Up From Orchard Street (33 page)

The remark sent Estelle into peals of laughter.

Lil had excluded herself from the conversation during this exchange, but then she was able to say, “I miss everyone from Colchester every day.”

“I do, too. I can’t explain why it was so magical, but when I’m home, I think of something that we said or did and tears come to my eyes. It’s like missing a youthful lover, a first love.”

I saw Estelle’s eyes mist over. I wondered if she and Lil would burst out crying. Estelle pulled herself together. From her brown luxurious purse—not like the stuff from Goodman’s factory—she withdrew a packet of photographs. “I had these made for you. They’re from the performance of the Pankin’s Follies. We won’t ever forget that evening.”

I prayed that Lil’s hand wouldn’t shake as she reached for the photographs. We leaned our heads together to study them.

There I stood with my toothpick legs, my too-short dress, my skinny arms stretched wide. And Lil, hands crossed against her chest, showing her teeth, not smiling; and there were Hal, Gabe, Ronny, the med students with their crazy wigs and hairy legs, doing the cancan; and Jack, the impresario, his hair slick, responding to applause. Maurey gazed at someone off camera with eyes of adoration.

“Oh, I look terrible,” Lil cried, though she meant the opposite.

“We adore these pictures,” Estelle said. “We put them in a large frame on the piano. That’s why I couldn’t sleep last night, imagining this moment.”

Lil sighed softly, genuinely and deeply moved. I was on the verge of tears myself. The loss of that summer lay deep within my chest. Whatever we spoke about at lunch had small meaning compared to these photographs. “I’m almost crying from happiness,” Lil said, doing her best to pull herself together.

“This summer we’ll be happy again, we will, we surely will,” Estelle repeated.

We had difficulty saying good-bye. We stood hugging and kissing in the lobby of the Plaza, like loved ones about to depart on a long journey. We thanked Estelle for the lunch, for her friendship, for the photographs.

After one last kiss we stepped outside. Abe was waiting for us, his new cab parked in a line of black city cars and limos. We waved again to Estelle and blew kisses. The moment we sank into the backseat, Lil rifled through the photos until she found the one of Maurey staring off camera, his face transformed with admiration. No longer aware of me, Lil pressed the picture to her lips.

19

Dire Times

HAVING WORKED AT Saks on Saturday and been through an emotional afternoon at the Plaza with Estelle on Sunday, Lil expressed her fatigue on Monday by sighing and repeating, “I’d give anything for a nice hot shower.” Since it was Jack’s Monday off, he had an inspiration.

“Lil, let’s check into the Astor Hotel, take a long soak in their big bathtubs, nuzzle a little, sleep a lot and then in the evening see a show or a movie. We’ll stay overnight, have breakfast at Bickford’s and come home.”

“Go, go,” Bubby urged. “A one-night honeymoon is perfect after working so hard.”

She choked down her disappointment when Lil replied, “I’m not up to it today. It’s hard for me to put one foot in front of the other. My throat hurts. Maybe I should paint it with tincture of iodine.”

The cover of the iodine bottle refused to budge. Lil tapped the bottle on the sink and it cracked to pieces. Shards of glass coated with brown sludge lay underfoot. She left it for Clayton to clean and staggered into bed.

Jack’s prescription for mild illness was to apply himself as often as possible to his wife’s body. Bubby closed the bedroom door.

But in spite of administering what Jack called “the best medicine in the world,” Lil remained unresponsive and silent. On Tuesday, still lethargic, she managed to eat and drink small portions of what Bubby hand-fed her.

On Wednesday, with some effort, she bathed and went off to Saks. Willy complained about not feeling well either and Bubby urged him to stay home. But for once Willy resisted the idea. He had a geography test and he could ace geography because of our electronic game and his large puzzle of the map of the United States.

Clayton and Bubby went off for the daily shopping and when they returned, Bubby cooked while Clayton swept the rug with kosher salt, set up two or three card tables, covered them with fresh linen and pried open the windows an inch to allow fresh air into the dining room for a few minutes.

Whenever the program changed at Loew’s Canal, Clayton went to see the new movies in the late afternoon. Bubby had devised a special arrangement with the management because Negroes were not permitted. In exchange for tons of food for the ticket-taker, Clayton occupied the last seat in the back row, where the screen appeared slanted.

His kitchen chores finished, he had just started out the door for the movies when Moe from The Grand Canal shouted from the downstairs entrance that Willy had fainted on the sidewalk on Canal Street in front of the fruit pushcart. Clayton leaped down the stairs, racing with the wind. He brought Willy home in his arms shouting as he entered, “Bubby, he’s a brenfire!”

Bubby found the family thermometer, as distinct from Jack’s, snug in his vest pocket. She put her head to Willy’s bony chest. His nonstop wheezing made her wonder how long he could keep the thermometer in his mouth. Though he coughed it up in less than a minute, it already read 103. She did her best to arrange what she called her “poker-lady face” and said “Nisht geferlach.”

