Portraits

by Cynthia Freeman

  “Just lovely—”

  “Are you having a nice time?”

  “Very nice.”

  “I’ve very glad you said yes, Doris.”

  The man had to be desperate. What was wrong with him?

  “What would you like?” Henry asked after the menus were brought. “The French dipped prawns are a specialty.”

  Well, that would add a week’s torture. “Is that what you’re going to have?”

  “I think so.”

  “All right—”

  “Make that two,” Henry said to the waitress.

  “French fries or coleslaw?” she asked.

  “Doris?”

  Both. “Coleslaw.”

  When the waitress walked away Henry generously buttered the French bread while Doris watched intently.

  “Tell me about you, Doris.”

  “Where would you like me to begin, with my life on the stage?”

  “Were you on the stage?”

  “No, I was just being funny, or trying…”

  “What do you do?”

  “Work in a dress shop.”

  “Oh. Do you like it?”

  “It’s a job…”

  “I get the feeling you’re qualified for something better—”

  “For what? And besides, how can you tell? This is the first time we’ve ever had more than a nodding acquaintance.”

  “I noticed you, whenever I was at the Silvermans’.”

  God, he had to go and spoil it by bringing up their names, but the waitress arrived with their plates and saved Doris from having to answer.

  “Too bad we can’t have a little cold beer with this,” Henry said.

  “I never had a beer in my life.”

  “I keep forgetting you’re eighteen. You seem so mature for your age. Why, Prohibition has been around for almost that long.”

  Was that supposed to be a compliment? Mature? I suppose being fat makes one look wise, jolly and mature. “Thank you for the compliment—about being mature, I mean…Now what about you?”

  “Well, my mother and father came from Russia, but my three brothers, my sister and I were all born on the East Side of New York.”

  Where papa and mama lived…“And?”

  “My father got into the fish business. In fact, until I was eleven I didn’t know there was anything else. Eventually my father got us out of the East Side and we moved to Syracuse.”

  Henry went on with his memories of New York, and Doris found herself interested in spite of herself. Finally Henry noticed the time and said they’d better be getting back.

  On the way back to Oakland, he continued with the saga of the Levin family’s rise from poverty, and all in one generation. “As I said, we moved to Syracuse and then to Denver because my father had relatives there. My brother Al—he’s the oldest—got into business. Would you believe it? By the time he was twenty-six, he’d made over half a million dollars.”

  Henry wasn’t bragging, Doris knew, because he spoke with such admiration. “What did he do, rob banks?”

  They both laughed, and Henry was pleased to see her more at ease now.

  “Pretty much. He made a bundle in the market, sold at the right time and went into the lending business. He wound up with a vault full of jewelry plus some property at a time when no one could pay back their loans. He even bought the mayor’s house for us—a great big brick house on Spear Boulevard. What a character. He was the best-hearted guy in the world. He bought a Persian rug for my mother. When she asked how much it cost he said three hundred, although it really cost three thousand. She said we didn’t have to walk on such an expensive rug, so she sold it.”

  “I’m afraid to ask for how much.”

  “Four hundred dollars—and thought that she’d made a profit. Then there was the dog he bought her…”

  “What kind?”

  “A pedigreed spaniel.”

  “Would she have fainted if he’d told her the price?”

  “She would have if he’d told her. Anyway, the dog never understood anything but Yiddish. Can you imagine calling a dog Yankel? Unless you talked Yiddish to that dog he wouldn’t lie down, do his tricks. Nothing. My mother’s been in America forty-five years and she still can’t speak a word of English, God bless her.”

  Doris was fascinated. She loved stories, and one day, she’d told herself secretly, she’d write about things like this…“Then what happened?”

  “Well, it was the twenties and my brother was one of the few people in Denver who had any money at the time. He got himself involved in politics, and before you knew it he was getting the mayor, chief of police and the governor elected. He had more influence than the Pope. Spent money like confetti.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, he got the bright idea that what Denver needed was a nightclub. So he became an entrepreneur and opened up the first nightclub Denver ever had. It was called the Marigold Gardens. He went to Chicago and booked the most expensive acts he could get. Al Jolson, believe it or not, and Ted Lewis, Belle Baker—a lot of people you probably never heard of.”

  “I’ve heard of all of them. I spent the best part of my life going to the Orpheum. In fact, I wanted to become the new Fanny Brice or Sophie Tucker.” At least I had the figure for it.

  “Really? I knew you were special—”

  “Thanks. Then what happened?”

  “Well, he made all kinds of money, but with his wine, women and song he spent it faster than he made it. And bookkeeping was out of Al’s line. Everyone stole from him. The place folded and he wound up broke…” Henry’s voice had trailed off.

  “Gee, I guess you must have felt terrible after that…”

  “In the beginning, yes, but Al’s a happy-go-lucky sort of person. The only problem is that you get just one break like that in a lifetime, and somehow he lost that golden touch, just couldn’t do anything right after that. Anyway, he lost everything and the Levins were right back where they started when they arrived in Denver.”

  “How did you get through college?”

  “Worked at burlesque shows selling popcorn, peanuts and chewing gum, waited on tables…But I belonged to a good fraternity—”

  “You had enough money to belong to a frat?”

