Stealing Home (15 page)

With a huff, Bobbie stomped out. Quickly, Aunt Frieda finished mixing the cake and slid it into the oven, calling
out to Zeyde to keep an eye on it. Then she ran upstairs to change out of her housedress.

Fifteen minutes later they headed out, Bobbie in a red-and-white striped sundress – and her worn Keds – Aunt Frieda in a slim brown skirt and sleeveless white blouse, her hair tucked under a straw sunhat, Joey in a clean polo shirt and shorts. The heels of her brown-and-white pumps tapping on the sidewalk, Aunt Frieda smiled, first at one, then the other. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“Remember I told you Mr. Turchin was considering me for a promotion? Well, I got it – and a raise!”

“Wow! That’s swell, Aunt Frieda,” Joey said

“I told you you were good, Mama,” Bobbie said.

Aunt Frieda smiled. “Well … I guess Mr. Turchin thought so.”

“You’re too modest,” Bobbie said. “What’s your new job?”

“Office manager.”

“That sounds important,” Joey said.

“It’s more work, that’s for sure,” Aunt Frieda said. “I’m in charge of three people now.” She put her hand on her chest. “Imagine,
me
a boss.”

“Why not?” Bobbie said. “You know what you’re doing.”

“I suppose I do,” Aunt Frieda said. Then, “Sure I do!”
She giggled. “And you know what? Since I’m earning more, I just might treat myself to a new dress, or maybe that pretty hat I saw in Goldblatt’s window.”

“Big spender,” Bobbie teased.

Aunt Frieda laughed. She grabbed their hands and swung them. Joey swung back.

They turned onto Utica Avenue, and who should be coming down the street toward them but Eli Fishkin and Tommy Flanagan.

Uh-oh,
Joey thought, dreading the idea of being called names – or even having to fight – in front of Aunt Frieda. But the two boys quickly crossed the street.

Joey and Bobbie looked at each other across Aunt Frieda and burst out laughing.

“What?” Aunt Frieda said.

“Nothing,” Bobbie said, giggling.

Aunt Frieda looked from one to the other, shaking her head. “Kids!” she said, but she let it drop.

The cousins were still giggling as Aunt Frieda steered them into Grossman’s Children’s Wear. A portly man with wavy, reddish-blond hair approached them.

“Hello, Frieda, how are you?”

“Fine, Harry, how are you?”

He turned to Bobbie. “Roberta, you’ve shot up so, I wouldn’t have known you.”

“Hi, Mr. Grossman.”

Then to Joey. “And you must be Joey. Freddie’s told me all about you.”

Joey smiled uncertainly. “Freddie?” He took another look at the man. The chubby cheeks, the sprinkle of freckles. “Oh – Grossie.” Then he clapped a hand over his mouth.

The man laughed and his stomach bounced. “That’s all right. They called me Grossie when I was a kid, too, didn’t they, Frieda?”

“Sure did.”

“You knew each other?” Bobbie asked.

Aunt Frieda nodded. “We even dated in high school.”

“Dated!” Bobbie said.

“You betcha. Your mama was real sweet on me, too.”

“Mama!” Bobbie said with a mortified look.

Mr. Grossman laughed. “Until your daddy came along, that is. Then it was all over for me.”

“If you … if Mama …” Bobbie said, looking perplexedly from one to the other, “… I wouldn’t be here!”

“Or Grossie – I mean, Freddie – either,” Joey put in, trying to figure out what it would be like to have some weird combination of Bobbie and Grossie for a cousin.

“Right. So it’s good things worked out the way they did,” Mr. Grossman said. “Now, what can I do for you?”

In and out of dressing rooms, then over to the shoe rack at the back of the store. Bobbie complained about
every blouse and skirt and dress she had to try on, insisted on the plainest designs, refused anything with a bow or lace or flowers. But Joey loved everything – the soft cotton of the striped T-shirts, the crisp collars of the new button-down shirts, one a blue-and-white check, the other brown with a thin beige stripe, the sharp creases of the two pairs of pants – one brown and one blue – the gleam of his black-and-white Buster Brown saddle shoes with black-and-white laces. Aunt Frieda even bought them each a new pair of Keds, red for Bobbie, navy blue for Joey, which they put on right away. Laden with packages, they set off down the street.

Joey was surprised he didn’t sprout wings and fly away. So many swell new things. He’d just received more in an hour than Mama had bought him in a year. And it wasn’t just the
things
. It was being out with Bobbie and Aunt Frieda, greeting people, hearing the car horns and the chatter and the streetcar rumble, seeing what was playing at the Rialto, thinking about how he’d dirty up his new Keds the next time he and the fellas played ball.

