In the Unlikely Event (30 page)

“Potato leek,” Irene said. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, a lot.”

Later, in the middle of the brisket, kasha, and peas, Mason said, “You know, I'm almost sure one of my grandfathers was half-Jewish.”

Irene put down her fork and looked over at him. The others waited.

“My mother's father. I never knew him and it was kind of a secret but when my father got mad at my mother he'd call her a—” Miri kicked him under the table and Mason dropped it. Was it true, or did he think he had to fib to get the family to accept him?

“I'd like to marry a Jewish man,” Miss Rheingold announced. “Everyone says they make the best husbands. How about it, Henry? You know someone for me?”

“My girlfriends have first dibs on Henry's friends,” Leah said in a serious voice.

Miss Rheingold smiled her beauty-pageant smile and said, “Of course they do. I was just joking. You never know where you'll meet Prince Charming.”

“Well,” Henry said, “how about seconds, Mason? You won't get a brisket like my mother's anyplace else in the world.”

“I already know,” Mason said, holding out his plate. “Sure, I'll have seconds.”

Irene was pleased he liked her food. When she brought out a chocolate cake for dessert, frosted with white buttercream and decorated with red hearts, Mason licked his chops. “Boy-oh-boy, I can't believe you baked that!”

Miri couldn't decide if he was stuffing himself to impress her family or if he was really that hungry.

Later, they gathered around the television set that Uncle Henry recently brought home to Irene. He'd moved the old set, with rabbit ears, upstairs to Rusty's living room.

“That's some television set,” Ben Sapphire said, when he saw the twenty-inch Motorola. Henry tuned in to
You Bet Your Life
with Groucho Marx. If they stayed late enough they'd get to see
Dragnet
, the new police show.
Just the facts, ma'am
.

“Did you know, Naomi,” Ben Sapphire said to Miss Rheingold, “Henry is making quite a name for himself. He's getting offers from big papers around the country. And newsmagazines, too.”

“I had no idea, Henry,” Miss Rheingold said. “You must be an ace reporter.”

“He is,” Leah said proudly. “His paper just gave him a big bonus. They don't want to lose him.”

Everyone looked over at Henry. Ben Sapphire held up his glass of brandy and proposed a toast. “To our Ace. You're going places, Henry.”

“Are you thinking of moving to another paper?” Miss Rheingold asked.

“I'm considering my options but I can't help feeling a twinge of guilt at finding success at the expense of tragedy.”

“Come on, Henry,” Ben Sapphire said, “that's what reporting is all about. You make a name for yourself reporting wars, bad politics, tragedy. Not the social section.”

Miri didn't want to think about tragedy tonight. But it always came back to that, didn't it?

Steve

He'd swiped a photo of Kathy from her house when he'd been there for shiva. Just a little photo. Probably no one would notice it was gone. He bought a Valentine's Day card for her and signed it,
Love Steve
. Then he scrawled,
Hope it's nice wherever you are
, at the bottom. Maybe he was going cuckoo like his sister. But he didn't really
believe that. He was just pissed off. He took the story he'd torn from the newspaper out of his desk drawer, the story about how Kathy was going home to see a boy she'd met over the holidays. A boy she really liked. He folded it and slipped it inside the Valentine's Day card. He laid her photo on his pillow and kissed it. “Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy.” Then he went downstairs to the finished basement and grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the bar. Scotch, his father's drink of choice—he liked it on the rocks. His mother was more of a whiskeysour drinker. One was more than enough for her. Back in his room he took a swig straight from the bottle. Jeez, the stuff was awful. It burned his throat.
Here's to us, Kathy
, he said. This time he poured himself a shot and gulped it down. It got easier. By his sixth shot he was blotto. He lay on the floor while his room spun around.
Whirly-beds
. It didn't feel good. He crept on all fours to the bathroom—spinning spinning—and puked his guts out. Then he fell back on the cool tile floor and everything went black.

They Live to Tell Their Stories

By Henry Ammerman

FEB. 15—The bus driver's classic call to “step to the rear” might be heeded by airline passengers. Most of the survivors of the National Airlines DC-6 crash on Feb. 11 had been seated in the rear of the aircraft. When the plane broke apart in the crash it left the rear section less damaged and more accessible to rescuers.

Gabrielle Wenders, the stewardess, was the only surviving member of the crew. She had been found hanging upside down, still strapped in her seat. “I don't know how I ever got out alive. It was a fiery nightmare. We were all so helpless. If it hadn't been for that young man, Mason McKittrick—a name I'll always remember—I might have died that way.”

