She's Up to No Good(104)

She also knew that her father had paid Sofia’s culinary school tuition and used the sale of the store to help her open her restaurant. She wasn’t positive her siblings knew that, but if they did— “I agree,” she said quietly, and everyone let out a collective breath.

“Good.” Bernie wiped his palms on his pants. “Next up, I think you girls need to sort through Mama’s things. We don’t want to make Papa do that.”

“We can,” Margaret said. “We have all week with shiva.”

The rest of the sisters agreed, then they retired to the multiple houses for the night, knowing they needed their strength for the funeral the next day.





Fred left with the children two days later, dropping Anna and Joan at their colleges on the way. Evelyn kissed them all goodbye, telling Fred she would let him know when to pick her up at the train station.

“I can come back and drive you home,” he said.

“It’s okay. I don’t want to make you do that.”

“I don’t mind.”

Evelyn put a hand to his cheek. “I know. And I love you. But I’m okay. I promise.”

He embraced his wife before herding the now-grown children into the car, Richie volunteering to drive.

“A little different from the old days, isn’t it?” Fred asked from the passenger window.

Evelyn shook her head. “It goes by in a flash. I’ll call you tonight.” And she watched them drive away.

The following afternoon, the sisters quietly excused themselves from the living room, where Joseph sat with Bernie, Sam, and various neighbors, including Ruthie’s mother, who hadn’t stopped crying and didn’t show any signs that she would soon.

Helen went into the closet, Margaret took the jewelry box and sat on the bed to begin divvying things up, Evelyn went to the chest of drawers, and Gertie sat on the floor, opening the trunk in the corner. They quickly established a pile for each sister and the much larger giveaway pile, where most of the clothes went.

“This one is mine,” Margaret said about a ring. “I don’t care what else I get, but I’m taking this.”

“What about Mama’s good hat? Does anyone want that?”

Evelyn smiled at the memory. “I do.”

“When’s the last time you wore a hat?” Helen asked.

“Sentimental value.”

Helen shrugged and added it, still in its box, to Evelyn’s pile.

“What are these?” Gertie asked, pulling out a bundle of letters, tied in a ribbon. Everyone looked over.

“I have no idea.”

“I’ve never seen those.”

“They were in the trunk?”

“At the bottom,” Gertie confirmed. “In a hatbox under an afghan she made.” She untied the ribbon and lifted the top letter, looked at the front, and then turned it over. “It’s addressed to her. But it’s not opened.” She lifted the next one. “None of them are.”

They all gathered around Gertie, sitting on the floor around her, each picking up a letter.

“What do you think they are?”

“Who are they from?”

“Frank Corrigan. Who is that?”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

Evelyn ripped open the envelope she was holding.

“Stop! What are you doing?” Helen asked, reaching for the letter, but Evelyn pulled it away from her sister’s grasp.

“There’s only one way to find out what they are,” she said, skimming the rough cursive. Her mouth dropped open. “These are love letters. To Mama!”

“What?”

“Let me see!”

Evelyn handed the letter to Margaret, who eagerly read it, Gertie looking over her shoulder, then picked up the stack, flipping through postmarks.

“They came on her birthday every year—look. And they started in 1919—the year she married Papa.”

“Corrigan. He wasn’t Jewish.”

“Irish, I’d guess.”

The four of them looked at each other in awe.

Evelyn picked up the letter from 1919 and opened it.

“I don’t think we should read these,” Helen said.

“Well, I do.”

Gertie looked at her older sister, who stood with her hand on her hip, and silently rose, going to the dresser to continue working there while Helen returned to the closet. Margaret stayed on the floor with Evelyn, reading each letter after she finished.

“I think we should call him,” Evelyn said when she had read them all.

“What?”

“He should know she’s gone.”

“He can read it in the newspaper.”

Evelyn stood and looked at Helen. “He loved her. And I know she loved Papa, but this Frank meant something to her if she kept his letters all these years.”

“She didn’t even read them!”

Evelyn lowered her eyes to the envelopes and letters now scattered across the floor. They were poorly spelled but brimming with the affection this strange man held for the woman they thought they knew so well. Evelyn understood she was doing this for herself, but that had never stopped her before. And it would be a kindness to return the letters.

“That’s how I know she cared. She couldn’t bring herself to read them or to throw them away.”