Family Secrets (10 page)

She just knew she was going to grow up to be the family old maid, the good soul forever, hanging around other people’s houses like the relatives who came and went, the greenhorns. Now they had Aunt Becky’s three kids staying at their house because Aunt Becky was sick or something, and who had to wipe
all
their behinds? Who else?

Rosemary was so glad when they went back home to the Bronx and the house was peaceful again, and then just when she was setting out for her very favorite thing: a whole day of ice skating with her friends on the frozen lake in the park, another burden descended on The Good Soul, in the person of her sister Hazel.

“Where ya goin’?”

“Ice skating.”

“C’n I come?”

“You don’t know how to skate.”

“I c’n watch.”

“You can come the next time.”

Hazel gripped Rosemary’s arm in that unbreakable grip of hers. “Ro … Ro … take me.”

“Next time.”

“Ma!”

“Never mind, don’t bother Mama, I’ll take you. But you can’t take your doll.”

“Don’t have a doll.”

“Good. Then you won’t take it. Put on your warm coat, hurry up, and wear your mittens.”

Hazel disappeared into her room and Rosemary thought for one wild moment of running out of the house and leaving her, but then the conscience of the good soul overcame her and she waited impatiently on the stairs. Why did everything always take Hazel so long? The kids would all be waiting on the corner and they would leave without her. Rosemary was a good skater. She could skate backward and forward and do a turn and a figure eight, all of which she had taught herself. For Channukah she was going to get real figure skates, Mama had promised her.

Hazel came out of her room with her coat neatly buttoned, her hat set squarely on her head, her scarf wound around her neck and properly looped, her mittens on her hands, and her doll wrapped tenderly in her arms.

“I told you you can’t take that doll,” Rosemary snapped.

“Don’t have a doll.”

“What’s that thing, then?”

Hazel looked at the doll. “My baby.”

“You can’t take that baby, everybody will laugh at you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not married.” Hazel looked bewildered. “Oh, put that thing in your room,” Rosemary said. “It’s either the doll or me. Make up your mind. Do you want to come or not?”

Hazel went slowly into her room and came out without the doll. Gee willikers, what a pest, Rosemary thought, and rushed out of the house to catch her friends before they left without her, hearing Hazel’s footsteps in hot pursuit behind her and wishing with all her heart that Hazel wasn’t so tall and didn’t
look
seventeen.

Hazel was happy. She was happy because she had fooled Rosemary and she had her baby doll wrapped right up in her coat where no one could see her. Rosemary didn’t have to be so mean. Everybody was always mean to her and Hazel couldn’t understand why, because she wasn’t mean to them. If she had any place to go she would invite them. She just didn’t have any place to go. But they always had places to go and they never wanted her to come. It was fun to play a trick on somebody. When they got to the lake in the park Hazel would sneak away and hide her baby doll and then nobody would know about it. Ha ha, Ro!

Rosemary was running so fast that Hazel had a hard time keeping up with her. By the time Hazel got to the lake all the kids had their ice skates on and were playing on the ice. She didn’t know why nobody ever tried to teach her to skate or asked her to play with them. They were all mean. She walked around the edge of the frozen lake until she got to a clump of pine trees. The trees still had leaves on them even though it was winter and none of the others did, and they made a fine, dark, cozy hiding place for her baby doll. Hazel propped her doll up under a tree, leaning against the trunk.

“Go to sleep, baby,” she said. The doll closed its eyes.

She walked back to the lake where the other kids were all skating. Rosemary was all the way in the center of the lake doing her fancy ice tricks and didn’t even care about her. Hazel sat down heavily on one of the benches at the edge of the lake and looked around to see if there was anybody to talk to.

There was a boy sitting there by himself, just hanging around, drinking a bottle of beer he had taken from a paper bag. He was taller and bigger than the other kids and Hazel thought he was probably her age. That was good, because then he could be her friend. He was looking at all the girls, and once in a while he’d kind of try to get one of them to look at him if she was an older girl, but none of them did. They all had friends of their own and didn’t want to be his friend, but Hazel did. She could go talk to him and tell him about the trick she’d played on Rosemary by bringing her baby doll and hiding it under the tree. Then maybe they could play house, or if he thought he was too old to play house maybe the two of them could think up some funny trick to play on the other kids.

