He reminded me of my brothers, he was like a refined, chiseled version of them. Perhaps if you skinned one of my brothers like a bear, if you peeled off the heavy thick skin, you would find a clean-shaven, well-groomed fellow like this inside.
He fixed a carnation in his buttonhole. Wearing a flower in November! The audacity!
He put on an overcoat and paused for a final inspection before the mirror. I realized with a sudden sinking feeling that of course he was about to go out to meet a woman.
I sighed but could not stop looking at him until he left the room, still whistling. How dear the back of his head looked; the nape of his neck, the backs of his ears were boyish looking and vulnerable. I felt a gush of concern for him, I imagined him cornered in a dark alley, thugs pounding on that sweet unsuspecting neck with a crowbar, mussing the perfectly smooth hair.
Seen enough? Annabelle said.
I nodded. We made our slow way down to Annabelle’s apartment. She hobbled more stiffly than before on her tiny useless feet. They made me think of stories I had read about Chinese girls whose feet had been bound since birth.
We sat again in the crowded apartment as Annabelle lit a cigarette for herself. She was puffing and haggard from all the walking, but her voice was more intense than before.
So, which one? The last one, isn’t it?
Yes, the last one.
Hmmm, she said. Ten B. Good. His name is Joe. Steady job. Parents are dead so they won’t get in your way. He’s a good one, Shirley, I promise you. Built to last.
He looked like he was getting ready for a date, I said tensely.
Annabelle waved her hands. Pay it no mind, he’s all yours, she said.
I looked at my mother. Her face was thoughtful, undecided, the way she looked when she tasted a soup in progress.
What now? How will I meet him?
I’ll send him over to your home for dinner. Next Sunday? Some night this week. Thursday? Wednesday? The sooner the better.
I don’t understand. He’s never even seen me. What will you tell him?
Ah, Annabelle said and brought her face close to mine, smoke drifting from her nostrils. You see, Shirley, some men are bad with money. Most of the men here are behind on their rent, and some owe me for other favors as well, they have debts. I’ve been very generous with them. And if they are disagreeable, I have a special arrangement with the butcher downstairs.
She cocked her head, shared a glance with my mother. My tenants, she said, are always willing to return a favor. They’re always glad to oblige. Especially if it means sharing a meal and some sparkling conversation with a beautiful girl like yourself.
I’m not—
You want to get to know him, don’t you, Shirley? This is your chance. It’s as good as done. Your Joe will be delivered to your doorstep promptly on Wednesday evening. That I can promise. After that it’s up to you and your mother.
My mother nodded, her lips pursed.
My head was whirling. Joe. His name was Joe. I could not stop thinking of the smooth black hair, the long legs in the trousers, the flat plane of his cheek, the lines around the mouth. Just like the movie star men in the curling magazine photos on my bedroom walls.
Like a new toy in a shop window, and I was six years old again.
Shirley, just wait; when you see him again he’ll seem even more wonderful than before, Annabelle said. Men are at their truest when they’re alone, but they’re at their very best when they’re with a beautiful woman.
She turned to my mother. It’s true, isn’t it?
My mother nodded, then said: We must be going now.
And as I had known earlier, without words, that my mother and Annabelle were old acquaintances, I now saw with equal clarity that they were not friends.
Stay a bit, Annabelle said. I have soup on the stove we could have.
No. We’ll go, my mother said.
Shirley, ah,
Sashie
should really have some, she needs it, Annabelle said.
They exchanged glances.
My mother sat back down. So did I. I felt weak, giddy. Normally I hated beet soup but now I drank down a sweet, spicy, bright red bowlful with shreds of beet hovering at the lightless bottom like seaweed.
I set down the bowl, my mouth on fire. I felt very strange. My mother and Annabelle sat watching me; they had decided not to have any after all.
My mother and I put on our coats. Annabelle clasped my hands and wished me luck. My mother thanked her tersely, then handed her a packet of dried herbs. Annabelle gave her a dark stoppered jar which my mother hid in the depths of her coat pocket.
