“Good night, Dottie. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He left me standing there; I watched him walk off to his tent. For a desperate moment, I forgot about the baby and thought only of my own desire, my own longing, my own fury, my own desperation. I hungered for the feel of his body and wanted to scream at him for his refusal to take me. I knew I was attractive; I knew I was desirable. Willie made that abundantly clear.
The thought of Willie instantly sobered me. Willie. My condition. No solution. It was all over.
The next day, Abe kept a distance, emotionally, physically, as if afraid of repeating the night before. Clearly he’d meant what he said.
I tried to get close, but he kept his smile frozen and our normally easy way was stiff and formal. When everyone went swimming, I pretended I’d simply forgotten to pack my swimsuit. My body was too round at this point to put on such a display.
On the train home, Abe thawed, knowing he was safe from my advances. He tried to cuddle, but what was the point? No future existed for me and Abe. Not unless . . . Ma’s logic was inviolable as always.
Looking out the window at the scenery that at one time had so enthralled me, I saw only emptiness, nothingness. Maybe the country didn’t hold the answers. Maybe getting lost in the city was the only way to truly survive, to disappear among the masses.
Only one answer remained. I wondered if the blackness settling over me would be with me for good.
• • •
WHEN I walked into the apartment, Ma looked at me expectantly. I pushed past her, suitcase in hand.
“Make the appointment,” I said as I stepped into Ma’s bedroom and shut the door behind me, falling into sobs upon the bed.
Rose
Monday, August 26
MONDAY morning, Dottie left early for work. She spent extra time making herself look pretty, I imagine to distract herself from what was coming. I knew my pitying looks were only pushing her away, but I couldn’t stop myself. My poor baby.
Izzy and Ben left for work and I shooed Eugene and Alfie out the door. I put on my Shabbes dress. Seemed I was wearing that thing daily, and I was starting to see Dottie’s point that a new dress wouldn’t hurt, not that I could buy any clothing when I was about to blossom. Even now the buttons strained and I had only a couple more weeks I’d be able to put it on.
From my bosom, I fished out the piece of paper with the address Bayla had given me. I’d kept the scrap on me—God forbid I lost it or that Eugene made a paper airplane out of it. From my top drawer, I removed the tin can. Opening the lid, I looked at the money it had taken me nineteen years to save. Nineteen years. And what was I buying with it? I choked back a sob as I fished out a wad of bills. Slowly I counted out fifty dollars. Such a price! Of all the things I’d dreamed about for this money, this was not one of them. Never. Couldn’t have even imagined it. Ah, but such thoughts would get me nowhere. I tucked the money into my purse and steeled myself for the day ahead.
The walk was a long one, farther down on the lower East Side than I usually went. Would I ever be allowed to return to my morning paper?
The heat was sweltering, and sweat streamed down my back in rivulets; my limp made the going slow. Heading south, I was greeted by street peddlers and hawkers. The aroma of baked goods mingled with the stink of the fishmongers’ wares, the stench of the rubbish in the streets, the gassy exhaust of the automobiles.
“Knishes! Bagels!” called the food men. Other carts held kitchenwares and trinkets. Good thing I had already eaten. The smells of the freshly baked items were tempting, but I didn’t trust the food in this unfamiliar neighborhood.
Crossing Delancey, I looked at the strangers around me and held my purse tightly against my chest. Carrying so much money made me eye everyone with wariness. In my neighborhood were the Jews from Russia, the ones who spoke Yiddish with the same accent as mine. Here the Jews were from other lands: Germany, Romania, Poland. Spotting the greenhorns was easy; they still dressed as if they were in the Old World. They weren’t acclimated as I was, with my modern style, wearing dresses that stopped at the knees, shirts that didn’t reach much past my elbows. My head was topped by a hat and not one of those ragged scarves worn back home. I stood a smidgen taller knowing I was a real American.
