Up From Orchard Street (22 page)

Then the solution to the mail blinded me: I’d walk to the post office every morning. The sentence for the first card flew into my head. “In Connecticut, all the good things are everywhere.” Bubby would understand. Having decided what to write and how to mail it, I fell asleep.

13

All the Good Things

THE RATTLING OF our doorknob and the presence of Aunt Bea awakened us. “Breakfast is from 7:30 to 9:30. We’re starving.”

Jack turned over in bed and murmured, “What the hell is this, getting up with the chickens?”

Both Cousin Alice and Cousin Lenny appeared on the threshold perfectly attired in pressed overalls and white short-sleeved shirts. “I’ll take the children down if you want to sleep late,” said Bea, then added to Willy and me, “Put on your overalls and don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

Aunt Bea’s bossiness drove me crazy. If Uncle Geoff reminded me of the Ice Man, she was the Ice Pick that chipped away at us. In that sense they were perfectly mated: they thought they knew better than anyone how to behave and what was appropriate for what event. Though it hadn’t been that long since Uncle Geoff had left Jefferson Street, a few blocks away from Orchard, he treated us as if we were savages. I had no memory of Uncle Goodman ever being anything but kind and understanding about how we lived and why, but the Simons attacked our social limitations without cease.

From our suitcase I withdrew my overalls and handed Willy’s to him. The material was stiff, unyielding, rough. Willy attempted to thrust in one leg and withdrew it immediately. “It scratches. It feels terrible. I can’t wear them.”

Not fully awake, Lil had one arm over her eyes. “Willy, you’ll get used to them. Put them on.”

An opportunity like this sent Aunt Bea, who was waiting in the doorway, into the stratosphere. “Lil, didn’t you wash the overalls before you packed them? First of all, they have dirt on them from the store and second, the label says, ‘Wash at least twice before wearing.’ ”

Lil rolled over in bed. Jack reached for a cigarette and lit it. “Who reads labels?” Lil asked and added quickly. “I thought Manya would take care of it.”

Jack glowered at Bea. “Why are you making such a tsimmis over a pair of lousy overalls? If I had my way, I’d put a match to them this minute.”

Willy began to cry. “I can’t wear them.”

“Then wear your regular pants. Where is it written that because we’re in Connecticut boys have to dress like hicks?”

To avert a further scene, I slipped into mine. The stiff material itched and scratched. I could hardly take a step without being aware of it. I patted the right-hand pocket with confidence. Yes, my dollar was hidden there. Bubby had given it to me before we left. One dollar for me and another for Willy. It was a don’t-tell. If our mother suspected we had the money we wouldn’t see it again. A dollar each was a lot of money for us. I would wear these overalls from hell if only to protect my fortune.

Willy donned his pants from the night before and we left for breakfast with Aunt Bea. Midway down the stairs I remembered the postcard I meant to write to Bubby, and ran back. Behind the closed door I heard my mother laugh, “Jack, my heart!”

“When I get to your heart I’ll stop.”

Quickly I turned away.

Neither Hal Pankin nor Gabe Solomon appeared in the dining room. Instead, Margie, the day girl from the next farm, carried in the heavy trays from the kitchen.

Margie could have been fifteen or thirty. She had a broad face and a broad body, stocky, without a defined waist, and the straps of her bra dangled from the armholes of her cotton dress down her muscular arms. “Juice, cereal hot or cold,” she recited. “Farina or Rice Krispies or cornflakes. Any style eggs. Soft-boiled is the best, fresh from the farm.” She breathed heavily. “Potatoes, too. Best is country fried.”

Willy and I rarely ate breakfast, but we especially hated soft-boiled eggs, which my father called “snotty eggs.” On Sundays when Bubby cooked dairy, she would sometimes have a request for scrambled eggs. She beat them with her indispensable broken fork until bubbles formed on top, then added a dash of sweet cream and several chunks of cream cheese. She cooked the eggs over a low flame, stirring constantly. The result was a mountain of fluff, creamy, smooth and delectable enough to tempt us. Glancing at Margie’s tray, I could bet the scrambled eggs had been mixed in the pan, with the whites separated from the yolks. Cold cereal seemed our best bet.

