Enchanted Islands (13 page)

The first night, I woke up to see a tiny light outside my tent. I stuck my head out. Ainslie was smoking, looking at the sky.

“Contemplating our relative smallness in comparison to the vast universe?” I asked.

“Honestly?” Ainslie said. “Trying to decide if I want fried chicken or pasta when I get home.”

I knew then that everything was going to be fine.

I took the rest of the week off to think. On Friday, I went to the movies; decisions were often clearer to me after I sat in the dark for an hour and a half eating grapes. Matinees had the benefit of being both cheap and never crowded. They liked to show movies that had already had their moments in theaters. Since I cared less about what I saw and more about the experience, I barely looked at the title before I went in. This was a comedy, I did register, something madcap and farcical. I had my book and my bag of grapes, and I didn't notice who else came into the theater behind me, only that I was not alone.

The movie,
Night and Day
(I remember the title for reasons that are about to become clear), was, as these things usually are, formulaic and moderately enjoyable. It took place in rural France, though obviously it was a Hollywood soundstage. At one point, behind me in the theater I heard someone whisper, “Watch closely, here it is,” before an unremarkable scene in a café. I thought I heard giggling. And then a small voice said, “Where, Momma?,” and someone replied, “Shhh, there, the waitress.”

“That's you?” the voice asked.

“It was,” she answered.

I looked at the waitress in the scene. She was dressed like an exaggerated French woman, all ruffles and flounces. She had small eyes that were hidden under bangs, and her dark hair fell over her chest. She had two lines in French that sounded even to my untrained ear like an American had learned them phonetically. Her lips were painted red to look larger than they were.

And then I got involved with the farce: bed-hopping and door-slamming, secret passageways and misunderstandings, and soon the lights were coming up. I saw the woman and her three children ahead of me—two almost grown and one smaller.

Outside it was raining, and the family stopped to arrange umbrellas and mackintoshes, and the woman bent to help the smallest child. When she stood up, I recognized the eyes, the impossibly white teeth. Rosalie.

Her mouth fell open and her eyes went wide. The umbrella dropped from her hand. She tilted her head forward as if to ask,
Is it you?
I nodded.

“Fanny!” She took a couple of running steps forward, then caught herself and walked slowly to me, taking me into a hug. Then she held me at arm's length. “Is it really you?”

“I suppose it is,” I said.

Behind her the youngest child said, “Who's that?”

“This,” Rosalie said, turning to the children, “is my oldest friend, Frances Frankowski. Say hello to Miss Frankowski.” I didn't tell her that I was going by Frances Frank. She grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Barbara,” she pointed to the older girl, a pretty brunette with Rosalie's striking eyes; “Dan,” an awkward boy of about sixteen with a crew cut; “and Sylvie.” Rosalie could see the confusion on my face. “My children.”

“I'm a mistake,” Sylvie said.

I laughed. “Surely not.”

“How do you do,” the two older ones said in unison.

“Very well, thanks.”

Rosalie still hadn't let go of my hand. She was gripping it so hard it hurt a bit, but I said nothing. As if reading my thoughts she let go, but kept her arm against mine to prevent my running off.

“Frances,” she said. “I can't believe it's really you, Fanny. It is you, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I whispered. My throat was dry, my mind empty. All the times I had imagined our reunion, and now everything I wanted to say left me. “I…” I trailed off.

Rosalie laughed. “I know, I know!” Her laugh, the high-pitched peals of glee, brought me back to our childhood. Her laugh was always so joyful. I smiled. “Please come have a cup of coffee. Say yes, you have to!” She had the same insistence as she did when we were kids. “Children,” she said, “go get some ice cream at Giulio's. Barbie, make sure Sylvie doesn't make a mess, yes? Wait for me there. I might be a while.” She handed the children some money and they skipped off. I followed her to a nearby diner.

She ordered us coffees while I sat mutely. I watched her speak to the waitress. Her eyes had little showers of wrinkles emanating from the side, and I could see the gray at her temples. Her face was thin; she had pierced her ears.

“Tell me everything,” she said.

I shrugged. “There's too much.”

“I'll start, then. And I'll tell you the secret part too. First, I'm thirty-nine.”

I furrowed my brow in confusion.

“If anyone asks, I'm thirty-nine. I'm always thirty-nine.”

“Okay…” I always freely volunteered my age; it excused a lot. And though Rosalie looked good for almost fifty-five, thirty-nine was pushing credulity.

“I know,” Rosalie said. “A child at forty-four. I thought I was done…with all that, but then Sylvie arrived. No, wait, I'll start at the beginning.” Rosalie told me how after she sent that letter she made her way to New York where eventually she found an agent who took her to Hollywood. She had a few bit parts in silent movies, a couple of advertisements, some dancing scenes in a crowd, and then it became very clear to her that she was never going to make it as a star. She met and married Clarence Fischer, who owned an antique-reproduction furniture store in Union Square (she mentioned the store's name and I pretended familiarity). They also had a factory, which was put to use during the Great War. He moved into manufacturing, and they were doing well enough to weather the Depression. In fact, they made money, as they'd invested in real estate, which was safe enough. “And, you know, people have to sit and sleep on something.” Rosalie didn't have to say it; she had ended up quite wealthy.

