A Long Island Story Read online

  It made Ben feel diminished, and commensurately censorious. Poppa was, it had to be said, but not to anyone in earshot, a bit of a shyster, with his dubious contacts, his nightclubs and hotspots, the regular paper bags of cash that he referred to as sandwiches. God knows where they came from. And he, Ben, profited from them, his children went to private school because of them, and each time he promised himself, he tried to promise himself, he failed to promise himself: This must stop! I am colluding in something shady, probably illegal, am the recipient of a largesse which doesn’t bear looking into. So he didn’t look, and felt diminished and humiliated by his collusion. Ate his sandwiches and felt bilious.

  ‘Happy enough with the money!’ Maurice always reflected, as Ben – or Addie, it was best left to her – was handed another paper bag.

  Maurice soon wilted under the pressure of offsetting the strain of arrival, loaded his plate with egg and onion, some lovely oily black olives, kept his mouth full, which was a way of keeping it shut, and food gradually and blessedly became the centre of attention, which was what it was there for. They had seconds, settled in and began to relax. It was lovely being together, really it was, a brocheh with pickles: a mitzvah!

  Only Becca ate fitfully, picking at her food, knowing to put only a little on the plate so that she could join the others in demanding seconds. But she hated Poppa and Granny food from Wolfie’s. It was greasy and it stank, it made your mouth go all funny, it was hard to get down. Chopped liver? Ugh! Nova? Yuck! Even the egg salad was ruined by all those onions. No, she would restrict herself to a toasted bagel – they never remembered she only liked plain ones! – with lots of cream cheese on it. If she’d felt comfortable or confident enough she’d have asked for some jelly to put on it, but she was shy, and no one else thought of it. Jelly on a bagel?

  Addie and Ben didn’t mind how little she ate, they didn’t fuss about food, but Granny did.

  ‘Becca,’ she said, ‘you need to eat.’

  ‘I am eating, Granny! What do you think I’m doing?’

  Perle looked at her, prim and withheld; she was fresh, that’s what she was, she needed to learn how to behave, have some respect. Perle would never have talked to her grandmother like that, would have been ashamed. And punished.

  Addie was clenched, a wad of soggy bagel stuck in her throat. She coughed, swallowed, wiped her mouth, wanted to scream. Forty-two days to go.

  Sitting opposite, Ben saw the thought pass her face and felt sympathetic, and similarly, only for him the figure was two days. He tried to summon some guilt about his forthcoming release, but felt nothing but relief.

  ‘Can we leave this, Mother? We go through it every year. She’s a healthy girl, and she eats what she chooses.’

  ‘Chooses? Chooses, schmoozes, what’s a little one like that know about good eating, and growing up strong and healthy? She needs to eat more, that’s the end of it.’

  Jake, listening and watching intently, loaded his plate with everything that Becca hated. He didn’t like most of it either.

  Perle beamed at him. Kineahora he should eat like a horse and grow into a man.

  ‘Can I be excused from the table?’ Becca asked, pushing her plate away.

  ‘Of course,’ said Addie. ‘Why don’t you unpack your suitcase, put the clothes in the drawers? You remember where they are? Then you can play on the swing.’

  There was a silence at the table, as Becca left the room, broken only a few moments later when Perle, recapturing territory, observed, ‘Frankie and Michelle have invited you for coffee tomorrow. Isn’t that nice! I can look after the children while you’re away.’

  The silence resumed. Jake looked ruefully at his plate.

  2

  ‘You’re a saint, you know that? Or whatever they call them, a saintess? I don’t know how you do it . . .’ Michelle smiled in response, stacking the plates in the sink, as Frankie finished his coffee at the kitchen table, still talking, distressed.

  ‘I can hardly bear the thought of it! Trouble, that’s what we’re in for! There’s trouble wherever she goes, trouble in spades . . .’

  She dried her hands, walked back to the table, put her arm round his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t you worry so,’ she said. ‘It’ll be all right. I’m looking forward to it. Addie and I can do things together sometimes, take the kids to the park, go out for an ice cream.’

