by Renée Rosen
I thought she was talking about the baby, the marriage, Shep—everything. She must have asked half a dozen times if I was pregnant, and half a dozen times I told her I wasn’t. She knew I was lying. She just wanted to make me admit it out loud.
“This isn’t right,” she said again.
I almost started to cry until I realized she was pointing at my gown.
“I don’t like the way it’s hanging.” She bent down and tugged on one end of the dress, then fluffed out my train. “There! That’s at least a little better. . . .” She stood up and dusted her hands off each other.
I stared at her. “Aren’t you going to say something? Anything?”
“What do you want me to say?” My mother folded her arms and tapped her fingertips along the sleeve of her dress. “You want me to say that I’m happy for you? That I think you have a wonderful future ahead of you? That I couldn’t have asked for a better son-in-law?”
Even before I’d taken Shep home to meet my mother, I knew she wasn’t going to like him. When I’d introduced them she narrowed her eyes, took in his slicked-back hair, the pin-striped suit, his spats, the gold watch chain, the pinkie ring—all the things I had first noticed about him, too. But those were the things I’d liked. She had the opposite reaction. I thought he would at least have scored some points for being Jewish but she didn’t care.
Afterward she said, “Only a gangster wears that much jewelry and aftershave.”
My mother looked at me in my wedding dress and brought a hand to her throat, running her fingers along her neck. “Just look at you—do you think you’re fooling anyone about your condition? They know. Believe me, they know. And maybe it doesn’t matter with this crowd, but I didn’t raise you to end up like this. You break my heart, you know that? After everything we’ve been through—after what happened to your own father—why would you allow yourself to get involved with someone like that?”
It was one of the only times she’d ever referenced my father’s murder. I looked down at my shoes and then gazed up at my mother. I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t fight the tears any longer. “I’m scared, Ma.”
“Well, I would imagine you should be.” My mother went to the door and then turned around. “I hope you and your gangster will be very happy.”
I glared at her. Something about her calling him a gangster set me off. It didn’t matter that it was true. It was that she’d said it. “He’s a nightclub owner, Ma!” I shouted as she closed the door. “Not a gangster. A nightclub owner!”
• • •
The reception was held at the Meridian. We had close to three hundred guests, a combination of gangsters and every crooked politician in Cook County, all the corrupt lawyers and judges in the city, even the chief of police and the fire chief. People I didn’t know hugged and kissed me, wished me well and told me I was a beautiful bride. If it weren’t for the handful of girls I’d invited from the rooming house, I would have felt like a complete outsider at my own wedding.
“This is the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever been to,” said Helen, squeezing my hands as she eyed the room. “Everything’s so glamorous. You’re the luckiest bride I’ve ever seen. It’s like a fairy tale come true.”
The other girls from the rooming house were circled around us and while they joined in, agreeing with Helen and congratulating me, something opened wide inside my chest. Wasn’t this what I’d asked for? In that moment, regardless of the circumstances, which they knew nothing about, I was the luckiest bride. Those girls were going back to the rooming house that night and back to their old lives, while I was staying in a penthouse suite at the Palmer House Hotel, ready to embark on a whole new beginning. A server came by with a tray of champagne. We each took a glass and I smiled while they toasted to my happiness. Maybe it was the champagne I’d had earlier, or all the admiration heaped upon me from those girls, but whatever the reason, I was beginning to believe in my own fairy tale.
Shep had brought in Bix Beiderbecke to perform, and when his orchestra played Hava Nagila, they had everyone up, dancing the hora. I drifted off to the side, watching as all the guests held hands, forming a circle within a circle, spinning clockwise, then counterclockwise. Shep, Izzy and Irwin Ragguffy were in the center doing the kazatsky, their arms and legs kicking in time with the music.
I happened to gaze over at my mother. She was still punishing me, sitting by herself in the back of the room, scooting her untouched wedding cake toward the center of the table. No one would have guessed that she was the mother of the bride.
