Modern Girls (18 page)

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.”

Looking around again at the fancy hats and lacquered nails, breathing in the heady scent of Chanel mixed with the earthy smell of steak, hearing the tinkling of glasses and silverware that sounded more like a party than a lunch out, I wondered, could I
become accustomed to a place like this? Or would I always feel like a visitor?

When I looked back at Willie, he was smiling with amusement. Hurriedly, I reached for my drink, raising it. “A toast. To your new job.”

“A toast,” he said, “to the lovely lady who finally agreed to lunch with me.”

Blushing, I clinked my glass to his and took a sip. The drink was surprisingly strong but quite delicious, with sweet undertones. Much better than the hooch I was used to drinking. “Mmmm,” I said. “Like Dorothy Parker.” Trying to appear cosmopolitan, I asked, “So, what is the
New Yorker
office like?”

Willie launched into a monologue about the bedraggled crew who came in and out; how an article he wrote for
The
Atlantic
had gotten him noticed; how the boss, Harold Ross, was buffoonish, but had an excellent eye for prose; how the magazine was surviving the Depression. I tried to follow along, but I kept sipping my drink, which really was quite delightful, and taking in Willie’s handsomeness and the hubbub of the room, and I felt light-headed and lovely, as if I were in the middle of a Cole Porter song.
I could be very happy here,
I thought. I knew I must tell him, but this was all so heavenly, this little oasis from the problems of my world, that I didn’t want to spoil the ethereal mood with the gross realities of my life.

By the time the waiter returned with our meals, my drink was nearly empty, and before I could stop him—I needed to return to the office, after all—Willie ordered me a second. With my plate in front of me, I was relieved to learn
sole
was simply fish, albeit fish swimming in butter, but quite tasty, I discovered.

“How is your meal?” Willie asked.

“Delectable,” I said.

“You must try mine,” Willie said. “They make the most superb crab salad.”

I looked up with a start and saw that Willie’s hand was outstretched. Surely Willie knew me better than that. But of course he did. This was a test.

“I shouldn’t,” I said, trying to smile demurely. “A girl must watch what she eats.”

“Truly, Dottie,” Willie said, “it is simply wonderful.” Seeing the distaste in my face, he narrowed his eyes slightly. “You don’t keep kosher. Do you?” His voice took on the vague tones of censure. If he were Abe, I would have slapped him. Of course I kept kosher. Of course he knew I kept kosher. But I needed Willie, so I tamped down the rush of fury. I gave a smile, hoping that would be response enough. It was not.

For all my talk of
modern
and
progressive
, I had not yet tasted
treif
, unkosher food. This was not so much a conscious decision as a way of life. Ma bought from the kosher butcher, never served milk with meat. I didn’t eat with
goyim
, brought all those lunches from home. So no one had ever offered me
treif
. And I never
wanted
anyone to. Just as I would never walk out of the house in only my undergarments, I would never think of eating a pushcart sausage. And yet here was Willie, seeing how inflexible I would be. Ma would be mortified if she saw me sitting here with Willie, a pile of shellfish waving beneath my nose. My situation, the
treif
—I suspected the sins were equal in Ma’s mind.

“Try it. It’s wonderful.”

Willie and his family belonged to the big
shul
uptown, the German one. The Reform one. Their rules were flexible, and
treif
didn’t exist for them.

It wasn’t right. But right was not important here. What was important was making myself attractive to Willie. What was important was making myself marriage-worthy. So I offered him a wan smile and said, “Why not? Life is about new experiences,
nu
?”

Oy!
I thought, mortified by the
nu
that had snuck out. I covered it by trying to delicately open my mouth, allowing Willie to feed me. The act was intimate, one lover feeding another, and
Willie lingered as my lips closed around the fork. He stared at me with such intensity that I was embarrassed to chew, but I forced myself to make tiny nibbles. A nausea rose, which I tried to gain control of; I liked Willie’s gaze, didn’t want to put him off by becoming sick. The crab was rubbery and rather bland, coated as it was with mayonnaise, which I didn’t like even on the best of days. Placing my napkin over my mouth, I forced myself to chew and swallow. Lightning did not strike me.

“Well?” Willie asked.

“Delicious,” I said, extracting a smile from somewhere deep within.

Willie placed another large helping on his fork before shoveling it into his mouth. “Would you like some more?” I’d apparently sailed through the exam.