He thought it all a tremendous lark.
I was only fifteen minutes late getting back to my post, but I was called in by the supervisor and dismissed. She didn't give me the chance to explain myself, and just as well because I'm not sure what I could have said.
I wasn't sorry. I had still had no lunch, my head was spinning, and I felt in need of washing and changing my clothes. I was also eager to talk things over with Bernie. Ursula said she had talked of getting her hair finger waved, so I might try looking for her at Regine's Salon.
“Not sticking at the job, Poppy?” she said. Ursula always was a Goody Two-shoes.
I said, “The hours are discommoding me. And anyway, I'm probably getting married.”
That silenced her.
I found Bernie just finishing up at Regine's. Can't say I cared for her new look.
I said, “Let's go get cake and tea. I think I just lost my virginity.”
The
styliste
gave me a pretty cool stare considering I hadn't been addressing her.
Bernie said, “Want to wait till I'm out of this chair?” She turned to the girl. “Cancel my manicure,” she said. “Something came up.”
It was a raw afternoon. We ran in arm in arm, too cold to talk until we were snug and warm at a corner table in Sadie's. Then I told all.
“On your first date!” she said. “My, aren't you the fast one! Was it wonderful?”
I wasn't sure what kind of wonderful it was meant to be.
I said, “I haven't been too modern, have I?”
“No, no,” she said. But I wasn't convinced she was being candid with me. “Did you really go all the way?”
That was just the problem. I had pieced together certain facts given me by the Irish, after I discovered my sister was with child, but I still wasn't absolutely sure what “all the way” involved. I hesitated.
She said, “Poppy, did you lie on a bed?”
We had lain on a bed.
She lowered her voice. “And did you take off your bloomers?”
Gil had partially removed my bloomers but then lost patience.
“Did it hurt?” she asked.
“Not at the time,” I said, “but I'm feeling awful sore now, and I have a hole in my stockings.”
She dipped a macaroon in her tea.
“I think you went all the way,” she decided. “Did he tell you he loved you?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“And is he real handsome? And rich?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “And he wears a scrumptious cologne.”
I didn't tell her he had stolen a necktie from Macy's.
“Gracious, Poppy,” she said, “now you're a woman of the world. When do I meet him? Is he taking you out dancing tonight? Oh do bring him to the Keynote. I can't wait to see him.”
But Gil hadn't offered to take me dancing, or anything else that night. He had told me to expect him at the Belleclaire the next afternoon at three o'clock.
Bernie frowned. “That's not so good. No dancing, no dinner. I'd hate to think he was two-timing you. Are you sure he's not married or anything?”
This hadn't occurred to me. But he hadn't
seemed
married.
I said, “Oh no. And he was most particular to find out whether I had another beau.”
“That's irrelevant,” she interrupted. “It's his situation I'd like to know about. Where does he live?”
And there she had me, because in our haste Gil had forgotten to tell me his address.
“Washington Square,” I said. It seemed like the kind of place he might live.
“Hmm,” she said. “Well, when he turns up tomorrow,
if
he turns up tomorrow, you're to tell him you expect dinner, and dancing at the Keynote, and flowers and new stockings, and his card, so we know what number Washington Square. And you mustn't let him go all the way every time because men soon take these things for granted. And when you do, be sure to douche. You did douche?”
“Oh yes,” I said.
Bernie finished the macaroons. I had lost my appetite, even though I had gone without lunch.
“I wonder,” she said, “if I went back to Regine's now, whether they'd do my nails after all?”
I went home and searched along my fifteen yards of books for something that might explain about douching, but I found nothing but dry old stories. So I took a scented bath, put on one of my new little skirts that swung as I walked, and went downstairs for grilled turbot and blueberry pie.
Gil was thirty-five minutes late for our appointment, but as soon as he walked in, raccoon collar coat slung around his shoulders, I felt he was worth the wait. His face was icy cold and smooth when I kissed it. He had no beard to speak of.
Bernie had instructed me there was to be no more squeezing and carrying on until certain matters were clarified, such as when he would be taking me to dinner and where, but he would have his way and that second time I was left in little doubt that we had gone as far as it was possible to go. I even found it a little thrilling myself.
