Modern Girls

by Jennifer S. Brown

  That stopped me short. “The Krauses!” I snorted. “All the more reason to go to Cold Spring.”

  Abe laughed. “Ah, always charming, my Dottala.” He turned and wrapped his arm around me, warming me as the temperature dropped.

  “Oh, and Sadie Kraus is so dignified? I’ve seen the way she looks at the boys when we all go to the café.”

  Abe stiffened, dropped his arms, and started walking again. “Don’t be ungenerous, darling. It doesn’t become you.”

  Not for the first time I wondered about Sadie and Abe. Was Abe jealous of the way Sadie flirted with other boys? Or merely angry that I was insulting an old friend?

  “Ungenerous?” I said. “Nathan Kraus has made it perfectly clear he intends you for his sister. He actually said it in so many words.” Don’t Abe and Sadie look natural together? If that’s not beshert, I don’t know what is.

  “Who cares what Nathan Kraus wants? What matters is what I want.”

  “And what I want. We’ll go to Cold Spring this weekend,” I said. “Play some baseball, maybe take a rowboat on the lake, relax by the fire.”

  “Nonsense,” Abe said. “It’s too early. And even if it weren’t too early, I won’t be rude to my friends.”

  My pace quickened. “Oh, so you’re rude to me instead?”

  “Dottie.” His tone was quickly becoming exasperated. “Don’t be like that.”

  “Fine!” My arms were practically pumping at my side, I was walking so quickly. “I’ll go without you.”

  “That’s crazy.” Abe’s shorter stride kept him a pace behind me. “We’ll go in a few weeks, when it’s warmer. This weekend, you’ll come out with me, Nathan, and Sadie.”

  Any thoughts of giving in were immediately dashed. “You will not have me and Sadie at the same time.”

  “Dottie,” Abe said, his voice lowering as it did when he was angry. “That is absurd. You are my girl. Nathan and Sadie are old friends. You will come with me when we all go out, and we will have a lovely time.”

  I stopped suddenly and spun around so quickly that Abe ran into me, practically knocking us both down. “Abe Rabinowitz, you will not tell me what to do. You can stay. Sadie can have you, for all I care! I’m going to Camp Eden.”

  “You’re being foolish, Dottie.”

  “Foolish to think I could count on you to stand by my side.”

  With that, I turned and ran back to my apartment without him, fueled by my anger toward him and my hatred of Sadie.

  • • •

  AND so it was I arrived alone at the Cold Spring train station at 7:33 p.m. on Friday, May 24. At several points over the previous two days I’d thought to cancel my trip—it was awfully early in the season; it would be cold up there—but I refused to give Abe the satisfaction.

  When I got off the train, I looked at the other passengers. No one seemed to be going to Camp Eden. A businessman with a valise appeared to have returned from a sales call in the city. A mother and a babe detrained. But I was the only young person with a suitcase, so with a sigh, I turned to head out to the camp. If Abe were there, he’d talk me into walking the three miles. But he wasn’t, was he? So I hailed a cab from the front of the station, where they lined up for the city folk like me who wanted to get away for the weekend. But on that night—so early in the season—there was one lone cab.

  Climbing in the back, I hauled my bag in next to me, plopping it on the seat Abe should have been occupying. My bag was small. I didn’t need much for the weekend. It was still too cold for swimming, so no towels, no suits. Just shorts for playing sports and a clean pair of slacks for the next day.

  The drive was quick, and when we arrived, the driver put out his hand. The meter read “.20.” Reluctantly I handed over two dimes and a couple of pennies, sorry I hadn’t saved the money by making the hour walk. This only revived my anger toward Abe.

  It was late enough that I’d missed dinner, but an old friend from my grammar school days, Beverly, was there, and she scrounged up a snack of black bread and herring for me. After settling my belongings in the tent and eating, I joined the others at the campfire. The turnout was small. Only those especially committed to getting the camp up and running—like Beverly—and those who wanted to escape watchful eyes for a little fun in the country—like me. And Willie Klein.

  We all huddled close to the fire, trying to keep warm. The temperatures in the city were starting to rise, but here, under crystal clear skies, the nip was enough to make me shiver if I moved too far from the flames. Damn that Abe. Leaving me cold and alone.