Chubby little Patty Clausen, age 5, was unharmed, but her mother perished. With her father hospitalized, hospital authorities put out a plea. “Can't someone take this most adorable child home? She keeps asking for her ‘bow wow.' ” The dog had been left in a kennel while the family went on vacation. Her uncle picked her up last night, but said he would wait before telling her of her mother's death.

Hospitalized newlywed Linda West, 25, was unaware of the status of William, her husband. They were married at noon on Feb. 10, and pulled from the wreckage 12 hours later. “When can I see my husband?” She begged her mother to bring him to her bedside. Her mother didn't know how to break the news to her daughter that Mr. West had died of a fractured skull and brain injuries the previous night.

In much better spirits was 17-year-old Cele Bell, who was anxious to get on another flight. “I want to go on vacation to Miami! I'd go tomorrow if I could,” she told reporters. She had been traveling with her mother, who was pinned under her seat after the crash. But Cele was able to pull
her to safety. They had been in the last two seats on the right side of the plane.

Of the 38 who survived the initial crash, two have died in the hospital. Some remain in critical condition, but the prognosis for most is good.

24

Natalie

Natalie's parents took her to New York, to the Central Park West office of some old man who smelled bad. Her mother assured her he was a famous psychoanalyst from Vienna, that he knew Anna Freud, daughter of the great man. Anna lectured frequently in the United States and Dr. Boltzmann might be able to arrange for Anna to see Natalie. Today's appointment with Dr. Boltzmann was a consultation, not a session, not that Natalie knew the difference.

The walls were paneled in dark wood, the floor covered with overlapping Oriental rugs. A faded red brocade sofa strewn with needlepoint pillows stood in the middle of the room, a crocheted afghan folded at one end. There was a big leather chair and two smaller chairs. Dr. Boltzmann sat in one of the smaller chairs, a cushion behind his back. She didn't like this. Didn't like that her parents were in the waiting room, not with her. Maybe the famous doctor had already seen them. Either way, she wasn't going to tell him anything. Half the time she couldn't even understand what he was saying, his accent was so thick. It reminded her of when they used to play Dracula. They'd run around the playground shrieking,
I vant to bite your neck!
She knew enough not to lie down on that faded sofa. She would never lie down on it, even if her parents brought her here every week. Instead she slumped in the big chair, feeling small, feeling like her old Raggedy Ann doll, which she still kept in her closet.

The famous doctor cleared his throat. It sounded like he had
phlegm. Robo's father had phlegm. When he drove he often rolled down the window and spit it out. Natalie hated when he did that. She had to look away to stop herself from gagging. She thought she might gag here, in this dark, faded room.

“You can talk,” the famous doctor said. “No one can hear you.”

You can hear me
, she thought. But she didn't say it aloud. Instead she said, “I don't want to talk.”

“Ah…you don't want to talk and you don't want to eat.”

“I want to eat but I can't. I have a disease.”

“Not a disease. A condition.”

“Did my parents tell you that?”

He shrugged. “We both want to help you get well. The parents and the doctor. Do you want to get well?”

That was a stupid question, a trick question, and she wasn't going to answer it.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asked.

“My hair. It's falling out.”

“Do you pull it out?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Just now,” he said, “you pulled out a clump.”

She looked down and saw a golden-blond clump in her hand. How did it get there? She didn't remember pulling it out. She needed to ask Ruby about this. Ruby would tell her what to do. But lately, she felt Ruby had other things, other people on her mind. Natalie wanted to cry, roll herself into a ball and let the tears come. But she was not going to cry in front of this old man, in this old room, which smelled as musty as he did.

She wished she could twirl. Twirl and twirl until she was so dizzy she'd collapse on the floor. She'd like to slap her taps on the wood floor under the rugs, making more noise than this old doctor had ever heard. She couldn't believe her parents had brought her here. He was like a relic from the olden days. Something right out of a movie.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “What do you think?”

“I don't have to think—I know the answer. I'm here because my parents brought me.”

“Why do you think they brought you?”

“To see you, obviously.”

He ignored her sarcasm, not a good sign. “But why to see me?”

“Because their friend who is our doctor told them to.”

“Yes, but why would he make such a suggestion?”

“Because you're famous.”

“Ah, famous.”

“And because they don't have any idea what's going on.”

“And you won't tell them.”

“That's right. And I won't tell you, either.”

“Of course. Why would you tell me?”

“Because you really want to know, don't you?”

“Yes. I'd like to help you get well.”

“I'd like to get well so I can dance again. That's what I do, you know. I dance.”

“I hear you're a very good dancer.”

“You heard that from my parents?”

“Is it not true?”

“Yes, it's true.”

“So.” A statement, not a question.

“Sew buttons.”