  He laughed because it was so unfunny.

  ‘The park? An ice cream? My sister? She’d rather clean out the sewers, she hates anything that keeps her away from her films and art and trips to the city to see her crappy friends. Did you ever meet that ghastly, pretentious . . .’

  ‘Frankie! I’ve met them all!’

  ‘And they were just as dismissive of you as Addie is: just as rude and superior. God, sometimes I hate that woman!’

  ‘Don’t, please. It makes it worse for all of us. They’re fine, I don’t need them to like me. I can look after myself. After all, I have everything she wants!’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘What? Wants? Wants what?’

  ‘You! A wonderful husband who can’t keep his hands off me!’

  His sister certainly didn’t have a wonderful husband. Ben was all right in his way, amiable and undemanding, but Frankie had never forgiven him his allegiances. His sister had married a Communist, been corrupted by him, made foolish decision after foolish decision. Protest meetings, picketing, petitions! This was the United States, for Christ’s sake, and Frankie had served his country proudly. He’d had a quiet war, never seen action – which he did not admit publicly – served his time as a naval dentist at various postings, come home entirely unscathed, having seen no more blood than that produced by a root canal.

  But he was a patriot still, living in the greatest country on earth, and he resented his superior brother-in-law with his theories and hoity-toity arguments. After a few early skirmishes they had decided to banish politics from their conversation and soon found they got on fine, playing tennis and pinochle, going out with the children, schmoozing at the bungalow. He was all right, Ben was, just misguided. For a time Frankie called him ‘the Red’ but Michelle hushed him up. ‘Next thing you know,’ she admonished, ‘one of the children will repeat it, and the next thing you know there will be a scene!’

  She was a sensible woman, he could count on her. He rose to come behind her as she worked, pressed himself against her.

  ‘I have a good idea,’ he said.

  She laughed, and pressed back gently, rolled her hips. ‘Later maybe, after they leave. The kids aren’t due home till after lunch. But now I have to make some coffee cake, there’s just time before they come.’

  He wet the tip of his index finger and put it in her right ear, rotated it suavely. She was more sensitive on her right side, ear, throat, breast, big toe. He’d never encountered that before, not that he had a lot of experience, a few rolls in the hay when he was in the navy, nothing really. And he would never have noticed it in Michelle until she showed him early on in their lovemaking. It was odd, and oddly exciting, like playing some sort of organic instrument.

  She looked at the magazine spread open on the counter, bent over unnecessarily to peer at the page, shuddered a little, gave a tiny moan.

  ‘Stop it now, there’s plenty of time, and what I’m really excited about now is this new Betty Crocker recipe. I had it at Irene’s last week. It’s yummy!’

  Frankie withdrew his finger, unsurprised by her reaction, anticipating the pleasure to come, his head filled with delicious images. Coffee cake? Phooey!

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Why bother? They’re just coming for a quick coffee and a look round number 42. I can pop out to the bakery and get some rugelach.’

  She paused for a moment to consider.

  ‘No, I’d rather make something welcoming, make the apartment smell nice when they arrive. Maybe you could straighten the living room?’

  He was quite prepared to take a sexual rain-check, happy to go out to the
shops if necessary, would have chopped nuts manfully for the coffee cake, but the idea of making his apartment sparkle for his sister’s visit was unsupportable.

  ‘Come on, honey,’ he said. ‘The place is already neater than hers ever is. They live in a complete pig sty, toys all over the place, beds unmade, dishes in the sink . . . It’s disgusting. If she notices our apartment at all, it’ll just be to mock us. Petit bourgeoisie! The hell with her! I’d prefer to make it messy.’

  Michelle laughed, measured a quantity of flour, put it aside.

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘just leave it. I don’t mind, and you’re right, she wouldn’t notice, and Ben doesn’t care. We’ll just have coffee and eat this lovely cake, then mooch round to the Silbers’ for them to have a look . . .’

  ‘My fear is that they’ll like it.’

  ‘They don’t have much choice, do they? They’ll have to move, they’ll have to live somewhere, it’s cheap enough, we’re here . . .’