  A metal flask made its way around the circle, eventually reaching Beverly on my left. A teetotaler, Beverly simply passed it to me with a “Help yourself.”

  Even through my thin gloves, I could feel the chill of the metal. The fire did little to warm me. Abe was right in not coming up; it was too early in the year to enjoy a weekend in Cold Spring. My fury grew. What was he doing right then? Had he and Sadie found a quiet corner in a cellar?

  Bringing the flask to my mouth, I savored the feel of the liquid sliding down and the burn on the back of my throat. A warm flush rose in my cheeks. I noticed a few of the boys on the other side of the fire eyeing me, waiting to see if I choked on the fiery liquid. But I wasn’t as naive as the others thought; I’d drunk before, liked the taste of the amber liquid, the way my insides became toasty. To my right, Willie raised an eyebrow as I brought the flask to my lips for a second—and a third—swallow before passing it to him.

  Willie Klein was as handsome as a movie star, with wavy black hair and high cheekbones. His nose was prominent without being too large, and his eyes were a violent shade of green. His appearance was slightly ambiguous; one could look at him and not know for sure if he was Jewish or Spanish or Italian, a handy trait for a writer in New York. In the city, I didn’t see Willie too often. His parents had distanced themselves from the lower East Side, taken to their Park Avenue address with full body and soul. His mother, Molly, was Zelda’s aunt, her father’s sister, so sometimes Willie visited Zelda. But mostly he stayed in his own world except to partake every now and then in the Yiddishe nightlife. His parents thought the cramped and crowded lower East Side—the shaddachan making marriages, the peddlers on the street—an embarrassment, a throwback to life in the Old Country, even though neither had experienced it. His mother had been an infant when she came to the States, and his father was American-born. Willie’s family was thoroughly modern. No arranged marriages for him.

  The thought of arranged marriages made me think of Abe, and what he was doing with Sadie. Was his arm casually thrown about her shoulders? Did her hand rest gently upon his thigh? I thought of the way Lefty’s hands, callused and hard, had touched me beneath my clothes all those years ago, how they’d stirred in me feelings of dizziness, but an exhilarating kind, a dizziness that filled me with the sensation of wanting until my body shook with fervor. I knew Abe had no intention of marrying Sadie. Which was exactly why it would be easy for him to act freely with her. No man wants an impure wife; but if she wasn’t going to be his wife . . . A burst of anger tightened my muscles, made my jaw clench. But when I saw Willie looking at me queerly, I forced a smile. And when the flask came back around to me, my pull was extra long.

  One of the girls brought a stack of blankets from a tent and passed them out. They were large scratchy coverings, and I shared one with Beverly and Willie. I tried to relax. The hooting of owls filled the night sky, and stars taunted from behind the clouds, playing peekaboo with the gazers below. Beverly was arguing politics with some of the men, who wanted to express their opinions even more loudly. The voices rose and rose, reaching for the sky. I was desperate for quiet, desperate for peace. No one noticed how silent I was. No one felt my fury. No one noticed the extra pulls I took from the flask, although now I wonder—perhaps I was noticed? Perhaps the man on my right was keeping careful track. But the night was intoxicating.
The anger that fueled me, the bourbon on my near empty stomach, the crisp night, the crackle of the fire, the scent of Willie, who somehow seemed a tad closer than he’d been when I sat down. Did he think I didn’t notice the way his eyes kept steadfastly returning to my face? A heat infused me, a heat that prickled. I felt beautiful sitting there, light-headed and delightful, admired by a handsome man. I was seductive and sultry. The hell with Abe, I decided. Sadie could have Abe.

  No one could see the way Willie inched closer to me beneath the blanket. I observed Beverly from the corner of my eye, but she suddenly stood, moving closer to the boy with whom she was arguing, leaving Willie and me all alone under our cover. I kept my eyes on the fire, pretending I couldn’t see him, not until his thigh grazed mine. I was entranced by the flicker of the flame. The fire heated my face to a near burn, but left my backside icy and raw. I settled slightly into Willie, the power overwhelming me. When the flask made its final round, I unabashedly tilted it up, finishing off the contents. Willie slipped his hand around to the small of my back. No one could see, though, when I removed it, enjoying first the consternation on his face, and then the surprised joy when I placed it on my leg.