I was talking to Barbara and Monty when I looked up and saw that Basha had cornered Squeak. When she began hollering, I excused myself, rushing over to her. “Basha, please! Not here—please!”
She ignored me and went on shouting. “You’d better think twice before you show up on my doorstep tonight!” I cringed as she flailed her arms, stomped her foot and pointed her finger in his face. “I’m not kidding, if you fuck that bitch ever again, don’t bother coming back to me. . . .”
People were staring, whispering, and looking back over their shoulders as they passed by. I glanced at Mrs. Squeak, who stood off to the side and adjusted her hat, ignoring it all.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had turned to walk away when two men grabbed me and then Shep, swooping us up in chairs and dancing like they did in the old country, holding us high above everyone, a handkerchief joining us together.
“You’ve made me the happiest man in the world, Vera!” Shep shouted above the music and the clapping. “I love you!”
I loved him, too—but I couldn’t get the words out. It was as if I were stuck inside a kaleidoscope, everything whirling around me, changing shape and form, changing my life before my eyes. I was Mrs. Shep Green. I had arrived, no longer the pitiable, fatherless girl from the stockyards. A smile spread across my face, making my cheeks ache. Gripping the handkerchief that connected me to Shep, I found my voice. “I love you, too, Shep Green. I really do!”
After the dance was over, Shep threw my garter and I tossed my bouquet, aiming for Evelyn, though it was intercepted by a young woman I’d never seen before. Evelyn grabbed me afterward and we went upstairs to the powder room. She was upset with Izzy.
“Just as well I didn’t catch the bouquet,” she said as we sat on the settee. “We’ve been fighting all day. He’s practically ignored me ever since we got here.”
“I’m sorry, Ev.” I scissored my fingers, waiting for Evelyn to pass me her cigarette.
“He just about bit my head off when I asked him to dance with me.”
“Izzy doesn’t deserve you.”
She dropped her elbows to her knees and planted her chin in the heels of her hands. “Ah, to hell with him. This is your day.”
I slipped off one of my shoes and curled my foot under my rump. “Do you think everyone knows I’m pregnant?” I asked, exhaling toward the ceiling.
“No. Just us. We’re the only ones.” Evelyn crossed her legs, pointing her toes.
“My mother said everyone can tell.” I took another puff and passed the cigarette back to Evelyn.
“But you’re not even showing yet.”
“No, I mean, she thinks everyone knows because we decided to get married so fast.”
There was a commotion building out in the hallway. “You got some nerve showing up here tonight, lady,” I heard Basha saying.
“Oh God no,” I said to Evelyn, “please don’t let her start in!” I was just beginning to think I’d fooled everyone—including myself. I didn’t need Basha turning my wedding into a fiasco.
The powder room door swung open and in walked Mrs. Squeak.
“Hey—get back here!” Basha charged in behind her. “I’m talking to you!”
“Basha—” I tried to step in but she barked at me and told me to mind my own business. For such a tiny little thing she could be scary at times.
“Don’t you ever walk away from me!” Basha went red in the face as she cornered Mrs. Squeak. “Don’t yo
u ever—do you hear me?”
“I have nothing to say to you.” Mrs. Squeak went to the mirror to check her makeup and adjust her beaded cloche.
“I’m not finished with you!” Basha reached for Mrs. Squeak’s shoulder and spun her around, putting the two in a face-off. “You know what he says about you? He can’t stand to touch you anymore. You make him sick to his stomach. He thinks you’re nothing but a nag.”
“And he thinks you’re nothing but a whore!”
That’s when Basha threw the first punch, clipping Mrs. Squeak right on the jaw. Much to my surprise, Mrs. Squeak swung back, catching Basha on the side of the head with her pocketbook.
Evelyn and I sprang to our feet, trying to get out of the way. The two of them were going at it. Evelyn and I grabbed hold of Basha. I had her by the waist and Evelyn had her arms but we couldn’t pull her off Mrs. Squeak. She popped Mrs. Squeak a good one, right in the face. It must have stung, and instantly her freckled cheek turned red.