They crossed the street. On the corner was Gershon’s. Bobbie tugged Aunt Frieda’s arm. “Since you just put us through torture, Mama, don’t you think you should make it up to us with ice-cream sodas?”

“That wasn’t torture –” Joey began, but Bobbie poked him.

Aunt Frieda smiled. “Oh, I suppose you could twist my arm.”

While she picked up some bath powder, Joey followed Bobbie to the soda fountain at the rear of the store. They sat on red-cushioned stools with chrome pedestals. Joey gave his seat a twirl. Last time he’d been to a soda fountain was a year or so ago. Mama had been in one of her good times. Joey remembered what fun they’d had, spinning on the stools. He’d had what he always had: a chocolate ice cream with chocolate soda. Mama had had coffee and chocolate, her favorite.

“Hey, Bobbie, got a date?” a voice said.

Behind the counter was a teenager in a white short-sleeved shirt with
Gershon’s
stitched on the pocket, a red bow tie, and a white soda jerk cap. He held an ice-cream scoop.

“Oh, Lenny, shush,” Bobbie returned. “This is no date, it’s my cousin.”

“Your cousin, huh? And does your cousin have a name?”

“Joey. Joey Sexton,” Bobbie said. “This is Lenny Gershon, Joey, and he’s a pain in the neck.”

Joey saw the resemblance to Mrs. Gershon in his green eyes. “But I make the best ice-cream sodas in Brooklyn, don’t I, Bobbie?”

“Yeah,” Bobbie admitted.

Lenny grinned. “Now, what can I get you?”

“A soda. Vanilla ice cream with chocolate for me,” Bobbie said. “How about you, Joey?”

“Chocolate-chocolate.”

“A chocolate nut, huh?” Lenny said.

Joey smiled. “Yup.”

Aunt Frieda came over and sat on the stool next to Joey.

“Hi, Mrs. Rosen, what’ll it be?” Lenny said.

“Chocolate soda with coffee ice cream.”

Just like Mama.

“Coming right up.”

Joey watched as Lenny chose three tall glasses and fixed the sodas. He topped them with whipped cream and maraschino cherries, put the glasses on small round saucers, placed a straw and a long-handled spoon on each dish, and lifted them to the counter.

“Ta-da!” he said.

Joey dug in. Ah, the froth of the whipped cream and the sweetness of the maraschino cherry, the nose-tickling tartness of the soda and the velvet richness of the chocolate …

For a while there was no sound but the slurp of soda and the clink of spoons on glasses.

“Good, Joey?” Aunt Frieda said.

Joey just sighed. Several minutes later, he tilted his glass to catch the last drops of soda, then put down his spoon.

“Want another, Joey?” Aunt Frieda asked.

He stared at her. “Could I?”

“Why not?”

’
Cause there’s not enough money,
he almost said, then caught himself. “Sure!”

“Me, too!” Bobbie said, tugging her mama’s sleeve.

Fifteen minutes later, they both pushed their plates away.

“I don’t think I can move,” Bobbie said.

“I’ll never eat again,” Joey said.

“That’s a shame,” Aunt Frieda said. “We’re having roast turkey and mashed potatoes and lemon cake for dinner.”

“Well… I might be able to manage by then,” Joey said.

“I don’t know, Joey, I wouldn’t want you to get sick,” Aunt Frieda teased.

No roast turkey and mashed potatoes and cake! Then Joey saw that she was hiding a smile. “Don’t do that to me, Aunt Frieda!”

She ruffled his hair.

When they went up to the front counter to pay, Mrs. Gershon greeted them. She touched Aunt Frieda’s hand. “I’m so sorry about Becky, Frieda.”

Aunt Frieda’s eyes filled with tears. “Thanks, Doris.”

Mrs. Gershon nodded at Joey. “He’s the image of her, though, isn’t he?

“Isn’t he just?” Aunt Frieda said, gazing at Joey as she wiped her eyes.

“Remember how she used to hate her hair?” Mrs. Gershon said.

Aunt Frieda laughed. “Do I! She used to say, ‘Make it lie down, Frieda, make it lie down!’”

“And all the girls drooled with envy over those curls.”

Aunt Frieda smiled. “Did we ever.”

“Remember that time she made me iron it?” Mrs. Gershon said.

“
Iron it?
” Bobbie asked.

“Yes,” Aunt Frieda said, laughing. “Doris – Mrs. Gershon – was babysitting, and Becky’s hair was particularly wild that day. Knowing Becky, she probably hadn’t combed it in days. Anyway, she begged Mrs. Gershon to iron it flat –”

“And I said, ‘I don’t think this is a good idea, Becky.’”

“But you couldn’t say no to Becky; no one could.”

