Modern Girls (19 page)

“Thank you, but my sole is excellent as well. Would you care to try some?”

He shook his head, and rested his chin on his hand as he gazed at me. “You know, Dottie,” he said, “you are really something else.”

With a blush, I said, “Thank you.” Hiding my nervousness, I took another sip of my drink. Maybe this was the moment to bring up the subject. But how?

With an overly deep sigh, Willie lifted his head and returned to his meal. “I’m going to miss you like crazy. Not that I ever had a chance with you. I know,” he said, raising his fork, with a sardonic chuckle. “You and Abe,
besherts
.”

The crabmeat careened in my stomach. Why had he brought up Abe? My mouth was suddenly Sinai dry, and I reached for my drink.

“Abe and I, well . . .” I let the thought dangle, hoping to imply that Abe and I weren’t exactly a done deal.

Willie looked at me more closely, rubbing his chin between his fingers, as if trying to evaluate me.

“And what do you mean,” I asked between bites of fish, trying
to erase the lingering taste of crab, “that you’ll miss me? Are you going somewhere?”

He teased me. “I told you I wouldn’t be around to bother you for long.”

A fever passed through me, reaching my head, where the weight of the drink took hold, leaving the beginning of a headache in its wake. “Oh?”

“It’s the
New Yorker
job.” He sat straight in his chair, the picture of nonchalance, as he spooned a large helping of crab salad into his mouth.

Fingers of pain scratched at the corners of my eyes. “Yes?” The scent of perfumes mingling in the air, which only moments before had smelled so lovely, now cloyed, suffocating me.

He put down his fork. “The job is in Paris.” He watched my face closely, trying to assess the impact of his news.

“Paris?” I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I picked up another piece of fish, although my appetite had departed completely. “That’s—Paris.” I hoped to be giving off an air of detachment, as if this didn’t destroy my last shred of hope.

“Well, it starts in Paris. I’ll be all over the Continent. I leave on September twelfth, just over two weeks.” Waggling his eyebrows, he said, “You shouldn’t have waited so long to join me for lunch.”

“How fascinating.” I chewed my fish, no longer tasting it. Confusion overwhelmed me, a daze, as if I were just waking up, knowing I’d had a good dream, but unable to grasp it before it slipped away, replaced by the cold reality of morning. I knew there was music, laughter, drinks, and food, but I couldn’t piece it together, couldn’t see the picture anymore. I hadn’t known what to expect from the lunch, but this certainly wasn’t it.

“The opportunity is phenomenal. Ross thinks I’m going to cover the cultural scene, but this is my opportunity to expose the Nazi Party for the threat it is. Oh, I’ll do one or two fluff pieces for Ross to keep him happy, but my real work will be investigative. The American press has been an embarrassment in
its coverage of what is happening in Europe.” He leaned toward me, and tickled the tops of my fingers with his own. “I’ll write exposés that will have
New Yorker
readers demanding American intervention.”

If I hadn’t been so shaken, I would have been impressed. “It sounds admirable. But . . .” I struggled to find the words amid the flotsam clogging my mind. “. . . aren’t you concerned? This is a dangerous time to be a Jew in Europe.”

He chuckled. “I’m barely a Jew! Besides, I’m an American. I can take care of myself.”

I simply nodded.

Lowering his voice, his fingers sliding more deliberately across my hand, Willie asked, “May I see you before I leave? More . . . privately?”

Startled, I looked up at him. Willie’s gaze was matter-of-fact, as if he’d simply proposed a cup of coffee at the deli.

My eyes weren’t focusing properly. The million lights were blurring into a blinding headache. I feared passing out or retching or humiliating myself in some other fashion. My hand fluttered to my face. “Oh my. It’s getting so late. I must powder my nose and head back to the office.”

Before he could even stand up, I pushed back my chair, and made a beeline for the back of the dining room, where I hoped I would find the ladies’ lounge, which, to my relief, was clearly marked.

In the bathroom, I hurried to a stall, and realized I
was
sick. Wafts of perfume floated in the air and my stomach turned in somersaults. In a most undignified manner, I crouched on the floor and emptied my stomach into the toilet. Thank goodness no one was in the room to hear, other than the attendant, who sat on a seat between the sinks. With one hand on the wall, I made certain every last bit of
treif
exited my body.

When I’d regained a shred of decorum, I stood up and used toilet paper to wipe my mouth. I exited the stall, and the attendant
handed me a paper towel, which I gratefully took to clean myself further while inspecting myself in the mirror.

The attendant gave me a motherly smile. “How far along?” she asked.

