“Your father will have an English paper when he gets home,” I said, distracted by the children who were pouring out of doors, tumbling down steps, and running through the streets to hear the news. All those children and my leg was throbbing and the chicken entrails, soaking beneath my nose, made my stomach seethe.
“Ma, I can’t wait,” Alfie said.
Eugene piped up behind him. “It’s Will Rogers, Ma. Will Rogers! And he’s dead.”
Some actor who wouldn’t have known these boys from Adam dies and they’re all up in arms? Will Rogers. Feh.
But all those children. Swarming. Massing in the road. Children everywhere. Every apartment on Tenth Street housed throngs of children. In my own house, there were four. Seven-year-old Eugene. Nineteen-year-old Dottie. Izzy at seventeen. And ten-year-old Alfie. Oh, Alfie. Joey would have been ten as well but . . .
The sounds echoed through the street and the children scampered about. No doubt the children outnumbered the adults.
The roiling in my stomach threatened to erupt, and I was grateful I hadn’t eaten yet, that there was nothing to return. That nausea that was so familiar and so unwelcome. Despair settled over me. Please, Hashem, let this be my change. Seeing all those children brought a deluge of unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts of Joey; thoughts of Yussel—who was a twelve-year-old boy last I saw him—trapped in Europe; thoughts of what this sickness I was experiencing might be.
The voice of the newsboy faded as he made his way down the street again, pausing at each newly outstretched hand.
All those children.
“Are you crying?” Alfie asked, his voice tinged more with fear than with concern.
Raising my hand to my cheek, I realized it was indeed wet.
“It’s okay, Ma,” Eugene said, always anxious at anyone’s distress. “You won’t be sad about Will Rogers forever. This too shall pass.”
I wanted to smile, but I couldn’t force my lips to move. My baby quoting back to me what I often said to the children. This too shall pass. It worked for scrapes and frights and playground injustices. It was a lie that was easy to believe when you were a child. But as an adult, I well knew some things hurt for a lifetime.
Pulling up my apron, I wiped my face. “Just some sweat dripping into my eye.” I scuttled over to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out the tin with my grocery money, fishing out two copper coins for Alfie. “Here.” I shoved them at him. “Go.”
Alfie paused a moment, knowing that if I gave in so quickly, then surely something was wrong. But the boy had enough smarts to take the coins and leave before I could change my mind.
“Thanks,” he said, as he bounded with Eugene out the front door, slamming it behind him.
“Don’t slam the door,” I yelled.
Back at the window, I stared out. Those children. Teasing and taunting one another. Children everywhere. So many children. Too many children.
Despite the emptiness of my stomach, another wave rose through my chest. Quickly reaching toward the sink, I vacated what little there was in my belly. I paused over the sink, afraid if I moved too quickly, more sickness would come.
Glancing back out the window, I saw Alfie running down the street, trailed by four other boys, waving a newspaper in his hand. Eugene could barely keep up.
I refused to allow the notion of babies to take root. This was old age. Pure and simple. No more children, I thought. I am done with children. But then, when did God ever listen to the plans of a Yiddishe mama?
Dottie
THAT night, walking home from work, I dawdled. I should have taken the elevated, or at least the streetcar, to make sure I arrived in plenty of time for Shabbes, but the idea of facing my mother was more than I could bear. I told myself I didn’t want to end up sick on a crowded train, but it was simply an excuse. I shouldn’t have been walking; my limbs were leaden, my feelings vacillating with each footfall between exhilaration at my new promotion and a growing fright at the way my body was betraying me.
With my mind distracted, I didn’t notice where I stepped, and my heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. As I lunged forward, my clutch flying from my hands, I let out an unladylike “Ow!” as I landed on my knee. A rip in my stocking. Just what I needed. A man passing by reached out and took my arm, helping me to my feet. He leaned down to pick up my purse and handed it to me. “Are you all right, miss?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, going for what I hoped was a smile. “Nothing bruised but my pride.”
