Modern Girls (22 page)

His voice made me shiver in a delicious way and for a moment, I was simply a girl out with an incredibly handsome boy at an exclusive exhibition, and I was in heaven. His hand slipped onto my waist, and I panicked he would note the extra flesh, but it also felt good, so I let it sit. We were alone, so it felt safe. “It’s remarkable,” I said, “how they are so feminine and oddly beautiful, yet completely masculine.”

When Willie was silent, I turned to look at him and saw him appraising me. “Yes,” he said, and I was pretty sure I had passed another test.

The closeness suddenly made me uncomfortable, reminding me of how I’d gotten into this situation in the first place. Where Abe was warm and sturdy, Willie reminded me of my times in the back alleys with Lefty—all sizzle.

To gain a little space, I walked to the next painting, forcing his hand to drop, and asked, “So what is your story about?”

Willie straightened, adjusting his hat. Was it possible I flustered him as much as he flustered me? “Are you aware that Hitler has denounced Expressionist art? And that he’s decreed there’s no room for modernist experimentation in the Third Reich?”

I shook my head, spellbound by a painting that completely dominated one wall. The signs for many of the paintings weren’t up yet, but this one had a tiny plaque identifying it as
La ville
. A city gone mad, it was even denser than the lower East Side. Lines
overlaid lines; billboards were sliced in half; scaffolding angled in the distance.

“Art must be ‘pure,’ according to Hitler,” Willie continued. “His artistic tastes are insensate. My piece explores what is so ‘ignominious’ in these paintings.”

I looked up, surprised. “But
you
don’t find them ignominious, do you? I mean, look at this one! Both claustrophobic
and
expansive. So contradictory. Yet mesmerizing.”

“Yes, exactly,” he said, moving behind me and dropping his hand onto my shoulder. “I like the way you put that. I might borrow your words.”

The physicality of his body pressing against mine sent shocks of electricity through me—and reminded me why I was there. I had forgotten my nerves in the pleasure of the art and his company. I wondered if Abe could ever be enticed into coming to the Museum of Modern Art. In my heart, I knew he would find the work too shocking.

Abe. Willie. These paintings, which suddenly made me feel confined in the lines and the colors. I became warm, breathless. I trembled. Willie could feel it.

“Are you all right, Dottie?” he asked. His voice held genuine concern.

Barely nodding, I asked, “Tell me again. When do you leave?” My voice quivered, and I cursed myself for my fragility.

“Two weeks from tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you worried about heading into Europe?” I kept my eyes on
La ville
, though I could feel his gaze boring into me.

“Worried?” Willie chuckled. “Worry is for mothers and weaklings.”

“I would think your family would worry sick about you,” I said.

“My mother frets about hangnails.” Willie took me by the waist and drew me to a bench at the side of the room. “Of course
she’s worried. But my father understands—or at least pretends to, which is good enough. At some point my parents will expect me to settle down, start a family, but this is my time. And it’s not so easy for a parent to meddle when you’re thousands of miles away.”

He sat me down and really looked at me. My smile was frozen, but tears taunted the corners of my eyes. I blinked rapidly, willing my expression to change.

Willie’s eyes narrowed a touch as he tilted his head. “Dottie?” His gaze was fierce, and all I wanted to do was cower in the corner. “Why did you want to see me?”

My mien didn’t change. I stared at him, blinking, blinking, blinking. I forbade the tears to fall, but like with everything else, I was powerless, and they dripped inelegantly. Dismayed at my lack of grace, I pulled my hand from his and tried to cover my face. This was not how I’d planned to present myself.

“Dottie, what’s wrong?” His voice held both pity and disgust. I could imagine what he was thinking: He was looking for a carefree romp, and instead I was crying on his doorstep.

I couldn’t look at Willie, instead staring at the walls.

For a while I didn’t speak, trying to keep my terror under control.

After what seemed an infinitely long time, Willie spoke again. “Dottie, why did you want to see me?” But his tone was resigned, as if he knew exactly why I was sitting there, with him, in the Museum of Modern Art, trying not to sob like a schoolgirl.

