Modern Girls

by Jennifer S. Brown

  “Follow me,” the woman said. “I’m your nurse today.”

  “A nurse, you are?” I regretted the disbelief my voice held.

  “You have a problem with that?” she asked. She didn’t sound mean or even angry; it was a sincere question.

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” the nurse said. “Let’s get you ready.”

  She led me upstairs, to a small room with a long table. “You can take off your skirt and underthings—leave your blouse on—and put this on,” she said, laying a white apron on the foot of the bed.

  “But a dress. A dress I have on,” I said, dismay rising in the back of my throat.

  She shook her head with what seemed like sorrow. “Then take off your dress. I’ll return in a moment.” She left the room, leaving me to do her bidding.

  I did as instructed, undoing the buttons, folding my dress carefully, and laying it on the chair in the corner. I unclipped my stockings and rolled them down, followed by the girdle. I draped the apron about my middle and lay on the table, feeling more exposed than ever before in my life, half-naked, alone in a strange room.

  I lay there praying to Hashem over and over to see me through. Finally the door opened, and the nurse approached the bed. Without a word, she strapped down my arms.

  Alarmed, I half sat up, but she gently pushed me back. “Is it necessary?” I asked.

  She nodded and went on with her work, like it was a perfectly normal job. She picked up a razor and said, “Bend your legs, and put your feet on the table.”

  I realized I was to be shaved between my legs. The last time I’d been shaved there was when I gave birth to Eugene. I ought to be embarrassed, but I wasn’t; I felt only relief that it was finally beginning.

  When the shaving was done, the nurse returned to my side.

  She draped a towel over my eyes, then went to open the door. I heard footsteps returning; then something covered my mouth and a deep voice said, “You’ll go to sleep now,” and I inhaled something sweet and, within a few minutes, fell into a dreamless slumber.

  • • •

  “WAKE up. Time to wake up.”

  I groaned and went to rub my face, but my arms held fast at my sides, and immediately I struggled, not sure where I was or what was happening.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” came a soothing voice. “We don’t need these anymore.”

  Opening my eyes, I saw the nurse, and everything came flooding back to me. As soon as my arms were free, my hands went right to my stomach. What had I done? Was it all gone? My mind was hazy, and everything seemed slightly out of focus.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I asked.

  “That’s the ether. It’ll wear off before you know it. Here, sit up.”

  I gingerly sat up, only to be hit with an excruciating pain across my midsection. I bent over, my head almost in my lap.

  “That’ll pass,” the nurse said. “I need you to get dressed. You brought rags?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “Fine. I’ll help you.”

  It was mortifying, but I had no choice. I could barely stand on my own. “Did it—did the doctor—is it . . . ?” I couldn’t seem to form the question I longed to ask.

  “It’s all taken care of,” the nurse said. “You’ll be in some pain for the next few days, but really it’s no worse than losing a baby before its time, if that’s ever happened to you.”

  I nodded. But of course, this was much worse. Losing a baby was an act of God. This was the work of man.

  The nurse took me by the arm and helped me off the table. I saw my legs were covered in blood and looked at the nurse, feeling helpless.

  “Here’s a towel for you,” she said, handing me a dingy white cloth. I shuddered to imagine who else had used it, but I cleaned my legs anyway. Carefully, she helped me make my way into my clothing, but I shoved the girdle into my purse—it would hurt too much to put on.

  My fingers fumbled at my buttons as I realized the enormity of what I had done. I thought I might fall, so I threw my hands out to steady myself, grabbing hold of the table, lowering my head. Hashem, forgive me.

  “Still feeling dizzy?” the nurse asked.

  I didn’t respond. I tried the buttons again, then smoothed my hands along my dress. Without the girdle, it bulged at the waist. I was no thinner. Not yet.

  With a deep breath, I worked up the nerve to ask what was roiling in the back of my mind, though my tongue was thick and the words came out muddled. “Was it . . . Did I . . . ?”

  “Excuse me?” the nurse asked.

