Modern Girls (31 page)

“Pregnant?” Alfie said, eyes wide.

“This is ridiculous,” Izzy said.

Willing myself not to collapse, I enunciated carefully, trying to sound resolute. “I am going with him.” Somehow I managed to keep my voice steady.

“What?”
Tateh
’s voice was thunderous. I could hear movement in the hallway and I knew Mrs. Kaplan was listening to our every word. “Absolutely not!”

“I am leaving for Paris two weeks from yesterday. My
husband
and I are moving to Europe.”

“But what about me?” Eugene asked, on the edge between fury and sadness.

“Oh, Eugenie,” I said, bending down to take his hands. “I need to be with my husband.”

“But it’s far, isn’t it?”

“On the other side of the world,” Alfie said, and I realized even my middle brother would miss me, and that I would grieve for him.

“No,”
Tateh
said. “I will
not
allow it.” His hands shook, and while I knew he would never strike me, I feared he would hurt himself.

A soft voice floated from the bedroom. “Beryl.”

“Rose,”
Tateh
hollered, “stay in bed.”

“Beryl,” Ma said again, as she appeared in the doorway, leaning on the frame, her face pale. “She must go. She must be with her husband.”

“Rose Krasinsky, under no circumstances am I—”

“You are going to argue with me now?” She waved her hand weakly. Her housecoat was wrapped loosely around her, showing her long nightgown. I had never seen her in nightclothes during the day. Guilt flooded me anew. “Dottala has to leave.”

“But—”

“Keep your voice down,” Ma said, heading back to bed. “I need my rest.”

“Can I c-come with you?” Eugene asked, his voice breaking midsentence.

I bent over to hug him. “Oh, sweetie,” I said, but as I reached my arms out, he pulled away. He looked like he was going to say something, as if he was about to cry, but instead his face twisted into a fist of anger, and he stormed away, slamming open the door and running from the apartment down the stairs.

Rushing behind him, I yelled, “Eugene!” but an arm pulled me back into the apartment.

“I’ll get him,” said Alfie, running after his brother.

“What are you thinking?”
Tateh
asked. “Europe? Now?” His words had lost their anger and were tinged instead with despair. His hands lay flat against his sides, as if the emotion had simply drained from him.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice.”

Embracing my stomach with both arms, I shook my head. “No. There is no choice.”

Izzy came up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. It had been a long time since Izzy and I had touched, and it felt nice.

“You’ll be okay,” Izzy said. “I know it. You
have
to be okay.”

I nodded and felt an emptiness when Izzy pulled away his hand.

“How in
Hashem
’s name did this hap—,”
Tateh
began, but I couldn’t let him finish, couldn’t answer the questions he wanted to ask.

“Let me finish cleaning. Then I need to pack. I have to get back to Willie.”

Tateh
looked at me, as if trying to comprehend a foreign language I was speaking. “Help me understand,” he said.

How gray
Tateh
had become over the years, from the struggles and the heartaches. And now here I was, causing yet more sadness. I wanted to explain to him I hadn’t meant to make this mess, but now I was taking responsibility for what I’d done. I
wanted to promise him I would be an excellent mother and give him a houseful of grandchildren. I wanted him to know I would make this marriage work. The passion Willie had exhibited last night must mean
something
. He had to care about me at least a little. I wanted to tell
Tateh
that Europe wasn’t all bad—I would see new places and not live in a crowded tenement anymore. That Willie was smart and he could be decent and he was doing the right thing by me. That I was exploding with joy at the thought of becoming a mother. That having a baby was one of the things I’d always wanted. That it was going to make me happy.

But I couldn’t get out any of those words. So all I said was, “I’m not sure
I
understand,” and I returned to mop the kitchen floor.

•   •   •

A couple of hours later, dinner was on the stove, and I packed my meager belongings in my old Camp Eden suitcase to return to the hotel. Would Willie still be there? He’d said he was going to his office—it was a workday—but I had no idea how Willie spent his time; a writer could theoretically be anywhere, with anyone. We hadn’t made any plans and part of me feared he would disappear.