“That night. At Camp Eden.”

Willie tensed. “It was lovely.”

With an uneven breath, I steeled my nerves so as to look Willie in the eyes. “It’s still with us.”

“Still with . . . ah,” Willie said. “You are sure?”

I nodded.

He paused, trying to formulate the words. “But you have a boyfriend. . . .”

I shook my head. “It’s not his.” My voice was ragged around the edges. “I even tried . . . I wanted Abe to think it was . . . but . . .”

With raised eyebrows, Willie said, “You mean you two have never?”

“Never.” My voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Damn puritan.”

I longed to defend Abe, to protest this slur, but unfortunately, Willie was right.
Damn puritan.
Ruining my life.

Gently, Willie took my hand back in his. Speaking in an untroubled voice, he said, “I’m leaving for Europe.”

I nodded.

“I—” He hesitated. “I know people.”

Jerking my head up, I stared at him, dumbfounded. Not him, too!

Gently stroking the back of my hand with his fingers, he spoke soothingly, as if appeasing a small child. “It’s not pleasant, I know. But there is a way to take care of this. I know a doctor. I can pay for it. The recovery isn’t too bad; you should be able to return to work in a day or so. Or if you need to take extra time off, I can help with your wages for that week.”

Willie’s words settled over me. Dear God. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Taken women to doctors.”

His silence was all the answer I needed. He continued to stroke my hand. What kind of man was he?

“I—no,” I said, trying to be firm, trying to muster a shred of dignity.

Willie took my chin in his hand and gently turned my face so I was looking directly at him. “I know this is difficult. But I
am
leaving for Europe on the twelfth. You need to take control of this situation. You need to fix it.”

Letting go of my face, he opened the left side of his jacket, reached into his pocket, and retrieved a gold monogrammed money clip that held a wad of bills. He counted out all that was
there. “This is forty-five dollars. It won’t be enough, but I can get you more. I can arrange things for you, if you’d like.”

I stared at the money in revulsion. “I am not a working girl.”

“Of course you aren’t. You’re a good girl in a bad situation, and I want to help you out of it.”

“A bad situation that
you
put me in.”

“Now, now,” he said, a chill entering his voice, “I don’t remember you discouraging me.”

Mortified, I turned away.

The door opened, and the guard poked his head through. “Mr. Klein, you have five more minutes until the museum closes.”

“Thank you, sir,” Willie said. Turning back to me, he said, “You need to take care of this. I don’t see a choice.” From under my arm, he removed my clutch and snapped it open. It looked so delicate in his hands. He took the money and slid it inside, as if he were a husband giving his wife her weekly allowance.

I wanted to take the money and throw it at him. I wanted to yell at him to take responsibility. I wanted to lunge into his arms and have him hold me tight and say everything would be all right.

“I can make the arrangements,” he said again.

Words wouldn’t come, so instead, I took the coward’s way out, grabbing my purse, running through the room, pushing open the door, and scurrying down the stairs out onto the street.
Come after me,
I prayed.
Come find me.
Do the right thing, Willie.

But as I stood on the sidewalk, tear-streaked and out of breath, I was alone. Completely alone.

Wednesday, August 28

DOTTIE’S seat at the dinner table was empty.

“I have a meeting tonight,” Ben said, shoveling calves’ liver into his mouth. “Mechanics’ union.”

Ben was as bad as the boys, all of them racing to eat, as if there wouldn’t be enough. There was always enough. “Slow down. All of you. That food took me hours to prepare and it disappears in seconds.”

With a full mouth, Alfie said, “But it’s so good.”

I removed the serving plate from the table before Alfie could grab more. “Save some for your brother.”

“Where is Izzy?” Ben asked, spearing another bite with his fork. “And Dottie has been out quite a bit.”

“Izzy is working double shifts,” I said. “And Dottie? Who knows where that girl goes?”

“Probably with Abe,” Ben said. He grabbed a hunk of bread to mop up the mushroom sauce on his plate.

Probably not,
I thought. But I was concerned she wasn’t home yet. Tomorrow was her appointment. I wanted her to get a good night’s sleep.

