The Two-Family House: A Novel (7 page)

“My girlfriend Pamela and I met for lunch and a matinee on Saturday. They were showing
The Red Shoes
.” She sighed. “It was such a wonderful film, Mort. Just lovely. Have you seen it?” Mort shook his head. Why did she feel the need to suffocate him with the specifics of her weekend?

“No? You really should take Rose to see it one of these days. Maybe try to have a night out before the baby comes.”
The baby.
There it was. He braced himself for the inevitable interrogation.

“How is Rose feeling?”
What is it about pregnancy that makes people so comfortable prying into personal matters?

“She’s fine.”

“When my sister was pregnant, she was sick every day. I’m so glad Rose is having an easy pregnancy.”

It might be easy for Rose
,
Mort thought, but it certainly isn’t easy for me. He was having difficulty keeping the “smile” on his face.

The phone rang and Sheila stopped stirring her coffee. “Sorry, Mort, I have to grab that. Can’t keep the customers waiting!” She was back to her desk in a flash.

Mort exhaled. He filled his coffee cup. It had taken several weeks for him to learn that if he filled his cup at the beginning of a conversation, his coffee would most likely be cold by the time he returned to his desk. Is this what office pleasantries had come to? Wasting time
and
cold coffee? He was relieved his conversation with Sheila was finally over. He would go back to his desk and decide exactly how to score it. It was lucky for him that the phone had rung when it did.

Chapter 12

ROSE

From the minute Rose got out of bed that morning, she felt changed, lighter somehow. Mort had gotten up early to go to Philadelphia with Abe, and the whole day lay ahead of her, unencumbered. Once the children were off to school, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Mort was always gone by this time of the morning, so the day shouldn’t have felt different from any other. But it did.

The first thing she realized was that she didn’t have to make pot roast for dinner. It was Wednesday, and Wednesday night was pot roast night, at least according to Mort. If something else was served, or if she made pot roast on a Saturday instead, Mort would be visibly disappointed. His absence freed her of this restriction.

It came to her then, pot roast and enlightenment entwined: the reason
why
Mort’s absence affected her so. She hadn’t known what it was until it wasn’t there. The daily dread of being judged, of being measured and found lacking in some way, no matter how small, was a burden she carried, compact and profound. It was a too-heavy purse, worn and comfortable on her shoulder, which she did not know the weight of until she set it down.

Ever since Judith was born, Rose realized, Mort had been struggling to maintain control. He could not manipulate the outcome of her pregnancies, and he could not change their daughters into sons. Faced with these setbacks, he was determined to control whatever else was left—what their girls were allowed to read, what they wore, where they went, how much affection he would show to his wife and, though it seemed trivial, even what Rose made for dinner.

Rose opened up the cabinet next to the sink and took out her mother’s recipe box. The box was yellow painted tin, with black and red flowers etched onto the sides. The top was copper, faded with brown spots or stains. Some of the recipes were typed onto cards, and some were handwritten on scraps of paper. Others were just torn pieces of magazine pages, folded haphazardly and stuffed inside. None of the recipes was in any particular order, and every time Rose looked through them, she had to spend at least ten minutes searching for the one that she wanted.

That was the fun of it, though. The recipe box was the only part of her mother that Rose had left. When her mother died, Rose didn’t care about the jewelry. All Rose really wanted was the box. Their mother rarely wore her earrings or necklaces, but Rose knew she had opened the recipe box almost every day. To Rose, it was her mother’s touchstone, and she was certain it had absorbed a small part of her mother’s essence. Sometimes, Rose talked to the box as if her mother were inside it, like a genie in a bottle.

She thumbed through the recipes, looking for something to make for the girls that night. Salmon croquettes? Too messy. Chicken Marbella? Too complicated. She remembered there were lamb chops in the freezer, but she just couldn’t bring herself to defrost them.

Rose was halfway through the box when her fingertips came upon a white recipe card with frayed edges. The blue printing across the top read, “From the Kitchen of Sylvia Pelt.” It was a recipe for cheese blintzes, and Rose’s mouth started watering as soon as she saw it. Sylvia had been her mother’s good friend.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had made blintzes. They were time-consuming and complicated. Plus, Mort didn’t like them. And even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t approve of having them for dinner. Rose remembered one night years ago when all the girls were recovering from the flu and she had made them scrambled eggs and toast for dinner.

