Page 52 - WTP Vol. IX #9

Ipeeked through a slit in the living room shade as Mrs. Sullivan, our landlady, parked her blue Cadillac in the driveway, crossed the scrap of front yard, and inspected the boxwood hedges on either side of the door, which my father had trimmed before he went
to work. Her pinched face, topped by hair permed and dyed the color of Red Hots, swiveled between the bushes. Then she got back in the Caddy and I watched its grinning grille glide to the garage behind the house. Soon Mrs. Sullivan’s high heels clicked through the back entrance. I heard her slide the clear panel that propped open the glass door so that air could come in through the screen door. It was only mid- morning, but I was already shvitzing buckets. By the time Mrs. Sullivan climbed the winding stairs to her apartment, the panel had jumped its track and the glass door had slammed shut.
The house had two stories. We lived on the first floor, the landlady on the second. My baby sister Reva, who’d been awake and feverish all night, had just fallen asleep in the back bedroom we shared. When the door slammed, I heard her wake and wail. Wake and wail. The “a” and “ai” both made a long “a” sound. So did “ay,” “ey,” and “eigh.” I could spell all the other vowel combinations too, even though I wouldn’t start third grade for two months.
My mother’s scuffed slippers raced from the kitchen to soothe Reva. I went back to being bored. My par- ents could afford only two weeks of camp, which had ended. Other neighborhood kids were still at camp or traveling with their families. That day was espe- cially awful because, with Reva sick, Mom couldn’t even take us to the playground. In desperation, I took out the paper dolls I got last Chanukah. “Sweetie Pie Twins: Jane and Jean” it said on the box. I’d almost changed their dumb names, but I liked that they
were the same letters rearranged, like poem and mope. I refused to dress them in matching outfits, though. It was bad enough twins were stuck with the same birthdays and faces. They deserved their own clothes. If I put a dress on Jane, Jean got pedal push- ers. But now, in July, the paper tabs had torn off. Not even tape could fix them.
I drew new clothes on colored construction paper and was about to cut out a snowsuit when my moth- er handed me an envelope. “Sharon, take the rent upstairs. I’m afraid to leave Reva, even for a minute.” My sister did look kind of pukey.
“Why can’t Daddy do it?”
“He’s working until eight. The store is having a sale on gardening supplies.”
“So? He can give the landlady the money when he gets home.”
My mother stuck her nose in the air. “Mrs. Sullivan is very par-tic-u-lar that the rent be delivered by six o’clock. She’ll charge us an extra day if we’re even a minute late.”
I almost told her to trust me with the baby and take the check herself, but Mom was already grouchy, and if I behaved myself, she’d give me a dime for a Popsicle when the Good Humor truck drove past our house at three. All the same, I dragged my feet going up the spiral staircase. I’d never been to Mrs. Sullivan’s apartment. A widow without any children, she gave no sign of liking them. I don’t know when or how her husband died, but her gray roots told me she was too old to be a war widow. She was older than my mother but younger than my bubbe.
We’d moved here last fall. Our one-bedroom was too small after my sister was born. This apartment had two bedrooms, a big kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and a vestibule with a coat closet. The war was ending, and housing was scarce, so we were lucky
to find it. My dad had served in Europe, which ex- plained the eight-year gap between me and Reva. He could have gotten a deferment, on account of being a father. So when my bubbe found out he’d enlisted, she’d scolded my mother. “Perl, Leo belongs home with you and Sharon.”
“His family’s trapped in Austria. How can he not fight those Nazi shvantzes?” Mom used stronger Yid-
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Housewidow
ann s. epstein