I left Evelyn holding Basha and raced back down to the reception to get help. By the time I returned with Dora, Evelyn was cowering in the corner, looking like she’d gone a few rounds herself. Basha straddled Mrs. Squeak across the chest and had her pinned to the floor. The sleeve of Basha’s dress was torn and the two of them were calling each other names. Fists were flying as Mrs. Squeak kicked and screamed and reached up, grabbing a handful of Basha’s hair. I heard something awful and I saw Mrs. Squeak’s fingers come away with a clump of Basha’s marcelled waves.
“For chrissakes, you two!” Dora grabbed hold of Basha, but she twisted out of Dora’s grip. Dora lost her balance, landing on her rear end. One of her platinum-colored curls escaped from its updo and fell above her shoulder. It took all three of us to pull Basha off Mrs. Squeak. But Basha was still steaming and as soon as we let go of her, we heard the scream. That’s when we saw that Basha had reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a pistol.
“Oh my God! Please, Basha, don’t!” I begged.
“Aw, shit, Basha!” Dora shook her head. “What are you doing with that thing? Jesus! Somebody go get the fellas!”
Evelyn bolted out of the powder room. I stood still, paralyzed.
“Fuck you, Dora! Fuck you, too!” Basha said to me, waving the gun all around.
Mrs. Squeak got back up to her feet but didn’t say a damn thing. Her eyes were locked on the pistol. Mrs. Squeak took a cautious step backward and then, without warning, she lunged toward Basha. Her fingers gripped Basha’s wrist as the gun swayed back and forth until we heard the pop!
Basha’s eyes grew wide. Mrs. Squeak looked stunned. Neither one of them expected the thing to go off. None of us did. Then slowly Mrs. Squeak’s knees buckled and her body folded as she sank to the ground. She clutched her side, watching the blood gushing forth. When she removed her hand, repulsed and confused, she stared at the blood dripping from her cocktail ring and bracelet onto her dress.
“You shot me?” She looked at Basha in shock and then back at the crimson puddle spreading across her dress, trying to pat away the blood. She brought both blood-drenched hands to her mouth. “You shot me?”
We heard the men out in the hallway and when the door swung open, Squeak, Shep, Drucci and Dion all looked on in disbelief.
“Holy shit, Basha! What’d you do!” Squeak leaned over Mrs. Squeak, whose freckled face was smeared with blood, the tips of her hair looking more scarlet than its natural orangey-red. Squeak stared up at Basha, bewildered.
Basha brushed her hair off her forehead and drew a deep breath. “She’s gonna live. I didn’t kill her.”
The guys looked at one another and then Dion slapped Squeak on the back. “That’s a couple of hotheaded women you got on your hands, swell fella!”
Hymie and Drucci were trying to calm down Basha even as the ambulance drove away.
I was relieved that Barbara, Monty, Helen and the other girls from the rooming house had already left by then. But as I stood on the street watching the ambulance go, my mother looked at the blood streaked across the front of my wedding gown. “Nice friends you have, Vera. Very nice friends.”
MARITAL BLISS
Right after the wedding, Shep took me to New York City for our honeymoon. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria, on Fifth Avenue. The lobby was graced with displays of fresh flowers in oversize urns and vases. The staff stood at attention when we walked by, as if we were the hotel’s only guests. Every morning they brought us the New York Times and a sterling silver pot of coffee, which they poured into bone-china cups and served with fresh-baked muffins. I adored the opulence of the Waldorf as much as I enjoyed our visit to Coney Island, where we strolled along the Boardwalk, stopping for nickel hot dogs with tangy mustard.
“You want to go on the merry-go-round or take an elephant ride?” Shep asked.
I looked up at the sky. It was full of squawking seagulls, their wings spread wide as they swooped in for landing. “The roller coaster,” I said, pointing to the people screaming in terror as their cars whipped up and over the hilly tracks. “The roller coaster! I want to ride the roller coaster.”
“You got it, Dollface.”
I held on to him the whole time, keeping my eyes closed. When the ride was over, I wanted to go again.
