White Collar Girl (17 page)

I glanced down at my ring. “Yes. Jack Casey. He's a general assignment reporter over at the
Sun-Times
.”

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but trust me on this, Walsh”—he raised his finger—“marriage and newspapers don't mix. I've got a wife and a son, and you know where they are right now? They're with my wife's family. If I show up—if I make it there before dessert—they'll be shocked. But that's an editor's job. He puts his paper to bed.” Mr. Ellsworth took a long pull from his glass. “Yep, the editor puts his paper to bed. Walsh, always remember that marriage and newspapers don't mix. Will you promise me that?”

I didn't promise and he kept on talking.

“I know I haven't been a saint. Haven't been the best husband, the best father, but I've been the best damn newspaperman I could be.”

The bartender leaned in, running his damp, dingy towel over the surface. “Last call, Stan.”

“Last call? It's early.”

“It's Christmas Eve. We're closing at ten tonight. So what'll it be?”

I didn't really want another drink and I knew Mr. Ellsworth didn't need one, but we were like two orphans—alone on Christmas Eve with no place to go. So I had another scotch with him, and twenty minutes later, he paid the bill and we stood outside Riccardo's while one by one the lights went out around us. The sidewalks were empty. No one was riding the bus, and we hadn't
seen a car go by in five minutes. It was so quiet we could hear the el roaring over the tracks in the distance. Eventually we walked up to Michigan Avenue and stood in the street, hoping that sooner or later a taxi might turn up on Christmas Eve and transport us to a happier place.

•   •   •

O
n Christmas morning I stopped by my parents' house to give them their presents before going on to the Caseys'. The Caseys had invited all of us to their house for Christmas Day, and much to my surprise my parents had accepted. My mother and father liked Jack and they seemed pleased about our engagement, but this would be the first time they'd meet the Caseys. To say I was nervous about bringing our two families together was an understatement.

I let myself inside the Painted Lady with my spare key and removed my slush-covered boots, leaving them on a rubber mat in the foyer. The house was quiet and dark as usual. There was no tree in the bay window where we used to put it and no wreath on the back of the door, nothing to suggest that it was Christmastime.

Not living at home for the past few months had enabled me to see everything with fresh eyes. I knew it was not a happy home, not the same home I'd grown up in, but I wasn't prepared for it to be this oppressive, this sorry and sad. It wasn't that the house was dirty. There were no dishes piled in the sink, no dust bunnies in the corners, but still the place suffered from neglect. Nothing felt loved or cared for. I was painfully aware of the sealed windows,
the closed doors and the isolation that was the house itself. The walls needed to breathe as much as the people who lived there.

We were leaving for the Caseys' in an hour and my parents were still in their bathrobes at the kitchen table, having their coffee, reading the morning papers as if they had all the time in the world. My mother had kicked off her slippers, keeping one bare foot tucked beneath her rear end.

“Shouldn't you be getting ready?” I asked.

My mother glanced at the clock above the stove. “Oh my goodness, you're right. She's right, Hank. We should go get dressed.”

But neither one bothered to move, so it seemed like as good a time as any to give them their presents.

“Ho, Ho, Ho,” I said as I handed my mother a gift-wrapped box. My father stayed hidden behind his newspaper.

“Oh, Jordan,” my mother said. “What have you done? You know we don't exchange gifts anymore.”

“I know. But I wanted to get you something. And this isn't about exchanging. It's about giving.”

“Well, now you're going to make me feel bad.” But she didn't hesitate to open her box of Shalimar. “Isn't that lovely. Look, Hank—that's lovely.”

My father let a corner of the paper droop down, revealing one eye. He nodded before he snapped the pages back up.

“And here, Dad.” I set a small gift box down before him.

“What's this?” The paper flopped forward again.

“For you. For Christmas.”

He looked bewildered for a minute, as if I were pushing something poisonous on him. Reluctantly he traded the paper for the box, holding it in his hands, turning it over and over like a Magic 8 Ball about to reveal an ominous answer.

“Well, c'mon, open it.”

He muttered as he worked his way through the gift-wrap and
lifted the lid. “A watch.” No inflection whatsoever. I didn't know if he liked it or hated it. He mumbled a
thank you
as he put the lid back on the box and reached for his Lucky Strikes.

“Aren't you going to put it on?” I asked.

“Sure, yeah, sure,” he said, fishing a cigarette from the pack.

“I thought this could replace the watch that Mr. Hemingway gave you.”

“What watch was that?”