“What is this?” Mort had grumbled as soon as he sat down.

“Eggs. The girls don’t feel well and the doctor said to give them something plain when they felt ready to eat again. Eggs and toast is the right thing for them to eat.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m sorry, Mort. I’ll make chicken and dumplings tomorrow. It just seemed like a waste to make it today.”

“No, tomorrow is pot roast night.”

That was how she knew he expected certain dishes on certain days. And that breakfast food wasn’t to be served for dinner. Oh, there were variations for sure. But they weren’t usually successful. He would give her a look, close a door too hard or do something else to let her know he wasn’t pleased.

She had to admit that Mort had been kinder lately, more attentive, caring. He was no longer indifferent to her. But it wasn’t enough. Mort’s efforts were because of the new baby—her biggest test yet. If she failed, she knew what it would do to him this time, and what that, in turn, would do to her. It wouldn’t be like making eggs for dinner or having pot roast on the wrong night of the week. He would never forgive her. “This has to work out,” she said to the recipe box. Rose tried to imagine her mother in miniature, dressed like a genie in harem pants and scarves, but all she could come up with was a vision of her in a housecoat and apron. Whatever her mother was wearing, Rose hoped she was listening. She rubbed the tin box a few times, for luck.

Chapter 13

HELEN

(December 1947)

Why did Abe have to go away today? Over the past few months Helen had grown accustomed to his new schedule of traveling to Philadelphia every two or three weeks. It wasn’t so terrible—he’d stay for one night and she could get a good night’s sleep without listening to his snoring. But today she wasn’t happy about it. It was late December and the weathermen were saying a storm was coming. The idea of Abe driving that far in the snow made her nervous, and the whole thing was giving her heartburn. Of course, everything gave her heartburn now. She was due in less than a month, and whatever food she ate seemed to rest in her esophagus. Today was worse than usual.

Helen had terrible indigestion when she was pregnant with the twins. It intensified right before she went into labor, so that she couldn’t eat anything for a few days before she gave birth. She looked up at the clock. It was 10:37. The boys had left for school a few hours ago. By now she was usually sitting at the kitchen table having a mid-morning snack. But she wasn’t hungry, and the thought of eating made her queasy. She decided to bring one of the cinnamon coffee cakes she had made last night down to Rose.

When Judith answered the door instead of her sister-in-law, Helen was surprised.

“Hi, honey. Why are you home from school? Aren’t you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Judith. “Mom asked me to stay home. She said she didn’t feel well and she didn’t want to be alone. In case something happens with the baby.”

Helen felt that all-too-familiar wave of jealousy again. She wasn’t feeling so great either, but the idea of asking Harry or Joe to stay home with her had never even entered her mind.

“Well, I brought you a cake,” she said, handing it to Judith. “I’ll go say hi to your mom. Is she in her room?” she asked.

“Yes, she’s lying down. She’s really tired.”

Rose was sitting up in bed and knitting, but she frowned when Helen came into the room. “Helen! You’re supposed to be resting! What are you doing here?”

“Why didn’t you call
me
this morning? I would have stayed with you.”

“Yesterday you were having heartburn—I thought you’d be in bed too.”

Helen laughed, but there was an edge of bitterness to it. “Who can stay in bed with the boys screaming all morning? Stay right there—I’m bringing you a slice of cake.”

A few minutes later, Helen was sitting on the edge of Rose’s bed watching her eat. “You’re having cake and I’m not hungry,” she observed. “That’s a switch! There’s definitely something strange going on here.”

“Maybe it’s the weather,” Rose said. They both turned then to look out the window, where the sky was growing paler, and the snow was falling faster. When she finished the cake, Rose put the plate on her nightstand. She didn’t want to think about the weather any more than Helen did. “Want to see what I’m working on?” She held up two baby blankets and matching hats. One set was pink and the other blue. Helen held out her hands for them. “They’re so soft!” she said. “Oh Rose, they’re beautiful. You’re so smart to make one of each, just in case.”