The streets were crowded with people. When a car came through, the horn would sound continuously, but the masses rarely moved out of the way, slowing the car’s progress, eliciting ugly oaths from the driver.
Eventually, I reached my destination. I compared the address on the paper to that on the stoop. No name on the door. The building looked like any other. The number matched the one on the basement apartment, so I went down the side stairs, where I knocked loudly on the plain wooden door. No answer.
I peered through the window, but if anyone was there, it was too dark to tell. Returning to the door, I knocked more. Louder. Harder. If this address was wrong, if there was no doctor . . . Soon it would be too late for Dottie. Panic rose in my chest until I was pounding on the door.
Finally it swung open. “What are you trying to do, bring the whole neighborhood in here?” a young woman asked, her tone menacing.
Using English, I said, “Sorry, I am. I didn’t know if you were here.”
Blocking the entrance, the girl looked from my feet, up my body, all the way to my eyes. Her own narrowed. “What do you want?”
“I—I—” How to explain what I needed? “I need to make an appointment.”
The young woman grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me inside, shutting the door behind me. I nearly lost my footing and stumbled. Such cheek. And yet, it appeared I was beholden to her.
A small front room, with a couch and a desk, greeted me. The young woman went to the desk and opened a bound book. “How far along are you?” she asked without looking up.
“Far along? What does that mean?”
“How pregnant are you? When are you due?”
“It’s not—” I tripped on my words. The girl looked at me without moving a muscle on her face. “It’s not for me.”
She nodded. “Of course not,” she said. “How far along is she?”
“I am not sure. It is important?”
“If she’s more than three months, it costs more. Sixty bucks if it’s early. Seventy if more than three months.”
“Sixty dollars!” My hand involuntarily went to my throat. “I thought it was fifty. I only have fifty.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You were misinformed.”
Was I misinformed or was she skimming money off the top for herself? I was in no position to negotiate. The woman rapped her nails on the book, brightly polished crimson nails that tap tap tapped in an irritating way. The girl, probably the same age as Dottie, was the kind of girl Dottie would have befriended if they worked in the same office. What did her life give her that this is the work she does? I shuddered, all the more convinced we were doing the right thing for Dottala.
“So,” she asked again, “is it less than three months?”
“Yes, yes, less than three months,” although I suspected it was longer.
The young woman eyed me carefully, trying to detect the truth. I stood straight and looked her in the eye. Finally she peered at the book. “Thursday. Be here at one.”
I shook my head. “Friday. It must be a Friday evening.”
“No,” she said. “Thursday at one.”
How could Dottie miss so much work? A Friday night, she could recuperate on the weekend and be back in the office on Monday. A Thursday at one meant a day and a half’s loss of work.
The young woman grew impatient. “Listen, do you want it or not?”
“Yes, I want it.” We would create a story for her boss.
“Don’t eat before. We don’t want you—I mean your friend—vomiting on us. Bring extra rags. You’ll need to help her get home. You should meet her
on the street four hours after the appointment. Make sure you don’t come to this street, though. Meet her a few blocks away. She’ll be sore and cramped.”
I nodded.
“I need the money up front.”
I hesitated before saying, “I thought it was only fifty.”
“It’s sixty.”
“But I only brought fifty.”
She slammed the book shut. “Then come back when you have sixty.”
“No! Please. We can’t wait.”
She looked at me expectantly.
“Please. I give you fifty now. Bring ten more on Thursday.”
My desperation must have been clear—although who came here who wasn’t desperate?—because she said, “I’m not supposed to do that. But okay. Make sure you bring the extra ten.”
That I was grateful to her showed how low I’d sunk. I reached into my purse and pulled out all those bills. The woman grabbed them.
“Do I get a receipt?” I asked.
“A receipt? Of course not!”
“But how will you know I paid?”
“Because everyone pays first. And I’ve marked it in the book.”
It was a lot of money to be handing over without a record, but I didn’t have a choice. The woman counted the bills.