  ‘That’s what I want to avoid. They could live in Huntington Station, there’s new apartments going up there, not very expensive, near the railroad station.’

  Michelle paused, unwilling to be too explicit. ‘Not a very nice neighbourhood,’ she said. ‘Maybe it isn’t too safe, you know, for the children, or going out at night . . .’

  ‘So it has to be here, then?’

  Michelle nodded firmly, unusually decisive.

  ‘It does. Get used to it. You and Ben can play tennis and pinochle, Addie and I can do things with the kids, it’ll be fine. I’m looking forward to it! And we’ll have a free lawyer!’

  Frankie laughed humourlessly. ‘And they’ll have a free dentist. Who gets the better deal? And who’s paying for it when he has to study to pass the goddamn Bar? Paying for months and months. My father, that’s who!’

  ‘It’s very generous of him. I don’t know how he does it . . .’

  ‘Don’t ask! I don’t either. But he won’t be helping us when we have to move to the new office.’

  The doorbell rang at precisely eleven, as they knew it would. Addie was casual about time-keeping, as befits a left-wing social worker, but Ben was lawyerly in his habits and already counted the minutes as assiduously as he would soon need to when he set up his private practice. Time is money.

  Michelle answered the door, leaving Frankie still reading the Times, beckoning him with a bent finger at least to get up.

  ‘Good morning! I’m so glad you could come, this is so exciting!’

  She gave Addie a brief hug, and could sense the recoil, and Ben a peck on the cheek. Frankie stood up and waved hello, limply.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ Michelle was aware that she was being hearty, talking too loud, could sense Frankie disapproving behind her back, tried to relax, took a deep breath.

  Ben came in first, gave his brother-in-law a firm handshake and a slight smile that acknowledged many things, looked round the immaculate room approvingly. There was a comfortable sofa with a chintz cover that hadn’t been there last summer. He sat down on it, sighed, sunk into the feather cushions, adjusted his position, crossed his legs, took a deep whiff of fresh cake smell. He’d had only a light breakfast, knowing Michelle would rise to the occasion, would need to.

  Addie was embracing Frankie gingerly, the distance between their bodies measured in inches, then stopped starkly still in the middle of the room, as if unsure where she was, and what was expected of her.

  ‘Nice of you to have us,’ she said, looked round, joined Ben on the couch, unaware of anything delicious in the air.

  Frankie resumed slouching in his chair, ignored the sharp desire to return to reading his newspaper – that’d show her! – and asked neutrally, without any warmth, if they’d had a good trip up to Huntington. Ever the naval officer, he always referred to North as up and the South as down, as if they were port and starboard, and if you confused them you’d be irredeemably lost, torpedoed.

  ‘It was fine,’ said Addie, ending the conversation. There was a further pause, which Michelle soon filled with coffee cake and a pot of weak coffee, and desultory conversation.

  Plates and cups were soon rinsed and put away; it was time to get down to business.

  ‘Shall we go?’ asked Frankie, already heading for the door. ‘The Silbers are expecting us and they have to go out soon.’ Everyone knew this was a lie, and all were grateful for it.

  The Garden Apartments on Nathan Hale Drive had been planned in the late forties, the first tranche up for rent a couple of years later. Though intended as affordable housing for the returning servicemen and their young families, there was nothing barracks-like about them. Each brick block was only two stories – a top and bottom apartment, one or two bedrooms, and each unit had a portico attached to the façade, making it look as if it were an individual house. Between the blocks the lawns had been turfed and maintained, trees were planted, beds of bushes ran along the walls. There were garden benches throughout, somewhere to sit with the paper while the kids played, perhaps talk to the other young parents.

  A living community! proclaimed the brochures, but most of the residents regarded their tenure as temporary, until they could save up a deposit on one of the modest split level or ranch houses festooning the Long Island landscape. Only twenty years before, the Island was largely agricultural land. Now, within commuting distance to the city, it was sprawling suburbs, growing as relentlessly as a wart, and as unsightly. Nobody noticed, or, if they did, cared, that this new world was uniform and unlovely, because this fertile generation were desperate to become homeowners, for many of them the first home since their grandparents had emigrated from the old country. To own a house confirmed that one was an American, and to own a house first you lived in a garden apartment.

