It wasn’t until the lunch bell rang that I allowed myself to replay the conversation with Florence. Did she suspect my secret? Or was she just playing games? I pulled out my lunch and took a small bite of the sandwich, but my stomach grumbled ominously. Of course, Florence was the least of my worries. Let her think what she liked. I was head bookkeeper. I could fire her, if need be. A bubble rose up the back of my throat, so I threw the sandwich in the wastebin, sorry to waste Ma’s meal. The thought of meat, though, repulsed me.
Sitting still until I was sure I wouldn’t be sick, I took in the silence of the room. I didn’t hear any heels on the stairs or chatter in the halls, so I pulled my clutch from the bottom desk drawer. I knew perfectly well that the letter—like the previous ones—was not from Mrs. Klein. Pulling an opener from the pencil holder, I skimmed the long blade in the crease, tearing the paper in one smooth movement.
I hesitated before removing the letter. The first two had served merely to stroke my pride. This one held portentous meaning. I slid it out and unfolded the thick paper. Dear Dottie, I read. I’m sorry if I caused any problems on Sunday. But I would like to see you. Are you going to make me beg? I won’t be around for you to neglect much longer. Time is running out. Stork Club, next Monday at noon. Affectionately yours, Willie.
What did that mean, “Time is running out?” The man knew how to pique my curiosity. Shaking my head, I threw off the thought. He had no business piquing my curiosity.
The letter belonged in the wastebasket. Just as the others did.
I slid it back into my purse, and returned to the pile of papers on my desk.
Rose
Tuesday, August 20
TUESDAYS I did the laundry. I boiled water on the stove and pulled the soap out from beneath the sink. Our apartment didn’t have a window facing the rear, so once the clothes were washed, I went to the hall window in the back of the building to hang them on the line strung between our building and the one behind it.
“Alfie,” I yelled. “Get the wringer from the basement.”
But in response, all I heard was the slamming of our door, followed by the clatter of footsteps down the stairs. A glance out the kitchen window told me that Alfie was not coming back up.
Swearing under my breath, I made my way to the basement. The underground room frightened the children, though they were too proud to admit it. However, the smell of mold and the sounds of mice scurrying reminded me of lazy afternoons hiding in the barn with Perle, plotting the next rendezvous with Shmuel. The smell of the basement brought a smile. Carrying the wringer up the stairs, not so much. The wringer weighed more than two sacks of potatoes, and with my leg pulsating in agony, I cursed Alfie with each step up.
Back in the apartment, I heaved the wringer into the kitchen, using my apron to wipe the sweat from my face. I paused a moment to see if I felt any twitches in my womb. No. This baby was in there for good.
I took the boiled water and poured it into a tub. Just bending like that made my back ache. I piled the soiled clothes on the floor in the corner of the kitchen. The pile was substantial and it was only going to grow. I thought of all the diapers, all the stained clothes. The spit-up. The kake. A new baby brought more than its fair share of laundry.
Grabbing a pile of Ben’s undershirts and placing them in the metal bucket, I agitated them in soapy water. The hot water combined with the steamy air made me light-headed, my collar damp with sweat. How long had it been since I’d had rags to clean? My courses never were very regular, so the absence of a month or two hadn’t brought concern. But this had been three months. I hadn’t washed a soiled rag in three months.
Without warning, my hand slipped on a sliver of soap and my arm banged on the bottom of the basin, scalding my forearm, soaking my sleeve. I thought again, Three months since I’ve washed a soiled rag. I pulled out the kitchen chair and sat down, not caring that I was dripping sudsy water onto the floor. Suddenly everything fell into place. Dottie. Her moodiness. Her lack of appetite. The ripeness of her body. Three months.
Dottie didn’t like the rags that I’d taught her to use when she was younger, so when she began working, she switched to the newfangled Kotex. But every month, there were still soiled underthings to be scrubbed. Except it had been three months. Three months since I’d washed a soiled linen.
“Oh, Dottie,” I said to myself. “Oh, Dottala!”