A thought occurred to me. “It is a doctor, no? A doctor who does the procedure.”
She looked up suspiciously. Her eyes were a shade of green that would have been lovely in any other setting. “You from the health department?”
“No, no. Make sure, I want, that it is safe.”
She went back to the money, starting to count again. “It’s safe. Don’t worry.”
But how could I not? The girl didn’t glance up again, so I showed myself out.
Dottie
Monday, August 26
ALL Sunday night, I worried the problem in my head, not getting an ounce of sleep. I tossed on the couch, unable to find a comfortable position, constantly jabbed by the reality of what I would have to do. But would I? There was one other option, wasn’t there? Zelda’s question echoed in my mind: “Do you want to marry Willie?” That was the only choice other than Ma’s drastic measures. I couldn’t think about Abe. Abe was no longer an option unless I went through with Ma’s plan.
Could I marry a man I didn’t love if it meant keeping my baby? The thought required a complete shift in my perspective, a total upturning of all I had envisioned for myself. No, I didn’t love Willie. But I admired him. He spoke so passionately of politics in a way that made me feel like I was at home; he had the same fiery mind as Ma and Tateh, and while I professed that their debates were tedious, I was usually drawn in. Willie’s writing was thought-provoking and the life he led was exciting. Willie was intriguing, to say the least. Abe made me feel. But Willie made me think.
I loved Abe. Of that, there was no doubt. But my maternal instincts were kicking in. And I suspected that as much as I loved Abe, I loved this baby more.
• • •
THAT Monday I took special care getting ready for the day. I dabbed on a bit of extra toilet water, pinched my cheeks to bring my color forward. A new lipstick graced my lips, and as I surveyed myself in the mirror, I thought I looked quite fetching. If only it were for Abe.
I left early for work, as much to avoid Ma’s looks as to get enough work done that I could take a longer midday break. I didn’t have an exact plan, but I knew I must do something. And that meant going to lunch.
At my desk, I snuck the card from my clutch for what seemed like the hundredth time. Looking around to make sure no one saw, I opened the card.
Time is running out.
Stork Club, next Monday at noon.
About twenty minutes before the bell chimed for lunch, I made a beeline for the door, taking the other girls by surprise. It was the first time I’d left for lunch, never mind that I was going early. But Willie had written noon. We were supposed to take only a half hour, but I mumbled something about delivering papers for Mr. Dover. I don’t know if anyone believed me.
Though I hated the crowd and the smell, I took the subway to Fifty-first Street, as it was faster than a streetcar, and then walked as quickly as I could in my heels to the restaurant.
Arriving at the formidable entrance to the Stork Club, I hesitated as doubt crept through me. I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself, patting my hair, hoping it was still in place. I’d been so concerned about making it here quickly that I hadn’t thought about the actual meeting. What exactly did I expect to say?
In his crisply ironed suit with the gleaming buttons, the doorman opened the door. I had never been out for a meal that involved a doorman.
Feigning indifference was an utter failure, and I couldn’t hide my awe when I entered the room. Men and women dappled the tables, wearing the finest fashions straight out of the windows of Gimbels and Macy’s. Everyone was eating and smoking and drinking and laughing, and I was reminded there existed an entirely different New York from the one I inhabited, one from which I was excluded. A pang of bitterness tainted my admiration.
“Good afternoon, miss. May I help you?” asked a tuxedoed gentleman at a front dais.
Swallowing my fear, I said, “Mr. Willie Klein is expecting me.”
“Follow me,” the gentleman said.
He wound his way through the throng of tables to a small two-top in a corner. “Mr. Klein,” he said, “your party has arrived.”
Willie was reading the Times. He looked so dashing, so . . . like he belonged. Why did he have to be so handsome in his crisp suit and blue silk tie? Was it from Brooks Brothers? It certainly wasn’t from my neighborhood.
