In the Unlikely Event (3 page)

“I want a different kind of cat,” Rusty told him. “One who lives at home, or else a dog. A dog would be even better.”

But then the market crashed, and in the Depression that followed a pet was the least of their concerns.

Rusty hid the wrapped presents in the corner of her closet, on the highest shelf, not that Miri would snoop around the way she had when she was little, but still, there was something satisfying about hiding them.

Now that she'd finished her housework for the week, a little luxury was in order, starting with a long, hot bath. As the water ran in the claw-foot tub, Rusty chose her bath salts carefully, sniffing each one. Was she in a lavender mood, vanilla, musk? Yes, musk. Something to remind her she was just turning thirty-three. She was still young. It wasn't too late. She stepped into the steamy bath, then lowered herself, sinking lower and lower until only her face was above water.

Irene

Downstairs, in her first-floor apartment, Rusty's mother, Irene Ammerman, poured a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream into a crystal decanter, to welcome the holiday shoppers she hoped would flock to her house from four to eight p.m., despite the falling temperatures. She'd sent out penny postcards, inviting all her regular customers, encouraging them to bring friends.

This morning, before he left for work at the newspaper, Henry had opened her dining room table to its full length, big enough to seat twelve. She'd created a tabletop display with fluffy cotton, white as fresh snow, arranged the Volupté compacts just so, then scattered sparkly snowflakes around. The snowflakes would make a mess, she knew, and she'd be Hoovering tomorrow morning, but they were worth it. This year's line featured a style to appeal to every taste. If you wanted gemstones, there were gemstones. If you preferred gold accents on silver, fine. And if you wanted simple but elegant, there were plenty to choose from. She set the Ronson lighters, the other
line she carried, in small groups, ranging from large silver tabletop models to small, pocket-size squares. There was still time to have the Ronsons engraved, but not much.

She had to be careful what else she put on the table. Last year she'd used her leaded crystal candlesticks to add height to her display, along with a few colorful antique bowls. A mistake, since customers assumed they were also for sale. So she sold a few bowls, making up prices on the spot. But the candlesticks—no. She didn't have much left from the old days, when they were flush from the store, and these she was keeping for Rusty, or Miri, or even Henry's wife, if he married, which she hoped he would.

Yesterday, she'd splurged on a wash, set and manicure at Connie's Beauty Salon. She needed to look as stylish as the gifts she was hoping to sell. Presentation was presentation, and that included her. She moved the family photos, usually lined up on the sideboard, to the top of the spinet to make room for her famous coffee cakes. Her customers would expect a nosh. She touched her lips to Miri's photo and stood it next to one of Max, her husband, who'd died two weeks before Miri was born.
Boom boom boom
—just like that—Rusty turned eighteen, Max died, Miri was born. She was forty-one at the time and in one month she'd become both a widow and a grandmother.

Bad things happen in threes
, her cousin Belle reminded her, but Irene couldn't say that Rusty having a baby at eighteen was a bad thing, or maybe it was, given the circumstances, but the baby herself was not. The baby, Miri, was a precious gift, with her grandfather's high cheekbones and dimpled cheek. Not a beauty like Rusty, not yet, but growing into her looks. The eyes, she knew where they came from, but she kept that to herself. She hoped to god she would never again come face-to-face with the person responsible for those eyes. If she did she didn't know what she might do. He'd better hope she wouldn't have a carving knife in her hand. If she kept thinking of him she might need a nitro under her tongue. She brushed off her hands as if brushing away bad thoughts and poured herself a small glass of sherry.

RUSTY CAME DOWNSTAIRS
to help at the open house. Irene looked smart in a simple gray wool dress with a white collar. She was at her most charming, chatting with her customers, offering a glass of sherry to the few husbands who'd accompanied their wives, and to the women, too. “It will warm you up,” she told them. Was anyone better at this than her mother? Rusty didn't think so. Irene had once confided to Rusty she'd had the opportunity, when she was young, to marry into the family who'd started Volupté. But her parents thought Max Ammerman was a better catch. He was fifteen years older and already established in business. If she'd married the Volupté boy she'd be powdering her nose in the best clubs and restaurants, instead of selling compacts wholesale from home.