• • •
AT nightfall, the house was in shambles, because I’d spent the day not working but plotting. Dottie was so young. True, I hadn’t been much older than Dottie when I had her, but this was a different time, a different age. Dottie had so many more choices than those available to me. The more I thought, the angrier I became. Who was Dottie to squander such opportunities? Dottie was supposed to have a better life than mine. As my life was better than Mama’s. It was the way it was meant to be. I would be damned if Dottie lost out on accounting school because of a foolish mistake.
The door banged against the back wall, and I yelled by rote, “Don’t slam the door,” not that it did any good. Why did I even bother?
“I’m tired. I’m going to rest before dinner,” Dottie called as she retreated to my bedroom.
Tired, my tuchus, I thought, as I wiped my hands on my apron and followed Dottie into the small room.
“Ma,” Dottie said, as she plopped on my bed. I could hear the weariness and for a brief moment, I felt compassion for my foolish daughter. “Can’t I have a bit of privacy?”
“Privacy! As if privacy has done you good in the past.” Privacy was the new fashion. It wasn’t a word in my vocabulary, and even if it was, it was a mother’s right to go where she was needed.
Dottie rolled her eyes and sighed, turning toward the wall. “Being head bookkeeper is hard. It’s a lot more responsibility. I’m tired.”
I violently shoved Dottie’s legs over and sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course you are tired. Tired comes with your problem. How far along are you, nu? Three months, I suppose?”
Dottie flipped back over quickly, panic in her eyes. “What are you talking about?” I could tell she was trying to sound sharp, but instead she sounded shrill.
“I’m talking about you and that baby. What utter irresponsible nonsense, you putting yourself in this position. You are an embarrassment to this family!”
With a gasp, Dottie sat up. “How did—?”
“I am your mother,” I said. I looked her deeply in the eyes, trying to impart my fury. “There is nothing I do not know.”
Tears filled her eyes. But I put up my hand. “No. You do not get to be upset. You put yourself in this position. You will get out of this situation.”
“Ma—,” she began, but I cut her off with a swack to her leg. “Ow!” she cried.
“You think that hurts?” I said. “That’s nothing. Wait till the pain you’ll feel when that baby rips you in half. You think you know hurt? Just wait six months and you’ll know hurt.”
I knew I was scaring her, but I couldn’t stop myself. My vision clouded with anger. “You were going to be an accountant. Have an education. And you threw it all away! For what? To slave at home for your children?”
“Ma, the boys will hear.” By now she was sobbing, and I knew it was my duty to hold her, to comfort her, but I couldn’t, not just yet. The wrath needed to dissipate first.
“The boys are playing outside. And you better get used to ‘the boys’ hearing. Your life is no longer your own. The baby in your belly is now in charge. Say good-bye to New York University. Say good-bye to your precious numbers. Say good-bye to your evenings out with your friends.” I realized suddenly as I raged that I wasn’t talking so much about Dottie; I was raging for myself. Abruptly I stopped yelling, which startled Dottie.
“Ma?” Her weeping made her body shake. “Ma?”
I stared at her. Tears rolled down her face, reminding me of when she was a
child. She looked now as she had when we lost Joey, and I thought of the way she’d almost disappeared into herself with grief. My anger melted. She was still my baby girl and she was in trouble.
“Oh, Dottala.” I opened my arms, and she fell into them. I squeezed tightly, my poor child. For long minutes I embraced my little girl, and felt the weight of her tears on my shoulder.
Finally, I pulled away. “We need to take care of this.”
She nodded.
With a sigh, I let my dreams of my daughter as an accountant float away. I brushed her wet cheek with my finger. Man plans; God laughs. Time for a new course of action. “You and Abe will need to marry quickly,” I said. “Children have been born early; yours will be no exception. The college money. We’ll say someone back home died, sent us the money, allowing you to marry right away. You’ll use the money to rent an apartment, furnish it. Your impatience, for once, might serve us well. Everyone knows how you’ve been suffering to marry that boy.”