  No one noticed when I stood up. I didn’t bother to excuse myself. I didn’t glance at Willie, but retreated to my tent, which I didn’t have to share, since it was so early in the season. I assumed no one noticed when Willie stood five minutes after.

  Later, I lay alone in my tent, listening to the sounds around me, not quite believing what I had done, not quite understanding when it had gotten out of hand. Were the sleeping bags always so flimsy? Why are the cots so stiff? I thought, pulling the standard-issue, threadbare cotton sack farther up, trying to bury my chin underneath. May was too early, too early by a long shot. I shifted, rubbing my legs together, trying to ignore the unfamiliar stickiness on my inner thighs. A trip to the outhouse was called for, but it was so cold I didn’t want to get up.

  I played the night over and over in my mind. Everything had happened so quickly—a simple night of necking had taken a turn I didn’t expect. I knew I should feel ashamed. I knew what I’d done was wrong. But as I tried to muster those feelings, I simply couldn’t. I was surprised at how good it had felt, the way my body cried for his, the way I tingled at his touch. The first moment was one of shock, and when he murmured, “Is this your—” I hushed him with kisses and the shock gave way to heat. My married friends whispered of pain when they gossiped of newlywed life, but I felt none. Only a longing for more. No, it wasn’t regret at what I had done. It was regret that it wouldn’t—it couldn’t—happen again. That it had never happened. That I would have to pretend nothing had gone on between me and Willie, that I hadn’t felt his smooth hands caress my breasts, that his firmness hadn’t slipped inside of me, that I hadn’t cried out with such a hunger that I astonished myself.

  I simmered in the afterglow of the experience. When Abe crept into my thoughts, I didn’t feel worry; I felt only desire. Now that I knew what was coming, I wanted Abe all the more. This would be just a memory. A memory that would fade in time until I wouldn’t even be sure whether I had simply dreamed it.

  Little did I know. Little did I know that the memory wouldn’t stay where it belonged, wouldn’t live happily in the past, but would push its way into my present, forcing decisions I didn’t want to make.

  Rose

  Wednesday, August 21

  WEDNESDAY morning I forwent my newspaper and tea. Looking into the mirror, I tried to smooth my hair, but it was little use; gray and brown wisps flew out of my bun. I turned to the side. Was my bump visible? Since giving birth to Dottie nineteen years ago, I’d been a bit more round about the waist, so I doubted others could tell. I rushed through my morning routine, anxious to get to the kaffeeklatsch. All morning my stomach churned with worry. Dottie thought she could seduce Abe. But that Torah-observant schmuck was determined to have a pure wife; of that, I was sure.

  Rose, I chided myself. How could I be mad at the one person who held true to his virtue? So his virtue was inconvenient for me. For that he was a schmuck?

  Looking at my lined face in the mirror, feeling the exhaustion that wouldn’t diminish, aggravated by the throb in my leg, I thought, Yes. For that he’s a schmuck.

  Dottie might think she could seduce Abe. And who knew? Maybe she could. But if she couldn’t . . . Well, time was running out. If there were other possibilities—including the one Perle had mentioned—they needed to be considered now. Dottie simply couldn’t have a baby without being married to Abe. For all the progressive ideals my friends espoused—my friends, who had marched as suffragettes, fought against the evictions of their neighbors, stood in picket lines—they would be appalled at the idea of Dottie as an unwed mother. A baby who arrived a few months early? Well, they’d raise their eyebrows but then move on. But a baby with no wedding ring? The shame would be too great for Dottie to stay in New York. No man would ever marry her, and then she would have to live with Ben and me the rest of her life. My Dottie deserved a better life than that. The disgrace would touch the rest of us, too: Izzy would have difficulty finding a bride; it could hurt Ben’s business.

  If Dottie had the baby, she would have to leave New York, move far away where she could claim to be a widow. And where would she go? To Ben’s relatives in the South? I could not picture Dottie in Birmingham. How would she support herself? And so far away from me. Who would help her raise her child?

  I walked as briskly as my leg would allow to Lana’s apartment, where already lounged in the front room were Bayla, Tatyana, Deborah, and Perle. Perle jumped up from the couch as soon as I entered.