The man touched the brim of his hat and continued on his way, not a care in the world. Probably going home to his wife. And children. In a lovely uptown apartment with a new Kelvinator and a Westinghouse electric range, and a dinette set from Bloomingdale’s and a powder room full of Helena Rubinstein cosmetics. To the life that should be mine. To the life I coveted more than anything. Me. Abe. Children of our own. A kitchen out of House & Garden. Abe would work at the store during the day, Ma would watch the kids for a few hours, and I’d continue at the insurance company. The picture was dreamy and I smiled before remembering I had botched it all up.
What if I told Abe I had been attacked? That a man forced himself on me?
No. That would never work. Then Abe would spend his life looking with abhorrence at the child, constantly searching her face, wondering to whom she belonged. And would Abe want to touch me, knowing I had been touched by another? How much worse would it be if he knew it hadn’t been an attack, that I’d been merely drunk and foolish?
Leaning down, I brushed the dirt from my dress. The run in my stocking stretched down my leg, a train track scaling my thigh. The indignity was too much, so as tears threatened, I hobbled on my tender ankle and sat on a bench. Crossing my sore ankle over the other, I reached down and rubbed the bone. Nothing serious. But what if it had been serious? How easy it is to slip, on the stairs at home, perhaps a tumble down the front stoop. With my luck, though, I’d merely be in the same position, but with a broken arm or leg.
The men and women on their way home all looked so purposeful, so free. I tried to concentrate on them, conjuring their stories, but no matter how I tried to ignore my thoughts, they kept taunting me, like Izzy used to do with the mice he’d captured in the apartment when we were kids. I’d run and scream and close my eyes and try not to see the beady eyes of the rodents that Izzy swung in front of my face, as he laughed and called me a crybaby. The mice repulsed me, yet I had sympathy for them. It wasn’t their fault; they were just trying to survive. If only they would do it elsewhere. At night I dreamed of those tiny wriggling creatures as they squealed to be free, only to be squashed by the hand of my younger brother. Right now I had about as much future as those mice. I suddenly wished Izzy had been kinder to them.
Glancing at the sky, I saw that the sun was starting its late summer descent, and I realized I’d need to dash to be on time even if home was the last place I wanted to be, with the boys arguing, my father proselytizing, my mother prying. My mother. I would have to tell my mother. The thought caught me short, made me gasp for breath as a sudden burst of sweat erupted across my brow.
I unclasped my purse and reached for a handkerchief to blot my forehead, and once again I saw the letters. The letters. My cheeks warmed and I looked around guiltily, as if caught in the act. Those letters confirmed my disgrace, held my shame in its entirety.
I had no need to pull out the papers, although my fingers moved of their own accord, caressing the thick, heavy cream card stock that bespoke wealth. The return address was engraved, and the raised type felt smooth and rich to my touch. Why had I kept them? With the thoughts of the day circling in my head, I determined to rid myself of this evidence once and for all. If the baby had been Abe’s, well, there would have been a fuss, but with a quick wedding and an “early” delivery, it would be forgotten in a matter of months. But this? This pushed past the boundaries of decency.
I stood, and with
just a ghost of an ache in my ankle, I walked toward the trash bin on the corner. Yet, when I reached it, I didn’t stop, and the letters found their way back into my purse. When a droplet of sweat slid down my nose, I reached again for the handkerchief, dabbing my face as I hurried to Tenth Street.
The scenery changed dramatically as I left the sophistication of Midtown and sank back into the depths of the lower East Side, of home. Fedoras were traded for yarmulkes. Children walking hand in hand with mothers changed into ragamuffins darting through the streets. Storefronts gave way to peddlers hawking their wares. As much as I tried to retain the dignity of the highly proficient bookkeeper—make that highly proficient head bookkeeper—when I descended into my own neighborhood, I reverted to the Dottie whose life revolved around doing the dishes, watching my brothers, and arguing with Ma about going to shul. I couldn’t hold on to white silk when diving into a pit of mud, no matter how hard I tried.