“What is
sew buttons
?”

“Nothing…just an expression.”

“To dance you have to be strong,” he said.

“I was strong until I got sick. Now I just need some medicine to make me better.”

Silence.

She yawned. She was just so tired.

When he called in her parents, when they were seated side by side on the sofa, the famous doctor suggested a rest home in the country for Natalie. He knew of one, just the right place for her, in Westchester County. But her father said it would be better if she could be closer to her family. He'd made some inquiries and suggested the Watchung Hills Children's Home, in New Jersey.

They were sending her away? She couldn't believe her father would send her away. But she didn't have the energy to argue. She'd
argue tomorrow or the next day. She was sure she could persuade them to wait. Especially her father.

In the car, on the way home from the famous doctor's office, Natalie nodded off in the backseat, but she could still hear her parents talking softly about the children's home in Watchung. And then, something about how, at the end of the school year, they would relocate as a family. Her father had been asked to open an office in Nevada in a place called Las Vegas—a place with clean air, wide-open spaces, where the girls could ride horses. “Hell,” her father said, “they can have their own horses.”

Horses…
Natalie thought. What did she care about horses? Fern was the one so obsessed with horses she wished she could
be
a horse.

“What about me?” Corinne asked. “I don't want to ride horses. I don't want to leave my home, my friends, a life I've worked so hard to create. I gave up everything to marry you, Arthur—my family, my roots, because I loved you the minute I met you—like a flash of lightning…”

The old flash-of-lightning story
, Natalie thought.

“And now you're asking me to start all over in some strange place, surrounded by your gangster friends?” Corinne sniffled.

“It's an opportunity, Corinne.”

“It's not one I choose to take.”

“Suppose I say I want to do this?”

“There are many things in life we'd
like
to do, Arthur, but we don't because we consider the needs of those we love above everything else.”

“We don't have to sell the house right away,” her father said. “We can give it two years.”

“What about your practice here—who's going to wait two years for their next appointment?”

“I've been thinking about bringing in a partner, or selling the practice. I've got a good offer from Myron Ludell.”

“No,” Corinne said. “It's a commitment I'm not prepared to make.”

“And what if I say I'm going anyway?” Her father's voice turned angry.

“Is that what you're saying? Because if it is, you're going alone. I'm not going to let you take the children.”

Natalie let herself doze. Dozing wasn't exactly sleeping. Dozing meant she could come awake whenever she wanted. Dozing meant she couldn't die.

Sometime later, after they'd come through the Lincoln Tunnel, her mother raised her voice, waking her. “It's all your fault,” she cried, and for a minute Natalie thought Corinne was blaming her. “You and your crazy ideas. Las Vegas—some hick town in the desert. How many Jews are there in Las Vegas?”

“There will be more and more Jews,” her father told her mother.

“Gangster Jews.”

“Doctors, lawyers, accountants, businessmen. They're already constructing a medical arts center. It will be finished by the end of the school year. I'll have a beautiful office with the latest equipment, and plenty of patients to pay the bills. Daisy is willing to come.”

“Daisy!” her mother said. “You've already talked to Daisy? Daisy before me? Well, that proves it. I've always suspected but until now I wasn't sure. You and Daisy—”

“That's ridiculous and you know it,” her father said, his voice rising.

“Is it?”

The car swerved.

“Arthur!” Corinne shouted.

Had they forgotten Natalie was in the backseat?

Her father pulled off the road onto the shoulder, got out and slammed the door. He paced up and down, lighting a cigarette.

Her mother cried softly, then blew her nose. Natalie thought it best to keep quiet.

When her father returned to the car, he said, “I know this is the right thing to do for Natalie. Get her mind off…get her out in the fresh air.”

“And what about her dancing?”

“There will be classes there.”

“How do you know?”

“Entertainers have classes. And since when do we want to encourage
her to pursue this cockamamie idea she has of becoming the next Ruby Keeler?”

Natalie held her breath when he said “Ruby”—
how did he know? How could he possibly know?
—but when he said “Keeler,” Natalie understood he had no idea about
her
Ruby.

“We have to save her, Corinne.”

“If we can't save her here, how can we save her there?”

“We have to try. I'm begging you to reconsider.”

“And I'm begging you to forget this crazy idea. Who's behind it—Longy? And when it fails—and you come home
begging
for forgiveness—and there's nothing left of your practice or our marriage, then what? How will we live? How will we pay for treatment for Natalie, send Steve to college and Fern to Vail-Deane? You expect my family to support us? You've always resented my family money but now, all of a sudden, it smells clean to you? You're a fool, Arthur. I never thought I'd say that but it's the truth.”