  “Here, take my seat,” she said.

  “Oh, is your leg acting up again?” Deborah asked.

  “My leg is fine; no need to stand on my account.”

  Perle pursed her lips at me and I shot her a foreboding glare. She grinned and took back her seat. “Be nice, Rose,” Perle said, opening her pocketbook. “Look, I wrote my letters.” She pulled out a small stack of envelopes, which she waved at me.

  “You want a prize?” I said, as I sat down in a wooden chair, placing my hat on the side table. But I was pleased. I knew that despite Perle’s bluster, she worried about Yussel, too.

  A plate of mandelbrodt was passed around the room, and I took one, along with a delicate linen napkin, which I used as my plate. The talk in the living room was easy. On any given day, the women might change, but never the conversations.

  After about a half hour, I worked up my nerve. I swallowed, then swallowed again, willing the words to come. I, who never had a problem speaking my mind, was filled with apprehension. For whom would they think I was asking? I cleared my throat and jumped in during a break in the conversation. “I have a question. I need . . .” I hesitated, unsure of how to ask.

  “Yes?” Tatyana said.

  I tried another way. “I have a friend. She has . . . trouble.”

  Perle looked at me in such an obvious way, a half smile on her face, I was afraid she would give away my situation.

  Deborah wasn’t too quick. “What kind of trouble? Money?” She took a bite of cookie.

  I shook my head. “No. Not money. Trouble. Womanly troubles.”

  The room went quiet as the kind of trouble sank in. For some, it took a moment longer than it had for others. The last to understand, Lana, looked up, slightly shocked. “What does she intend to do?”

  Perle chastised her with a look. “What do you think she intends to do? Would Rose have brought it up if this ‘friend’ were able to have a baby?”

  Bayla, turning to me, said, “I may know someone who knows where to go. I can let you know tonight.”

  Relieved, I said, “Thank you.”

  • • •

  WITHIN an hour, the group broke up, all of us returning home to start our dinners. As I was leaving the building, I heard Perle calling behind me. “Rose! Roseala!”


  I paused at the bottom of the stairs, allowing her to catch up.

  “I’ll walk with you,” she said.

  I nodded.

  We walked in silence for a block, before she said, “I know it’s not easy. But you will be happy. Not right away, perhaps—”

  Shaking my head, I cut her off. “It’s not for me.”

  “What?” Perle’s face screwed up in such a comical manner that if I weren’t so upset, I would have laughed.

  “It’s Dottie. She’s . . . in a way.” Talking about my daughter made it harder to say the words.

  “Dottie!” Perle’s voice was loud and I shushed her. “But . . .” Perle sputtered slightly, trying to understand. “Why would she need a doctor? Why don’t she and Abe simply marry?”

  We stepped around a group of boys shooting craps in the street. I eyed them carefully to make sure my Alfie wasn’t among them. I glanced up, as if seeking help from above to utter the words I would say next: “It’s not Abe’s.”

  “Oy!” Perle spoke so quietly and with such vehemence that I was surprised.

  “Don’t you judge, Perle Gittel Brudner. Baruch Dayan Ha-Emet. Only God above can be the judge.”

  “Who is judging?” Perle said, but her tone betrayed her words. And could I blame her? Wouldn’t I hold Zelda in contempt if she did the same? “And the father is?”

  Uttering the name of the shmendrik was impossible. “It’s not important,” I said. “Because either Dottie will make Abe think the baby is his or she will get rid of the problem herself.”

  “Make him think he is the father?” Perle said. Her hand flew to her chest and her eyes opened wide. “But that—how can—”

  I let her ramble. Finally she said, “Yes, yes, I see. What else could she do?”

  “There is nothing else,” I said. “Perle, I failed her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Perle said, but her voice lacked conviction. Back home, protecting a girl’s virtue was a mother’s most important task. My mama would follow me with a close eye, yet with eleven children, it was impossible for her to be with me at all times. Had I found myself in trouble, Shmuel and I would have married. It would not have been the first time it happened. But Dottie? Was I such a fool for this to happen on my watch? If it was Abe . . . well, that I would have understood, could forgive. But Willie Klein?