Not Our Kind Page 6

  Wynn stubbed out the cigarette and closed his eyes. Not yet, she thought. Don’t go to sleep yet. “Darling, I wanted to talk to you about something . . .” Instinctively, she reached for her nightdress.

  “Anything,” he said. “Anything at all.” But his eyes remained closed.

  “It’s important. You need to be awake.”

  Wynn sighed, opened his eyes, and positioned his hands behind his head.

  “I’ve hired a tutor for Margaux.” There, she had said it.

  “Please, tell me he’s an improvement over Mr. Cobb.” His eyelids fluttered. “That man was such a boob.”

  “It’s not a he. It’s a she,” said Patricia. “And don’t go to sleep.”

  “I’m not going to sleep.”

  “Your eyes are closed.”

  “I can hear you with closed eyes.”

  “The tutor I hired is Eleanor Moskowitz, the girl I told you about. The one whose taxicab I hit.”

  “Eleanor Moskowitz?” Wynn’s eyes opened and he sat up. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” She knew what he was thinking. It was the name Moskowitz and everything that went with it. Patricia knew he’d wonder about how their friends might view their choice. It was one thing to hire a Jewish upholsterer or piano tuner, but a Jewish tutor, coming in and out of their home every day . . . “Did you know that she took four years of Latin in high school? And four more while she was at Vassar?”

  “She went to Vassar?” Wynn said. “Lord, they’re everywhere now, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, she went to Vassar. On scholarship. And she excelled in everything she undertook.”

  “I’m sure she’s very bright. They usually are. But is hiring her a good idea?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? Margaux likes her so much already and—”

  “You have a kind heart, my darling,” he said. “So kind that you forget how cruel the world can be.”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with—”

  “Doesn’t Margaux have enough strikes against her? Does she need a tutor who’s going to cause people to talk? We want to make things easier for her, Tricia. Not harder.”

  “I don’t care about all that!” Patricia burst out. It wasn’t true. She did care and she had even had the same thought. But what Margaux wanted was more important, and Margaux wanted Eleanor Moskowitz. Since their last meeting Margaux had asked several times if she could see Eleanor again. Perhaps Eleanor would be the magic key, the one who unlocked Margaux from her prison of self-loathing and despair; Patricia could not, would not let Wynn stand in the way. Overwrought, she began to sob.

  “Tricia, don’t.” Wynn moved closer; the mattress springs heaved slightly. Patricia continued to cry and he put his arm around her. “Is it that important to you?”

  “Yes! But it’s even more important to Margaux, don’t you see?” He was always undone by her tears, and so she made herself cry even harder.

  Wynn touched the gold necklace that she had not yet taken off. “All right then,” he said. “Hire her. Just try not to broadcast her background.”

  Patricia said nothing, choosing to conceal her jubilation. Yes, the lovemaking with Wynn, and her reaction to his unfamiliar caresses, had been an unexpected and lovely surprise. But even more important was her ability to fight for—and win—a precious bit of her daughter’s happiness.

  In the morning, Wynn was in an especially good mood, and actually spun Patricia around the kitchen as he hummed Perry Como’s “Surrender” in her ear. Patricia was uneasy; would this display, enjoyable as it was, remind Margaux of her own inability to dance? But Margaux watched them with delight, clapping her hands when they were through. “Daddy, you’re such a good dancer!” she said. “You and Mother look so glamorous!”

  “Why thank you.” Wynn swooped down to kiss her cheek. “Your mother is indeed a very glamorous woman. The most glamorous woman I know. And you’re growing up to be just like her.”

  “I’m not,” Margaux said, but she looked pleased.

  “Yes you are. Just wait and see.” Then he sighed theatrically. “But unfortunately, I have to head into the unglamorous office. No more dancing—at least not now.”

  “There’ll be other times,” Patricia said. And she followed him to the door, where they kissed, for longer, and more ardently, than usual. When he was gone, she stood alone in the foyer for several seconds. Maybe it was possible to rekindle her passion for Wynn—she had felt it once. And the way he treated Margaux—not all fathers were so tender with their daughters, or took such an interest in their lives.

