Lady in the Lake(10)
But because I am a nice Jewish girl, I have to live at home until I marry. My parents are old-fashioned that way. “We would be comfortable letting you live with another girl, if we approved of her, but your friends are so flighty,” my mother said. Are they? It doesn’t matter. My mother has spoken. The only tactic available to me is to tease out information about what actions might merit my mother’s rare approval.
That’s how I managed to attend college. My parents were not going to let me go away, even if I received a scholarship that covered everything. They didn’t trust me to be out of their sight. Besides, money was too tight after my father’s bankruptcy, no matter how much my brothers kicked in. College Park was impossible for a commuter without a car.
So I got a scholarship to UB, then worked all summer to earn money that would cover my other costs—books, bus fare, clothes. They could muster no objection to this plan and I graduated last year with a degree in political science. Now I have to apply the same line of thinking to the problem of moving out. What are my parents’ objections? Cost. (So I took the job, working at Jack’s jewelry store, although I have no affinity for retail—all that lying and persuasion.) Safety. A roommate, then. Morals. Not just any roommate. Someone reliable, grounded. And, it goes almost without saying, Jewish.
Maddie Schwartz might be just the ticket. If she needs to sell her ring, she should welcome a roommate to share her bills. True, everyone is saying it’s odd that she didn’t take her son when she left Milton, but it must be Milton’s fault. Everyone in Northwest Baltimore is just waiting for the day that Milton shows up with a secretary or a nurse on his arm. Whoever it is, it will be a comedown from Maddie.
It’s been years since my family could afford the country club, but I remember stories about Maddie Schwartz when she was Maddie Morgenstern. I think it was my brother Nathan who had a crush on her. He’s the one who told me what a sensation she caused the day she wore a flesh-pink suit. And smart, too—graduated high school at age seventeen, did two years of college before she married. Of course, she’s almost old enough to be my mother, but why draw attention to that? My oldest brother could be my father if it came to that. Age-wise, I mean.
Besides, Maddie is nothing like my mother. My mother was born old. In photographs from the 1920s, Papa has the look of a dandy about him, someone who enjoys himself; Mama looks stern and unhappy, even as a child. But then, Papa was second generation, whereas Mama was three when her family came over. It makes a difference, all the difference sometimes. We never speak about the family members who didn’t get out in time. “What is there to say,” Mama said when I asked.
No, Maddie is my best shot. But I didn’t know how to get in touch with her. She’d given me her mother’s number; I suspected she didn’t have a phone. (More evidence that she was living hand to mouth.) I would have to bide my time.
Then, just last week, I ran into Maddie’s mother, Mrs. Morgenstern, at the deli counter at Seven Locks. (That’s another thing I want to escape. My mother makes me do most of the shopping, saying it’s good training for when I keep my own house.)
“Mrs. Morgenstern,” I said shyly. “It’s Judith, Judith Weinstein? From the club?”
She inspected me over the rims of her glasses. “It’s been years.”
It was hard to decode that innocuous statement, to know whether Mrs. Morgenstern was commenting on the passage of time or the scandal of bankruptcy that took the Weinsteins out of elite circles when I was still a child. I guess the fact that I can’t figure out her intent proves what a lady she is.
“I was wondering if you knew how I could get in touch with Maddie? She was in the store the other day and”—I reached for a plausible reason—“something’s come in that’s closer to what she was looking for.”
“Really? I can’t see how Madeline would be in the position to buy anything. But she always was impractical that way. At any rate, she has a phone now. She moved downtown.”
She took out a tiny notebook and wrote down the seven digits. Three three two—not an exchange I know. Mrs. Morgenstern’s handwriting was remarkably like the woman herself, very straight up and down, pretty yet intimidating. I didn’t think a mother could be more domineering than my own, but Mrs. Morgenstern seemed to have her own way of getting what she wanted.
That was Friday. I waited until today to telephone. I figured Mrs. Morgenstern must have shared the encounter by now, so Maddie won’t be too surprised by my call. And I had mentioned the Stonewall Democratic Club meeting.
I phone at eight, figuring that’s civilized. A woman living alone should have finished dinner and the dishes by then, would be preparing to sit down and watch the evening shows. The Big Valley comes on at nine. I like to watch that myself, although my mother’s run-on commentary—“Barbara Stanwyck looks younger than that man playing her son, she’s right, you know, women do have to take responsibility for leading men on, even if they’re crazy like that, what do they call those pants, gauchos?”—makes me want to scream.
The phone rings and rings. I let it go five, eight, twelve times—a person could be in the bathroom. Or maybe I dialed wrong. I try again, just to be sure.
Maddie answers on the second ring, breathless.
“Maddie? It’s Judith, Judith Weinstein.”
“Oh my—I mean, was that you before? Letting it ring and ring? I couldn’t get to the phone and I thought, no big deal, but when it started again, I was worried it was something to do with my son—” Her words seem to be tumbling through all sorts of emotions, relief and irritation and something I can’t pinpoint.