Mrs. Gershon chuckled. “So I got out the iron and she laid her head down on the ironing board –”

“And there was this horrible burning smell –”

The two women were guffawing.

“And her hair stuck straight out, all frizzled –”

“And she went and washed it and it went back all curly again –”

“And the next day Mama said, ‘What’s the matter with my iron? It smells funny’”

Joey and Bobbie joined the laughter.

“Oh, God,” Aunt Frieda said, hand on her chest, “what a character.”

Another customer came along, so they said their good-byes and left. As soon as they got outside, Joey said, “Aunt Frieda? Tell me more about Mama.”

She smiled down at him. “Oh, Joey, she was the prettiest girl in Brooklyn.”

“You’re pretty, Mama,” Bobbie said loyally.

Aunt Frieda smiled. “Thank you, Bobbele.” She turned back to Joey. “But not like Becky. She was something special. She just had a spark. She was always laughing, always making other people laugh.”

“How?” Joey asked.

“Oh, she’d clown around, wearing our mama’s hats, or Zeyde’s big shoes, and sing silly songs. And the practical jokes …” Aunt Frieda shook her head. “One time, I guess I was about sixteen, so she would have been thirteen, I had my first tube of lipstick – Fire Engine Red, it was called, oh, what a color, like ripe tomatoes, I was so proud of it. I wasn’t even allowed to wear it yet, but I used to take
it out and look at it. The day came, I had my first date – it was with Harry Grossman, in fact – and Mama said I could wear my lipstick. At last! Carefully, carefully, I put it on. But it felt funny, kind of wet, so I reached out with my tongue. Blech! I spat all over the place. Becky had put ketchup in my lipstick tube!”

The three of them roared.

“What a devil,” Aunt Frieda went on. “How she used to make Daddy laugh.”

“Daddy? You mean Zeyde?” Joey said, incredulous.

Aunt Frieda nodded. “She was his girl.
Oy vey,
how he adored her. I was Mama’s favorite because I was like her, quiet and sweet. But Becky and Zeyde… For hours, she’d sit on his lap, and the roars that came out of those two….I’d be in the kitchen with Mama, helping her cook, and they’d be in the living room, he’d be tickling her feet, or she’d be teasing him. She used to imitate the way he scrunched up his face to shave – she got it perfectly, the way he pushed his nose aside – and you could hear her shrieks and his big belly laughs. Mama used to say, ‘They’ll bust a gut.’ That’s what she always said. ‘They’ll bust a gut.’”

She sighed. “But she had a temper, too, your mama did, Joey. Oh, boy, did she ever. That’s why she and Zeyde fought so much – they were too much alike.”

Again, Joey was incredulous. “Mama – and Zeyde – alike?”

Aunt Frieda nodded. “Like two peas in a pod. Hotheads.”

Now there was sadness in her voice, and Joey was almost afraid to ask. “What happened?”

A long silence. “Everything was fine until our mama died. I was seventeen, Becky only fourteen. After that… things just went wrong. Becky got wilder and wilder … and she kept getting in trouble … and Zeyde got more and more upset.”

“And then?”

There was an awkward pause. “And then she met your daddy and – and moved away.”

“And what?” Joey said. “
What?
”

“And then you were born,” Aunt Frieda said lightly, ruffling his hair.

“No! I mean when she moved away.”

“I don’t know, Joey. We lost touch.”

“But –”

“That’s enough now, Joey. You’re here now – that’s what matters.”

Tell me!
Joey wanted to shout, practically wriggling with frustration. He knew there was something Aunt Frieda wasn’t saying, and he longed to know.

But she looked so sad, he didn’t want to make her feel bad. And the way her mouth was set, closed tight, he didn’t think he’d get any more out of her anyway.

Reluctantly, he let it go.

They had walked the entire block, past Cohen’s Bakery, Stein’s Hardware, and Kaplan’s Produce, and had reached the corner. Aunt Frieda turned right.

“Where are we going, Mama?” Bobbie asked.

“Oh, I just want to stop at Yanofsky’s and get Zeyde some of those kosher pickles he loves.”

Yanofsky’s.

Joey’s heart started pounding. He didn’t want to set foot in there.

“Uh … Mama … couldn’t you go another time?” Bobbie asked.

“We’re right here, Bobbie. It’ll only take a minute.”

Joey followed her inside.
I’ll hold my tongue,
he vowed,
no matter what Mrs. Yanofsky says. I wont shame Aunt Frieda. Not after all she’s done for me.

But it was hard, because the minute they entered the store, the gossip started.

“Don’t look now, but Frieda Rosen just came in with her
schvartze
nephew….” Mrs. Yanofsky’s shrill voice carried across the store.