  When Margaux was born, Patricia’s mother had been quick to suggest a number of family names: Elizabeth was one. Also Charlotte and Anne. Patricia thought those names were nice enough, but they seemed too expected. Too ordinary.

  “Actually, Mother, we want to call her Margaux. And we’re going to spell it M-a-r-g-a-u-x.” This wasn’t exactly true because she hadn’t consulted Wynn yet.

  “Margaux?” her mother said. “Isn’t that the name of a wine?”

  “It is, but it’s also a French name. It means Pearl.”

  “No one in our family is French,” her mother said.

  “I’m not naming her for a family member,” said Patricia.

  Her mother looked at her, clearly trying to decide whether this was a battle worth fighting. “It’s your decision,” she said finally. “Though I would have expected Wynn to be more sensible. And of course everyone will misspell it.”

  Patricia didn’t care. And later, when she shared the idea with Wynn, she told him something she had deliberately kept from her mother. “We were drinking Château Margaux that night when you first kissed me,” she said. “I remember you ordering it at a restaurant and I thought you were so sophisticated—all the boys I knew ordered beer.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “It’s a bit different.”

  “Isn’t she?” Patricia led him over to the bassinet, where the as-yet-unnamed baby lay asleep on her back. Her hair was a dusting of gold, her mouth a tiny rosebud. Above her flickering eyelids, her faint brows arched delicately.

  “Our Margaux.” Wynn pulled Patricia close and murmured into her ear, “She’s perfect.”

  And that was how he continued to regard her—the prettiest, the smartest, the best. Wynn was the one who’d taught her to ride a bicycle, to swim, and to sail. He would take her out to a restaurant and order her a Shirley Temple. Patricia couldn’t even imagine going to dinner alone with her father; what would they have talked about? Like Patricia, Wynn had been devastated by Margaux’s illness and they had been united in their grief and fear. It was only when she was over the worst of it that the gulf between them began to widen again. But last night, they had taken a step toward bridging it. Maddy, it seemed, had been right all along.

  Five

  On the Sunday night before she was to start working for the Bellamys, Eleanor stood in front of the mirror in her modest, peach-colored slip, running her fingers through her hair to fluff it out; the hot weather had made it go limp. Behind her, on the bed, lay her outfit for tomorrow: her best, black-and-white-plaid summer dress, a black straw hat adorned by a narrow white band, and a black patent leather pocketbook. She had dropped off her résumé, and she’d received a phone call from Patricia Bellamy the very next day.

  “I’d like to offer you a position as Margaux’s tutor,” Patricia had said. “Five days a week, five hours a day, at least through the end of June. In July, we go up to the country, and we’d like you to come with us. Do you happen to drive?”

  “I have a license but I’m not very comfortable doing it,” Eleanor said. It was her father who had insisted that she learn, using a car borrowed from a cousin.

  “Oh, that’s all right. I was just curious. Anyway, we don’t expect Margaux to be doing schoolwork all day long while we’re there, but she’s fallen behind and it would be good for her to keep up with her studies. If things work out, you can stay on into the fall.” Patricia paused, and it so
unded like she took a drag on a cigarette. “And oh—we can give you forty-five dollars a week.”

  Forty-five dollars a week! That was ten dollars more than she’d been making. Eleanor couldn’t wait to tell her mother; maybe Irina’s misgivings would abate. But she didn’t want to let on to her new employer how much she needed the money. “That would be fine,” she said.

  “How soon can you start?” asked Mrs. Bellamy. “Margaux’s been asking for you.”

  Mrs. Bellamy went on to fill her in a bit more on Margaux’s bout with polio. “She was sick for seven months. Three weeks of that time, she was paralyzed from the neck down. And she had to remain in isolation too. We weren’t even allowed in the room. When that agony ended, there were months of recovery and therapy, and learning to walk again with that stick. One therapist had her pick up marbles with her toes.”

  “That must have been hard for her. And for you.”

  “Hard doesn’t even begin to describe it. And ever since, she’s been so angry. Since we brought her home, she hasn’t even looked anyone in the eye in months. But you—you touched something in her. I could see it. Feel it.”

