I would have called out to Miri to hurry up, but she was a block away. I tamped shut the window of our second story flat, and turned down the flame on the soup. she was dilly-dallying again, skipping back and forth across the streetcar tracks, her long black hair flying in the wind without a whit of style. She was thirteen-years-old and she acted like such a kid.
Bubbe would be upstairs from the grocery store any minute, expecting everything to be done. Without my sister’s help, there wasn’t enough time to carpet sweep the rug or dust. I’d hardly had a chance to do much more than start dinner and wipe up the wooden floorboards in the kitchen–and I had two tests yet to study for myself.
“Sylvie! A glass of seltzer!” Mom rang her bell from the room off the kitchen. Sometimes I wished she was still in the asylum. “Sylvie!” she called again.
I hated the crack in her voice. Why she couldn’t get out of bed and do for herself was beyond me. I poured the seltzer into a glass and set it on a small platter with a piece of knishbraut. She ate very little and usually in her own bedroom.
“Sylvie, there you are.” Mom sat up as I entered her sanctuary. She was still under the covers from the waist down. Her blondish graying curls held tight in a hairnet, her lipstick smudged from her cigarettes. The faded silk bed jacket she wore had to date back at least four years to the good old days when we still had money.
I placed the platter on the nightstand, pushing the over-filled ashtray out of the way, and handed her the seltzer.
“You’re too good for all this,” she said, taking a sip. I opened the window to air things out, despite the cold November draft. Nothing was going to improve the looks of the peeling ivory and brown print wallpaper. “It’s your father’s fault, you know. If he hadn’t abandoned us like he did, and taken all of our money! Don’t you realize you’d be applying to a fancy college now like your cousin, Ruthie?”
“He didn’t abandon us, Mom. He dropped dead.” I emptied the ashtray.
“Well, if that’s true,” she asked, waving the glass, “Then where’s the money?”
“Lost in the crash–along with everyone else’s.” I sat on the bed. “Dad had a heart attack two days later. Remember, shortly after you told him to go to hell?”
“Don’t use that sharp tongue with me, young lady. It’s your father’s fault and that’s the end of it.”
On days like this, I had to admit, I like her better when she was catatonic. Had it occurred to her that if she got out of bed and worked, I could still go to college in the fall, at least part-time. As it was, I would start work as soon as I graduated from Vocational High School in January. My stenography and typing skills were pretty good. Hopefully, I ‘d find something.
“Dinner’s as soon as Bubbe and Mir get here. Sure you won’t join us tonight?”
Mom glance down at her red painted nails, pretending she didn’t hear me.
“Sylvie,” Miri called from the kitchen. She slammed shut the door to the steps that led downstairs to the store. “We’re home.”
Mom took a bite of knishbraut. “If your father would only send a couple of bucks from wherever he is, I’d buy you a new dress. It wouldn’t take much. Those old hand-me-down schmattas don’t do justice to that gorgeous figure of yours.” She then looked me up and down. “Ever think of setting finger waves in yourwith hair? You and that blonde hair of yours,” she smiled proudly. “You remind me of me in the day.”
I wiped my hands on my apron, and she waved me out. I was so sick of it–all of it.
Bubbe and Miri were already seated at the table when I came into the kitchen. The warmed rye bread from two days ago was on a yellow and blue placemat in the middle of the table. A bowl of cabbage borscht was waiting for me. I sat down on the other side of Bubbe. There was a long white envelope on my napkin.
“Sehst, open it.” Bubbe’s fingers danced forward. I looked at the return address, and then back at my grandmother. Uncle Marty had written me a letter and she knew nothing about it? That was a good one.
Bubbe sat squarely in the wooden chair, her plump bulldog form covered by a drab matronly shift that concealed the rolls hanging from her arms. She was waiting. Even if I didn’t know what this letter was about, she did and she wanted my response. My uncle was a mumzer and a cheapskate. It certainly wasn’t going to be money for college. Ruthie, his snippy, whiny daughter, thought she was way too good for us too, so I was pretty sure he wasn’t lining up something for the two of us to do together, either. As Mom said, Ruthie was going to college next fall. Northwestern University was practically in their backyard. It cost a fortune to go, but Uncle Marty would find the money for that. She was the one person he’d do anything for.
“Sylvie,” Bubbe pushed. I ripped open the top corner. The letter had an official Marshall Field’s masthead. He was the manager of the Evanston store, so of course he’d show off with that. I scanned the short paragraph. He had apparently secured a salesgirl’s job for me in women’s shoes after I graduated in January, and since Ruthie would be staying at college eventually, I could live with them for as long as I liked.
“What did Motel say?” Bubbe asked, as if she didn’t know. Disregarding her feigned ignorance, I reread my uncle’s offer. Why would I want to sell women’s shoes when I could be a clerk in a business and work my way up to a secretary? But then again–
“Shayna doll, what?” Bubbe asked expectantly, “What is it?” Before I could say a word, she grabbed it and briefly read it herself. “This ist gut. A foot in the door.”
“Selling shoes?” That was another good one. Wasn’t it she who had told me to go to Vocational in the first place, to have some skills so I could make some kind of wage after I graduated?”
“Look,” Miri said sympathetically, “You have a chance to go somewhere. That job ‘s just for now, until you find something better.”
She apparently knew about the letter before I did too, but she wasn’t wrong. I did want to get out of here. Salesgirl or not, Chicago was a much bigger city than Minneapolis, with a ton of opportunities. And maybe if I played my cards right, it might just be the thing until I saved up enough money.
Then, out of nowhere, Mom appeared in a simple cotton housedress. Her hair was combed, and she’d applied a fresh coat of red gloss to her lips. “Marty’s and old goat, but go anyway. There’s more for you in Chicago,” Mom said, putting her hand on my shoulder. She then sauntered over to the stove and served herself a bowl of soup from the deep aluminum pot.
Once she joined us at the table, she pointed a spoon at me. “This is your chance, Sylvie. Escape while you can.”