Putting down his newspaper, Willie looked up, surprised. “Dottie! You came.” His eyes grazed my body and I tried to suck in my stomach. Belatedly I realized that only emphasized my bosom, which was not what I intended.
I attempted to look nonchalant. “Only because you made it sound so dire. ‘I won’t be around for much longer.’”
With a genuine chuckle, Willie said, “Well, it worked.”
“Miss,” the gentleman said, pulling out a chair.
“Thank you,” I said, hoping I sounded demure. It would take a few tries to land on the correct persona for the Stork Club.
“Mr. Klein, your drink will be here momentarily.”
“Of course, James.”
“And what can I get you, miss?”
Wishing I knew what Willie had ordered, I hesitated a moment. If I ordered poorly, I would stand out like the greenhorn I probably resembled. Thinking back to a recent article in McCall’s, I said, “A whiskey sour, please.”
“Excellent.” With a slight bow, the gentleman left.
“Whiskey sour?” Willie had an amused smile on his face. “You know, that’s Dorothy Parker’s drink.”
I did know that, from the article, which was why I’d ordered the drink in the first place. But it was with a skewer of jealousy that I asked, “And how do you know Dorothy Parker’s drink?” I was positive he wasn’t reading McCall’s.
“That’s my news.”
“Dorothy Parker is your news?”
He laughed a deep laugh, a laugh that shimmered with class and money. The sound filled me with a strange heat. “My news is I’ve taken a position. As a writer. For The New Yorker.”
“No!” I said, my hand flying to my chest in a well-practiced maneuver. “How marvelous. And you’ve already met Dorothy Parker?”
Leaning back in his seat, he said, “No, not actually. But the practices of the Old Guard are well-known, including their drinks.”
“Well, this is wonderful news.” Better than wonderful news. Willie was no longer cobbling together different assignments, unsure from where the next paycheck would come. He was an employed writer. With the means to support a family.
“It is. Doesn�
�t pay much, I’m afraid, but it’ll keep me.” Willie’s eyes crinkled in the corners like the folds of a fan. Magnetizing, his eyes were. “Mother, of course, isn’t happy; this ends her dream of my following in Father’s footsteps. Can you picture it? Me, day in and day out at the bank? Home every night by five fifteen.”
Actually, I could picture it. Willie coming home after a day at the office, sitting in his chair with a drink in his hand, while I laid out dinner with the recipes I found in the magazines, the baby cooing gently from the next room. Yet, in my mind, the picture wasn’t Willie; it was Abe—Stop it! I chided myself. I couldn’t let Abe interfere. Abe was done. It was now or never.
Taking a deep breath, I was ready to tell all. “Willie—,” I started, but he cut me off, still on his own train of thought.
“The hell with Mother!”
I laughed even though I was completely taken aback at his disrespect. Startling me, a hand reached in front of me and placed a glass on the table, and every ounce of my courage fled.
I nodded and looked at the short glass with the yellow liquid. I hadn’t known what to expect.
“And your martini, Mr. Klein,” said the waiter. “Have you decided what you’d like for lunch?”
“Oh,” I said. “I haven’t even looked at the menu.”
I glanced down, unsure of what half the items even were. Oeufs? Nicoise? Chiffonade?
As if sensing my distress, the waiter said, “Might I suggest the sole?”
“That sounds lovely,” I said, handing back the menu, when in truth, I had no idea what sole was. I only hoped it would be palatable.
“I’ll have my usual, Sam,” Willie said.
“Of course, Mr. Klein.”
As the waiter departed, I said, “Your ‘usual’? Do you come here often?”
“Father started bringing me to the Stork Club when it was in its previous location on Fifty-eighth Street. At the time, it was the only place he could have his martini. It was our Monday lunch ritual. ‘Recovering from the weekend with your mother,’ Father used to say. ‘Fortifying myself for the week ahead.’ I still come every Monday even though Father, once Prohibition ended, found places closer to his office to drink.”
Modern Girls Page 17