My eyes quickly moved from my own reflection to the colored woman in the white apron. My first instinct was to deny it, to pretend I had no idea what she was talking about, but what was the point? Soon everyone would know. My shame would be worn like a scarlet letter upon my belly. How was it so clear to this stranger when it wasn’t obvious to the one who needed to know? “Three months, I think.”

The woman nodded, but her smile faltered when she noticed my hands. She was too polite to say anything, but I saw the change in her mien and knew what she was thinking.

All those months listening to Zelda moan gave me a quick response. With a false smile plastered on my face, I blatantly waved my left hand and said, “Wouldn’t you know? I’ve swelled up like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. My rings already don’t fit!”

I must have said the correct thing, as with a knowing nod the woman offered me a mint. I accepted it, left a nickel on the silver platter, and returned to the table.

Willie sat, looking morose. He stood as I approached the table.

“Listen—,” he started, but I wasn’t about to let him finish.

“I had no idea how long I’d been sitting here. I must get back to the office.”

“My driver—”

“Thank you so much for lunch.”

Turning and hurrying out, I pretended not to hear him calling, “But, Dottie, wait!”

•   •   •

MORE than twice the half hour designated for lunch had passed by the time I returned, but I refused to give Florence the
satisfaction of pretending to care. I had more important worries at the moment. I slowed down before entering the room, taking a breath, pinching my cheeks, and calmly opened the door and sauntered in as if I hadn’t bolted down the street like Gallant Fox. I walked toward my desk, past the girls, who stared at me, surprised to have seen me leave the office. All lingering traces of light-headedness dissipated along with the hopes I’d nurtured.

At my desk, I tried to immerse myself in the numbers, my safe haven with their black-and-white answers to every problem. I let the click-clack of the tabulating machines wash over me.

But they did nothing.

The numbers didn’t quell the nausea. They didn’t erase my worries. They didn’t lure me into an analytical trance. All I could think was that Ma was right. I had no other choice. No option.

The girls eyed me suspiciously, sensing something. I tried to ignore them, but felt overwhelmed with the urge to snap at them and their sniveling ways. How was it that out of all the girls in the office,
I
was the one to find myself in a situation like this? This didn’t happen to nice Jewish girls.

For the first time, I found the work painful. I double-checked the numbers on a long sheet of tabulations, and frustrated to no end, I barked, “Florence!” My tone was harsher than it should have been. “You missed an entire column of numbers here. You’ll need to do it again.”

Florence walked to the front of the room with an exaggerated swivel to her waist. “Yes, boss,” she said, in a mock-obedient tone.

The rest of the room giggled and I glared at them. “Behave!”

“What’s the matter?” Florence asked. “Got your monthly?” Her eyes twinkled in a wicked way, and my hands twitched at my sides, clenching and unclenching.

“That is an improper way to speak to me. I am your supervisor.”

“It’s just you’ve been so moody lately. You must have your monthly. Although it’s odd.” She paused and dramatically brought
her hand to her chin as if she were in deep thought. “For someone who is so careful about what she eats, you’re a little soft around the belly.”

Tittering spread throughout the room. My control rapidly slipped away. “That’s enough, Florence.”

“Is it? Is it enough?” Her taunting cut me deeply. Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Why, Miss Krasinsky, it looks to me like
you’ve
had enough.”

My hand shot out faster than Florence could have expected, and it made a cracking sound as it sliced across her face. Gasps came from around the room.

“Ow!” Florence said, genuine tears springing to her eyes.

And wasn’t it my luck that at that moment Mr. Dover chose to return to the office?

“Good grief,” the deep voice said from the door. “What on earth is going on?”

The flush consumed my body, but I stood firm. “Florence has been impertinent, disrespectful, and sloppy in her work. She should be fired.”

“Fired!” Florence was ruffled. “You can’t do that.” With more uncertainty, she turned to Mr. Dover. “Can she?”

He looked back and forth between the two of us. Silence stretched and I stood terrified. Finally he said, “Both of you. In my office.”

Meekly, we trailed behind him.

“Shut the door,” he said, and I obeyed.

He sat behind his desk, a large mahogany affair with leather accessories. He intertwined his fingers. He did not invite either of us to sit. “Dorothea, tell me why you think Florence should be fired.”

“Mr. Dov—”

“Silence.” He held up his hand. “I want to hear from Dorothea.”

“Florence’s tabulations are inaccurate almost more often than
they are accurate. She is frequently late for work. She wastes an inordinate amount of time gossiping. And a few moments ago, I asked her to correct one of her mistakes and she became insubordinate. Plenty of qualified girls are hungry for work and willing to do the job properly.” I held my breath, waiting to see if Florence would bring up my long lunch. Luckily for me, she decided upon a different tactic.