Words passed between them: the gutturals of the old language. How rude of them to exclude me, I thought, but I was too lightheaded to really care.
As we walked home that night my feet wobbled drunkenly beneath me; to walk a straight line seemed an impossible thing so my mother loosened her grip and let me weave all over the street. The cold made the stars seem brighter than usual, closer; I thought I could hear them, a buzzing like fluorescent lights.
Are you sure this is what you want? she said.
Positively.
Good, she said.
Is this how you found my father? I asked, feeling bold.
The entire city went quiet, waiting for the answer.
Your father was the finest man on earth, my mother said shortly. When they made him they broke the mold.
The grim set of my mother’s mouth, the glitter in her eye made me want to take her words literally. How angry she looked; she seemed to think that if someone had not broken the mold, she could have used it to cast a second version of my father, in bronze or iron or some stronger stuff more lasting than the first.
In my mother’s world, on my mother’s terms, such things were possible.
* * *
My fiancé is coming over for dinner tonight, I told Tessie and Marianne.
Shirley! You sly thing! When did this happen?
Since when do you have a fiancé?
Who is he? Can we meet him?
How could you keep it from us?
My God, Shirley, are you pregnant?
All this time, we thought you were such a shy little mouse—
Afraid of men—
What color is his hair?
When did he propose?
When is the wedding?
What is his name?
For heaven’s sake, Shirley, how can you be so calm?
Can we please come by tonight and get a peek at him?
I knew it was unwise to tell them before everything was settled. But I couldn’t resist.
I went home early that afternoon to set my hair. My mother bustled about the kitchen, among boiling pots and clouds of steam, with her sleeves rolled and her hair plastered to her face. It would have seemed like laundry day if not for the vigorous smells and the sheen of grease.
Why does he have to come here? I said. Why can’t he and I go to a restaurant alone? How can I get to know him with
you
here?
How can
I
get to know him otherwise? she said.
I had no answer for that. I went to my room. The night before my mother had soaked my hair in one of her evil-smelling herb solutions. Today it was strange and downy and full of static electricity. I put my hair in curlers, I varnished my nails. I had bought a girdle for the first time. I put it on underneath my dress; I could hardly breathe but I was pleased with my reflection: for the first time in my life I had a figure.
I applied makeup carefully, as Tessie had taught me. I put a drop of vanilla behind each ear. My mother disapproved of perfume.
How strange I felt, then. As if my heart and throat and stomach had got shuffled up. As if a helium balloon were inflating inside my chest, pressing on my rib cage. I could not sit still.
It must have been the girdle.
He arrived punctually at seven.
I opened the door and there he stood, flowers in his arms and a smile on his face. Our eyes met for the first time. His were blue! I had never noticed before! He took my hand; his was cool and smooth; he smelled of lime aftershave lotion.
Oh his eyes! His manners! Impeccable!
Even my mother seemed charmed. He kissed her hand. She dropped him an old-world curtsey. He sniffed the air appreciatively.
I took his coat, went to hang it. I trod on it by mistake, stumbled into a wall. I don’t think he noticed. It was so long, his coat. How tall he was.
Of course the conversation was awkward. How could it not be? He thought we were strangers, he and I. He spoke of his late parents, his job in insurance. Insurance! How dependable, how respectable that sounded! He had a lovely laugh; whenever the conversation lagged he turned on his laugh and kept it going, kept unrolling and unrolling it like a never-ending carpet, until I thought of something else to say.
We sat down to eat. My mother lit candles. Everything was going so well. I looked across the table at him, the candlelight making his eyes dark and velvety, his skin golden. I felt I was glowing; I caught my reflection in a spoon and hardly recognized myself.
How sophisticated I felt, so poised and glamorous. He would never guess that it was the first time I had ever dined with a man.
Of course nothing had been said about love or marriage. But do these things really need to be said? I could feel a bubble of happiness swelling in my chest, ready to burst. His hands! The hair on his knuckles! Cuff links! I wanted him to whistle again.
I felt something new as I looked at him: a feeling of certainty, like bricks being stacked up, mortar slapped in between. A solid, definite feeling. Foundations laid, a future, a firm base. I felt sure of something, for the first time in my life.