“Poppy,” he said afterwards, gazing at my bookshelves, “you're not an intellectual, I hope. I'm something of one myself, but I don't find it agreeable in a girl.”
I was pretty sure I wasn't an intellectual. I had lost my taste for looking at books the day I lost my pa.
I said, “No, I'm modern and fun-loving and rich.”
He chuckled. “You're a caution,” he said. “Just how rich are you?”
I mixed us a Gibson kind of cocktail, except that I had omitted to have ice sent up, or to buy glasses, so we had to drink it out of teacups, and then I settled down to tell him all about Grandpa Minkel, and the factories in Blue Grass, Iowa, churning out all that ballpark mustard and money.
He said, “Is that right? And do you have to go out there, inspect your mustard fields, count your money once in a while?”
I had not really thought much about the mustard fields. All I knew was, Minkel's Mighty Fine got turned into money and then it was sent to banks and railroad companies and steel mills where it was turned into even more money. Finally it got sent to Uncle Israel, who had explained all this, and then he passed it along to me and Honey, and some to Ma too, I suppose, although she had her new husband paying for her gowns.
I said, “No, I never was there. I haven't started my traveling yet. And we were never allowed when we were children. My aunt Fish reckoned it was best to stay away from Iowa if you wanted to go up in New York society.”
“Ask me,” he said, “you can't have much higher to climb. If the dollar is king, you must be a princess at least.”
Ever after that he called me Princess.
I said, “Can we go dancing?”
“We can do anything you choose,” he said. So I chose for us to go to Sherry's for supper and then onto the Keynote to see Bernie and learn how to do the chicken-flip.
I said, “I want you to meet my friend Bernie. She's Irish, but not the unfortunate kind.”
I snuggled against him, reveling in the wonder and completeness of him. I'd known men were different to women, and now I really understood. With Gil I experienced the same pleasant shock as the first time I touched a frog.
I said, “Tell me about your folks. Are you terribly rich, too?”
“No,” he said, sipping on his gin, “I'm just a poor struggling poet.”
I remarked that he wore very good shoes, for a pauper. They were a gift, he said, from a kind widow woman whose husband had died leaving unworn shoes of the exact same size as Gil's feet.
“What luck,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Once in a while fortune smiles on me.”
I said, “Did you bring me a book of your poems? Did you write a poem about me yet?”
He sighed. “If only it were that simple, Princess,” he said. “You don't just sit down and write a poem. And as for bringing out books, that's a costly business.”
I said, “Well, when we're married you'll have enough money to bring out a hundred books. Recite me one of your poems. Recite me your best one.”
“There you go again,” he said, sliding off the bed and buttoning up his pants. “My poems are not really the kind for reciting. They're more for reading quietly and thinking on and absorbing into your heart and soul.”
I said, “And will you bring me some? When you come calling for me tonight?”
“Sure,” he said. “About this dinner. Are we talking about real fancy prices?”
He looked so pained, I could have kicked myself for putting him in such a humiliating position.
I said, “We don't have to go to Sherry's. Why don't you take me to your favorite. I'd like that.”
“No, no,” he said. “I'm sure I'll love Sherry's. I'm just a little out of funds this week.”
“Then it's my treat,” I said. “And I won't hear another word about it. Where exactly is your house? Can I come and see it tomorrow?”
My telephone rang. It was the doorman.
He said, “Miss Minkel, I have a young gentleman down here, says he's your brother.”
I made him wait while I pulled down my camisole. Sometimes I understood why Ma had resisted the telephone for so long.
I said, “I don't have a brother.”
“Madam,” he said, “I'm sorry to insist but this young person is asking for you most particular and I should prefer not to have him thronging my lobby.”
Then I heard Murray's voice crying, “I
am
her brother. I am.”
This was quite maddening. His visit was uninvited and ill-timed, and he had also placed me in the position of having to explain myself to a doorman.
I gestured to Gil to pass me my bloomers.
I said, “Perhaps you meant to announce my stepbrother, which is quite a different matter.”