  Clearing my throat, I tried again. “Was it a girl?” I had a hunch it was a girl, and now it seemed imperative to know.

  “Oh, honey.” She laid a hand on my arm gently. “It wasn’t anything.”

  Nodding, I bit my lip. Of course it was something. My child. Or it had been. Now it was simply gone.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Go? Don’t I get to rest?” My leg ached, my belly throbbed, my entire body longed to lie down, and my eyes hungered to close. I wasn’t in any shape to move.

  But the nurse shook her head. “We need the room again. And it’s not a good idea to have women lingering.”

  “Oh.” I was at a loss for words.

  The nurse led me from the room and walked me down the stairs. Before we left the building, she picked up the strip of cloth again. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to cover your eyes.”

  I allowed her to tie it around my head, after which she carefully led me to the car. She was tender, and she told me about every step, every crack, every bump that could get in my way. She was so kind that I imagined she herself must once have been in the same situation.

  Placing her hand on my head so I wouldn’t bump it on the car doorframe, she helped me bend down and lean in. “Try to rest in the car,” she said. “Lie down and relax.”

  I curled into a fetal position on the seat, which helped ease the cramps. But the rough car ride was torturous. Each jolt was a knife to the womb, and made the bile rise in my throat.

  When we arrived, the girl was waiting; she opened the door and led me back into the office, where she removed the blindfold.

  “Okay,” she said, “you’re done. You have someone waiting on the next block to help you home?”

  Looking down, I shook my head.

  “No,” she said. “No one ever does.”

  Dottie

  AT exactly five p.m. Zelda and I arrived at the Kleins’ building. This time, the doorman knew who I was.

  “You can go right on up, miss,” he said. “Mrs. Klein is expecting you.”

  On the brief elevator ride, all the optimism and courage I had felt at Zelda’s slowly drained from me, replaced by fear of what lay ahead. Zelda, sensing my emotions, held tightly to my arm.

  When the elevator stopped, I experienced déjà vu. The uncertainty, the upset stomach, the panic. My stomach bubbled like fizzy soda, which made me think of dates with Abe. Abe. A flush crept up my neck, settling in my cheeks. I burned with the humiliation of my last conversation with him, of how utterly he had rejected me. As I stood in the hallway, time stretched with elasticity, and in that moment, I saw everything: Abe was gone; I was too late for the appointment; my mother would be furious over the lost money and, more important, the lost prospects. I saw my future child; a life with Willie; cooking, cleaning, and caring for a baby and a husband while trying to study accounting at night; being tethered to a man with a roaming eye and no interest in being a husband or a father. In that moment, the hallway elongated, narrowing at the Kleins’ door, showing me the singular path my life would now take. I had no other choice. Even if I ran away, how does a single woman feed, shelter, and clothe herself and a babe? Ma hadn’t come to America for this. For all the misery I caused that woman, I had to admi
t she was strong. Ma would never have been in a situation like this. For all her Old Country ways, Ma knew how to handle things. Some modern girl I turned out to be, doing things the most old-fashioned way.

  Zelda pulled on my arm, nudging me toward their front door. “Come on, love,” she said. “It will all turn out fine.”

  I walked as though my feet were moving through molasses. I knew what waited at the end of the hallway. Mrs. Klein would force Willie to marry me. If Ma knew, she would tell me it wasn’t so bad. Plenty of women had arranged marriages, and they all worked out one way or another. I would grow to love Willie. And if not? Well, it wasn’t the end of the world, was it? I already loved this child. That would be enough.

  I tried to imagine the wedding Mrs. Klein would plan for us. It would have to be soon, but I was sure she would arrange something lovely. I’d get a new dress. Maybe not white—Zelda was right; that would be inappropriate, and it would fool no one about the reason for our sudden marriage. Yellow might be pretty. Or pale pink would suit me nicely.

  My arms froze at my sides, so Zelda knocked firmly on the door. It swung open quickly, revealing the maid from that morning—Fiona, I thought—but this time she appraised me, running her eyes up and down my body, lingering at my stomach. Even the help knew about my situation.