My mother brought in the soup. Borscht again. We drank; it set our mouths on fire, stained our lips red. My head began to spin. The borscht seemed thick, meaty; it made me feel carnivorous and wild. I found myself looking at the fleshy parts of his body: his earlobes, the pads of his fingers, the tender morsel of his chin.
Joe looked at me, his eyes were dancing. I offered to help my mother; she pushed me down in my seat. She poured wine and brought out plates and serving platters.
She filled Joe’s plate first, set it before him and paused, serving spoon uplifted.
Well Joe, she said firmly, so when are you marrying my daughter?
Joe started, his face froze. Then he started to laugh, or he tried to, he could not seem to get his laugh engine running this time.
I’m afraid I don’t—
When are you marrying Sashie? my mother repeated.
He attempted the laugh again; it sputtered and died. You misunderstand, he said.
I don’t think so, she said.
Annabelle asked me to come here, and I was glad to, but I didn’t realize—he said and looked at me. We’ve only just met, he added apologetically.
My mother waved her hand dismissively.
But you see—I’m in no position to—I have these debts, you see, I can’t possibly. I have no inheritance—a fondness for gambling—nothing serious, of course. But my hands are tied. And then I already have a young lady friend—
My stomach went cold. The brick wall crumbled.
Your daughter’s a lovely girl, but—it’s ridiculous—
His face blurred, my eyes grew hot. I couldn’t be crying.
My mother fixed her fierce gaze upon him. He writhed under her stare. In his embarrassment, he turned to his plate. He shoved a forkful in his mouth, then another, and another. Sweat broke out on his face. I saw a flush spread over his neck.
How handsome he looked even then.
Rather than meet our eyes, he kept eating, even as the beads of sweat became a sheen. I heard pops, snaps, as he splintered bones between his strong white teeth. His face turned redder and redder and shaded to mahogany; his eyes bulged. My mother must have had a heavy hand with the spices.
Tears were bubbling in the corners of his eyes, as if his very head were boiling.
He moaned without pausing in his chewing, so the sound came out of his nose. I could see blue and purple veins in his temples, like rivers and roads, the map of his self.
And then he began to choke. His wheezing breath stopped abruptly; all we could hear was a clicking in his throat. He looked at us now, eyes rolling, one hand to his throat, his mouth gaping like a fish’s. He looked at my mother, then at me, his feet kicking and stamping beneath the table.
A dribble of food ran from his mouth and made a black stain on his shirt. Oh, his clean shirt!
He slammed his fists on the table. The silverware danced.
My mother watched him calmly. She sipped her wine and dabbed her mouth daintily. She twisted her napkin, tighter, tighter, between her fingers. Her lips were red stained from wine and beets. Then she moved the bottle of wine closer to her, so Joe would not knock it over with his flailing.
He stared at her imploringly, stretched out his arms. She lifted her chin in a questioning way. He turned to me. I stared, fascinated. His face was filled with such desperate longing, such desire.
He collapsed in the chair, his eyes began to glaze.
My mother said: Sashie, help him.
I ran to his side, I stood behind his chair. I wrapped my arms around him and squeezed beneath his ribs, as I had been taught. How broad his chest was. I could barely reach. It did no good. Limp and heavy as sandbags, his body tumbled to the floor.
My mother tossed her napkin aside and drank her wine.
I took his head in my lap (how heavy it was! I had never held a man’s head before). I wiped his mouth, loosened his tie. I parted his pretty lips, reached deep down his throat, and plucked out a tiny fish bone, curved and translucent as a fingernail clipping.
I placed the bone on the table, stroked his hair, put my lips to his and breathed into him (my first kiss! how romantic it all was!). He flopped about like a beached fish. I saw his eyes snap into focus, saw them fill with wonder.
Wonder at being alive, wonder at being in love, wonder at lying in my arms.
He clutched at me, sucked greedily at the air.
Everything was decided right then, without words.
I thought I saw my mother reach over to take the fish bone and slip it into her pocket. But I must have imagined it in the confusion.