“Of course, Miss Minkel,” he said. “It'll be your stepbrother then. I'm sorry for any misunderstanding.”
“You may send him up,” I said, “but not immediately. In five minutes' time. I'm momentarily unable to receive company.”
Gil said, “I'll slip away down the stairs.”
He had his coat on already.
I said, “But we haven't made our plans for this evening. Shall you pick me up in your motor or shall we take a taxicab?”
“A cab,” he said. He was on the point of leaving without even giving me a farewell embrace. I straightened the coverlet on the bed and checked the looking-glass that I wasn't in disarray.
I said, “Why the hurry? Murray's just a silly boy, but you may as well meet him. Darling, I want us to know absolutely everything about each other.”
I had been longing to try out the word “darling,” and when I did, I loved the sound of it.
“Tonight,” I said. “Shall we say seven o'clock? Darling, do you have a tuxedo?”
He said he did have a tuxedo, given him by a kind friend who had given up the high life and who, most conveniently, was the same size.
Then Murray commenced hammering on the door and wouldn't stop until I opened it. He appeared not to notice Gil. He walked right in, eyes red from crying, and handed me a small potted plant. It had dark, glossy leaves.
“It's a lemon tree,” he said. “It's for you.”
I said, “You should have called ahead. You can't just turn up and expect it to be convenient.”
His face fell.
“Don't you like your lemon tree?” he said.
I said, “Now, Murray, please say how-de-do to Mr. Gilbert Catchings.”
“How-de-do,” he said. “Poppy, that Dorabel says I have to go to the B'nai Brith program every day, but I don't, do I? Auntsie never made me.”
Murray was on school vacation and Ma was keen for him to be profitably occupied and not mooning around, being disagreeable and preventing her from playing canasta.
I said, “You mustn't call her That Dorabel. You have to call her Step-Ma. She's your new mother so you'd better get along with her.”
Gil was edging out of the room.
“Seven, then,” he said.
“Seven,” I said. “And don't forget those poems.”
I turned my attention to Murray. He was wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“I don't want a new mother,” he sobbed. “What will Momma say when she comes back?”
I said, “Now stop that! You know she's not coming back. She's been dead even longer than my pa.”
He punched me, hard as he could, which wasn't very hard at all.
“You're a liar,” he said. “A rotten liar. She's coming back just as soon as her pains get better.”
Poor Murray. When she died, he had been too young for the facts, and by the time he was old enough, everyone else had picked themselves up and ceased talking about it.
I said, “Was your momma beautiful?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Very beautiful.”
I said, “Can I see her picture?”
But he didn't have one. Not next to his heart, nor even on his night table at home.
I said, “You should have a picture. Ask your daddy to give you one. I have a picture of my dead pa. Would you care to see it?”
He quieted down while I brought out the silver gelatin print. It had been a portrait of Ma and Pa, but I had cut Ma off in a fit of pique one time.
“See?” I said. “That was my pa. But he died, so now I just have his picture to look at.”
He said, “But how do you know he died? Did you see him with his eyes closed?”
So I told him about the sinking of the
Titanic,
and then I told him what I had heard about the death of his mother.
I said, “A person doesn't stay away all those years. Not if they love you. Not if there's any way for them to come back. I know it's hard, but there it is. We're in the same fix, Murray, except I have a picture to look at.”
He listened to me intently and I stopped feeling mad at him for interrupting my afternoon of love. He had been waiting ten years for his momma to appear and no one had done him the kindness of taking him to her graveside or showing him a portrait.
I said, “Now why don't you want to go to the B'nai Brith vacation program? I'm sure they do exciting things.”
He said he didn't like the other boys. He said he didn't like folk dancing.
I said, “There must be other activities. What about learning Hebrew? I wish I could have learned Hebrew.”
“You're a girl,” he said. “And anyway, I already know Hebrew. We have to visit a matzo factory.”
I said, “And if you stay at home what will you do all day?” I suspected this was the kind of thing a mother might say. And although Ma had previously been a great believer in staying aimlessly at home, avoiding the stimulation of novelties, she appeared to have revised her opinion since gaining a son.