In the Unlikely Event (26 page)

She stuffed two pieces of Fleer’s Dubble Bubble into her mouth, then blew bubbles so big they burst against her cheeks, until Mr. Roman told her he found such a habit distracting and not worthy of a lovely young lady. Under the dryer she read
Silver Screen
and
Photoplay
. Ava Gardner was on the cover of both.

Two hours later she paid with her babysitting money, trying not to think about the Fosters. Would they approve of her spending the money they’d paid her for watching Penny and Betsy on a haircut, while Betsy was being treated for severe burns and Mr. and Mrs. Foster were keeping a vigil at her bedside? Was she a terrible person for thinking of how she looked when they still didn’t know if Betsy would live or die?

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she left the beauty parlor and at first wasn’t sure who it was. She looked older, but nothing like Elizabeth Taylor. She shouldn’t have let Mr. Roman use hairspray. She hated hairspray. She walked home without her hat, letting the cold winter wind whip her hair around. Before going inside she ran her fingers through it and checked herself in the mirror of her Volupté compact, a birthday present from Leah. That was better.

At home she’d have to hurry to get ready. Frekki was picking her up at 11:30. She prayed Rusty wouldn’t hear her come in—anything to avoid an argument today. It was laundry day, vacuuming day—Miri was responsible for her room, which she’d cleaned last night.

But just as she opened the front door Rusty was coming up from the basement with the laundry basket. Miri braced for the worst.

“Cute,” Rusty said, barely looking at her, which threw Miri for a loop. This was so unlike the reaction she’d expected, it worried her.

When she was almost ready, in her cashmere sweater and pencil skirt, Rusty brought her the strand of pearls her parents had given
her
on her sixteenth birthday. Pearls, even though Rusty’s father had lost his business and was working behind the counter for next to nothing at his friend’s bakery. Miri knew about the pearls, but until
now, Rusty had never offered to let Miri wear them, and Miri had never asked.

Today, Miri thought, Rusty was trying to send Frekki a message.
See how well I’ve managed without any of you? See the daughter I raised without your help, in her cashmere sweater and expensive pearls?

“Be yourself,” Rusty said, giving her an extra long hug.

Miri understood.
Make me proud. This woman with the yellow Cadillac is nothing. She’s no better than us. Remember that
.

—

INSIDE
, the yellow Cadillac smelled of leather, like new shoes. Miri had never been in a Cadillac. Even the Osners didn’t drive a Cadillac. Not that Corinne didn’t want one, but Dr. O had a patient with an Oldsmobile dealership who gave him a good deal, so that was that.

On the drive to Millburn, Frekki chatted about the play they were going to see, an operetta,
The Desert Song
. She sang a few bars to Miri. “
Blue heaven and you and I…
” Her voice was low and smoky. On key. “I love musicals,” she told Miri. Frekki might be a regular aunt taking her niece out for the day. Miri pretended that’s what they were. She worried at first about what she would talk about with Frekki, this aunt she didn’t know she had until recently, this aunt whose brother was Mike Monsky, the same Mike Monsky who was her father.
Her father
. It struck her as such a strange idea she wanted to laugh. And maybe she did, because Frekki looked over at her and Miri pretended the sound was a hiccup. Frekki didn’t say anything about the latest plane crash. It felt good not to talk about it. But it made Miri wonder if people in other towns thought of it at all.

The restaurant across the parking lot from the playhouse had once been a real carriage house. You could still see the stable doors. Inside it was fancy, like Charleston Gardens at B. Altman and Company, where she’d gone last year with Corinne and Natalie. The same white tablecloths and a small flower in a glass vase on each table, lace at the windows. A slice of lemon floated in her water glass. At first Miri thought it was a mistake but then she noticed lemon slices floating in everyone’s water glass. She saw just one man in the restaurant,
seated at a table with an elderly woman who looked like she could be his mother. At every other table were mothers and daughters, aunts and nieces, grandmothers and grandchildren. A few of the grandchildren were small boys, fidgeting in their best clothes. All the little girls wore party dresses. At a large table in the corner a group of teenage girls were celebrating someone’s birthday.

A waitress dressed in black with a white apron handed Miri a menu.