  Harriet Silber had been informed, several times, that Michelle would supply coffee and cake before they came round at eleven-thirty, nevertheless a pot of coffee was on the table, plus a plate of pastries. She’d dressed up, after her fashion: wore a bright green smock with a wide front pocket, baggy dark blue slacks, a casual knotted scarf in bright orange: I am an artist, the outfit proclaimed, and a glance round the walls provided the evidence, with numerous paintings in the living room, ensconced in frames that were worth more at a junk shop than the pictures themselves.

  Addie had heard of Harriet’s avocation, her pretensions, and had already branded her – before ever seeing her work – a local artist, a puffed-up amateur who has ‘exhibitions’ in some high school foyer and offers her daubs at prices that would buy you a good weekend in Manhattan. Addie looked, and, surprised, looked again. The seascapes and family portraits were competent, and – no doubt about it – Harriet cared about paint, in the laying down of colour, the nature and quality of brushstrokes, the depth and sheen of the oil. The pictures demanded a second glance, but did not repay it. A portrait of a young woman was painted in brutal impasto, in bright and unnatural colours, the turquoise hair contrasting with a face in lime green with blue touches. It hurt one’s eye. Harriet had looked carefully at German Expressionists and failed to learn from them. But the results were at least arresting. Not entirely bad. Not good.

  Michelle glared at the plate of pastries, and Harriet shrugged her shoulders. You don’t entertain without offering a little something. It isn’t right.

  Nor do you visit without partaking. Cups – the third of the morning for each of the visitors, they’d pay for that – were filled, rugelach chosen, one each. Ben popped his into his trouser pocket when he thought no one was looking. Addie was, and passed hers to him, a little too obviously.

  He popped it into his mouth.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry the place is such a mess,’ said Charlie. ‘We’re moving in a few weeks and have started packing already . . .’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Ben, for Charlie was also a lawyer, who commuted to his office in the city.

  ‘Great Neck, there’s a new development there, just outside the centre, good incentives for fir
st-time buyers and low mortgage rates. It’ll save me an hour a day commuting . . .’

  Harriet nodded strenuously. ‘You bet! It’s going to make such a difference!’

  ‘What sort of difference?’ asked Addie neutrally, unwilling to reveal her unease.

  ‘Well, you know we came here three years ago, when our second was born, thought it would be a better life for us all? But it’s been hard on both of us . . .’

  ‘Hard? How so?’

  ‘Well, the commute for Charlie. He leaves just as the children are waking up and gets home after they’re asleep. That’s hard on all of us. But I guess I’ve never quite found . . . I don’t know what the word is? My place? No, not that, not quite. But I just don’t feel I fit in Huntington . . . I’m more of a city girl really, I love being near the galleries and theatres and shops, the restaurants. The people. Great Neck isn’t ideal, not by any means, but it’s bigger and closer. More cosmopolitan. Did you know Gatsby is set near there?’

  Addie did. And Harriet’s description of herself was familiar: they were both city girls, and the suburbs were an inappropriate setting for them. Like planting orchids in a sandpit.

  She looked round the apartment, the bits she could see from the table: the cramped kitchen, squat living room, the short hallway that led to the bedrooms . . . gazed out the window at the mothers and children in desultory commerce in the morning sunshine.

  Awful. Just awful. They had similar accommodation in Alexandria, but DC was just a short ride away. They could use it, expose the children to it, make them aware that there was more to life than . . . this. This new home, that they could be moving into in a matter of months. She looked across the table at Ben, who smiled back automatically, in a sort of daze. Him? He wouldn’t mind, he had his work, and his writing, playing chess or the recorder, listening to opera on their new hi-fi, tennis and swimming at the Y. He’d actually like it. For a brief, unendurably intense moment she detested him.