He couldn't have forgotten. “The watch. You know. He gave you his watch. Remember?” I couldn't bring myself to remind him of the when and why.

“Oh, oh, yeah . . . that one.” He nodded, muttered another
thank you
with his cigarette propped between his lips. He struck a match and pushed the box aside.

I turned to hide my disappointment.
Is there no way to reach this man?
What a fool I was to think there was something I could do to make him smile, to make the light return to his eyes. Why did I do this to myself? It would have been easier to let him keep slipping away, but I just couldn't let him go. He sat there and smoked his cigarette before he excused himself and went upstairs. A few minutes later, I heard the bathroom faucet kick on.

My mother reached over and patted my hand. “You should really return that,” she said. “Get your money back. You know he won't wear a watch.”

“That wasn't the point.”

She looked at me as baffled as my father had been earlier.

I shook my head. “Never mind.”

•   •   •

A
n hour later, we found ourselves at the Caseys' along with their forty-some relatives. Christmas carols were playing, eggnog and fruit punch were being ladled out of crystal punch bowls and presents were placed around their magnificent tree.

When we first arrived, Mrs. Casey came bounding from the kitchen, untying her floral apron. I noticed that she had removed the plastic seat coverings from the good living room furniture. Bustling over to my parents, she hugged and kissed my father and then did the same to my mother. I didn't come from a family of huggers, and open affection wasn't something we practiced, so imagine the look on my father's face when Judge Casey pulled him in close for an embrace. My mother nearly froze when he took hold of her, pressing his cheek to hers.

My sweaty palms always gave me away. I was a nervous wreck. I wanted my parents to love the Caseys and had a vision of us all getting along, becoming one big happy family. I thought the Caseys were the key to restoring the connection and closeness we'd lost. After Judge Casey welcomed us inside, the five younger brothers, ranging from eight to eighteen, lined up in the hallway to greet us. My father wasn't good with kids, but he made an effort, limply accepting each well-mannered handshake. My mother propped her cigarette in her mouth as she said hello, waving with just her fingers. Next came the extended family and, then, the matriarch, Grandma Casey.

Grandma Casey had clear blue eyes, a face full of wrinkles and ankles thick as tree trunks. I'd met her twice before, and both times she'd smelled of mothballs and cinnamon. She sat on the radiator, atop an overstuffed cushion, and had a box of chocolates on her lap, which she fed to the children, giving them out like dog treats whenever they came over to her.

Thankfully my mother was trying to make a good impression. She joined Mrs. Casey in a glass of punch, but when she set her glass down on the coffee table, Mrs. Casey swooped in with a coaster. I don't think my mother noticed. My father had his usual whiskey while Jack and his father had a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbons.

There was picture taking and toasts, and later that day Judge Casey was walking around wearing the necktie I'd given him despite the fact that it didn't go with his shirt or sweater.

“Come with me,” he said, leading me over to Grandma Casey. “It's time the two of you got better acquainted.” He gestured to the empty cushion beside her on the radiator.

She held out her box of chocolates. “Frango mint?”

“No. No, thank you.”

“Why not? Don't you like chocolates?”

“No. No, I do, but I just don't care for any right now, thank you.” I was aware of the radiator heat rising up through the cushion. Her chocolates were sweating, on the verge of melting.

“I see.” She helped herself to a Frango mint. “Good,” she said as she chewed and licked her fingers. For a second she seemed to drift off, but I knew better. Jack told me Grandma Casey was sharp as could be. Never missed a thing, like she had eyes in the back of her head.

“I remember when I first met Jack's mother,” she said. “When Jack's father brought her home and told me this was the girl he was going to marry, I asked Katie why she loved my son. And now I ask the same of you. Why do you love my grandson? Why do you want to marry him?”

I couldn't believe it, but I went completely blank. I was never good at expressing my feelings, but of all the times to freeze up, why now?

“He's a good boy, you know,” said Grandma Casey, as if prompting me.

“Yes. Yes, he is. And he's kind. And smart.” I wished I could have been more articulate, more specific. I knew I loved Jack, but I couldn't come up with the reasons why. “He's a good, loyal friend, too.” My backside was roasting on the radiator.

“And don't forget, handsome,” said Grandma Casey.

I smiled. “And yes, he is handsome. Very handsome.”

She nodded and looked at Judge Casey, who had appeared at my side. “I like her,” she said. “Here, have a chocolate. Take it for later.” She handed me a mint and turned to her son. “And for goodness sake, Patrick, take off that ridiculous tie—it looks terrible with your sweater.”