Rose didn’t understand. “Just in case?”

“So you have the right color no matter what. I’m so lazy; I would have picked yellow yarn. That way, you’d only have to make one set and it works, no matter what.”

“One is for you—the pink set. The blue set is for me.”

Helen could tell from the look on Rose’s face that she shouldn’t argue. She let the issue drop. “You’re nesting, that’s all. Me too, only I’ve just been cooking like crazy. That’s why I was baking coffee cakes at midnight.”

Rose laughed. “Midnight!”

“Yes,” Helen admitted. “I made three kugels too. I’ll send one down later.”

Rose squeezed Helen’s hand. “Stay with me awhile, okay? I’m not feeling well again.” She leaned her head back against the pillow and took a deep breath.

“Is it starting?”

“It can’t be. It’s too early still.” Rose closed her eyes.

“Should I call the doctor? Or do you want me to call Philadelphia and see if I can leave a message for Mort and Abe? Maybe they should come back tonight?”

“No. Let’s wait.”

Helen looked out the window. She didn’t want to tell Rose, but the wind was picking up.

She patted Rose’s hand. “We’ll just wait together.”

Chapter 14

HELEN

The morning wore on, with both snow and pains holding steady. Rose was happy to have Helen’s company, though she told her to go back upstairs after lunchtime.

“I’m fine. You should go. Nothing is happening. I think the pains have stopped.”

Helen asked again about whether she should call their husbands in Philadelphia, but Rose insisted she shouldn’t.

“Are you sure? What if you go into labor?”

“I won’t.”

“Do you want me to call the doctor at least? So he can meet you at the hospital?”

“I’m not going to the hospital
now,
Helen. I’m not due for three weeks and the girls were all late! I’m going to have a nice, normal day and I’m not going to interrupt it with expensive long-distance phone calls and hospitals. I’ll be fine.” Helen had never seen Rose so adamant. She was afraid to contradict her.

At three-thirty the kids came home from school. Helen opened Rose’s front door and called to the boys to let them know she would be upstairs in a few minutes. The girls came inside, squealing when they saw the cinnamon cake on the counter. “Girls, your mother doesn’t feel well. You have to promise me that you’ll be good today. No whining and no crying. You need to help take care of her.”

“Yes, Aunt Helen,” they chorused.

Helen took Judith aside before she went upstairs. “If anything changes, come up and get me right away.”

Judith was worried. “You don’t think the baby is coming, do you?”

Helen tried to be reassuring. “Everything will be fine, honey. Your mother and I have had seven babies between the two of us. We know how to handle this. You don’t need to worry.”

Upstairs, a pile of schoolbags and books greeted Helen at the door. The younger boys were scavenging in the cabinets, looking for something to eat.

“We’re starving! There’s no food!”

“What about that bowl of apples right there?” She pointed to a yellow bowl on the table, full of Granny Smiths. “Where’s Harry?”

“In his room,” Sam told her. “He said he doesn’t feel good.”

“You boys start your homework. I’ll go check on him.”

“But, Mom! We want to go out in the snow first!” said Joe.

“Mrs. Connors said we’re going to have a blizzard!” said Sam.

“Nonsense,” Helen insisted. That was the last thing she wanted to hear. “You can go outside now but just for an hour. It’ll be dark by then and I want you all back home.”

“We will!”

“One hour. And put on your hats and your gloves. And your boots! It’s freezing out!”

The boys rushed to find everything they needed and ran outside. Helen went to go check on Harry.

She knocked on the door of the room that Harry shared with Sam. She pushed the door open to find Harry lying on his bed. His back was to her.

“Are you sleeping?”

“Nope.” Harry didn’t move.

“Are you sick?”

“Nope.”

Helen felt her frustration rise. She knew teenage boys weren’t much for conversation but the monosyllabic responses were getting on her nerves.

“Harry, what’s going on? You never lie down in the middle of the day.”

He must have shrugged his shoulders, but it was hard to tell because he was lying down. “I’m going to go start on dinner. If you want to talk, I’m in the kitchen. Your brothers are out in the snow, so nobody’s here except you and me.” She was closing the door when Harry sat up.