Iâm already so big; I had to take off my rings.â She held up her fingers, normally fleshy, now as swollen as little kishkes.
Sylvia shook her head, but she couldnât help feeling a surge of love toward her sister. So pigheaded and strong and generous. Too often these warm feelings escaped through what Dr. Klein called âthe holeâ in her stomach, making room for jealousy over Goldieâs babies and her sweet, honest Hyman Solonsky. Sylvia could never have married an immigrant, much less someone with pockmarks and an underbite. And so serious! He worked like an animal selling insurance. His debit routes were successful because he had this way of listening to a person like what they said was important, and he did right by Goldie, and that was what mattered.
âCome, I havenât made the icebox cake yet.â Goldie nodded toward the Frigidaire.
âItâs a good day to make meringue, not too humid.â
âYou got eggs?â Goldie asked just as Simon started to cry.
âGo. Iâll start the cake.â
Sylvia took the spoon out of her pocket. She had shined it up good for Goldie, rubbing her felt cloth around the bowl â just big enough to fit into a babyâs little pink mouth â then down the long, skinny neck to the handle, where she slid the cloth onto the engraved Hebrew letter hey , the first letter in Grandma Hannahâs name. She could practically hear her motherâs words: âYour grandmother Hannah, allah vashalom, smuggled this in her petticoats. Itâs yours, for your baby.â Sheâd opened Sylviaâs hand and placed the spoon in her palm. But that was before Goldieâs pregnancy and the rhythm method and Katie Flanagan and Sylviaâs discovery that Irving didnât want to work for anything, even a baby. Mama died before she found out that Goldie was pregnant with Simon, probably assuming that Sylvia would eventually bear her a grandchild. Better that Mama not know from her daughterâs trouble.
Sylvia stuffed the spoon back into her pocket, took out Mamaâs old green mixing bowl, and began pulling ingredients from Goldieâs cupboards: flour, sugar, vanilla, chocolate, soda. The hand grater she used to sliver the chocolate dug into her fingers, already sore from lugging the shopping bags. When Goldie came in and rested a warm hand on Sylviaâs back, Sylvia caught a whiff of the pickled herring on her sisterâs breath and Simonâs toddlerdrool on her clothes; the smells were strong, yet innocent, just like Goldie. Her face, normally heart-shaped and full, looked doughy and red. The corner of a brown envelope poked out of the pocket of her housedress.
Sylvia thought about the yellow silk shift sheâd seen in the window of Gimbelâs and how perfect it would look for the holidays with the matching hat and bag. Or they could buy a new davenport; the springs of their pullout were practically bruising her thin legs every time she sat down. But she didnât have the nerve to make herself a knippel; she knew she would slip the money into Irvingâs pocket, next to a napkin with some tootsieâs lipstick kiss. Sheâd pretend that the money just found its way there, that this endless borrowing didnât cost her. In blood. And for a while he would make her feel like his Sylvie again.
She looked away when Goldie slipped the envelope into Sylviaâs pocketbook. Part of her wanted to tell Goldie that she was doing just fine, thank you very much, and that she didnât need her sisterâs charity, and that Goldie could run her own errands from now on. But out of the corner of her eye, she also noticed that the envelope looked a little slimmer than usual.
Sylvia fought the urge to assure Goldie that Irving had a big deal cooking and heâd pay her back soon. She slid her left hand into the pocket of her dress, burrowing her fingers deep into the satin lining to stroke the spoon,
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