  “I worked hard enough for it. Anyway, I’d gone to high school with most of the guys so no one looked down their noses at me. Those were great times for me. In fact, the happiest time of my life was at college. The worst was when my father died two months before I graduated. That was tough…”

  Yes, it would be. She’d never forget the face of death…“How did you happen to come to California?”

  “When I applied for my internship I chose Fresno, California, because they had a course in urology I wanted. We got ten dollars a month.”

  “How come you didn’t go into practice in Fresno?”

  “I spent two dollars on a bus ticket, and I guess you could say it changed my life. I took a Greyhound bus to San Francisco one day, and when I saw the hills, Chinatown, the Bay, I just said, ‘San Francisco, I love you.’ This is where I want to be.”

  “Then?”

  “So I came to San Francisco after my internship with twelve dollars in my pocket, took a room in a little hotel. Next day I went to the Flood Building and rented two rooms, then went down and bought some secondhand furniture for the treatment room, some instruments that I took on credit—and I was in business.”

  “You sound very enterprising.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I was so enterprising…It was a tough struggle but believe it or not, after five months I brought my family out. I rented a flat on Thirty-eighth Avenue in the Richmond District.”

  “What do your brothers do?”

  “Sell haberdashery, and my sister works at the Emporium.”

  “You all sound like quite a…devoted family…” She thought of her own “devoted” family, and decided not to explore that subject. “How long have you been in practice?”

  “Fiv
e years now…”

  He must be making a fortune, with a new De Soto and—

  “My God, I don’t believe it, Doris, do you realize we’re already back in Oakland?”

  Oakland…The Silvermans…“It’s none of my business, but how come you never married Sylvia?”

  “Because I don’t love her.”

  “She’s awfully nice and the Silvermans are such lovely people—”

  “I know they are—”

  “Well, then, how come you’ve been going together for three years?”

  “Doris, this is where we began. I told you I just take her out from time to time…Well, here we are at your place.”

  Yeah, here we are.

  Sara was graciousness itself as she welcomed them at the front door.

  “How was he?” she asked when she finally cornered Doris in the kitchen.

  “Very nice…”

  “Here, take this into the diningroom, Lillian. What did you do, Doris?”

  “We took a ride to Santa Cruz and then went to lunch.”

  “Doris, I hope you watched your diet.”

  “Yes, I was very careful.” Well, at least not one piece of bread and butter.

  Doris followed as Sara imperiously announced dinner.

  Thanks to Dr. Henry Levin it was like old times tonight—no rabbit food. But mama was still keeping an eye on Doris’ plate.

  “May I help you to more kugel, Henry?”

  “No thanks, but it was really wonderful. I haven’t eaten like this in years.”

  “Oh, Henry, how can you say that with a Jewish mother?” Sara asked.

  “I love my mother, but she can’t cook like you, Mrs. Sanders.”

  When a young man said someone cooked better than his mother, it was tantamount to a proposal. She brought in the two cakes. “Strawberry shortcake or plain?”

  “The strawberry, thanks…Did you really bake these?” Henry asked in honest admiration.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Oh, thank you, Henry. Doris is a very good cook too, you know.”

  Oh my God, and I can’t even boil water without burning it, Doris thought.

  Jacob ate as usual, without compliments or comments. But he liked this young man, and after he was through he suggested they all go to the livingroom.

  “How long have you been in practice?”

  “Five years…”

  The story was fascinating, but once in one day was enough. Doris wished mama would get out of the kitchen so she could go in and sneak a piece of strawberry shortcake, which she’d been denied at dinner.

  Seeing Sara finally come back into the livingroom after her chores, Doris excused herself, went through the hall and proceeded to the kitchen. When she got there and rummaged through the refrigerator she found that mama had outsmarted her…She’d thrown out the strawberry shortcake.

  Frustrated, she walked back and settled herself into a chair as far away from Henry as possible. Everyone was still listening to his saga.

  Jacob was definitely pleased…he’d met a landsman. “You were born on Chrystie Street?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, it’s a small world. I used to box at a gym—”

  “What? You never told me you boxed,” Sara said, astonished.

  He looked at her, then turned back to Henry…“Now doctor—”

  “Henry.”

  “Yes, Henry, well anyway, I think it’s wonderful that you brought you whole family out here and supported them.”

  “Well, I don’t exactly support them, I’ve just made it possible for us all to live together.”

  “I still give you a lot of credit for doing that and for working your way through college. You see, Sara? If a person wants something enough he’ll find a way. And you once told me it was all luck.”

  This time Sara ignored him. “What decided you to become a doctor, Henry?”

  “I always wanted to be a doctor, but especially when I saw the way my father and brothers struggled without a profession.”

  “That’s admirable, Henry.” Sara smiled.

  Well, this could go on far into the night, Doris thought. Her mother was being just too obvious…you’d think she was being courted by Henry. Before she could catch herself, she yawned. Sara’s eyes opened wide at her in an expression not uncommon to Jewish mothers. It meant any number of things, such as: stop yawning, act interested or I’ll speak to you later—and that’s exactly what mama did…

  When Doris finally said goodnight and stood against the door, Sara said, “When is he calling you?”