At close to eight, as I was finishing the washing up, the front door banged open.

“Don’t slam the door,” I said. I assumed it was the boys, returning for more pillows to make a cozy nest to sleep on the roof. In
these brutal days, the roof was the only relief from the torrid heat, though little good it did. “You need what?” I called out.

When I didn’t get a response, I wiped my hands on my apron, and walked out to see Dottie sitting on the couch, hat still on, purse in hand, looking straight ahead but not seeing anything at all.

I sat next to her, taking her hand in mine. For moments we sat in silence. Finally, I said, “You are frightened.”

Dottie didn’t respond. She sat rigidly, staring forward. I knew she feared that if she spoke, the tears would start and never stop. I knew this because
I
felt it. That if I didn’t remain strong, I would shatter into a million pieces.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “You will survive, my
bubelah
. You will go on to be an accountant, get married—” Although to whom? I couldn’t tell her about my conversation with Mrs. Rabinowitz, couldn’t bear to break her heart any more than it was already broken. “—have many, many children, if you so desire.”

She swallowed loudly. In a whisper of a voice, she said, “I do. I do desire.”

I nodded. “You will have them.”

She turned her face to me and I saw big wet drops brimming in her eyes. “What if I can’t?” she said. “What if they mess up? I’ve heard stories. I’ve heard of women . . .” And with that, she buried her head in my shoulder and sobbed.

“Hush, my
bubelah
, hush. God will guide you. He won’t abandon you. You will have children. You will be up to your ears in diapers and feedings. When the time is right.”

A rap came on the front door. “Everything all right in there?” Mrs. Kaplan called from outside the front door. “I thought I heard crying.”

I rolled my eyes at Dottie, but she didn’t even glance at me to notice. “We’re fine, Mrs. Kaplan. Thank you for checking.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointment ringing in her voice.

I pulled Dottie closer. Her tears warmed my neck, slid down
my shoulders. Her body shook. I held her, my baby girl; I held her as I hadn’t in many, many years, rocking her back and forth and back and forth as she gripped me with the desperation of a little girl who wants her
mamelah
. That moment held a lifetime, yet lasted mere moments, before the boys came bounding in, oblivious to the grief of women.

AFTER everyone retreated to the roof, I remained sitting on the couch, unable to move. Ma hadn’t wanted to leave me alone, but I promised I would get ready for bed and join the others soon. And I would, as soon as I could lift my heavy limbs. Usually I craved solitude, but that night, the night on the precipice of my life before and my life after, I knew I would evaporate on my own.

Finally I slid on my nightgown and climbed slowly to the roof. Looking out at the sea of sleeping bodies, I sought my family. Finally I recognized the mounds on mattresses. Carefully stepping around the others, I crouched next to Eugene.

“Shove over,” I whispered into his ear, and in his sleep he smiled and rolled over. I stretched out next to him, staring at the stars that dangled overhead. I listened to the sounds of the roof—the snores, the sighs, the simpering, and the staccato breathing—and the sounds of the street—the rumble of cars, the shouts of boys out too late, the cries of a baby in another building.

Eugene turned toward me, his arm snaking over my body. His breath was warm on my face, and when I nuzzled closer to him, I smelled its sweetness. I leaned into him and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Eugene stirred momentarily, mumbling, “Sweet dreams, Dottala,” before rolling back on his other side. I turned onto my back and stared at the stars, which the lights of the street made dim.

I knew sleep would help, that I needed my strength for the next day, but every time I closed my eyes, the image of my baby formed beneath my lids. How clearly I could envision her, the way her entire newborn face would pucker, seeking me, her mother. Her wisp of a hand. The downy hair. The softness of her belly. A tightness in my throat made me gulp for air. I let myself cry silently, the tears leaking down the sides of my face, wetting the mattress. Ma said this wasn’t my baby, that my babies were yet to be. Why couldn’t I accept that?

When my tears were spent, I pulled Eugene close to me. I lay there, looking upward, unaware of when the stars receded and sleep overtook me.