  Finally satisfied with her hair, Eleanor clipped it to one side with a barrette. The vestiges of her own girlhood were still evident in this room: the rose-sprigged wallpaper her mother had hung herself, the white iron bed with its chenille bedspread, the bride doll her father had brought her back from a business trip to Florida when she was ten years old. Eleanor suddenly felt stifled by the confined, girlish space. At Vassar, she’d been part of a small but tightly knit group, mostly Jewish, and senior year, she’d shared a suite in Main with three of those girls. She missed that easy camaraderie now, the late nights spent talking, the intimate rituals of doing each other’s nails or hair.

  Picking up the doll, Eleanor blew on the top of her veil-covered head to dislodge a tiny puff of dust. Back then, she had loved the long satin dress, the white shoes that peeped out from beneath its hem, the cloud of netting that surrounded the doll’s honey-colored tresses. Now the doll’s bland, uninflected beauty taunted her, and Eleanor suppressed an urge to fling her out the open window. Instead, she went over to the wardrobe and stuffed the doll on the top shelf, behind a scratchy sweater she never wore.

  The telephone in the kitchen rang and from the sound of Irina’s replies, Eleanor knew it was her friend Ruth Feingold on the phone. She’d promised to meet Ruth to head over to a social at Congregation Orach Chaim on Lexington Avenue. But now that the appointed night was here, she was reluctant to go.

  Irina appeared at the door. “Can I come in?”

  “Is it Ruth?” Irina nodded. “Would you mind telling her I’m not feeling well?”

  Irina gave her a look. “She already hung up. She said she’ll be waiting at the Rexall on the corner. I told her you’d be there in a few minutes.”

  “Will you call her back and tell her I can’t make it?” Eleanor knew Ruth was counting on her, but she suddenly couldn’t bear to go.

  “Why not? I thought you were looking forward to that social.”

  “I was,” Eleanor said. “But now I’m not.”

  “It might be a good idea. Ever since you stopped keeping company with Ira—”

  “Who said I stopped keeping company with him? I told you: he’s been busy.”

  “Ellie, please. I never interfered but I could see how you were walking around for months, dragging that broken heart of yours wherever you went. And I know that Ira was behind your decision to quit your job at the school.”

  “Who told you that?” Despite the fact that she was wearing only her slip, Eleanor walked over to the window.

  “No one had to tell me,” Irina said. When Eleanor didn’t reply, she added, “Rabbi Schechter’s wife came in for a new hat; she asked if you would be at the social and I said yes.”

  “There will be plenty of people there. No one will miss me.”

  “Why don’t you go with Ruth?” Irina said gently. “You might meet someone. Someone who will take your mind off Ira.”

  Eleanor turned away so her mother would not see her tears. But Irina knew anyway and got up to give Eleanor a hug.

  “I guess I shouldn’t keep Ruth waiting,” Eleanor said.

  Ruth chattered all the way up to the synagogue on Ninety-Fourth Street. Life behind the counter of her parents’ delicatessen, where she was working for the summer, her older sister’s new beau, the relative merits of getting a permanent—these were the topics that carried them along the avenue and across the busy streets.

  The shops on Second Avenue were closed, but many of the bars and restaurants of Yorkville were open. They passed the white facade of the Heidelberg Restaurant, done up with timber beams to look like a German cottage, and the window of Schaller & Weber, with its multitude of glazed beer steins.

  “You’re very quiet tonight,” Ruth said at last. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Eleanor said. “Just thinking about tomorrow, that’s all.”

  “And you’re not thinking about the social tonight?” She pointed to the synagogue, which they had now reached. The brick facade, which was in need of repair, took up almost the entire block, and the three stone steps that led to the double doors were chipped and gouged.

  “That too,” Eleanor said.

  “Ira was a fool,” Ruth said, linking arms with Eleanor. “But some guy in there is going to thank his lucky stars because of that.”

  Eleanor smiled. “Let’s go in.” Orach Chaim was familiar ground. Her father had come here every week for years, and her mother had grudgingly accompanied him on the High Holidays. Eleanor went with them, listening to her mother’s complaints the entire way. Yet when Eleanor’s father died, Irina had arranged for the funeral to be held here and she still attended the occasional service. “I do it for him,” she explained.