She fetched the ephedrine for his wheezing and found one of Dr. Koronovsky’s bromides wrapped in wax paper. Willy managed to keep both down before he coughed until he vomited. Eyes closed, his wheeze sounded like a death rattle. She was about to phone Dr. Scott Wolfson, still not grasping the calamity, when she heard Lil calling to her from the living room, “Ma, I’m sick. I had to leave work. Ma, I think I’m going to faint.”

Clayton carried Lil into the bed with Willy. She was almost as hot as her son. “Is it your throat?” Bubby depressed Lil’s tongue with the end of a dessert spoon, and saw purple tonsils surrounded by greenish fluid. The spoon landed in the sink in an unwashed soup pot.

I slid into the apartment from school, my breath hot, my head heavy. Yellow squiggles danced in front of my eyes. Bubby said, “Clayton, let’s make night.”

We had acquired a sign that read Open on one side and Closed on the other. Clayton thumbtacked the Closed sign on the door, not for the customers, but to keep the neighbors at bay.

In the confusion Clayton phoned Dr. Koronovsky but forgot to leave our name or phone number. Bubby fared no better when she tried Dr. Wolfson’s service. “Willy Roth is very sick. The doctor should come right now.” The service assured her that Dr. Wolfson would answer his messages soon. He didn’t call back.

A Dr. Solomon had taken on some of Dr. Koronovsky’s practice. Bubby found his number. His wife answered in Yiddish, “Alle menschen zynin kronk.”

Jack staggered in next and fell beside Lil, incapable of moving. Clayton undressed him. For the rest of the long night Bubby didn’t enter the bedroom. She devoted herself to Willy, sponging him, rocking him in her arms, holding him up to the steaming tea kettle.

At five in the morning she tried Dr. Wolfson’s home number. He answered on the first ring.

“Willy. Wheezing, 106. I called and called. You didn’t answer.”

“Oh, my God, I’ll be right over. Manya, don’t cry, I’m on my way.”

Clayton took to the dark sidewalk with his flashlight. Dr. Wolfson must have sped through the streets because he reached us in very little time. One glance at Willy, at flushed Bubby, at me and he cried out, “Are you all sick?”

He listened to Willy’s chest and phoned Dr. Koronovsky at his home. “I think Willy has aspiration pneumonia. I was out last night with Susan’s family and didn’t pick up my messages. Everyone is sick. The apartment is icy, beds everywhere. I don’t know what to do first. I’m afraid we may lose Willy. And I can’t cope.”

Dr. Koronovsky spoke in a loud voice that crackled. “Stop that nonsense. Of course you can cope. You have to. I’ll be right over. Do you have any emergency medication? How is Lil?”

“Lil? I haven’t been in the bedroom yet.”

“Take care of them in this order. Willy first, then Lil. If she has pneumonitis or strep it’s dangerous for her heart. Do what you can until I get there.”

“But they need blood work. They should be hospitalized. I failed them by not calling in for my messages. If we lose Willy it will be my fault.”

“I don’t have time for your guilt. Clayton knows how to steam up the kitchen. Let me speak to him. Clayton, how is Willy breathing?”

“Almost not.”

“Please call Abe the cab driver or find another taxi. I’m taking everyone out of the apartment.”

“Where to?”

“My old apartment on Grand Street. It’s clean, it’s warm and my sisters aren’t there. Clayton, please stay healthy. And don’t forget to call Abe for his taxi.”

Clayton blocked the air from the front door with towels and set pots of water boiling. He carried Willy carefully into the kitchen.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Scott,” he said. “Dr. K., he seen this for twentyfive years or more. Whole families die. Whole buildings die. But not this one. Dr. K., he don’t let it happen. The Roths, they like his family. He put his arm in the fire for them.” He added respectfully, “You better see Miss Lillian.”

In a daze, Dr. Scott Wolfson skirted between the beds, biting his lip. “How do you feel, Lil?” he asked. She opened her glazed eyes, closed them, did not reply. He listened to her heart before staggering into the kitchen. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s a war zone.”

“No, it’s the Great Evacuation,” Dr. Koronovsky boomed.

“How did you get here so fast?” Dr. Wolfson asked.

“Had a police escort. Called Tom O’Connor from this precinct. He arranged it for me. I’m taking Willy to Beth Israel. Dr. Rothman, Sid Rothman, will perform the trache. He’s the best. Everyone else, to my Grand Street place. That includes Clayton.”

No sooner did Jack understand that Willy would be hospitalized than he said, “I’m going, too.” No one bothered to examine Jack. He lay next to Lil until roused by Dr. Koronovsky’s instructions. Then he dressed.

By holding an unlit cigarette in front of him and keeping his eyes on its white line, Jack managed to conquer the steps without falling. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed in the outside doorway.

