Modern Girls (26 page)

AT exactly five p.m. Zelda and I arrived at the Kleins’ building. This time, the doorman knew who I was.

“You can go right on up, miss,” he said. “Mrs. Klein is expecting you.”

On the brief elevator ride, all the optimism and courage I had felt at Zelda’s slowly drained from me, replaced by fear of what lay ahead. Zelda, sensing my emotions, held tightly to my arm.

When the elevator stopped, I experienced déjà vu. The uncertainty, the upset stomach, the panic. My stomach bubbled like fizzy soda, which made me think of dates with Abe. Abe. A flush crept up my neck, settling in my cheeks. I burned with the humiliation of my last conversation with him, of how utterly he had rejected me. As I stood in the hallway, time stretched with elasticity, and in that moment, I saw everything: Abe was gone; I was too late for the appointment; my mother would be furious over the lost money and, more important, the lost prospects. I saw my future child; a life with Willie; cooking, cleaning, and caring for a baby and a husband while trying to study accounting at night; being tethered to a man with a roaming eye and no interest in being a husband or a father. In that moment, the hallway elongated, narrowing at the Kleins’ door, showing me the singular path my life would now take. I had no other choice. Even if I ran away, how does a single woman feed, shelter, and clothe herself
and a babe? Ma hadn’t come to America for this. For all the misery I caused that woman, I had to admit she was strong. Ma would never have been in a situation like this. For all her Old Country ways, Ma knew how to handle things. Some modern girl I turned out to be, doing things the most old-fashioned way.

Zelda pulled on my arm, nudging me toward their front door. “Come on, love,” she said. “It will all turn out fine.”

I walked as though my feet were moving through molasses. I knew what waited at the end of the hallway. Mrs. Klein would force Willie to marry me. If Ma knew, she would tell me it wasn’t so bad. Plenty of women had arranged marriages, and they all worked out one way or another. I would grow to love Willie. And if not? Well, it wasn’t the end of the world, was it? I already loved this child. That would be enough.

I tried to imagine the wedding Mrs. Klein would plan for us. It would have to be soon, but I was sure she would arrange something lovely. I’d get a new dress. Maybe not white—Zelda was right; that would be inappropriate, and it would fool no one about the reason for our sudden marriage. Yellow might be pretty. Or pale pink would suit me nicely.

My arms froze at my sides, so Zelda knocked firmly on the door. It swung open quickly, revealing the maid from that morning—Fiona, I thought—but this time she appraised me, running her eyes up and down my body, lingering at my stomach. Even the help knew about my situation.

Zelda stepped in, looked around the place, and whistled. “My, my. Every time I come here, it gets even fancier.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Klein are waiting for you in the parlor,” the maid said, ignoring Zelda as she shut the door.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to visit this apartment on a regular basis
.
To come here with my child—someday, perhaps,
children
—for holidays, for meals, to spend time with their
bubbe
and
zayde
. What would the children think of then going to
see
my
parents in their meager little apartment? In my mind, I was already defending
Tateh
and Ma
.

When we walked into the parlor, Mr. and Mrs. Klein looked up from the sofa. Mr. Klein lowered the newspaper he was reading, but neither rose to greet us.

“Zelda, darling. What a nice surprise,” Mrs. Klein said, her voice conveying her insincerity.

“Aunt Molly, the pleasure is mine,” Zelda said in her schmaltziest tone. She walked over and leaned down to buss her aunt on the cheek. Zelda moved to her uncle, who at least gave her a little peck back, the newspaper crinkling between them.

“Always nice to see you,” Mr. Klein said to Zelda, without putting down his paper.

“Where are your parents, Dottie?” Mrs. Klein asked.

My flush deepened as I said, “I didn’t know they were supposed to accompany me.”

Mr. Klein bobbed his head in an annoyed sort of way and his wife said, “Don’t you think they should be here for this?”

“For what exactly?” I said.

“Your wedding.”

The whole room turned topsy-turvy on me, and I thought my legs might give way. “Tonight?”