Hazel walked over to the boy. “Hi,” she said.

He looked her over. “Hi, yourself.”

“What’cha doin’?”

“Not much. What are you doing?”

“Wanna see somethin’?” Hazel said. “Come on.”

She beckoned to him, and he stood up, looking a little surprised, but not mad at her the way all the other kids always did. Just to make sure she wouldn’t lose him, Hazel grabbed hold of his arm, and then she pulled him toward the clump of pine trees. She was getting excited because he was coming with her and not trying to get away, and she wanted to show him how smart she was.

“Come on,” she said. “Just for fun.”

“Okay,” the boy said. He looked really pleased.

“We’ll have a good time,” Hazel told him.

“Oh, you kid!” he said admiringly. He went right with her into the dark, secret place under the trees, and then, before she could even show him her baby doll he grabbed her and started hugging her. She tried to struggle to get away, but he was very strong. He was trying to push her down onto the ground, with him on top of her, and Hazel didn’t like that a bit. She didn’t want to play rough, and he was scaring her. Then he put his mouth on hers and pressed hard. She could feel his teeth. She jerked her head away and started to scream loud.

“Hey!” he was saying, “Hey, what’s the matter?” He wouldn’t let go and she wouldn’t stop screaming until he put his hand over her mouth and then she bit him and started to cry.

“Bitch!” he said, real mad, and slapped her face.

It was then a whole bunch of kids found them and everybody started yelling and Hazel didn’t pay any more attention because she was crying too hard and she couldn’t understand why that boy had turned out to be so crazy and so mean and tried to hurt her when she had just wanted to be friends with him.

“Listen, Mama,” Rosemary said, sitting on the edge of her mama’s bed, “we have to do something about Hazel.” She had brought Hazel home and made her stop crying and wash her face, and now she had Hazel put away in her bedroom, calmed down and sniffling just a little, with her baby doll on the floor beside her and a big plate of cookies and two glasses of milk. “It’s serious, Mama.”

So she told Mama about what had happened that afternoon, the way the kids had pieced it together. Hazel had just wanted to play with the boy, but the boy hadn’t known how dumb she was and he had thought she wanted him to get fresh with her, so he had.

“We can’t let her go out alone, Mama, and I can’t watch her every minute. It isn’t fair.”

“Poor Hazel,” Mama said.

“What’s the matter with her anyway?” Rosemary asked.

“I don’t know—she’s just different. I think she’s like a child that didn’t grow up yet.”

“Is she going to grow up?”

“She’s better. Slowly, slowly, she’s always better.”

“But she’s too old now to go out alone, Mama. She could talk to some other boy and there wouldn’t be anyone around to save her. She just doesn’t understand.”

“I know. Poor Rosemary. Poor Hazel. You have to love your sister; she’s family. We all have to love each other. That’s what a family is for, to stick together and help each other.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“But you’re right, you’re too young for all that responsibility. I’ll talk to Hazel. I’ll keep her more with me.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Rosemary said. “I know you don’t feel well. I’m sorry this has to fall on you.”

“Nu, so what’s a mother for?” Her mama smiled. “Go, go get me the knitting basket from the closet and then send Hazel in here. I think I have an idea.”

Thus it was that Mama taught Hazel how to knit. Hazel turned out to have a positive genius for knitting. It was simple and repetitious, and she could see results, so she loved it. Scarves flowed from her needles, then squares that Mama crocheted together into afghans; the house was covered with afghans, every bed and chair and sofa had one, then Hazel gave them for presents. Then she got orders: “Oh, Hazel, please make a blue one for the new baby boy,” “Oh, Hazel, one for Cousin Leah’s trousseau would be so nice.”

It made her important. Mama tried to teach her how to make sweaters, and Hazel tried, but they never seemed to come out right. One side was always crooked, or one sleeve was longer, or the pieces didn’t fit. Hazel kept forgetting to count the stitches. But her talent was afghans, and somebody always needed one, wanted one, was happy to be surprised by one. With such a chore to make her popular and keep her occupied, Hazel bloomed; she became placid and quiet, content to sit on the periphery of the family activity with only the click-click-click of her knitting needles signifying her presence. She liked to pick the colors and the combinations. Her only outings were to the local knitting shop to pick up more wool, always accompanied by one of her sisters.