Bubby insisted that Willy could not leave for the hospital without her. Persuasively, Dr. Koronovsky crooned, “Manya, your temperature is high. If you step into the hospital, they’ll put you in a hospital bed. You must stay with the others in my apartment. They’ll need your help. Willy will have every possible care. A private nurse, whatever is necessary. You can’t desert the others. They need you.” Wheedling, cajoling, holding her up lest she collapse, he finally managed with the help of Clayton to drag her down the stairs and into Dr. Wolfson’s car.

Dr. Scott Wolfson carried me down. Under different circumstances I would have been ecstatic. The one thing I remember was his snappish remark to Clayton, who was carrying my new suits and dress: “What are you carrying? The whole place is contaminated.”

“Dr. K., he said to take these new clothes. They’re not contaminated. Brand new.”

The two doctors, plus Clayton and Abe, carried Lil on Willy’s cot as if it were an ambulance stretcher, inching it carefully down the two flights of stairs. “We should send for an ambulance,” Dr. Wolfson lamented. “All of them should drive to Doctor’s Hospital, to Columbia Pres. They need first-class service.”

“Except for Willy, they’re headed for the Amalgamated. Scott, not everyone lives first class. We’ll save them, give it our best shot.”

No one bothered to lock the kitchen door. Dr. Koronovsky took off with Willy and a police escort to Beth Israel Hospital. Abe carried Lil into the elevator of Dr. Koronovsky’s building and settled her into the capacious double bed in his former bedroom. Bubby and I occupied twin beds in the sisters’ room. The beds felt like swansdown. If Brooklyn was the country to my mother, the doctor’s apartment rated as the Waldorf.

Then a feisty young nurse showed up.

Miss Grady was very pretty, with long auburn hair and a creamy complexion. Her uniform was so starched it crackled when she walked. Somewhat upset at Clayton’s familiarity and his prancing about, she asked Dr. Scott in a stage whisper, “Who is that Negro?”

“That’s Manya’s boy.”

“Her boy?” Miss Grady gasped. “Do you mean her son?”

Bubby called out, “He came to me when he was seven, maybe nine. We never found out.”

“You mean you
adopted
a Negro boy?”

“He’s like my own child,” said Bubby.

A blush spread over those pale young cheeks. “Well, I never!”

“He’s a wonderful nurse’s aide,” Dr. Scott went on.

“I don’t want his help, I mean I don’t need his help.”

Dr. Wolfson called into the kitchen where Clayton was fiddling with ice cube trays, “Clayton, I didn’t bring too much money. What shall we do about that and the food?”

“Charge it to Bubby.”

“Dr. K. wouldn’t like that.”

“Then I’ll charge it to him.”

“Prune Danish,” Bubby reminded him. “Dr. Koronovsky loves prune Danish.”

“I know where to find it. Any delicatessen? Dr. K., he’s crazy about corned beef sandwiches, not too fatty.”

Miss Grady asked, “Will they give you all that food without money?” Dr. Wolfson burst out, “Clayton is famous down here.”

“Well, I never,” she said, and to cover her confusion began to take everyone’s temperature.

In the late afternoon Dr. Koronovsky walked through the front door in high spirits. “Willy is fine!” he exclaimed. “He came through the surgery like a trouper, and as soon as Dr. Rothman cut into the trachea his breathing improved. Rothman said we got him to the hospital in the nick of time. He’s resting comfortably, sedated, has pneumonia but he’ll make it, we hope, without complications.” Dr. Koronovsky sounded drunk with happiness.

The apartment blazed with lights. Dr. Wolfson stared at his older colleague. “You’re dead tired, short of sleep, not eating and your adrenaline is like a hopped-up teenager. What drives you this way?”

Dr. K. zigzagged across the living room, unaware that his legs were giving out. “I’ve had an amazing day as a doctor. Saved Willy. That alone makes you higher than champagne. Moved the Roth family into clean, warm surroundings and no one is worse for the ride. If I can pull Lil through, keep her from real danger, it will be a triumph.”

His shirt was rumpled. He needed a shave. He smelled from sweat, from hospital, from disease. Yet he was ecstatic. “Clayton,” he yelled, “I’m starving.”

“Corned beef on rye suit you? I cooked Bubby’s chicken soup. Want soup or celery tonic to wash down the sandwich?”

“Celery tonic. Oh, God, I’m cheating on my wife. She’ll kill me because I promised her, I swore, that I’d give up delicatessen. And I’m staying here tonight. My first separation from Phyllis since we were married.”

Nurse Grady presented herself. “I’m leaving at four o’clock. My shift is from eight to four.”

“Another nurse is on the way,” Dr. Koronovsky informed her. “You have to remain and help wash the patients’ hair. If you don’t want to work tomorrow, you’re excused. Walk out the door at four o’clock and I’ll speak to your supervisor.” Dr. K. caught his breath, rattled a small box with pills, extracted one and popped it into his mouth.