt dirty, and for the first time in my life I felt Jewish and felt the urge to defend my roots.

  Just then my mother joined us in the kitchen.

  “We’re terribly excited about this wedding,” Mrs. Casey said to my mother as she leaned over the oven, poking a fork into her Christmas roast.

  “So are we. Jack’s a wonderful boy.”

  I expected Mrs. Casey to say something similar about me, but when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to return the compliment, my mother brushed imaginary dust off her hands.

  “So, how can I help? What should I do?”

  “Why don’t you slice the bread?” said Mrs. Casey as she stirred a rich-looking sauce on the stove. “There’s a serrated knife in the top drawer.”

  My mother was a lefty and a serrated knife in the hands of a southpaw could be lethal. With a cigarette propped between her lips, she sawed into a log of Mrs. Casey’s homemade bread. When Mrs. Casey wasn’t looking, I wiped away the cigarette ashes that had fallen onto the countertop.

  “Jack tells us you write poetry,” said Mrs. Casey, looking on while my mother mutilated the bread. “Here,” she said, stepping in. “Let me give you a hand there. . . .”

  Fortunately, the bread slicing derailed any further discussion of my mother’s poetry.

  When it was time for dinner, we took our places at the dining room table and Mr. Casey asked us to all join hands while he led us in saying grace. My father cleared his throat and cocked an eyebrow as if to say, Jesus Christ, you’ve got to be kidding. My mother squeezed his hand, a warning that said, Just go along with it.

  “Dear Father, our God, our Lord and savior . . .” began Judge Casey.

  I dared to open my eyes and saw that Mrs. Casey was watching me.

  After dinner, while everyone relaxed in the living room, Mrs. Casey was back to being her saccharine self and brought out an oversize book that turned out to be her wedding album.

  “I thought you’d like to see this, dear.” She sat between my mother and me on the couch and took us through the album page by page. “. . . And this is the church you’ll be married in. Isn’t that a beautiful altar?”

  “Church?” My mother’s voice took on a strange quality. “I know Jordan said she’d be willing to convert, but—” She couldn’t finish her sentence because a gasp filled the air as everyone looked at Grandma Casey, their mouths hanging open.

  “Well, of course they’ll have a church wedding,” said Mrs. Casey, sharpening her smile.

  “Convert? Who’s converting?” asked Grandma Casey.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mother,” said Mrs. Casey.

  “Hank and I were married down at City Hall,” said my mother, clearly trying to stir the pot.

  “What does she mean Jordan’s converting?” asked Grandma Casey again. “What’s she converting from?”

  “Been twenty-eight years.” My father piped in from across the room. “Seemed to do just fine for us.”

  Grandma Casey raised her voice louder than I would have thought possible. “Would somebody tell me what the hell’s going on here?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Judge Casey. “Everything’s fine.”

  “I’ll tell you right now,” said Grandma Casey, “my oldest grandson is not getting married down at City Hall. Over my dead body he will.”

  I sank down on the couch and felt the tension rush to my temples. This evening was not going the way I’d hoped and there was nothing I could do to turn it around. My dream of one big happy family was slipping away. The judge and several relatives were at Grandma Casey’s side, reassuring her that it would be a church wedding. Meanwhile, Mrs. Casey announced that the house at the end of the street was for sale and it would be just perfect for Jack and me.

  By the time we left the Caseys’ house, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. As much as I longed to be a part of their family, I now saw that there was a price to pay. It was assumed that I would quit my job at the paper, raise a family and make a home in Bridgeport for Jack, who would go on to live the life I’d been planning for myself.

  Chapter 20

  • • •

  After the New Year, in January of 1956, Marty Sinclair returned to the city room. He was a bit thinner than before but otherwise none the worse for wear. One thing I did notice was that he now kept a copy of the Bible on his desk. I’d see him crack it open, read a passage or two and close his eyes as he’d press the book to his chest. I wondered if he was praying for protection from Big Tony. He’d been sentenced to life in prison, but even behind bars, a guy like that still had men on the outside ready to carry out his orders.

  There was lots of whispering about Marty going around the city room. I’d walk by a cluster of people and overhear them saying things like, “He seems normal to me. . . . He’s not doing anything strange that I can tell. . . .”

  For the first two weeks or so, Marty turned the guys down each time they invited him out for lunch or to grab a drink after work. But gradually he began coming out with us, staying for one and tossing his dollar on the bar even before he’d finished his beer. After a couple more weeks, though, the beer progressed to whiskey, and by the time he returned to the bowling league, good ol’ Marty was back in the swing of things.

  One night we were back at the King Pin, going up against the City News Bureau. Jack and the Sun-Times were a few lanes over, taking on the Chicago American. I was sitting with Mr. Ellsworth, who’d surprised us by showing up even though he couldn’t bowl on account of having a bad back. Mrs. Angelo, Benny, Gabby and a few others were there as spectators. Afterward we went into the lounge and the losers bought the winners drinks and then the winners bought the losers a round. Everyone was crowded in around the bar. Mr. Ellsworth was holding court, talking about his days at the City News Bureau, when I noticed M sitting al
one in a banquette off to the side. She kept looking over at us, and I excused myself and went to her.

  “What are you doing back here all by yourself?” I pulled up a chair and sat down.

  She looked at me in a boozy haze, her eyeliner smudged beneath one eye. “Do you even know how lucky you are? My God, you’ve got everything.” She pointed to my engagement ring.

  “Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean I have everything. I’m not crossing the finish line, you know.”

  “Trust me, that’s close enough.”

  But was it?

  I remember my parents questioning me after they met the Caseys at Christmas. We’d barely made it to the car before they started in.

  “Is this what you want?” my mother asked. “Don’t get me wrong. We love Jack. He’s terrific. And the father’s not so bad, but that mother. Sheesh.”

  “And what about that saying grace business? Are we going to have to do that every time we sit down to a meal with those people?”

  “Those people?” I looked at him. “Those people are going to be my in-laws.”

  “She’s right, Hank,” said my mother. “We need to try to make an effort.”

  “I’ll make an effort. I made an effort tonight, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, dear. You were on very good behavior.”

  “I’ll say one thing—they sure as hell have a big family.” My father leaned closer to the steering wheel, no doubt calculating the costs of inviting them all to the wedding.

  I was thinking about all this as I watched M finish her drink. She stood up and worked her way into her coat.

  “Well, if you ask me, Jordan, you’ve got it made.” She left without saying good-bye to anyone.

  • • •

  One snowy morning I arrived at the city room and went over to the horseshoe like I always did, said good morning to the slot man and checked the assignment book. Even though I was still working on the women’s pages, every now and then, when the other reporters were too busy, Mr. Ellsworth gave me a shot at some bigger stories. He had me covering accidents and fires, that sort of thing. He said I was good with human tragedies.