She's Up to No Good(16)

“Brad texted me.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it.”

She gave me an incredulous look. “Good. Throw it in the trash.”

“My phone?”

“The message. Recycle it. Wherever those things go. He can gai kaken afen yam.”

I didn’t know much Yiddish, but I was familiar with that expression, and I snorted. “Grandma!”

“What?”

I sighed. “I can’t just delete it.”

“Why not?”

“We’re still married. It’s not done done yet.”

“From what your mother tells me, it could be.” I crossed my arms. “Oh, don’t make that sour face. You’ll get wrinkles. That’s why I don’t have many. I always smile.” She grinned to prove her point. “I’m with you, though, darling. Make that shmuck suffer. But you don’t need to suffer along with him. Read the message if you want, but remember he can’t do anything worse than he’s already done. You’re wearing the pants now.”

She took my crossed arm and pulled me toward Starbucks. “Come on. Get me one of those frap-a-mochiatto things.”

I let myself be led. “Are you going to steal all of the Sweet’N Low again?”

“Of course not. Now I’m taking the Splenda.”

“Right.” I rolled my eyes.

“You get the coffees.”

“We should probably get lunch too.”

Grandma looked distastefully at the fast-food options. “Absolutely not. I brought sandwiches.”

“You did?”

“It’s tradition. Didn’t your mother tell you about driving to Hereford?”

“No?”

She shook her head. “Well, there are sandwiches. Get the coffee.”





Back in the car, Grandma pulled two foil-wrapped packages from a cooler in the back seat and handed me one, along with a paper towel as a napkin. “I can drive,” she offered, “so you can eat.”

“Nice try. I can drive while eating a sandwich.”

She shrugged. “So can I.”

I unwrapped mine. It was tuna, seasoned with diced apples and a splash of lemon juice, on rye bread. The smell brought me back to my childhood at her house. The nights when I slept over, in my mother’s old bed. After a bath, she would dry my hair carefully with her old hairdryer, so much gentler with the brush than my mother, who ripped through my thick hair, before tucking me into sheets that were thin with so many washings, but soft and fresh. In the morning, I would wake to the smell of French toast, made with thick-cut challah bread. Then we would do puzzles, sitting at the old oak dining table, under the chandelier that had come from her mother’s house in Hereford, while my grandfather drank coffee and did the New York Times crossword puzzle in blue ink while sitting in his armchair in the living room. At lunchtime, I would stand on a wobbly kitchen chair at the counter and help make these exact sandwiches for the three of us to eat.

“These were your favorite when you were little,” my grandmother said as she opened hers. “I hope you still like them.”

I felt tears prickling at my eyes, and I tried to blink them away. The combination of the memory and the realization that not only did Grandma remember, but she made the effort to pack my childhood favorite was too much for me. I glanced in the rearview mirror, wishing I could see my grandfather back there, his newspaper folded to the crossword, the blue ballpoint pen in his hand.

Grandma reached into her purse and handed me a tissue. “If you’re going to cry while you eat, I should definitely drive.”

I laughed, and the moment passed. I took a bite, savoring the taste, so simple and yet so distinctive.

“What happened next?” I asked. “Did your parents stay mad at you?”

She smiled at the memory. “Papa could never stay mad at me. He didn’t even make it a day. And the thought of me going to bed hungry? No. He caved by the end of supper.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN


April 1950


Hereford, Massachusetts


“Supper!” Miriam bellowed upstairs. Evelyn had her nose in her battered copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, a half-eaten sandwich on its paper wrapping next to her on the bed. Was it a kid’s book? Yes. But it was comfort food nonetheless. Evelyn hadn’t grown up poor, but she felt a kinship with Francie as her mother’s distinctly unfavorite child.

She looked up briefly at her mother’s voice. When that woman yelled, they could probably hear her all the way down at the docks. But she took a defiant bite of her sandwich and flicked the page. Miriam wouldn’t call again, and that was fine. She was set until morning.

It was a little hard to focus on the book when she had one ear cocked toward the heating grate though. And it sounded like an awkwardly silent meal.

Maybe I should go down, she thought, not wanting Vivie to suffer. There was only one person whose feelings Evelyn put ahead of her own and that was her baby sister. The sound of cutlery clinking against plates traveled up through the grate, but no one spoke.

She tossed the book aside with a sigh and crossed her arms. This was all part of her mother’s plan though. Treat Vivie like garbage until she smoked Evelyn out of her room. It frequently worked.