Mrs. Klein looked at me oddly. “Well, what did you think was going to happen tonight? You are in trouble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, for gosh sake,” Zelda said. “That is ridiculous. Who would have thought it would happen tonight? Let’s plan a little to-do. Make a nice little wedding.”

“Of course it has to happen tonight. Do you think William will simply wait around while we plan a ‘little to-do’? If he heard a whisper of marriage, he’d be on a boat first thing tomorrow.”

My shame knew no bounds. I was something to escape, to avoid. Shaking my head, I looked down at my feet.

“No, the wedding will take place tonight, as soon as Willie
gets home for dinner. Don’t you think your parents should be here?”

“I didn’t—I hadn’t—” I wrung my hands.

“Well, let’s give them a call. What’s the number, dear?”

“My parents don’t have a phone.” My voice cracked. “And if you call a neighbor, all of New York will know.”

“They don’t have a phone?” Mr. Klein said to Mrs. Klein, as if I weren’t standing there. “What kind of people don’t have a phone?”

“Lots of people don’t have phones. Have you heard of this thing called the Depression? My parents only installed a phone last May and you know it,” Zelda said.

Looking from Zelda to Mrs. Klein, I could scarcely believe they were related, that Zelda’s
tateh
and Mrs. Klein were brother and sister. Mrs. Klein was so American, you would never know she was born in the Old Country. But of course, she came over as a babe, whereas Zelda’s
tateh
was almost a teenager when he immigrated, too late for American schooling, too late to lose the accent.

“Are you sure about this, Molly?” Mr. Klein asked Mrs. Klein.

“No, of course I’m not sure.”

“Aunt Molly!”

I gave a silent thanks to
Hashem
for Zelda’s presence.

“Pish, pish
,
it’ll all be fine,” Mrs. Klein said, sounding as much as if she was convincing herself as she was Mr. Klein. “Dottie’s family are good people. This is the right thing to do. It will keep William out of trouble and in New York. Put an end to those rumors.”

The doorbell rang, and a moment later, the parlor door opened. “Rabbi Shulman here to see you,” Fiona said.

“
Rebbe
Shulman?” Zelda said. Her face twisted into a moue of disgust. “Couldn’t you find a real
rebbe
?”

“Enough,” Mr. Klein said, forcing even Zelda to cower. Silenced, she took a seat on the couch.

“Now, Ira,” Mrs. Klein said, “let’s not air our dirty laundry in front of the rabbi.”

Right then, in walked a man with a close-cropped beard and a
yarmulke
on his head. He wasn’t wearing the hat or the long coat of the
rebbes
in my neighborhood. I peered at his waist and saw no sign of a
tallis
. What kind of
rebbe
didn’t wear a prayer shawl? He must be the
rebbe
of the big Reform synagogue on the Upper East Side. Was a marriage performed by a Reform
rebbe
even legal? I suddenly flashed to the crab salad Willie had eaten at lunch. What would Willie say when he learned I would keep kosher? With two sets of dishes plus an extra set for Passover?

So many things I’d never considered.

“Good evening,
Rebbe
,” Mr. Klein said. “This is . . .” He seemed to be searching for my name. “This is Dottie.”

The
rebbe
said, “How do you do?” and he reached out to shake my hand. Startled, I accepted his hand. A rabbi touching a woman to whom he was not related? I’d never heard of such a thing.

“Do you have witnesses?” the
rebbe
asked.

Mrs. Klein nodded. “Matthew and Colin will be our witnesses.”

“Matthew and Colin?” I asked.

“Our house servants.”

“But they’re not Jewish,” I said. “It won’t be legal if we don’t have Jewish names on the
ketubah
.” The wedding contract was a vital part of a Jewish marriage ceremony.

“Isn’t it a little late to be worried about Jewish names on the
ketubah
?” Mr. Klein asked.

“Zelda will be our witness,” I said, determined to exert some control over my own wedding.

“Sure, I can do that,” Zelda said from the couch.