She was the same old frivolous Rosalie, interested in money and appearances. Still, my heart warmed. I knew no one from the past, and it was so good to be around a friend, an old friend, especially one for whom the world was usually sunny. I forgot, at that exact moment, why I'd been angry with her. Rather, I knew, but the sting was absent after all these years.

“Are you married, Fanny? Children?”

I suppose I made a natural spy, because here is where some small part of me took over my faculties. I was jealous of Rosalie, the way I had always been, the way I would always be. I wanted to one-up her, or at least even our status.

“Yes,” I said, “I'm married. I'm Mrs. Ainslie Conway.”

Once I said it, I had to marry him, because when you tell a lie to someone you haven't seen for almost forty years it's important to see it through. That is honestly how I made my decision.

“Oh that's wonderful!” Rosalie said. “Tell me all about him.”

“He's very kind,” I said. “And also tall. He's very tall. We've only been married a short time.” I told her I was working as a secretary for the navy, and that Ainslie was an officer. She was sorry that my talents went to waste in secretarial work. I told her I used to be a teacher, and that I liked my job.

“I need to go find my children,” she said. “But I don't want to let you out of my sight. And I want you to meet Clarence. Say you'll come to Shabbat dinner tonight?”

My shock must have registered on my face. “I know, I know,” she said. “Clarence's family is religious, and I, well, I've grown to like the customs. Don't laugh, just say you'll be there.” She handed me a card with her address and discreetly paid the check. Then she handed me a small mother-of-pearl-shafted pen and another card and made me write down my address and telephone. “I'm not losing you again,” she said. She stood and kissed me hard on the cheek, bounding out of the diner like someone half her age.

I sat stunned. “Would you like anything else, miss?” the waitress asked, obviously anxious to have her table back.

“No, thank you,” I said. “I just need to sit for a moment.”

Was I dreaming? Rosalie was living in San Francisco? I shook my head to clear the fog.

Rosalie. I smiled, finally able to get my legs working again. Rosalie.

I primped carefully for my night in Pacific Heights. I actually bought a new dress, belted at the waist with puffed sleeves and a yoke collar that drew attention to itself and away from my meager bust. I paired it with my only cloche and the same T-straps I'd been wearing for years. I even rouged my cheeks a bit.

Though only a mile away, Rosalie's neighborhood was about as far from my shabby Fillmore apartment as one could get. The house was even grander than I expected. I thought she'd been exaggerating her wealth, but it turned out she'd described it modestly. She lived in a true mansion, at the top of a hill, painted brightly in lavender and aubergine. The grand stone staircase was decorated with flowering vases—hostas, ranunculus, hydrangeas. I climbed the stairs and was surprised when it was not Rosalie who answered the bell I rang but a maid.

“Mrs. Conway,” she said. “Please come in, I'll take your coat.”

My pumps echoed on the marble floor as I followed the woman into a drawing room. In my boardinghouse efficiency, I couldn't imagine having my own room just for sitting and chatting. The Regency furniture was upholstered velvet, and the ornately carved mantel framed a fire that crackled with warmth.

Rosalie was making herself a drink at the sideboard. She came up and hugged me, then wiped my bangs, wet from my walk in the rain, off my face.

“I was worried you wouldn't come,” she said. “We'll have dinner and then you and I can chat privately. Melanie, what time is it?”

As if on cue, the grandfather clock chimed six fifteen.

“Rosie?” A lumbering step came down the front stairs and a large man stuck his head in the drawing room. “This her, then?”

“Clarence, meet Frances.”

Clarence was a formerly thin man whose weight had settled in his belly. He had very little hair left, but what he did have he combed around in a circle to simulate hair. He had a wide bulbous nose and a sharp chin, but it made for a pleasant face, if not exactly a handsome one. He shook my hand vigorously.

“Kids,” he yelled upstairs. “Let's go.”

I heard a rush of footsteps down the stairs, and we all walked into the dining room for dinner.

Clarence said the prayer over the candles, wine, and bread, and we were served by two different people, one colored and one white, who never let the wine in the glasses dip below halfway. Even the two older children, who were about Rosalie's and my age when we left home, drank wine. When the meal was over and the plates were cleared, the family sang songs in Hebrew. I recognized some of them from Rosalie's house in Duluth as classic Zionist melodies.

Afterward, the children and Clarence disappeared upstairs. Rosalie waited patiently at the entrance to the living room, while the maid turned on the light. I looked at her. “Marriage does funny things, Fanny, as I'm sure you know.”

We sat, and I could feel the wine show hot on my face.

“Fanny, did you ever get my letter?”

I knew immediately the one she was talking about, the apology that I received on the farm in Nebraska. I nodded.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

I'd been angry for years. At times, that anger fueled me. Other times it deeply saddened me. Now I looked inside myself, and all that bubbled up was laughter. “Rosie, that was a hundred years ago.”

“Well, not that long, really.” She looked a little offended.

“I can't still be mad at something that happened when we were children. Plus, it meant I got to go to Nebraska and finish school. It's hard to regret that at this point.”

“I'm so glad,” Rosalie said. “Every year on Yom Kippur I pray for your forgiveness.”

I wanted to laugh again. Rosalie used to join me in condemning my parents as superstitious peasants. For her to have found religion in this way made me question if I knew her at all. Of course, I'd changed too.

“I can explain why—”

I cut her off. “Rosalie, there's no need. Tell me instead how you met Clarence.”