  Zelda stepped in, looked around the place, and whistled. “My, my. Every time I come here, it gets even fancier.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Klein are waiting for you in the parlor,” the maid said, ignoring Zelda as she shut the door.

  I tried to imagine what it would be like to visit this apartment on a regular basis. To come here with my child—someday, perhaps, children—for holidays, for meals, to spend time with their bubbe and zayde. What would the children think of then going to see my parents in their meager little apartment? In my mind, I was already defending Tateh and Ma.

  When we walked into the parlor, Mr. and Mrs. Klein looked up from the sofa. Mr. Klein lowered the newspaper he was reading, but neither rose to greet us.

  “Zelda, darling. What a nice surprise,” Mrs. Klein said, her voice conveying her insincerity.

  “Aunt Molly, the pleasure is mine,” Zelda said in her schmaltziest tone. She walked over and leaned down to buss her aunt on the cheek. Zelda moved to her uncle, who at least gave her a little peck back, the newspaper crinkling between them.

  “Always nice to see you,” Mr. Klein said to Zelda, without putting down his paper.

  “Where are your parents, Dottie?” Mrs. Klein asked.

  My flush deepened as I said, “I didn’t know they were supposed to accompany me.”

  Mr. Klein bobbed his head in an annoyed sort of way and his wife said, “Don’t you think they should be here for this?”

  “For what exactly?” I said.

  “Your wedding.”

  The whole room turned topsy-turvy on me, and I thought my legs might give way. “Tonight?”

  Mrs. Klein looked at me oddly. “Well, what did you think was going to happen tonight? You are in trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, for gosh sake,” Zelda said. “That is ridiculous. Who would have thought it would happen tonight? Let’s plan a little to-do. Make a nice little wedding.”

  “Of course it has to happen tonight. Do you think William will simply wait around while we plan a ‘little to-do’? If he heard a whisper of marriage, he’d be on a boat first thing tomorrow.”

  My shame knew no bounds. I was something to escape, to avoid. Shaking my head, I looked down at my feet.

  “No, the wedding will take place tonight, as soon as Willie gets home for dinner. Don’t you think your parents should be here?”

  “I didn’t—I hadn’t—” I wrung my hands.

  “Well, let’s give them a call. What’s the number, dear?”

  “My parents don’t have a phone.” My voice cracked. “And if you call a neighbor, all of New York will know.”

  “They don’t have a phone?” Mr. Klein said to Mrs. Klein, as if I weren’t standing there. “What kind of people don’t have a phone?”

  “Lots of people don’t have phones. Have you heard of this thing called the Depression? My parents only installed a phone last May and you know it,” Zelda said.

  Looking from Zelda to Mrs. Klein, I could scarcely believe they were related, that Zelda’s tateh and Mrs. Klein were brother and sister. Mrs. Klein was so American, you would never know she was born in the Old Country. But of course, she came over as a babe, whereas Zelda’s tateh was almost a teenager when he immigrated, too late for American schooling, too late to lose the accent.

  “Are you sure about this, Molly?” Mr. Klein asked Mrs. Klein.

  “No, of course I’m not sure.”

  “Aunt Molly!”

  I gave a silent thanks to Hashem for Zelda’s presence.

  “Pish, pish, it’ll all be fine,” Mrs. Klein said, sounding as much as if she was convincing herself as she was Mr. Klein. “Dottie’s family are good people. This is the right thing to do. It will keep William out of trouble and in New York. Put an end to those rumors.”

  The doorbell rang, and a moment later, the parlor door opened. “Rabbi Shulman here to see you,” Fiona said.

  “Rebbe Shulman?” Zelda said. Her face twisted into a moue of disgust. “Couldn’t you find a real rebbe?”

  “Enough,” Mr. Klein said, forcing even Zelda to cower. Silenced, she took a seat on the couch.

  “Now, Ira,” Mrs. Klein said, “let’s not air our dirty laundry in front of the rabbi.”