  “He didn’t say, and besides, I can’t go out with him again—”

  “You what?” Jacob said. “Let me see if I heard you right…”

  “I said I can’t go out with him again, papa.”

  Jacob’s foot began to tap rapidly, a sure sign he was about to blow up. “For the first time you meet a fine gentleman—not only nice but a Jewish doctor—and you’re not going to see him again? All I’ve heard from you is that you’re going to wind up being an old maid. And you know something? You will. What’s wrong with you, Doris? Your mother’s right, you should have your head examined. Damn it, in the old country children listened to parents. Here in America children do what they want, ruin their lives and to hell with the parents.”

  “But you’re not going out with him, I am.”

  “I thought you just said you weren’t.”

  She started to cry. “I don’t know what I said. You’re both mixing me up.”

  As she ran up the stairs to her room, Jacob called out, “If you weren’t mixed-up, you wouldn’t say—”

  She slammed the door and Jacob looked at Sara in exasperation. “First we have one who marries a goy old enough to be her father, and now we’ve got one who’s total meshugge. I don’t understand any of this.” Walking up the stairs, he continued to mumble, “It could only happen in America…”

  Trailing behind him, Sara said, “Now you see what a parent goes through. You only want the best for them but they fight you every step of the way.”

  He nodded. On this, at least, they were together.

  Now Doris knew what Jennie Harrison had meant that Easter Sunday so long ago when she’d told Doris about purgatory. But Doris’ soul wasn’t burning in hell; it was burning in Oakland, California.

  On Monday she sat across from Murial at Clinton’s Cafeteria and for once the cottage cheese stuck in her throat.

  “Where did you go yesterday, Doris? We tried to call and thank you for the party, and say how sorry we were we didn’t stay and help after.”

  Doris finally managed to swallow the lump of cottage cheese. “That’s okay, I didn’t mind cleaning up. It was no big thing.” She hoped that would divert Murial from the first part of her question, but no such luck.

  “What did you do yesterday?”

  It was like the Spanish Inquisition. “Oh, stayed home and cleaned closets…”

  Murial frowned. “That’s funny. Your mother said you were out on a date.”

  Doris took a long drink of water. “My mother said that?”

  “Yeah…”

  “She didn’t say you called.”

  “I did, about one. What did you do?”

  Oh, how she wished she could disappear. “Went for a ride.”

  “Really? Who with?”

  Oh, boy, think fast, Doris. “With a cousin of my aunt’s.”

  “What aunt?”

  “My Aunt Nadine.”

  “You never told me about your aunt’s cousin.”

  “Didn’t I?” Doris answered a little too brightly.

  “No. A guy or a—”

  “Girl.”

  “Your mother made it sound like a guy. She said, ‘Doris isn’t home, she has a date.’ Gee, and here I was really so glad.”

  “Sure, well, it was a bore and besides, my mother has a habit of making things sound like what they’re not.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, I think she’s really very sweet, Doris.”

  Doris swallowed. “She’s darling. Anyway, what time did you get home after the party?”

  “About three. We all went to Checker’s, except Sylvia and Henry. He said he was tired and wanted to make the one-thirty boat. Poor Sylvia, when the heck is she going to wake up? Well, anyway, everyone went to Eva’s and danced for a while. Her folks are away in Los Angeles and, boy, did we have fun. Sid got fresh…” Murial giggled. “And Pearl got into a little heavy necking with Marty—I mean, heavy. Ben got high and started a fight so the fellows made him lie down in his car.”

  “Boy, that sure sounds like—God, Murial, I’ve got to run.”

  “Talk to you tonight, Doris.”

  “Yes, sure, call.”

  After closing time at Goldman’s Doris was summoned to the office.

  “Yes, Mr. Goldman?”

  He looked over the rim of his glasses and Doris knew beyond a doubt that he was furious.

  “Take a look at these sales tags—”

  Doris looked them over, then at Mr. Goldman. “What seems to be the matter, Mr. Goldman?”

  “Can’t you add, Doris? We’re not a charity organization. Add up this tag.”

  Doris looked down at the charges. They totaled seventy-three dollars when she added them up, but the tag she’d written up said fifty-one dollars. God, how could she have made such a terrible mistake? She’d been upset all afternoon after meeting Murial. And this morning hadn’t been much better. Mama had really started her day off by ignoring her at breakfast. Not just ignoring her, but hostilely ignoring her. The only small comfort of the day was that papa had gone to work at four in the morning, so at least she hadn’t had to face him too.

  “Gee, Mr. Goldman, I don’t know what to say. I never made a mistake like that…”

  “Well, I know what to say. You’re going to make up the difference.”

  “I don’t blame you, Mr. Goldman…”

  “Okay, we’ll take it out of this week’s paycheck—and don’t let it happen again.”

  “I sure won’t, Mr. Goldman.” …

  But where papa was concerned, she was not let off so easily. Dinner that night was eaten in silence, but if looks could kill she’d have been dead.

  And Lillian didn’t exactly help. She just sat and ate, not even daring to look at anyone.