“But, Mr. Dover,” Florence said as she pouted her lips and leaned toward our boss. My eyes widened when I realized that—somehow—the top two buttons on Florence’s blouse were undone. It was clear Mr. Dover noticed as well. “I try sooooo hard.” She was trying to sound seductive, but to my ears, it came out as a whine. Mr. Dover, though, apparently heard something else, as he templed his fingers, touching them to the tip of his nose. He nodded his head.

“Dorothea, let me have a word with Florence, please.”

Florence gave the slightest hint of a puckish grin as I looked from her to Mr. Dover. Straightening my back, I said, “Of course, Mr. Dover.”

I turned to leave when his voice came again. “Please close the door, Dorothea.”

I returned to my desk, humiliated. Florence was the one behaving shamelessly. Yet I was the one who felt hollow.

I went back to the numbers, but it was no use. I’d be getting nothing else done. All the girls in the office had their eyes on Mr. Dover’s door, and they glanced nervously at one another.

After twenty minutes, Florence emerged with a big grin on her face. Mr. Dover trailed behind her, his tie slightly askew.

“Dorothea, Florence and I have chatted. Florence, you have something to say to Miss Krasinsky?”

With her eyes cast toward the floor, Florence said, “I apologize for my insolence. It shan’t happen again.” Without lifting her head, she looked up at me, raised her eyebrows, and gave a catty smile.

“Dorothea, Florence will remain at Dover Insurance conditionally. Her work must be perfect.” Mr. Dover glanced at the clock. “It’s already four fifteen. Why don’t you girls go home? I told Florence I would personally go over the procedures again to make sure she understands exactly what needs to be done.”

“Leave? Now?” I asked uncertainly, as the other girls gathered their belongings. “But I can help Florence.”

Mr. Dover shifted uncomfortably. “I want to make sure she learns properly, so I’ll teach her myself.”

Looking around, I realized I was the last to comprehend. “Of course, Mr. Dover.” Taking my purse, I left my work where it was. How was it these double standards worked for other folks, but not for me?

As I walked out of the office, I heard Florence calling after me, her voice dripping with syrup. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Krasinsky.”

The door slammed loudly behind me.
Damn her,
I thought.
Damn her. Damn Mr. Dover. Damn Willie and Abe, too.

I began the long walk home.

SHELLING beans at the sink, I was overcome with melancholy. I yearned for my mama to wrap me in her arms, her hair smelling comfortingly of yeast and cooking smoke. I wanted to sit with Eta in the barn and hold hands while we plotted our grand futures. I pined for a simpler time. This pregnancy wasn’t sitting well with me—the aches and the fatigue—and even worse was Dottie’s. How did I end up here?

When the door banged open, I yelled, “Alfie, wipe your feet.”

“It’s not Alfie, Ma. It’s me,” Dottie called.

Oy vey
, what was the matter now? I threw down my beans, wiped my hands on my apron, and was about to walk into the front room when Dottie entered the kitchen.

“What happened? Why are you home? Did you get fired?”

“Ma.” Dottie rolled her eyes at me. But then she peered at me. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”

“Why are you home?”

“Mr. Dover let us go early.”

I stood at an awkward angle, favoring my good side.

“Your leg is even worse,” she said, placing a gentle arm around my back. It was such a tender gesture that for a moment I thought I might fall upon her in my grief.

“You will be paid for the full day?”

“I get paid weekly, Ma. Not by the hour. Now, what’s wrong?”
Dottie led me to the front room, seating me on the sofa. It was so maternal that my eyes teared. When had my baby girl turned into this woman? Where was the toddler who got into my threads, grabbed at my needles, and begged for one more poppy seed cookie?

“Ma,” Dottie said again, “what’s wrong?”

Bringing the hem of my apron up to my eyes, I blotted the tears I imagined were there, the ones that hadn’t actually fallen. Perhaps Ben was right. Perhaps now was the time to confide in Dottie. If anyone could understand the unwelcome situation, it would be my own daughter in a similar place. “A child,” I said. “A child is such work.”

I heard a loud sigh and looked up to see the exasperation on Dottie’s face. “I know, Ma.” Her voice was laced with whininess. “Don’t you think I’ve given thought to every possibility?”

Of course Dottie thought I was speaking about her. Why wouldn’t she? She had no idea.

“Actually, Dottala—,” I started, taking her hands in mine, but Dottie continued as if she didn’t hear me.

“I saw Willie, Ma. Saw him at lunch today.”

I pulled back my hands. All thoughts of confession fled. Did I raise such a fool? “Willie? What does he have to do with this?” Dottie was not a friend in whom to confide; she was my daughter, who still, apparently, needed the firm hand and level head of her mother.

“What do you mean, ‘What does he have to do with this’? You know perfectly well what he has to do with this.”

