The Two-Family House(16)

“How is Rose feeling?” What is it about pregnancy that makes people so comfortable prying into personal matters?

“She’s fine.”

“When my sister was pregnant, she was sick every day. I’m so glad Rose is having an easy pregnancy.”

It might be easy for Rose, Mort thought, but it certainly isn’t easy for me. He was having difficulty keeping the “smile” on his face.

The phone rang and Sheila stopped stirring her coffee. “Sorry, Mort, I have to grab that. Can’t keep the customers waiting!” She was back to her desk in a flash.

Mort exhaled. He filled his coffee cup. It had taken several weeks for him to learn that if he filled his cup at the beginning of a conversation, his coffee would most likely be cold by the time he returned to his desk. Is this what office pleasantries had come to? Wasting time and cold coffee? He was relieved his conversation with Sheila was finally over. He would go back to his desk and decide exactly how to score it. It was lucky for him that the phone had rung when it did.





Chapter 12





ROSE


From the minute Rose got out of bed that morning, she felt changed, lighter somehow. Mort had gotten up early to go to Philadelphia with Abe, and the whole day lay ahead of her, unencumbered. Once the children were off to school, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Mort was always gone by this time of the morning, so the day shouldn’t have felt different from any other. But it did.

The first thing she realized was that she didn’t have to make pot roast for dinner. It was Wednesday, and Wednesday night was pot roast night, at least according to Mort. If something else was served, or if she made pot roast on a Saturday instead, Mort would be visibly disappointed. His absence freed her of this restriction.

It came to her then, pot roast and enlightenment entwined: the reason why Mort’s absence affected her so. She hadn’t known what it was until it wasn’t there. The daily dread of being judged, of being measured and found lacking in some way, no matter how small, was a burden she carried, compact and profound. It was a too-heavy purse, worn and comfortable on her shoulder, which she did not know the weight of until she set it down.

Ever since Judith was born, Rose realized, Mort had been struggling to maintain control. He could not manipulate the outcome of her pregnancies, and he could not change their daughters into sons. Faced with these setbacks, he was determined to control whatever else was left—what their girls were allowed to read, what they wore, where they went, how much affection he would show to his wife and, though it seemed trivial, even what Rose made for dinner.

Rose opened up the cabinet next to the sink and took out her mother’s recipe box. The box was yellow painted tin, with black and red flowers etched onto the sides. The top was copper, faded with brown spots or stains. Some of the recipes were typed onto cards, and some were handwritten on scraps of paper. Others were just torn pieces of magazine pages, folded haphazardly and stuffed inside. None of the recipes was in any particular order, and every time Rose looked through them, she had to spend at least ten minutes searching for the one that she wanted.

That was the fun of it, though. The recipe box was the only part of her mother that Rose had left. When her mother died, Rose didn’t care about the jewelry. All Rose really wanted was the box. Their mother rarely wore her earrings or necklaces, but Rose knew she had opened the recipe box almost every day. To Rose, it was her mother’s touchstone, and she was certain it had absorbed a small part of her mother’s essence. Sometimes, Rose talked to the box as if her mother were inside it, like a genie in a bottle.

She thumbed through the recipes, looking for something to make for the girls that night. Salmon croquettes? Too messy. Chicken Marbella? Too complicated. She remembered there were lamb chops in the freezer, but she just couldn’t bring herself to defrost them.

Rose was halfway through the box when her fingertips came upon a white recipe card with frayed edges. The blue printing across the top read, “From the Kitchen of Sylvia Pelt.” It was a recipe for cheese blintzes, and Rose’s mouth started watering as soon as she saw it. Sylvia had been her mother’s good friend.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had made blintzes. They were time-consuming and complicated. Plus, Mort didn’t like them. And even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t approve of having them for dinner. Rose remembered one night years ago when all the girls were recovering from the flu and she had made them scrambled eggs and toast for dinner.

“What is this?” Mort had grumbled as soon as he sat down.

“Eggs. The girls don’t feel well and the doctor said to give them something plain when they felt ready to eat again. Eggs and toast is the right thing for them to eat.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m sorry, Mort. I’ll make chicken and dumplings tomorrow. It just seemed like a waste to make it today.”

“No, tomorrow is pot roast night.”

That was how she knew he expected certain dishes on certain days. And that breakfast food wasn’t to be served for dinner. Oh, there were variations for sure. But they weren’t usually successful. He would give her a look, close a door too hard or do something else to let her know he wasn’t pleased.

She had to admit that Mort had been kinder lately, more attentive, caring. He was no longer indifferent to her. But it wasn’t enough. Mort’s efforts were because of the new baby—her biggest test yet. If she failed, she knew what it would do to him this time, and what that, in turn, would do to her. It wouldn’t be like making eggs for dinner or having pot roast on the wrong night of the week. He would never forgive her. “This has to work out,” she said to the recipe box. Rose tried to imagine her mother in miniature, dressed like a genie in harem pants and scarves, but all she could come up with was a vision of her in a housecoat and apron. Whatever her mother was wearing, Rose hoped she was listening. She rubbed the tin box a few times, for luck.