I approached our building barely in time for the lighting of the Shabbes candles. As usual, Mr. Baum was sitting on the stoop with his newspaper.
“Good evening, Mr. Baum,” I said.
“Gut Shabbes, Dottie,” he said, licking his finger to turn the page.
I knew I was really late when Mrs. Baum stuck her head out the front window and yelled in broken English, “Mr. Baum! Upstairs, your tuchus you get.” So I hurried past him into the building, where the smell of Mrs. Anscher’s boiled cabbages nearly knocked me down. Our building was so claustrophobic it was as if we lived with our neighbors instead of beside them.
I rushed up the three flights of stairs, and stopped at the top, fighting for breath. My body wouldn’t allow me to forget my troubles. In high school, I’d run track, and while it had been nearly two years since I graduated, a quick sprint up the stairs should have been nothing. I took a moment to catch my breath and regain my composure, and when I looked down, I noticed my arm was clutching my chest, that my bosom ached in a new way, nothing like the growing pains I’d experienced not so long ago. Panic settled in, making it difficult for me to calm. But I had to. I couldn’t give myself away to my mother.
A door opened and I steeled myself, a forced grin on my face, to prepare for the family member obviously sent to find me. But no, it was the door across the hallway. “Dottie,” a tiny voice called out.
My facade melted, replaced by a genuine smile. “Alice,” I said, squatting down to her eye level. “What are you doing roaming when it’s about to be Shabbes?”
Alice toddled to me, her two-year-old legs roly-polying her along. “Dottie,” she repeated, allowing me to sweep her into my arms. I wrapped her in my embrace and picked her up. Her hair was delicate and curly and when my nose brushed against a lock of it, the smell of talcum powder made me wistful for the days when my brothers were this tiny. Zelda often teased me for stealing sniffs of her baby, but that baby scent was heavenly and I couldn’t resist. A shiver ran up my spine at the thought of babies.
Stroking Alice’s arm, I marveled at the dewy softness of it. “Does your mama know where you are?” I asked.
“Kitty cat,” Alice said, and I laughed.
“There are no kitty cats here, you silly goose.” I carried her to her door, and pushing it open slightly, I called in, “Mrs. Kaplan? Did you lose something?”
Mrs. Kaplan came out of her kitchen, her hair recently styled for Friday night. “How did you get out?” she exclaimed, taking Alice from my arms. “You naughty little girl.”
“Kitty cat!” Alice said again.
Mrs. Kaplan rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Dottie. Gut Shabbes.”
“Gut Shabbes to you,” I said, giving Alice’s nose a little tweak before heading back to the hallway, making sure to pull the Kaplans’ door tight so Alice couldn’t escape again.
The encounter lightened my mood, enabling me to enter the chaos that was my home on a Friday night. The flimsy door slammed against the wall, and I cringed, waiting for the yell I knew was coming: “Don’t bang the door,” Ma said from the kitchen.
“Sorry,” I called as I walked in.
Alfie and Eugene were screaming, running through the house carrying papers folded into airplanes. “Boom boom boom boom boom!” yelled Eugene, dive-bombing his plane into the furniture all around. He ran past me. “Boom boom boom!”
My youngest brother could put a smile on my face even as I suffered the trials of Job. I grabbed him the next time he passed and planted a kiss on the top of his head as I said, “Boom boom boom to you.”
“No war on Shabbes,” Ma said from the kitchen, where she was putting the finishing touches on dinner.
“Boys will be boys,” my father called back to Ma from the main room, where he was splayed on the couch, reading The Nation, his feet propped on the table. I gave Tateh a pointed look—Ma never allowed feet on furniture—but he just put his finger to his lips and gave me a grin.
“Boys can be boys when it’s not Shabbes. On Shabbes they can be a little more God-fearing.”
“I’m here,” a voice announced loudly from outside the front door. Bang went the door as a large man with a jacket that didn’t quite reach his wrists entered the apartment. His size dwarfed the room.