CREAMED CHICKEN ON TOAST POINTS WITH BUTTERED PEAS

PORK CHOP WITH CREAMED MUSHROOM SAUCE

CHOPPED STEAK WITH CREAMY MUSHROOM SAUCE

TUNA CASSEROLE WITH CREAMED CORN

Everything was creamy. Ugh! She hated creamy sauces. At the very bottom was a children’s menu.

SPAGHETTI WITH BUTTER

GRILLED CHEESE

HOT DOG

It would be embarrassing to order off the children’s menu but better than ordering creamed something or other and not eating a bite.

Frekki leaned over and whispered, “The menu is so goyish, but they’ll make you grilled cheese if you’d like.”

The waitress gave Miri a look when she ordered grilled cheese but Frekki came to her rescue. “She can have whatever she wants,” Frekki told the waitress. “Just charge me for a second tuna casserole and bring her the grilled cheese.” Miri might like this woman, if only she were allowed to.

Frekki smoked an Old Gold while they were waiting for their food, her diamond ring sparkling in the sunlight, her nails polished dark red to match the color of her lipstick. “Nasty habit,” Frekki said, as she flicked an ash into the glass ashtray on the table. “Take it from me. Don’t start.” Miri had already decided she wouldn’t, even
though it looked so sophisticated. All the movie stars smoked. Rusty limited herself to two a day, one after lunch and one after dinner. Henry smoked. Leah didn’t. Corinne didn’t but Dr. O and Daisy did. Irene didn’t. Ben Sapphire smoked a cigar after dinner. Then there was Mason and his Luckies.

Everyone left the restaurant at about the same time and headed across the way to the Paper Mill Playhouse, an old mill turned into a theater, where Frekki snapped a picture of Miri, her coat unbuttoned to show off her birthday sweater and Rusty’s pearls.

Before they were shown to their seats, Frekki bought Miri a souvenir program. At one point during the performance Frekki looked over at her and smiled. They came out humming “The Desert Song,” the most popular song in the operetta. “I’ve always wanted a daughter,” Frekki said. “I have two sons but they wouldn’t be caught dead at an operetta.”

“Maybe they’ll get married and you’ll have daughters-in-law who’ll go with you.”

“That’d be nice, though daughters-in-law don’t always like their husbands’ mothers.”

“But if you’re nice to them…” Miri thought of Irene and Leah, who liked each other.

“Yes, maybe,” Frekki said. “I hope so. But that’s still years away. You’ll have to meet the boys. They’re seventeen and nineteen. It’s good for a girl to have boy cousins.”

Cousins
, Miri thought.
I have boy cousins
.

After the show they stopped for ice cream at Gruning’s on the Hill. There was a line waiting for tables. But Frekki said, “Oh, look…” and she pointed to a table. Miri followed her gaze to a table with a man seated facing them. He waved to Frekki. Was this Frekki’s husband, Dr. J. J. Strasser, who was such a good provider they lived in South Orange, and who had bought Frekki a yellow Cadillac and a big diamond ring?

She followed Frekki to the table. Suddenly, like a cat with its whiskers stiff, she knew this was not Dr. J. J. Strasser. Dr. J. J. Strasser would be older, she thought. He wouldn’t look so much like Frekki, with thick hair and a toothy smile. He stood and helped Miri off
with her coat, draping it over the back of her chair. When they were all seated, with their napkins on their laps, Frekki said, “Miri, this is my brother…”

Before Frekki could get out the rest, before she could say his name, Miri said, “I know who you are. You’re Mike Monsky.”

He said, “Yes.”

Frekki added, “Your father.”

He’s not my father
, Miri thought. He doesn’t even know me.

Her body was telling her to flee. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing back her chair and running, coming this close to colliding with a waitress delivering ice cream sundaes to some happy family. Another waitress pointed her in the direction of the ladies’ room. Inside were little girls, teenage girls, their mothers, their grandmothers. She splashed her face with water at the sink. Someone asked, “Are you all right, dear? Do you need help?”

She waved her away. No, she didn’t need help. And no, she wasn’t all right. But she was going to pretend she was. She was not going to throw up in a stall in the ladies’ room of Gruning’s on the Hill, with all these fancy mothers and daughters watching and listening. She breathed through her nose the way Natalie did when she felt nauseous, which was often. That was better. She applied Pixie Pink lipstick. She patted down her hair, then fluffed it back up. She hated her new haircut. She’d already decided to grow it out and Mason hadn’t even seen it.

