The Two-Family House(9)
When she finally did turn around, Mort was walking back into the kitchen with all three girls. He was speaking in a loud, cheerful voice and smiling. “Girls,” he said, “your mother has some news for you.” Rose cleared her throat and told them about the baby. Cheers came first, followed by the predictable bickering over who was going to hold the baby first and who was going to be best at feeding and diapering. “You will all have a turn to help with him,” Mort had told them.
This morning had brought the biggest surprise of all. Rose had walked to the front door with Mort’s suit jacket to help him on with it—something she had done every morning of their marriage. Usually he kept his back to her, buttoned the jacket up and left. But this morning, he had turned toward her after slipping his left arm into his sleeve. He turned so gracefully that Rose had actually imagined him for a moment as a dancer on a stage, moving toward her with effortless purpose. And at the end of his turn, this nimble stranger had slipped his left arm around her waist, taken her unsuspecting cheek sweetly in his other hand and kissed her lips goodbye.
So unexpected was the combination of embrace and kiss, so tender the touch on her cheek, that when he was safely down the street and the girls off to the park, Rose sat down at her kitchen table, put her head down on the worn wooden top and cried. It started with a few tears—she had a lot to do that morning and she was determined not to think too much about Mort’s behavior. But as she sat, she found she could not stop. Tears streamed out of her as if she were a confused child, with no warning, and seemingly no end to their torrent. What had just happened? As she sat there wondering and rubbing her apron over her eyes, a quick knock came at the door. It was Helen.
“Rose! Are you home? I have no raisins left and I need some for my strudel. Can I borrow some raisins?” Rose stood up from her chair—the door was unlocked and Helen was entering the kitchen. When Helen saw Rose’s swollen eyes, she gasped. “What’s wrong? Oh my God, Rose, what is it? Is it the baby?” Rose shook her head no, and Helen took a deep breath. “What, then? Oh honey, what’s wrong?”
Rose wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m fine,” she murmured. “Here, let me find the raisins.” But Helen would not let it drop. She grabbed Rose’s hand before she could slip away.
“Is it Mort?”
“Oh Helen.” Rose hesitated. She was embarrassed to speak of it, to admit that the smallest affectionate gesture from her husband had been so surprising that it had moved her to tears.
“He … he kissed me. He held my cheek. He looked at me like he used to, the way he did when we were young.”
“Ohhh,” said Helen. “I see.” She tried to hide her surprise. “Why don’t you send the girls up to us for dinner tonight? You and Mort can have some time to yourselves.”
Rose couldn’t remember the last time she had looked forward to time alone with Mort, but now she didn’t hesitate. “All right,” she said.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon preparing for dinner. She didn’t want to send the girls upstairs empty-handed, so she decided to bake something for them to take. It was so nice to bake whenever she wanted now, without having to worry about cards and rations. As she pulled the flour canister out from behind her spice rack, it toppled over and the lid popped off. Flour poured out onto the counter and floor, leaving a cloud of snowy dust hanging in the air. Rose frowned and took out the broom.
Once the cake was in the oven, Rose tried to come up with something special to make Mort for dinner. What was his favorite dish? She honestly couldn’t think of one. Her husband never seemed to care much about food. Not like Abe, who was always asking for seconds. She envied Helen’s easy manner with Abe, how he grabbed Helen around her waist by the stove and hummed in her ear when she stirred something. No wonder Helen was such a good cook.
In the end Rose decided on a chicken dish, one she learned how to make from her mother, with dried apricots and marmalade. “A little sweet to sweeten his disposition” her mother used to say when she cooked this chicken for Rose’s father. Maybe it would work for Rose too.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she whispered to herself. Mort had been her husband for thirteen years, and she had eaten dinner with him almost every night of their marriage. Why was she so excited? She hoped the evening would go well. She hoped it would be different from the thousands of dinners that had come before it. Because if this dinner was the same, if the promise of the morning’s kiss was lost, the hope she carried would scatter and disappear, like the last puff of flour she had swept off the floor.
Chapter 8
MORT
(September 1947)
Ever since Rose told him she was expecting their fourth child, Mort had been bargaining with God. Somewhere in the dusty bottom drawer of his consciousness, he knew he had not been an attentive father or a loving husband. He knew he had failed. In the quiet of the night, with Rose sleeping beside him, he counted his sins as only a man obsessed with numbers could. He recorded each unkind remark, intentional slight and frown in imaginary columns, tallied the totals and found himself wholly in the red.
Mort’s vision of God was the punitive Old Testament righter of wrongs. He convinced himself that with good behavior (as well as good bookkeeping), he could balance his divine account statement and show a profit of virtue. A successful son to carry on his name and his business would be his reward.