A knock sounded at the door. I assumed it was Perle, who had come over earlier to check on Ma and make the
challah
dough. She’d run home to prepare for
Shabbes
, but I knew she’d be back.

Opening the door distractedly, I was surprised to see Irene from the office. She stood uncomfortably in the dark hallway, grasping her pocketbook with two hands, as if afraid someone was going to run off with it.

“Oh, Irene,” I said. “I meant to send a note.” Of course, in all the madness
,
I had forgotten. My chest felt hollow when I realized I’d skipped out without a word.

“Mr. Dover sent me over. Said you didn’t have a phone. Wanted to make sure you were all right.” Shifting from foot to
foot, Irene seemed ready to fend off attackers. The lower East Side was foreign territory.

“I’m all right,” I said. With a meek smile that I hoped belied my misery, I held up my left hand. “I got married.”

Irene nodded. “So you won’t be coming back?”

“No,” I said. “I won’t be coming back.” This didn’t feel right, announcing my departure to Irene. “Wait. Let me get my hat. I’ll go tell Mr. Dover myself.”

“Don’t bother. Florence told him you probably wouldn’t be back.” Irene reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. “So he sent me with your pay for the half week, in case that was true.”

I could feel the flush rising in my cheeks. I’d just confirmed all of Florence’s suspicions.

“Thank you. Tell Mr. Dover—”
Tell him what?
I thought.
That this was the best job in the world? That I was so grateful he gave me the opportunity? That I am a terrible person for not living up to his expectations?
“Tell Mr. Dover I am sorry.”

“Will do,” Irene said, and, clearly relieved her dangerous mission was now at an end, she turned and bounded down the stairs.

LAST week had been our final
Shabbes
together and I hadn’t known it. I tried to recall it, but all I could remember was the bickering. If only we’d talked more, laughed more . . .

Now a pall set over the table, even with Heshie there. Dottie’s absence filled the room in a way her presence never had. It felt like a house of mourners.

It was hard to sit up, but I came to the table to sample the meal Dottie had prepared. The soup was salty, the chicken dry, and the
kreplach
chewy. But it was passable. At least Dottie and Willie wouldn’t starve.

No one was talking, until Heshie tried to lighten the mood. “Did you see that the Brown Bomber arrived in New York?” he asked Alfie. “Seems to be in good shape to fight Max Baer.”

“Yeah,” Alfie said, his eyes on his soup.

Eugene slouched next to him, using his spoon to play with his
kreplach
, bouncing them up and down in the broth.

“Get your elbows off the table,” I said to him.

Instead of arguing, he simply slid them off.

“Eat,” I said.

After twirling the spoon a few more times, Eugene brought it to his mouth and slurped the soup.

“Don’t—,” I started, but I halted myself. All eyes looked at me expectantly. Eugene’s eyes didn’t look as fearful as they did
tired, as if all the family’s worries made him weary. It was not a look a seven-year-old should have.

“Never mind,” I said. My despair was worse than my pain. I couldn’t help Yussel. I couldn’t help Dottie. And now I was failing Eugene. Was I a failure as a woman?

Silence draped us. We all picked at the food, even Alfie, who usually couldn’t shovel it in fast enough. Looking at Eugene, I worried what would become of the boy. His life was too full of gloom for someone so small.

“I think there is cake for dessert. Perle brought over one of her special
babkas
,” I said, hoping to bring a smile to someone’s—anyone’s—face. But no one budged.

“Not really that hungry tonight,” Izzy said.

Eugene glanced up from his plate, and he looked around the table, staring each of us in our eyes, one after another. “Is that it?” he said. “Is that all? Isn’t anyone going to
do
something?”

Heshie, closest to Eugene, patted him on the back. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“But Dottie is going to leave if we don’t
do
something!” His voice tottered between baby and boy.

“Oh,
bubelah
,” I said. “Dottie is a wife now. She’s going to be a mother. Her place is no longer with us.”

Eugene threw his spoon across the table and shrieked, “Her place is with
me
!”

“Eugene!” Ben said sternly, but I shushed him.