One minute my parents lounged in bed, the next they were sitting at our table, my mother wearing striped wide-leg pants called daytime pajamas and a matching top. In their haste to join us my father had not slicked back his hair and it fell in its natural wave.

“Daddy, I love your hair.”

“For breakfast I decided to go native. Do they have any Danish?”

He repeated this to Margie who stared at him blankly. “Danish pastries,” my father said, “with coffee.” “Toast is all,” she finally replied. “All right,” Jack said with authority, “two eggs sunny side up, once over lightly. Country fries.”

We didn’t drink juice. Why I can’t tell you. Maybe because our apartment was too cold; maybe because my father hated pits and Bubby strained the squeezed orange pulp haphazardly. My mother ate sliced oranges midday, often with bread. For breakfast she drank coffee with something sweet from Bubby’s oven, or a slice of challah.

Captivated by the individual boxes of cereal that Margie brought to us, we couldn’t eat our cornflakes once we poured milk over them. “The milk smells,” I said. My father confirmed that milk straight from the cow had a funny taste and smell. The Simon children didn’t dare mention country milk, but Uncle Geoff told Margie in his usual stern manner, “City milk for our table from now on.”

The preparation of his eggs displeased Jack, but he loved the country fries. As soon as my mother reached for one, he lost his temper. He hated to have anyone eat from his plate. “Don’t do that again, Lil,” he commanded, but to soften his reproach he quickly ordered fries for the table. Since we had eaten little for dinner and rejected the cold cereal because of the milk, we gobbled up the round, thin, crisp potatoes, eating with our hands, ignoring our uncle’s stare of disapproval.

“Do you fry these in butter?” Lil asked Margie.

I could die of embarrassment from Lil’s questions.

“Erl,” Margie replied. “You can’t get ’em crisp from butter.” Beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. As she moved her arms the odor of cow’s milk emanated from her. Uncle Geoff’s nostrils twitched. “Do you help with personal laundry here?” he asked.

“Yes sir, but not on weekends.”

“Take care of some overalls when you have time.” He slipped a silver coin into her hand.

“Are the chicken and meat kosher?” Lil continued.

“We got a rabbi in Colchester. Everyone comes to him for the kosher stuff,” Margie answered.

As soon as I could, I fled. “I have to write to Bubby,” I explained, and ran up to our room, pulled out a postcard and scrawled, “I love Conn. The food is not too good. You see all the good things everywhere. Lovelovelove E.”

Slipping the card in my overall pocket, I went down the stairs, turned to the rear of the house and slipped out the back door. The trouser legs rubbed against my skin like sandpaper. I walked on the diagonal away from the hotel, climbing down a slight embankment until my Keds hit the dirt road. I craned my neck as I walked, searching for the barn that advertised books without finding it.

I felt lighthearted. It was a relief to be free of my parents and the Simon family, to be away from everyone, even Hal, whom I liked the best. I wondered what it would be like to live here the year-round. I devoured the sky, the greenery, the quiet, and when I walked for over half an hour and came to the village, tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t believe the green green lawns, the white storybook buildings. I found the post office and slipped my card into the red-and-blue mailbox.

Relieved, and mildly proud of having put my plan into action, I started back quickly. My unwashed trousers were killing me and I toyed with the idea of taking them off and walking in my underwear.

A car honked. I jumped to one side. The horn sounded again. Hal Pankin leaned out the window of his beat-up dusty truck. “Hey, what are you doing here all by yourself?”

Having seen his bare behind through the yellow light of the barn the night before made me feel close to him. I decided to be as honest as possible.

“I went to mail a postcard.”

“I saw you. Hop in.”

Easier said than done. A klutz like me couldn’t scramble up that high step to the seat beside him. Hal leaped out and lifted me up. “Hey, those overalls are stiff as cardboard.”

“They’re terrible.”

“We’ll be home in five minutes. Have Margie rinse them out for you.”

“She said she’s too busy weekends.”