The door to the ladies’ room opened. “Hi,” Frekki said to her. “Everything okay?”

“You planned this,” Miri said. “You tricked me.”

Two women blotting their lipstick glanced over at them.

Frekki gave them a weak smile. Miri knew she could make a big scene and embarrass Frekki. Maybe she would.

“I planned the meeting here, yes.”

Miri raised her voice. “The whole day was a lie!” What did she care? There was nobody here who knew her or her family but there might be somebody who knew the great Frekki Strasser or her doctor husband.

Frekki shepherded her away from the sinks. “I wish you wouldn’t look at it that way.”

“How should I look at it?”

“As an opportunity. I thought you should meet your father and that he should meet you.”

That stopped Miri for a moment. Then she turned and marched out of the ladies’ room, shoulders back, head high, as if she were the Queen of Posture, and back to the table. Back to Mike Monsky. Her so-called father.

She took her seat at the table. The waitress asked what she’d like. “A dish of plain vanilla, please. One scoop.”

“Hot fudge, nuts, whipped cream, Maraschino cherry?” The waitress held her pencil at the ready.

“Plain, please.”

“Okay, just a single scoop of vanilla in a dish.”

Isn’t that what I said the first time you asked?
Miri thought. But instead of screaming, throwing a temper tantrum, yelling at the waitress, who wore red-framed cat’s-eye glasses turned up at the tops with tiny rhinestones in the corners, Miri said, “Yes, thank you.” Saying it like that, with such authority, made her feel calm, in charge of her feelings.

Mike Monsky said, “This is awkward for both of us.”

She knew he was looking at her but she refused to meet his gaze. “Maybe for you,” she said. “But it’s not awkward for me. I couldn’t care less.”

By the time Frekki came back to the table their ice cream had been served. “Are you two getting to know each other?”

Mike Monsky smiled a small, wry smile. “You might say that.” Then he turned to Miri. “How’s your ice cream?”

She hadn’t tasted it yet. She lifted her spoon, dipped her tongue into it and said, “It’s fine.”

“How’s Rusty?” he asked.

“She’s fine.” She was wondering if he was going to go through the whole family.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He swirled his ice cream around, blending
the scoop of chocolate with the scoop of vanilla like a little kid with a Dixie Cup at a birthday party. “So, you’re fifteen now?”

“Why, did you forget when you shtupped my mother?”

Frekki sucked in her breath.

Shtupped
, a word she’d never said aloud until then. A vulgar word, Irene would say.

“What’d you do for your birthday?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“Had a pizza party with my girlfriends. My grandmother baked the birthday cake.”

“Aah, Irene,” he said. “She was a great baker.”

So, he knew Irene well enough to have tasted her cakes?

“My mother gave me this.” She held up her wrist to show off her birthstone bracelet.

“Very nice,” he said.

“Uncle Henry picked up the pizza at Spirito’s. He’s a famous reporter now.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He better not ask if she had a boyfriend. She’d throw her ice cream at him if he did. Because she had the power, she realized. She could do whatever she damn well pleased. And if he thought she couldn’t because he was her father—ha!

“I live in California,” he said, tapping out an Old Gold cigarette. Same brand as his sister, she noticed. Or maybe Frekki had bought the carton and he’d filched a pack. “Los Altos.” She must have given him a blank look because he added, “San Francisco Bay Area. This is my first trip back since I enlisted.” He fumbled around in his wallet and pulled out a picture. “My wife and sons,” he said. “Your half brothers.”

She didn’t want to look but she couldn’t help herself. The boys were little, maybe four and six. The wife was blond, pretty, not put-together-pretty like Corinne, but casual pretty. She was younger, with chubby cheeks, wearing Capri pants and a shirt. Posed like a movie star—leaning back against a tree with one foot on the ground and the other leg bent at the knee, her foot up against the tree, making
it look as if the bottom half of that leg were missing. Miri passed the photo back without commenting.

“Jeffrey and Josh,” Frekki said. “Those are your brothers’ names.”

“What’s your wife’s name?” Miri asked Mike Monsky.

“Adela.”