A Castle in Brooklyn(23)

Esther wanted to object, wanted to let Florrie know that it wasn’t her husband who pored over blueprints with her, but their dear friend, Zalman. But she thought it best to remain silent for now. The woman went on like a runaway train.

“Sid and I weren’t so lucky, and besides, I wouldn’t know the first thing about building a home. No, our house was built some ten years earlier by the Saccones, who lived there with their six kids—can you imagine? Six kids running around in that three-bedroom house with no basement! Mr. Saccone drove a hard bargain, but Sid, that’s my husband, got him down to fourteen thousand.” She swiveled in her seat, facing Esther.

“Hey, you got any kids?”

Esther, no longer shocked by the woman’s presumptuousness, shook her head.

“No. We haven’t—”

“That’s okay, me neither,” said Florrie, interrupting again. “But yours will come soon enough. Sid and I don’t have any kids, and we won’t either. I had a woman’s problem when I was twenty. After a few years, they had to take everything out of me,” she disclosed without any trace of emotion that Esther could detect.

“Oh well,” she went on, shrugging, “I got three brothers who have a bunch of little ones, so I’m everybody’s auntie. I take ’em to the zoo, or the park, do up Marni and Shari’s hair with pretty ribbons. They’re the littlest ones. And when any of ’em starts to squawk, well, I just give ’em back to their parents. That’s the good thing about being an auntie. You only have to put up with ’em for so long. Don’t get me wrong, I love each one of ’em, even Joey, the oldest boy. He’s kind of quiet and serious, but I guess that’s the way boys are at that age, almost twelve. But, like I say, I love all ten of ’em just the same. Matter of fact, I love all kids. That’s why I work part-time at Murray’s Toys on Ocean Avenue. I love to see the children walk in, their eyes all big, and smiling from ear to ear. When I bring down one of them little balls attached to a paddle, a bright-red Hula-Hoop, or one of those Tiny Tears or rubber dollies, you should see their faces! It’s like I was Santa Claus or something. I swear I love them children.”

Florrie sat back, looking satisfied, as if she had just finished a slice of Ebinger’s blackout cake with a big glass of cold milk on the side.

“So? And you, you are young and healthy. I suppose you’ll be having a few little ones running around within the year?” she asked.

“N-no, maybe not so soon. There is still much to be done in this house. Much work.”

“Well, I wouldn’t wait too long if I was you. I was already thirty when I found out that for me a family was a lost cause.” She paused then, as if she had forgotten something.

“Hey, you got an accent! You from Europe? Poland, I bet that’s where you’re from!” When Esther nodded, the woman snapped her fingers gleefully.

“I can always tell! My husband’s got family from there. Mine are from Austria, I think, but we’ve been here for a couple of generations already.” Then Florrie got up abruptly and, again lifting the gingham cover off the lid of the Pyrex casserole dish, prodded the noodles with her finger.

“It’s cooled off. Now I think you can put it in the fridge.” Instead of waiting for Esther to make a move, though, she lifted the dish off the table, went over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and placed it delicately on the top shelf.

“Looks like you need some milk for your husband’s coffee. I’ll put you in touch with Mr. Ryland, the milkman. He delivers mine twice a week, so it’ll be a snap.”

Esther’s eyes remained steady on the woman with the long legs and athletic build who had barged her way into Esther’s home. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a smile come to her face. She did not mind the neighbor’s nosy questions, her presumptuous statements and bossy manner. And now, looking at the round curves of her cheeks, her soft hazel eyes, she realized something about Florrie reminded her of her old friend Sophie, who had moved to Baldwin, Long Island, just before Esther married, and since then Esther hadn’t heard a peep from her. Not even a letter.

Florrie was standing by the kitchen counter examining a bowl of McIntosh apples.

“Where’d you buy these? In a supermarket? You should try Weiman’s. I know the owner’s son. They have the best produce. Get it straight from the orchard in New Jersey. I’ll take you there sometime.”

Without waiting for a response, Florrie glanced at the gold Bulova watch on her wrist, exclaiming, “Holy cow! It’s nearly five o’clock! I’ve got to get my beef stew on the fire for Sid. He likes all the juices from the meat and carrots cooked in just so. I’ll give you the recipe sometime!”

Then, without another word, she went to the front door, which Esther hadn’t bothered to lock, put her finger to her lips, touched the new mezuzah, which Esther’s parents had purchased for her in Israel, and left. Esther remained seated, staring at the closed door for some minutes. When she stood up to finish the vacuuming, she realized that the smile she had greeted her new neighbor with was still on her.



Sometimes when Jacob was asleep at night, Esther would slip out of bed, move carefully down the hall to the bathroom, and switch on the light. Then she would turn to the mirror, which reflected the pink and white tiles on the walls, and examine the image in front of her. Brown hair almost, but not quite, to her shoulders, longer than she had ever had it since she was a kid. Naturally wavy, there was that bob, the little wave suspended above her eyebrow. No sign of gray yet, but when there was, she knew she would color it first thing, not at all like Florrie, who didn’t seem to be bothered by her streaks. Her lips, unpainted now, were fuller than she would have liked, her nose a little too pert. But it was her eyes, she knew, that were her outstanding feature. Blue like the sky on a sunny day, her father used to say when she was little. They were framed by eyebrows that were like her mother’s, who was darker by nature, and needed plucking only occasionally, and lashes that waved upward. Her features were set in a cloud of ivory, unobstructed yet by worry lines or wrinkles.