  Right then, in walked a man with a close-cropped beard and a yarmulke on his head. He wasn’t wearing the hat or the long coat of the rebbes in my neighborhood. I peered at his waist and saw no sign of a tallis. What kind of rebbe didn’t wear a prayer shawl? He must be the rebbe of the big Reform synagogue on the Upper East Side. Was a marriage performed by a Reform rebbe even legal? I suddenly flashed to the crab salad Willie had eaten at lunch. What would Willie say when he learned I would keep kosher? With two sets of dishes plus an extra set for Passover?

  So many things I’d never considered.

  “Good evening, Rebbe,” Mr. Klein said. “This is . . .” He seemed to be searching for my name. “This is Dottie.”

  The rebbe said, “How do you do?” and he reached out to shake my hand. Startled, I accepted his hand. A rabbi touching a woman to whom he was not related? I’d never heard of such a thing.

  “Do you have witnesses?” the rebbe asked.

  Mrs. Klein nodded. “Matthew and Colin will be our witnesses.”

  “Matthew and Colin?” I asked.

  “Our house servants.”

  “But they’re not Jewish,” I said. “It won’t be legal if we don’t have Jewish names on the ketubah.” The wedding contract was a vital part of a Jewish marriage ceremony.

  “Isn’t it a little late to be worried about Jewish names on the ketubah?” Mr. Klein asked.

  “Zelda will be our witness,” I said, determined to exert some control over my own wedding.

  “Sure, I can do that,” Zelda said from the couch.

  I realized no one was going to invite me to sit, so I took a seat next to Zelda. She scooted over a pinch to give me a little space. Until she did that, I hadn’t realized how closed in I’d been feeling.

  “If you’re going to have a woman, you might as well have a non-Jew,” Mr. Klein said.

  “It’s as kosher as we’re going to get,” Zelda said.

  Mr. Klein scowled at the word kosher. “Fine. Zelda can witness. What do I care?”

  I knew I couldn’t allow myself to cry, but this was mortifying. This was not how I ever saw myself getting married, wearing a navy blue suit, with no parents to give me away, no canopy to stand beneath. Would this goyishe rebbe even recite the seven blessings? Tears filled my eyes, and my face went hot. Zelda quickly dove into her
purse and retrieved a handkerchief for me. I blotted my eyes, but felt my nose begin to run.

  “Say,” Zelda said, “don’t you need a marriage license? We had to apply for ours a month in advance.”

  My eyes widened. Forget kosher; would this marriage even be legal in the City of New York?

  Mr. Klein laughed, and I was startled to hear it was Willie’s laugh. “In New York, anything can be had for a price. Including marriage licenses.”

  Relieved, I let myself sink slightly into the sofa.

  “What do we do now?” Zelda asked.

  “We wait for William,” Mrs. Klein said.

  The rebbe must have known a scene would erupt when Willie appeared. “I’ll look over the ketubah,” he said—clearly an excuse—and retired to the parlor. A silence fell over the room as the minutes passed. Zelda held my hand, rubbing it gently. The gesture was soothing, but it didn’t erase the insanity of the situation. What was I doing here? This apartment was like a palace. It was everything I’d ever admired in the pages of my House & Garden magazines, with the rich, full curtains, the fireplace, the library with books lining every conceivable wall, the tables made of brass and glass. But never once had I thought to live so royally in real life. Not as Abe’s wife. I didn’t want the fanciness; I wanted Abe.

  With deep breaths, I calmed myself and reminded myself of why I was there. It wasn’t for me; it was for this baby. Ma had traveled across the ocean and worked her hands into an arthritic mess so I might have a better life than she, a life where I could go to school and earn a diploma, a life where I could get a job in a Midtown office, a life where I was never in want of food or clothing. How different my childhood was from hers. And now it was my turn. As much as I’d had growing up, I would do what it took for my child to have even more. My daughter won’t sleep on a couch; she’ll have a bed in a bedroom, with a door she can close. I’ll scrimp and save so we can go away to the country on weekends, as a family. My daughter won’t just finish high school; she’ll go to a college and earn a degree.