That night we had icy cold gin martinis with his friends Charlie Luciano and Meyer Lansky, at a place called Club Fronton.
“We always knew it would take a special gal to get this one to settle down,” said Meyer. “Mazel tov to you both!”
The following night Shep took me to see the Eight Little Notes at the Music Box on West Forty-fifth Street. We had such swell fun in New York, and for the first time in weeks I hadn’t dwelled on the pregnancy. At least I hadn’t until we went shopping our last day. Everything I tried on fit, but for how long?
“I won’t even be able to wear this in another three months,” I said, stepping out of the dressing room in a blue satin frock.
“So you’ll have it for three months,” said Shep, motioning to the shopgirl to start ringing up the dresses I’d already tried on. That day he spent more than a thousand dollars on clothes that I’d soon be too pregnant to wear.
It wouldn’t hit me until later, when we were heading for the train station, that I hadn’t thought about Tony Liolli once the entire time we’d been away.
When we got back to Chicago the honeymoon continued. Shep went on spoiling me. We spent our first weekend home looking for a new place to live.
After a day of walking through houses and apartments that were either too small, too old, or too far away from the city, Shep pulled up to a gray stone on State Parkway. “What do you think of this one?”
I looked up and pressed my hands to the passenger window. “Shep!” I stared at the cornices and the exquisite detail on the bay windows. Crocuses and tulips were blooming in the gardens, and the lawn was that perfect shade of new spring green.
“Well,” he said as he cut the motor, “shall we go inside?”
I turned and looked at him. “Are you serious? I thought we were going to look at bungalows, or maybe just a larger apartment.”
I smiled, a hand over my heart as he held the front door for me.
“Four bedrooms. A nursery,” he said casually as we walked through the foyer. “There’s also a butler’s pantry and a maid’s room. And look at this staircase.” He grabbed hold of the banister. “Not too shabby now, is it?”
“Shep—look!” I marveled at the loggia off the living room. “And did you see this view?” While I peered out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, Shep asked the owner about the roof, the furnace, the boiler, and things I wouldn’t have thought about.
“Well, Dollface”—he smiled—“you think you could be comfortable in a place like this?”
“Are you kidding me!” I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him hard on the mouth. I was in love with the house and Shep promised we’d be moved in by the time the baby arrived.
When we got back to the
apartment that afternoon I wandered about our place with a new perspective. Shep’s apartment had once seemed so magnificent to me compared to the rooming house, and even my mother’s house, but we had outgrown the space. I had already taken custody of the closets and the bathroom. My camisoles and hosiery hung over the side of the tub, drying. I hogged the medicine cabinet with my perfumes, my face powder, rouge, and lipsticks crowding in alongside Shep’s bicarbonate, the bottles of liniment, his supply of aspirin and aftershave.
“Why are you throwing this out?” I asked, walking into the bedroom, reaching for a necktie that I saw him put in the trash.
“There’s a stain.”
“Where?” I held up the tie, inspecting it front and back.
“Right there.” He came over and pointed to a speck, barely visible.
“You don’t need to throw it out. Just hide it with a tie bar.”
“But I’ll know it’s there.”
He had done the same thing a few days before, throwing out a perfectly good undershirt at the first sign of a hole.
I loved our life together, but sometimes I worried that Shep and I were mismatched. Every day I discovered new habits of his that baffled me. Like whenever he bathed, even if he was home alone, he’d lock the bathroom door. And then there were the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in his living room. He’d arranged the books in the oddest fashion. Not alphabetical, not according to subject, not novels versus nonfiction, but rather by color and size. All the tan spines lined up with the burgundies next to the green covers beside the pale blues and so on. And, of course, each color graduated accordingly from the tallest to the shortest.
“How can you find anything this way?”
“I think they look neater when they’re organized like this,” he said. “And besides, once you’ve read a book, you don’t go back to it.”
“Maybe you don’t. And you said you haven’t even read most of these yet.”
“That’s because I’m waiting for you to read them to me.”