Judge Casey removed my necktie and walked me across the room. “You passed with flying colors,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Sweetheart, as far as I'm concerned, you're already a member of this family.”

His genuine warmth made my heart swell as we joined my father on the couch. My father, ever the reporter and not one to tolerate small talk, launched into a series of questions for Judge Casey.

“So how long have you been on the bench?” he asked.

“About ten years now.”

“Circuit court?”

Judge Casey nodded.

My father pressed his lips together and reached for a cigarette. I could tell that he didn't like Judge Casey, but I wasn't sure why. It could have been as simple as Mr. Casey's gold pinky ring or his brand-new Lincoln in the driveway. Or maybe he was jealous of the bond that I'd formed with Jack's father.

“What sort of cases are assigned to you?” my father asked as he struck a match.

“I'm a municipal judge.”

“So traffic court and city ordinance violations, eh?”

Judge Casey nodded. “For the 1st District.”

My father lit his cigarette, but the match was still burning. Just when I thought it would scorch his fingers, he shook it out, dropping it in a crystal ashtray that was probably just for show.

Mrs. Casey called to me, “Jordan, dear, would you give me a hand here in the kitchen?”

My mother and I exchanged puzzled looks as if to say,
Me, help in the kitchen?

I headed through the swing door. “Is there something you need?”

Mrs. Casey—perfect, smooth and crisply pressed Mrs. Casey—wiped her hands on a towel and said, “I just wanted to have a word with you. In private. We haven't really had a chance to talk since you and Jack became engaged, and after all, we're talking about a mixed marriage here.” She gave me a look that I hadn't seen from her before. She had an edge to her. It threw me, and like with Grandma Casey, I found myself standing there speechless once again.

“Naturally, Jack's told us all about your plans to convert to Catholicism. As you know, it takes a long time, so we're going to speak with the bishop and see if he'll grant you permission to be married in the church before you've completed your Christian Initiation.”

“That—that would be—”

“I'm assuming you haven't been baptized.”

“Well, no, I haven't, but I'm—”

“Now, I realize you're making an enormous sacrifice here, but I hope you're ready to embrace your new faith. I'd hate to think you were doing this just for the sake of getting married and for the sake of the children. And I'm sure you'll have more time to meet with the parish priest once you stop working.”

I didn't know how to tell her that I wasn't planning on quitting my job. Or having children right away.

I was still thinking of how to respond when she said, “And by the way, we haven't said anything yet to Jack's grandmother about you converting. We think it would be best if she got to know you a little better before we tell her that you're really a Jew. Or I guess technically you're only half-Jewish, aren't you?
Grandma Casey's old-fashioned when it comes to these things. We wouldn't want to upset her.”

“Of—of course.” I didn't know what to say. I felt dirty, and for the first time in my life I felt Jewish and felt the urge to defend my roots.

Just then my mother joined us in the kitchen.

“We're terribly excited about this wedding,” Mrs. Casey said to my mother as she leaned over the oven, poking a fork into her Christmas roast.

“So are we. Jack's a wonderful boy.”

I expected Mrs. Casey to say something similar about me, but when it became obvious that she wasn't going to return the compliment, my mother brushed imaginary dust off her hands.

“So, how can I help? What should I do?”

“Why don't you slice the bread?” said Mrs. Casey as she stirred a rich-looking sauce on the stove. “There's a serrated knife in the top drawer.”

My mother was a lefty and a serrated knife in the hands of a southpaw could be lethal. With a cigarette propped between her lips, she sawed into a log of Mrs. Casey's homemade bread. When Mrs. Casey wasn't looking, I wiped away the cigarette ashes that had fallen onto the countertop.

“Jack tells us you write poetry,” said Mrs. Casey, looking on while my mother mutilated the bread. “Here,” she said, stepping in. “Let me give you a hand there. . . .”

Fortunately, the bread slicing derailed any further discussion of my mother's poetry.

When it was time for dinner, we took our places at the dining room table and Mr. Casey asked us to all join hands while he led us in saying grace. My father cleared his throat and cocked an eyebrow as if to say,
Jesus Christ, you've got to be kidding.
My mother squeezed his hand, a warning that said,
Just go along with it
.

“Dear Father, our God, our Lord and savior . . .” began Judge Casey.

I dared to open my eyes and saw that Mrs. Casey was watching me.

After dinner, while everyone relaxed in the living room, Mrs. Casey was back to being her saccharine self and brought out an oversize book that turned out to be her wedding album.