“The door,” Ma called yet again. “Stamp your feet, Heshie. Don’t bring in all the dirt of the city.”
“Let your brother be,” Tateh said. “He just walked in.”
That’s the way it always went in the apartment. So much noise, so much yelling. Ma and Tateh never truly fought, but their voices were loud enough that strangers would think they were constantly bickering. The prying neighbors didn’t need cups against the walls to hear every word said.
The smells of home—the ever-present reek of liver, of schmaltz, of carp boiling on the stove—caused an uproar in my stomach, immediately deflating my mood, reminding me of my misfortunes. Always the smells permeated, overwhelming even the sweet scent of baking challah and roasting tzimmes. Ma never escaped them, but I went to great extremes before leaving the apartment to douse myself in the cheap toilet water I bought at Ohrbach’s so as not to bring the stink of the East Side into my Midtown office.
I laid my clutch on the table next to the couch, giving my father a peck on the forehead and greeting Uncle Heshie, who plopped down next to him and picked up the Herald Tribune. This was the couch I slept on every night, a deep green velvet, fraying at the edges. My lips pursed as I surveyed the scene, like I did every evening, hoping my mother had done something—anything—to improve our home. But no. I used to leave magazines for Ma to look at, to inspire her, but stopped when I saw she had used the pages from the summer issue of Better Homes and Gardens to wrap chicken bones. Ma didn’t see the wisdom of spending money on “appearances,” so we still had the old glass-doored cabinet of books piled every which way, threatening to burst open and rain tomes down on me while I slept. And next to the cabinet was the ancient Victrola on which Tateh played the classical records he purchased with money that could have gone for a new couch. The newest object in the apartment was the radio, bought two years ago.
“A good day, Dottala?” Tateh asked, barely lowering his magazine.
“Why, yes—,” I started, but I was interrupted by Ma walking into the room.
“So, now you’re home?” Ma said.
“Good Shabbes, Ma.” I smoothed out my dress, hoping she didn’t notice its snugness.
“Good Shabbes, bubelah.”
Ma bent over to speak quietly to Uncle Heshie. “A letter came from Yussel today.”
Uncle Heshie looked up. “And?”
Ma shrugged. “Nothing has changed.” From her apron pocket, she pulled a sheet of paper and handed it to her brother, who began to read it right away. “Hesh, don’t you know anyone who knows anyone?” she asked while his eyes scanned the page. “Someone at Tammany Hall with the ear of a senator? Someone who could get Yussel a visa?”
Still readin
g, Uncle Heshie shook his head.
Alfie bounded into the room, screeching, “And the Allies go boom boom boom!”
“What did I say about that ruckus on Shabbes, Alfie?” Ma said, straightening up, and looking around to see what else needed to be done.
“It’s not a ruckus, Ma,” Alfie said. “It’s the Great War. I’m Frank Luke and I’m shooting down German reconnaissance balloons.”
“No war is great,” Uncle Heshie said, taking the airplane from Alfie as it flew past, though his eyes never left the letter.
“Aw, Uncle Heshie,” Alfie said.
If for nothing more than to stop the squabbling, I asked in Yiddish, “Do you need help, Ma?” Because I was the only girl in the family, it was my responsibility to help with the domestic chores, but it was difficult to keep the reluctance from my tone.
I wished I shared the enthusiasm of my friends. Linda would be marrying Ralph as soon as they could, and she spent every free moment learning how to be a good and dutiful wife. And Zelda, my closest friend, was not only married, but with a baby. While she moaned about her chores—“This life is drudgery,” she’d say—she had a grin on her face and a glow in her cheeks. I knew I would have to take on the same tasks when Abe and I married, but I didn’t relish the idea. In my dreams, I kept working—either at his store or perhaps, now, at the insurance office—and hired a girl to take care of the house. But those were fantasies.
“Everything is done,” Ma said with such firmness that I took it as a reprimand.
Modern Girls Page 3