I realized no one was going to invite me to sit, so I took a seat next to Zelda. She scooted over a pinch to give me a little space. Until she did that, I hadn’t realized how closed in I’d been feeling.

“If you’re going to have a woman, you might as well have a non-Jew,” Mr. Klein said.

“It’s as kosher as we’re going to get,” Zelda said.

Mr. Klein scowled at the word
kosher
. “Fine. Zelda can witness. What do I care?”

I knew I couldn’t allow myself to cry, but this was mortifying. This was not how I ever saw myself getting married, wearing a navy blue suit, with no parents to give me away, no canopy to stand beneath. Would this
goyishe rebbe
even recite the seven blessings? Tears filled my eyes, and my face went hot. Zelda quickly dove into her purse and retrieved a handkerchief for me. I blotted my eyes, but felt my nose begin to run.

“Say,” Zelda said, “don’t you need a marriage license? We had to apply for ours a month in advance.”

My eyes widened. Forget kosher; would this marriage even be legal in the City of New York?

Mr. Klein laughed, and I was startled to hear it was Willie’s laugh. “In New York, anything can be had for a price. Including marriage licenses.”

Relieved, I let myself sink slightly into the sofa.

“What do we do now?” Zelda asked.

“We wait for William,” Mrs. Klein said.

The
rebbe
must have known a scene would erupt when Willie appeared. “I’ll look over the
ketubah
,” he said—clearly an excuse—and retired to the parlor. A silence fell over the room as the minutes passed. Zelda held my hand, rubbing it gently. The gesture was soothing, but it didn’t erase the insanity of the situation. What was I doing here? This apartment was like a palace. It was everything I’d ever admired in the pages of my
House & Garden
magazines, with the rich, full curtains, the fireplace, the library with books lining every conceivable wall, the tables made of brass and glass. But never once had I thought to live so royally in real life. Not as Abe’s wife. I didn’t want the fanciness; I wanted Abe.

With deep breaths, I calmed myself and reminded myself of why I was there. It wasn’t for me; it was for this baby. Ma had traveled across the ocean and worked her hands into an arthritic mess so I
might have a better life than she, a life where I could go to school and earn a diploma, a life where I could get a job in a Midtown office, a life where I was never in want of food or clothing. How different my childhood was from hers. And now it was my turn. As much as I’d had growing up, I would do what it took for my child to have even more.
My daughter won’t sleep on a couch; she’ll have a bed in a bedroom, with a door she can close. I’ll scrimp and save so we can go away to the country on weekends, as a family. My daughter won’t just finish high school; she’ll go to a college and earn a degree.

I have no idea how long we sat there before the door slammed. “Hello, hello,” called Willie’s voice, and I could hear the rustle of a hat being placed on a side table, the handing off of a briefcase to the maid. “Mother, is dinner about—” As he walked into the parlor and saw us sitting there, his eyes jumped from his mother to Zelda to me. At me they lingered, and as our eyes made contact, his expression flinched, his surprise reshaping itself, taking the form of a slow, simmering anger. “What is this about?” he asked.

“No need to be coy now,” Mr. Klein said.

“My dear,” Mrs. Klein said, “I think you know exactly what this is about. You seem to have gotten yourself into quite an unfortunate position.”

Willie walked to the bar cart and unplugged a crystal decanter. Without meeting anyone’s eyes, he said, “You can’t even be sure it’s mine. She’s been seeing Abe Rabinowitz forever.”

I couldn’t speak. I’d already told him! Did he really believe . . . ? What was he saying about me?

Using tongs, he plunked two ice cubes into a glass, the sound of which echoed loudly in the silence, before pouring in more than the proper amount of amber liquid.

Helplessly, I looked at Zelda. Her eyes were brimming with fury on my behalf. “Willie Klein, you know full well this child is yours. Abe Rabinowitz is as pure as the snow on Saint Patrick’s, and I know Dottie as well as I know my own mother. Dottie never lies. This is your problem as clear as clear can be.”

It took every ounce of willpower to not bury my face on Zelda’s shoulder and sob.