It was still early but already it looked like Irene would get a good turnout. Rusty replenished the stock from Irene's closet, handled the cash and the occasional check, and was available for gift-wrapping. When the phone rang Rusty excused herself and picked it up.

“Irene?”

“No, this is her daughter, Rusty.”

“Oh, Rusty, dear, I haven't seen you in ages. This is Estelle Sapphire from Bayonne. I can't get to Elizabeth tonight. I'm busy packing, leaving for Florida in the morning, but I was hoping Irene could put away six compacts for me. My husband will pick them up tomorrow on his way back from the airport. He's driving to Miami but I'm flying.”

Lucky Mrs. Sapphire, Rusty thought, to be escaping this weather. She wouldn't mind a trip to Florida, but she took her two weeks of vacation in the summer so she and Miri could spend time together down the shore.

“Any special design?” Rusty asked.

“No, dear. Whatever Irene thinks.”

“Price range?”

“Mid. Really, I'm just taking them in case I meet someone, a good hairdresser, a pleasant maid. You know. As a way to say thank you. So much nicer than giving money.”

“Of course,” Rusty said. “I'll get them ready for you right now.”

“Thank you, Rusty. Please tell Irene I said hello.”

“I will.” Rusty was willing to bet the
pleasant
maid or the
good
hairdresser would prefer cash, but a gift was better than nothing.

“Rusty, darling,” Irene said, handing her four compacts and two Ronsons. “Could you gift-wrap these for Mrs. Delaney? Red ribbon.”

Red ribbon was a code for Christmas, not Hanukkah, which would be blue ribbon.

Rusty knew Mrs. Delaney's son, a good-looking guy who worked at the branch bank on Elmora Avenue. He always flirted with her. Sometimes she flirted back, just to keep up her skills, though she knew he was married with four children. Not to mention Catholic.

Steve

A few blocks down East Jersey Street from the Martin Building, where Steve Osner's father had his dental office and you could get a great-tasting burger at Three Brothers Luncheonette, Steve was shooting baskets at the YMHA with his best buddy, Phil Stein, both of them seniors at Thomas Jefferson High. They'd been born two weeks apart at Elizabeth General Hospital and bar mitzvahed a week apart at Temple B'nai Israel, across the street from the Y. A couple of regulars were playing with them in a pickup game, and one of them must have brought Mason McKittrick. He seemed like a nice enough kid, not that Steve knew him well, since he was just a junior, but he had good moves and a great hook. “You should go out for the team next year,” Steve told him. “Bet you could make varsity.”

“I work after school,” Mason said, “at Edison Lanes—not much time for practice.”

“You set up pins?”

“Yeah, that and other stuff when it gets busy.”

“I'll look for you next time we go bowling.”

“You in a league?”

“No, just bowl for fun.”

Mason nodded.

In the locker room, Steve asked Phil, “You want to grab a burger at Three Brothers? I'm starving.”

“Nah. My mother's probably got dinner in the oven.”

“Okay, but come over later.”

“You have a plan?”

“Don't tell me you forgot already?”

“Remind me.”

“My sister's party.”

“We're going to your sister's party?”

Steve swatted him with his damp towel. “I have to chaperone. My mother thinks if I'm around there won't be any trouble. What a joke! Remember ninth grade? That's the first time I copped a feel.”

“You were always ahead of the rest of us,” Phil said.

If only that were still true, Steve thought. A lot of the guys talked about how much they were getting. Their girlfriends let them touch
and
look. Steve had touched but no one had ever let him look. He didn't have a regular girlfriend. He liked playing the field. Maybe he just hadn't met the right girl yet. He knew girls who'd invite you into their houses to neck on the sofa in the living room, but it never went any further than that. Maybe he was doing something wrong. It might be different if they went to a coed high school. Theirs was the only city in New Jersey with sex-segregated public high schools, Jefferson for boys, Battin for girls. Even St. Mary's was coed and those kids were Catholic.