  In the lobby, Eleanor could hear the din of voices and the strains of Ted Weems singing “Heartaches” from below. She and Ruth followed the music downstairs, and when they got there, the room was full. “Would you look at that!” Ruth said. “All these guys. Where do you suppose Rabbi Schechter found them? They’re not all from this congregation, are they?”

  Eleanor shrugged. There were indeed a lot of men in the room. All were wearing yarmulkes, many of them plain black, plucked from the box that the rabbi kept on a table, just inside the doors. They were dressed in lightweight summer suits or sport coats and slacks; a few wore army uniforms. The women’s clothes were more festive and even sensuous: taffeta, brocade, chiffon, and a satin or two.

  “I’m thirsty,” Ruth said. “Let’s get something to drink.” Eleanor watched her go but hung back, not wanting to force herself into that crush of people.

  “Can I offer you some punch?”

  Eleanor turned to see a short young man in a tan sport coat holding two cut-glass punch cups. “Thank you,” she said. “How did you happen to have two?”

  “It took me such a long time to get to the punch bowl, I figured I might as well take an extra. But I haven’t touched either of them.”

  In lieu of an answer, Eleanor sipped her punch. It had a vaguely cherry flavor and was very sweet, unlike the victory lemonade they all drank during the war. “There’s rugelach too,” her new companion said, gesturing to a table placed at the side of the room. It was covered with a lacy cloth that pooled on the faded linoleum floor and held several large plates of the fruit-filled pastries.

  “Maybe later.”

  “I’m Harry,” he said, extending his hand. “Harry Cohen.”

  “Eleanor Moskowitz,” she said, taking his hand, which was small and moist.

  They talked for a little while, and he told Eleanor that he worked in an accountant’s office downtown and lived with his parents on Seventy-Seventh Street, just off Second Avenue. When he learned where she lived, he said, “We’re neighbors,” in a way that suggested he thought there was some significance in that fact. He also told her that he loved playing Ping-Pong, hated jazz, and
dreamed of going out to Hollywood one day.

  “You want to be in the movies?” asked Eleanor.

  “Not be in them. Write them. You know—screenplays.”

  “Really?” Eleanor was surprised.

  “Yeah, that’s the exciting part of movies. At least to me.”

  Eleanor was intrigued. Writing for the movies sounded like an interesting job. Harry was earnest and just a little bit nervous, which she actually liked. But he had a high voice and talked very quickly; it was the sort of thing that soon became annoying. Also, he blinked so often she thought it might be a tic of some kind, and he kept fiddling with his necktie in a very distracting way. She would never want to kiss him, she decided, but then felt slightly shocked at her reaction. Was that all she thought about? Kissing—and everything that went with it?

  “There’s my friend,” Eleanor said, finally spotting Ruth. “I should go. She’s been looking for me.”

  “Oh,” said Harry, clearly disappointed.

  “It was nice talking to you.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you in the neighborhood sometime,” he said.

  She smiled and turned away before he had a chance to ask for her phone number. “There you are!” she called to Ruth. This time she was not shy about elbowing her way into the crowd. “I thought I’d lost you.” She managed to get close enough to the punch table to set down her cup, where it was gathered up by the rabbi’s wife.

  “I saw you talking to someone,” Ruth said. “Did he ask for your telephone number?”

  “I escaped before he had the chance.” Eleanor looked at Ruth, and Ruth looked back. Then they both burst out laughing.

  “So he’s not the fella who’s going to help you get over Ira,” Ruth said.

  “No.” Eleanor was suddenly serious again. “But look, Ruthie, look at all the other fish—or fellas—in the sea.” And with that, she moved deeper into the crowd, headed in the direction of the rugelach.

  The next morning, Eleanor got up early and had coffee with her mother. The single window in their kitchen faced the back of the building, and looked out onto a collage of other tenements, fire escapes, and clotheslines. Striped boxer shorts hung side by side with cotton housedresses, aprons, and tiny socks. She thought of the Bellamys’ dining room: two windows on one wall, a third on another. The view from that apartment was, she knew, quite different: no clotheslines, no tenements.