“Yes, we have guests every Saturday, day people who drive up for our Saturday night dinners: fried chicken with honey, and fresh pies. I just ordered two dozen blueberry from Mrs. Eldridge.”

I almost said, “That’s the name of the street near where we live,” but didn’t.

“Did you know that we have a country mailbox right outside the hotel?”

“I wanted a walk, and I was looking for the barn that sold books.”

“Have you seen our library in the game room? It’s not great, but I think we have some Nancy Drews, some Bobbsey Twins.”

I didn’t mean to laugh out loud but I did.

“Don’t you like those books?”

“Aunt Bertha gave us a whole box when I had rheumatic fever. I read all of them three or four times. I read the Hardy Boys out loud to Willy.”

He slowed down and put his hand on my bony knee. “You had rheumatic fever? How did you get it?”

“After scarlet fever. Two doctors take care of me, Dr. Koronovsky and Dr. Scott Wolfson.” I always said “Scott Wolfson” as if it were one word.

The noisy truck shook on the bumpy dirt road. The stick shift wobbled.

“Have you read
The Secret Garden, Little Lord Fauntleroy
?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like
Treasure Island
?”

“No.” But Hal wasn’t really listening, thinking of something else, concentrating on the old rusty truck.

He yawned. “Your mother sings beautifully. And she’s very beautiful. Has she ever been on the stage?”

“I think she sang with the bouncing ball in movies. You know, at the singalongs. She stood near the piano and sang. My father sings, too.”

“So you’re a musical family?”

“I’m not musical, but Willy is a great whistler. He can whistle anything, even Caruso.”

He patted my head. “You’re a funny duck,” he said.

I waited before asking, “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Sybil.”

“I haven’t heard that name before.”

“Her mother read it somewhere. Gabe’s girl is Susan, Susan Bergen.”

Because he was sleepy, he didn’t pay attention to the large hole in the road. The truck bumped abruptly and tilted to one side.

He came wide awake, thrusting his arm to keep me from flying out of my seat. “Are you okay? Have you been hurt? Is your heart skipping a beat?”

“I’m fine. Just tired. I didn’t sleep much last night. Insomnia.”

“Insomnia?”

“You know, hard to fall asleep.”

“How come?”

I shrugged. “My grandmother, my father and I, we have trouble falling asleep. But I nap every afternoon.”

“You’re something else.” He ran his index finger over my thin cheeks. “Shall I take your pulse?”

“Because of this little bump? You can if you want to. Dr. Scott Wolfson, he does it all the time.”

“Is he a child specialist?”

“I think so. He wants to be a child psychiatrist.” I had a trick for remembering that word but Hal didn’t ask me about it. Instead, he started up the truck again. “Would you like to be a doctor when you grow up?”

“Never. Too sad. Lots of children die when there’s measles or scarlet fever. Now there’s polio.”

The silence between us grew uncomfortable. Then he asked, “Who takes care of you?” Since I had already mentioned my doctors, I assumed he meant the person in my family.

“My grandmother, she’s a chef. When I come home from school, I rest in bed and she brings me all of these wonderful things to eat. Baked goose livers, chestnuts, her own jam on warm kaiser rolls.”

“That sounds very cozy, very loving. I’m glad we made it home without having to push this heap of junk. Be sure to take off those hot overalls. Your legs need air. And get some rest before dancing. Dancing is in the dining room, a little exercise before lunch.”

I shook my head. “My mother loves to dance. She can dance with Cousin Alice. I think I’ll read upstairs.”

Instead of searching for a book in the library, I tore upstairs and pulled off the hateful overalls. My legs were covered with a rash. The room was quiet, clean and tidy. A miracle. My main concern was to hide my dollar bill. If I put it in my notebook it might fall out. I pushed the folded bill into one of my socks and fell on my parents’ bed. Then nothing.

I don’t know how long I had slept when a faint knock on the door brought me awake. Through the slits of my eyes I could see Hal and Gabe. Hal whispered, “She’s asleep. Look at the rash on her legs. I don’t think we should wake her for lunch.”

“Shall I tell her mother?”