I could hear Dottie swallow. She looked at me, abject fear in her gaze. Her mouth moved; she had something to say, but nothing was coming out.
“What? Speak up, girl,” I said.
Again, her lips moved, but no sound emerged. Why was this girl trying me? “Speak!”
Finally I could hear the whisper of her voice. “Abe won’t marry me.”
“Of course he’ll marry you. Once he learns you are carrying his child, he’ll have no choice. Abe is an honorable man, though clearly not as honorable as I thought. Putting you into a situation like this. It’s a sin.”
Dottie shook her head and the tears sprang anew. Her arms wrapped around her body, holding it tightly. Her entire body shook as if taken over by a demon. She said, “No, Ma. No.” Over and over again. I feared she was going mad.
A chill settled on me. “What are you saying?”
“Ma,” Dottie said. Her voice was so hushed, I could barely hear her. “You don’t understand, Ma.”
“Don’t understand?” I shook my head. “Married twenty years, birthed five children, and I don’t understand?”
Dottie sobbed silently, which was more alarming than the noisy weeping. My hands numbed as I tried to imagine what she had done.
“No,” she said again.
“What do you mean, ‘No’? Dear God, Dottie, speak plainly.”
The words caught in her throat. When she finally uttered them, I was sure I misheard. What she was saying was simply impossible.
“I can’t understand you,” I said. I realized my voice was taking on a feverish pitch, but the room was spinning and I set my arm out to balance myself.
“The baby isn’t Abe’s, Ma.” Her voice was quiet, but the words were unmistakable.
“What do you mean?” I asked. Did Dottie notice how the floor was rocking? Or was that merely my stomach lurching?
“The baby isn’t Abe’s.” She could say it as much as she liked, but it simply didn’t make sense.
“Of course the baby is Abe’s. Did you two have a fight?”
“Ma—”
I desperately tried to block out what she was trying to tell me. My words came fast and frantic. “We can have the wedding next Sunday. Even have a little party at the shul. Maybe a kiddush after the wedding? You won’t have a new dress, but I can fancy up your Shabbes dress and—”
“Stop!” Dottie’s voice finally found itself. “You have to stop. The baby isn’t Abe’s.” Dottie reached out to grab both my arms, and she gave me a slight shake. “The baby isn’t Abe’s.”
I looked at my daughter with new eyes. Who was this stranger in front of me? A woman so loose? How did I raise such a child? I buried my face in my hands. How? How?
We sat there, each lost in our own grief, until I felt able to speak. Finally, I asked, “Who?”
Dottie couldn’t look me in the eye. She stared at her nails—her precious nails she painstakingly painted fresh every Saturday, nails that tickled the backside of whom? Without glancing up, she said, “Willie Klein.”
“Willie Klein!”
“Shush!” Dottie said.
I could hear the stirring in the apartment next door, as if someone was scooting to hear us more clearly. I brought my volume down. “Willie Klein.”
She nodded.
Willie Klein. That pampered, snooty putz of a boy. His mother, Molly, was too good for her own people. What was Dottie doing getting messed up with a boy like that? “How?”
“In Cold Spring. At Camp Eden,” Dottie said.
“At kamp ganeden,” I said. “Are you sure?”
Dottie nodded.
“Is there even the slightest chance that it could be Abe’s?”
Dottie shook her head. Curse that boy. Had to be virtuous with my Dottie. Schmuck.
Dottie swallowed hard. “I—” She faltered before trying again. “I have a plan.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“This weekend. I’m going to Camp Eden with Abe. I’m going to take care of things. Make sure he thinks the baby is his.”
I stared hard at Dottie. Maybe my firstborn wasn’t such a numskull after all. I nodded. “Do you think you can?”
Fresh tears formed in her eyes. “I have to, Ma. What other choice do I have?”
What other choice indeed? Briefly, my mind flashed to my talk with Perle, to the idea that there was another choice, but I forced myself back to the conversation with Dottie.