She gave her baby doll away to Aunt Becky’s younger girl. It was a baby toy, and Hazel was a young lady now, knitting just like Mama and the other grown-up ladies. Everyone said it was a talent. It made her feel proud.

TWELVE

“Come, ladies!” Lavinia called, “Come on, hurry, ladies.” She always called them ladies, but to see them you would think they were a herd of rumbling rhinoceroses. Huge, fat, dressed in all their clothes in case, God forbid, someone at home might steal them—who knew why they wore so many clothes? And with their babushkas over their heads, like her hated grandmother (well, you shouldn’t speak badly of the dead, but Lavinia still hated the old witch), and all those parcels and paper bags they dragged with them in case, God forbid, they happened to get hungry, they were a sight. There she was, barely five feet tall, a hundred pounds, and herding the whole lot of them. “Follow me, ladies! Single file, please!”

Today she was taking them to learn how to use the subway. It had been her own idea: learning to speak English was not enough if they did not also learn how to use it in this strange city. So she would take them on field trips and give them confidence. Most of them lived within walking distance of the Adult Education Center, and those who didn’t had a son or daughter to bring them there so they wouldn’t get lost.

“Does everyone have her nickel?”

Nickel, nickel, they were all scrabbling through their parcels and handbags to where they had hidden their money. She had already taught them currency, which coin was which and how to make change.

“I got this,” one of them called, holding up a crumpled bill.

“What is this?” Lavinia asked.

The old woman peered at it. “A dollar.”

“Good. Now, you will go to that booth over there, which is called the change booth, and you will give the dollar to the man inside, and he will give you nickels, dimes, and quarters.”

“How do I know he won’t keep my dollar?” the old woman grumbled suspiciously. Well, you couldn’t blame her; she’d probably been cheated blind since she came here, not knowing the language or the ways.

“Because it is his job to give correct change,” Lavinia said. “And if you wish, you can count it.” She was immediately sorry she had said that, because Mrs. Tannenbaum (she finally put the name to the lumpy face) was slow and stingy and would probably take half an hour to count her change while they all stood there.

The subway roared into the station and several of the old women put their hands over their ears. The younger ones looked at it with interest and some fear. While Mrs. Tannenbaum got her change, all in nickels, which she had requested, and was counting them, Lavinia counted heads. She was always afraid of losing one of her charges and never seeing her again, lost forever in the heart of the city, murdered in Chinatown, dead under the wheels of a trolley, who knew? They were worse than children.

“All right, ladies, follow me.” Lavinia put her nickel into the slot in the turnstile and walked through. The ladies set up a chorus of oohs and ahs. They loved mechanical things.

Click, turn, click, turn, click, turn, click, ouch! It was fat Mrs. Buchbaum (or was that Mrs. Rottenberg?) stuck fast in the turnstile. She just couldn’t get through. The ladies were giggling and clucking with concern, some of them biting their fingers. The other fat one (the one who was either Mrs. Rottenberg or Mrs. Buchbaum, whichever wasn’t stuck in the turnstile) was pushing at it, trying to get her friend free. There but by the grace of God go I, she was probably thinking, or some version of that homily.

That was stupid planning of the transit system, Lavinia was thinking. How could a fat person get through that turnstile? All people weren’t the same size. She was looking for a guard to call for help when the turnstile turned and Mrs. B. or Mrs. R. was through on the other side, and now the other one was afraid to try. Well, she’d just have to try, or else she would never be able to use the subway.

“You can do it,” Lavinia called. “Hold your breath.”

The ladies all applauded when Mrs. R. (or Mrs. B.) was through. They were so good-natured, they liked their outings, and Lavinia could never get angry at them even when they tried her patience. But the job was just such a bore, that was all. It was not what she’d had in mind when she completed her training in psychology at Cornell, but Papa wanted her to do social work because she was well off and didn’t need the money. Jobs, he said, were too hard for women, and the jobs offered to women were not worthy of her. She could have taught, but it would have meant more schooling, and she didn’t want that. There was such a need for trained women in social work, and she would be such a gem, Papa said. When she found this job working with middle-aged immigrant women Papa was delighted. It was good to help your own. Lavinia didn’t feel they were her own at all, but she was making everybody happy so she stayed with it.