“I'll set up a card table in the laundry room,” he told Phil. “We'll play a little acey-deucey. You in?”

“Why not?” Phil said.

Mason didn't say anything.

“You know what they do at their parties?” Steve said.

“Who?” Phil asked.

“Jeez, Phil, my sister and her friends! Who do you think?”

“No idea.”

“They play Rotation,” Steve said. “The musical chairs of making out. That's a prelude to sex if ever there was one.” It was one thing to make a joke of it with Phil, but if he ever found some guy messing around with his sister, he'd tear him to shreds. Not just Natalie, but Fern. The men of the family had to be vigilant. It was their job to protect the women. That's the way it was, whether the women liked it or not. The family's honor was at stake. No one told him this in
so many words, but he understood what his mother expected of him. To be an honorable man. He was his mother's favorite and he knew it. Natalie and Fern were more daddy's girls. He had ten years before he had to worry about Fern. She was just in kindergarten. By then he'd be, what—twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight? He'd probably be married, maybe with his own kids. Jeez, that was a scary thought.

“So what time tonight?” Phil asked Steve.

“Around eight.”

“I'll be there.” Phil turned to Mason. “You want a ride home? I got the car outside.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mason said. “I just have to pick up my dog. The janitor's watching him in the basement.”

Steve had a car outside, too. But they were going in different directions.

Mason

Phil took Mason home for supper, introduced him and his dog, Fred, to Phil's parents. Phil swore it would be okay, said his mother liked dogs, and it was true—she took to Fred right away, scratching him behind the ears like she knew what she was doing. “Look at this little fellow. What a darling boy you are,” she said to the dog, who cocked his head at her. “I miss my dog Goldie very much,” she told Mason.

At the dinner table, Fred sat at Mrs. Stein's feet, looking up at her, hoping for scraps. There was no more talk of Goldie and Mason didn't ask any questions.

Phil's father was some big-deal executive. He and Phil talked about football over the roast beef. They were New York Giants fans and had tickets for tomorrow's game, the last of the season, against the New York Yanks.

“Are you a fan, son?” Phil's father asked Mason.

“Yes, sir,” Mason answered.

“What team?” Phil's father asked.

“Yours, sir, the New York Giants.”

“Attaboy!” Phil's father said, clinking his fork against his glass.

Mason preferred baseball to football but he kept that to himself. He still couldn't believe Joe DiMaggio was retiring.

After dinner Phil asked Mason if he wanted to go to Steve's. When Mason hesitated, Mrs. Stein picked up Fred. “It's too cold for such a sweet little fellow to be outside. He can spend the night here and you can get him tomorrow.” Fred didn't complain, didn't even run to the door when Mason left with Phil.

Natalie

The Osners' house was down Shelley Avenue on the left, across the street from School #21, where Natalie had gone to elementary school.

“I don't see why Steve needs to be a chaperone tonight.” She was arguing with her mother in the upstairs hallway. “I mean, really, what do you think is going to happen? You know all these kids. I've been going to school with them since seventh grade. They've been here a million times.”

“Boys can get rambunctious, especially this time of year,” her mother said, her southern drawl more pronounced during an argument. “The holiday season makes them crazy. I don't want any trouble. We have a responsibility to the other parents.”

“But it's not like you won't be home. You'll be in the den.”

“Steve will be unobtrusive.”

“I hope you know you're ruining my get-together. I hope you know that.”

“You won't even know he's there. He'll be in the laundry room.”

“The laundry room?” This almost made Natalie laugh. The laundry room was next to the finished basement and almost as big.

“With some of his friends.”

“His friends? I don't want his friends anywhere near my get-together.”

“I just told you—you won't even know they're there.”

“I'll know. I just hope
my
friends don't find out. If Daddy were here he'd understand.”

“I'm sure your father would agree with me.”

“I doubt it. And keep Fern upstairs. Please! All I need is Fern walking around with her cowboy bunny. It's hard enough to be fifteen without your family making it worse.”