“Oh, Dottala. This is not
his
problem. Did you tell him? Oh, God above, please tell me you didn’t say anything to him.”

Dottie shook her head. “I didn’t get a chance. Before I could say anything, he told me he’s leaving. Moving to Europe to work as a writer.”

“Europe!” I threw up my hands. “Does he not know there’s going to be a war there? Is he a complete idiot?”

“He’s not an idiot, Ma. That’s why he’s going, to prove that
there’s a real danger. It’s a great opportunity, to be a writer for
The
New Yorker
.”

“To be a writer for
The New Yorker
he has to kill himself? A man like that you need? Thank God you didn’t tell him.” I dotted the sweat on my forehead with my apron. “Now everything is clear,
nu
? You know what you have to do.”

Dottie looked more closely at me. “You are definitely ill. You look peaked.”

I waved my hands in the air to brush away such notions. “It’s August. How should I look?” I pushed back my hair and repeated my question. “Everything is clear? You understand what you need to do?”

Dottie looked down and twisted the hem of her dress in her hands. I wanted to bat her fingers away, tell her not to ruin a good dress, but I bit my lip. We had enough problems without quarreling over her fidgeting.

“I can’t get rid of this baby.”

The heat was making me woozy. “Of course you can.”

“No, Ma. I can’t. I
won’t
.”

What she said made no sense. She was with child. The child was not Abe’s. The child must go away. How much plainer could it be? “You
can’t
? You
won’t
? This I do not understand.”

“What if,” Dottie said, “you took it? What if you pretended the baby was yours?”

“What?” She couldn’t have shocked me more if she said she was traveling to the moon. Me take her baby?

“You can take it. You’re still young enough to have a child of your own, aren’t you?”

If only she knew.
“A child of my own?” I said.

“We’ll go away. The two of us. Spend a few months somewhere else. Your cousin Freyde in Baltimore. We tell people she’s sick, that she needs your help. Then we use the money you saved for my schooling to pay for a place for us, maybe in the Catskills. When we return with the baby, we’ll tell everyone it’s yours. No
one will be the wiser. You can raise the baby. I’ll pretend to be its sister.”

My body twitched as if I were a caged animal. “That’s . . . that’s . . .” My mind reeled at the thought. It was impossible. Simply impossible. What, I would leave and we would have twins? But even if I weren’t with child, to take on the burden of someone
else’s
child? “That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” Dottie’s eyes were wide and innocent. How ludicrous. No one would believe us
both
leaving the family. The household needed a woman to run it. Absurd. “Why won’t it work? It solves all our problems.”

“First of all, we don’t have the savings anymore. Fifty dollars I spent on the appointment and I still owe another ten dollars. And more importantly, it doesn’t solve all our problems because I don’t want to raise another child.” The guilt those words caused made me apologize in my heart to
Hashem
.
I’m sorry I don’t wish another child. Not even the one in my own womb. Forgive me,
Hashem.

“But I’ll help. I can do most of the work. We’ll pretend the baby is yours.”

“And what happens when you and Abe marry? When you move out? I’ll be stuck at home with the baby.”

“‘Stuck with the baby’? That’s how you feel?”

“I have raised my children. And if
Hashem
intends it, I will raise more of my own. But I do not intend to raise anyone else’s children.”

Dottie stood, and paced the room. “Ma, this isn’t anyone else’s child. This is
my
child.”

My eyes were completely dry now. “That, my daughter, is exactly my point.” I got to my feet. Turning to face her, I said, “You have an appointment. Thursday at one. It’s already been paid for. I expect you to be there.” And I exited to prepare dinner and brood about my own problems.

Her sobs sounded throughout the apartment. As I returned to the bowl of beans, I heard fast footsteps and then the slamming of
the door.
Fine,
I thought.
Let her go. Let her mull on her mistakes.
The rhythmic task of snapping the ends of the beans with a paring knife and pulling down the stringy stems was calming. How could Dottie ask such a thing of me? To care for yet another child? I should have simply told Dottie about my own child, explained to her the impossibility of the situation. But Dottie proved herself, once again, to be a mere girl, unable to handle such problems.

Dottie was so delicate. Would she be able to handle the procedure? Would she recover? And what would happen when she learned of my baby? I feared she would be furious that I had kept a child when she had to give hers up. Every time she looked at this new baby, it would be a reminder of what she didn’t have. She would resent me, resent the child. I could only pray her anger didn’t consume her, didn’t drive a wedge between us. She had to understand. There was no choice: If she had the baby, she would have nothing.

The green beans were trimmed. Wiping my hands on my apron, I stood and walked over to the sink. I had to hope Dottie would forgive me
.
But first, I had to boil the beans.