“It’s okay. Eugene is angry. We are all angry.”

“Why did she do it?”

“She didn’t mean to,” I said. “Mistakes are sometimes made.” I thought of my own youthful escapades, of Shmuel, and I realized, if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. Shmuel was my mistake.
This
was my family. My love for them was infinite. And Dottie would feel that way for her own child, her own family. “But sometimes mistakes can end happily. Eugene, you will be an uncle.”

“I don’t want to be an uncle! I want to be a brother.” He jumped up from the table so fast his chair knocked over backward, and he ran to his room.

Dottie’s words echoed in my mind: Eugene was my baby; it was time for me to care for him. I needed to go after him. I needed to cuddle him and hold him tight and make him know he was still a brother and, more important, he was still my son.

As I stood, my abdomen shot with pain. I leaned on the table to hold myself upright.

Ben leaped up to help me. Placing my arm around his shoulder, he helped me toward our bedroom.

“Eugene,” I said.

“You need to lie down.”

I nodded. “I will lie down. Eugene.”

Ben shook his head, but he led me to the boys’ room. Eugene lay on the bed sobbing.

Carefully, Ben helped me down. He stood there, until I shooed him out.

Lying on top of the bedding, I stroked Eugene’s back. I wanted to pull him to me, but the pain was too great.

Eugene rolled toward me, but when he jostled the bed, I involuntarily moaned and he kept his distance. So instead of hugging him, I wrapped my arm around his neck, and he wrapped his about mine. We lay there, head touching head, just being. I stayed there until I heard his breathing steady and I knew he had fallen asleep. And then I stayed an hour more, stroking the head of my baby boy, before I allowed Ben to help me up and back into my own room.

Saturday, August 31

ON my second morning as a married woman, I again woke well before Willie. The sun streaming in gave me a contented feeling, but when I glanced at my husband, my mood soured.
Where did he go last night?
I wondered. After a torturous dinner with his parents—a
Shabbes
with no blessings, no
challah
, no candles—I was left alone in our grand room at the Hotel Pierre, where I put on my silkiest nightie, and tried to lie seductively on the bed as I flipped through magazines and listened to
Hollywood Hotel
on the radio. I don’t know when I fell asleep, and I don’t know what time Willie woke me with his hands sliding up my gown, but his rough passion was enough to temporarily quell my doubts.

At dinner, Willie’s manner had been polite, solicitous. His arm lay casually about my shoulders. He signaled for Fiona to offer me the serving plate first. When Mrs. Klein looked away, he rolled his eyes conspiratorially at me. A tiny thrill coursed through me when Willie spoke of “we.” “I am sorry you disapprove, Mother,” he said at one point, “but
we
have made our decision and that is final.” I smiled and nodded agreement at everything Willie said to rebut his mother’s endless complaints. The biggest benefit of leaving the country would be avoiding these horrific dinners with the Kleins, dinners we were apparently still expected to attend while in New York.

Yet, as dreadful as the evening was, Mrs. Klein did seem to be
warming up to me ever so slightly. Before the dinner, Mrs. Klein pulled me aside. “You’ll need a great deal to set up a house,” she said. She peeked into the hall to make sure no one was listening. “I’ve left word at my stores—Bonwit Teller, Lord and Taylor, Macy’s—that you may put things on my account.” She gave me a crafty look. “But don’t tell William or Mr. Klein. The accounts are sent straight to Mr. Klein’s moneyman. Mr. Klein has no idea how much I spend.” As chummy as we had been, though, it didn’t stop her at the meal from voicing her displeasure—again—about our traveling abroad.

Despite our pretense of wedded bliss, the moment we walked out of his parents’ apartment, he gave me a peck on the cheek, helped me into a cab, and was gone before I could even think to ask, “May I join you?”

The memory of our late-night passion, though, made his whereabouts less important.
He came home to me.
That’s a start. I just need to keep him coming home to me.

Well, I couldn’t stay in bed. I had
shpilkes
, ants in the pants. What was the point of lying in bed when all of New York was waiting for me? It would be one thing to laze about if Willie were awake to join me, to suggest ordering up room service and snuggling in bed, but given how late he’d come in, he would be asleep for a good many more hours.