“He’s apparently been virtuous so far,” I pointed out.
Dottie nodded. “Yes, but I’ve never put a full effort into it before.”
The front door banged. “Don’t slam the door,” I yelled without even thinking about it.
“When’s dinner?” Alfie shouted from the front room.
Dinner. I had nothing for dinner. “You’ll get your dinner when I’m good and ready to serve it.” It would be a simple meal of herring and bread. The boys would complain. Eh, let them.
I looked at Dottie, her runny nose, her red-rimmed eyes. I took her hands in mine and stared hard at her. “Make this work. You hear me? Make this work.”
She nodded.
I stood. I wiped my face with my hands, fighting the sweat, trying to make sure I was presentable. I walked out to the kitchen to begin the dinner preparation. She was going to make Abe think the baby was his? Shaking my head, I knew it was up to me to come up with another plan.
Dottie
LYING in bed, I could hear Ma bustling in the kitchen. I stared at the ceiling, the cracks in the plaster in the shape of a spiderweb, weaving its way from wall to wall. Each mark branched into yet more: one line becoming six; twelve lines making seventy-two.
I closed my eyes. Math wasn’t going to soothe me now.
My body longed to rest, but my mind wouldn’t allow it. I was embarrassed, humiliated, scared. But at the same time, a new sensation took hold: relief. Ma knew. If anyone could fix things, it was Ma. While I knew it was irrational, the fact that Ma knew alleviated much of my fear.
But not my shame.
Last May. How long ago last May seemed now. Last May when I was still young and innocent.
What a fight Abe and I had had. Over those damn Krauses.
I replayed the incident in my mind. We left the theater on a Wednesday night and were wandering the streets, holding hands. Spring gentled its way into New York, and a rain had left large puddles in the road that reflected the streetlamps, giving a holiday twinkle to the cool evening.
I felt light and airy. A night like that was as glamorous as any in the movies. “What do you say?” I asked. “You and I go to Camp Eden this weekend?” I gave him a little squeeze. Just the idea of me and Abe up in Cold Spring was a thrill. In magazines, I read of folks who escaped the city for an entire summer. Even if I could leave only for a weekend, it made me feel worldly. I’m going to the country this weekend, I’d t
ell the girls in the office. “It’s opening weekend, and it would be so lovely to go away, you and me.”
Every summer all our friends would escape to Camp Eden at some point. At the small socialist camp, run by the Yiddish Farband, tents could be rented for a few dollars a night. The chores, in theory, were equally divvied up—preparing meals, carrying water from the well, collecting firewood, keeping the grounds clean—but in practice, the roles at camp weren’t so different from the ones at home, with the women doing more of the domestic chores, while the men built fires and repaired tents. At night, we’d sit around the campfire, singing the songs of our childhood—the protest songs, the work songs, the songs we heard our parents sing as we marched in the streets and cheered at rallies. Talk of politics sprinkled the air. Comedies—proletarian, of course—were put on, lectures frequently given, baseball games a must. All the socialist talk I could live without. But the freedom of Camp Eden? I’d take that any day, thank you.
“Cold Spring? This coming weekend?” Abe said. “It’ll be freezing.”
“So?” I shrugged. “It’ll be cold here, too. But at least there the spring flowers will be emerging and the nights will be perfect for strolls in the meadows.” I leaned into him, letting go of his hand to hold him by the crook of his arm.
Abe shook his head.
I changed to a more practical approach. “They need people to ready the camp for the season.” I didn’t mind the camp chores. Anything to be outside, alone with Abe. Camp Eden was the only place we weren’t smothered by people. In Cold Spring, I was free to slide my hands beneath Abe’s shirt, feel the knotty muscles running along his back, lose myself in his solid arms. Abe still maintained utter propriety, keeping me at arm’s length, but somehow, his arms never stretched as far in the open-aired freedom of the country.
“Even if it weren’t too cold, I’m afraid I can’t. The Krauses are coming to town.”
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