Once more I found myself dressing alone. A day earlier Ma had reminded me of all the things I needed to do before my departure. Clothing purchased and altered. Basic kitchen supplies found. Towels, napkins, and other household linens. And with Ma still not feeling well, I needed to help with the boys. Not to mention that I still hadn’t told Linda and Edith what I had done. Best that I headed down to my parents’ apartment to begin the work at hand.

After making sure my hat was just so and my lipstick smoothly applied, I walked to the door. Something on the dresser, though, made me pause. Lying beside Willie’s money clip and handkerchief
was a blue-and-white zebra-striped matchbook. I’d recognize those stripes anywhere. I picked up the matches and turned it over in my fingers. The El Morocco. One of the swankiest clubs in town, where the rich and famous gathered. I’d always wanted to go there. Holding up the matchbook, I thought I smelled the faintest wisp of perfume. No, I told myself. Just the pregnancy playing tricks on my nose.

I set down the matchbook, glanced back at my husband, and left for what still felt like home.

•   •   •

CLIMBING down from the elevated, I surveyed the neighborhood I’d never thought I would miss. But seeing the families hastening to
shul
, the kids playing, the
goyishe
vendors hawking their wares, I was struck with nostalgia for a life I’d never thought I desired. Had I married Abe, this would have been my forever, and that had seemed just fine. Now, from my view as an outsider, it seemed even better. Compared with the cold formality of the Kleins’ dining room, the scene in front of me exuded life and warmth. My reverie was broken when a ball rolled into my foot, and a ragamuffin, no more than seven, came running up to grab it, with a mumbled,
“Zay moykul.”

This was what was going to set me off? I batted away the unwelcome tears, suddenly struck with an urge to find my brothers. A peek at my wristwatch reminded me that they should be at
shul
for the late
minyan
. I turned south, hurrying the few blocks down to our large synagogue, which dominated the block.

Inside it was bright, with a large, ornamental chandelier in the center of the sanctuary and stained-glass windows allowing in the summer light. The wood pews gave the room a pleasantly musky scent, and I was sorry I hadn’t come more often in recent years.

Climbing to the women’s balcony, I was so busy looking down at the men’s gallery to see if I could spy my brothers that at first I didn’t notice the women sliding away from me and covering their gossiping mouths with their prayer books. It was only when I
caught my name that I looked up. Disapproving stares followed my every move, and the women not-so-subtly skimmed their eyes down my body to peer at my belly. Several clicked their tongues.

I froze, unsure whether to give in to my humiliation and run from
shul
or stand my ground.

Before I could make a decision, I was saved by a firm hand on my elbow. “Dottala,” the voice said in a loud whisper. “Your mother sent you to get me? Thank you for coming.” And with that, Perle led me from
shul
as she shot a ferocious glance at the women who were still blathering.

On the street, I turned to Perle and asked, “How do they all know?”

Leading me back toward my parents’ home, Perle said, “How could they not know? That Molly Klein called around to check up on you. Mrs. Kaplan heard quite a bit through the apartment walls. Abe’s mother talks.”

How could I have been so naive as to think I’d escape undetected? Of course people knew.

As Perle led me home, every eye seemed to stare at me; every whisper sounded like tale-telling. The neighborhood, which a half hour before had felt like home, was now enemy territory.

Without thinking, I began to walk up the avenue toward Tenth Street, but Perle turned me onto Seventh so we would have to walk up First Avenue.

“This is the long way,” I said.

“Best we not go up Avenue A.” Perle’s voice was gentle.

Only for a moment was I befuddled. On Avenue A, close to Tenth Street, was the Rabinowitzes’ home and market, where Mrs. Rabinowitz often sat outside on a
Shabbes
, gossiping with passing neighbors.

Swallowing hard, I said, “Of course.”

With a knowing smile, Perle patted my arm. “This too shall pass.”

The tightness of my waistband and the heaviness of my bosom, though, belied the sentiment. Some things, I realized, never passed.