sideboard! What on earth is wrong with you?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to be sick.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but you do look green! Don’t upchuck in my kitchen! Agnes, here, take her apron and go back to the dining room. That’s the girl! And you, Anna, get upstairs, I’ll look to you later. What have you gone and done to yourself? Of all times!”
“You’re feeling better this morning, Anna?” Mrs. Werner was troubled. “Mrs. Monaghan told me you wanted to leave. I couldn’t believe it.”
Anna struggled up in bed. “I know it isn’t right to leave you so suddenly, but I don’t feel well.”
“You must let us call the doctor!”
“No, no, I can go to my cousin’s house downtown. They’ll get a doctor.”
Mrs. Werner coughed lightly. The cough meant:
This is nonsense because both of us know what’s the matter with you
. Or possibly it meant:
I can’t imagine what’s come over you but I am obligated to find out
.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Anna?”
“Nothing. I’ll be all right. It’s nothing.” No tears. No tears.
He kissed my mouth. He told me I was beautiful. And so I am, much more than she
.
“Well, then, I don’t understand.” Mrs. Werner’s handsclasped the bed rail. Her diamonds went
prink! twink!
“Won’t you talk to me, trust me? After all, I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“But you’re not my mother,” Anna said.
An accidental turn of history, was it? People are the same, are they?
“Well, I can’t stop you if you’ve made up your mind. So when you’re ready I’ll have Quinn take you in the car.” At the door Mrs. Werner paused. “If you ever want to come back, Anna, you’ll be welcome. Or if there’s anything we can do for you, call us, won’t you?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Werner. But I won’t come back.”
On a damp night a few weeks later Joseph and Anna sat on the front stoop talking. The sun was down. In the last light boys played a final game of stickball on the street. One by one their mothers called them in with long, shrill cries: Benn-ie, Loo-ey! Peddlers led their tired nags back to the stables on Delancey Street, the shaggy heads sunk, the shaggy hooves trudging. The life of the street ebbed away.
They talked about this and that, fell silent and talked again. After a while Joseph told Anna that he loved her. He asked her whether she would marry him. And she answered that she would.
9
He worshiped her. His eyes and his hands moved over her body and worshiped her. In the new brass double bed which he had bought he raised himself on his elbow and studied her.
“Pink and white,” he said. He twisted a length of her hair around his wrist, her slippery, living hair. He laughed and shook his head in wonder. “Perfect. Even your voice and the way you pronounce ‘th.’ Perfect.”
“I’ll never speak English without a foreign accent. A greenhorn, I am.”
“And you’ve read more, you’re more clever than anybody I know.”
“Just a greenhorn, Joseph,” she insisted.
“If you’d had a chance at an education, half a chance, you could have been something, a teacher, even a doctor or a lawyer. You could.”
Sighing, she stretched out her hand, the one with the wide gold band on which he had had engraved “J to A, May 16, 1913.”
“I’m a wife,” she said aloud.
“How do you feel about it?”
She did not answer at once. He followed her gaze through the door to the yellow-painted kitchen and the clean, new linoleum on the parlor floor. Everything was clean in the home he had prepared for her. Unfortunately, the rooms were level with the street so that the shades had to be drawn all day. When you raised the shades you couldsee feet passing on the street, at eye level. You could crane out to see the Hudson and the Palisades, and feel the fresh river wind. At night the bedroom was a closed private world, the bed a ship on a dark quiet sea.
“How do you feel about it?” he repeated. This time she turned
“I don’t know. I’m going to be sick.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but you do look green! Don’t upchuck in my kitchen! Agnes, here, take her apron and go back to the dining room. That’s the girl! And you, Anna, get upstairs, I’ll look to you later. What have you gone and done to yourself? Of all times!”
“You’re feeling better this morning, Anna?” Mrs. Werner was troubled. “Mrs. Monaghan told me you wanted to leave. I couldn’t believe it.”
Anna struggled up in bed. “I know it isn’t right to leave you so suddenly, but I don’t feel well.”
“You must let us call the doctor!”
“No, no, I can go to my cousin’s house downtown. They’ll get a doctor.”
Mrs. Werner coughed lightly. The cough meant:
This is nonsense because both of us know what’s the matter with you
. Or possibly it meant:
I can’t imagine what’s come over you but I am obligated to find out
.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Anna?”
“Nothing. I’ll be all right. It’s nothing.” No tears. No tears.
He kissed my mouth. He told me I was beautiful. And so I am, much more than she
.
“Well, then, I don’t understand.” Mrs. Werner’s handsclasped the bed rail. Her diamonds went
prink! twink!
“Won’t you talk to me, trust me? After all, I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“But you’re not my mother,” Anna said.
An accidental turn of history, was it? People are the same, are they?
“Well, I can’t stop you if you’ve made up your mind. So when you’re ready I’ll have Quinn take you in the car.” At the door Mrs. Werner paused. “If you ever want to come back, Anna, you’ll be welcome. Or if there’s anything we can do for you, call us, won’t you?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Werner. But I won’t come back.”
On a damp night a few weeks later Joseph and Anna sat on the front stoop talking. The sun was down. In the last light boys played a final game of stickball on the street. One by one their mothers called them in with long, shrill cries: Benn-ie, Loo-ey! Peddlers led their tired nags back to the stables on Delancey Street, the shaggy heads sunk, the shaggy hooves trudging. The life of the street ebbed away.
They talked about this and that, fell silent and talked again. After a while Joseph told Anna that he loved her. He asked her whether she would marry him. And she answered that she would.
9
He worshiped her. His eyes and his hands moved over her body and worshiped her. In the new brass double bed which he had bought he raised himself on his elbow and studied her.
“Pink and white,” he said. He twisted a length of her hair around his wrist, her slippery, living hair. He laughed and shook his head in wonder. “Perfect. Even your voice and the way you pronounce ‘th.’ Perfect.”
“I’ll never speak English without a foreign accent. A greenhorn, I am.”
“And you’ve read more, you’re more clever than anybody I know.”
“Just a greenhorn, Joseph,” she insisted.
“If you’d had a chance at an education, half a chance, you could have been something, a teacher, even a doctor or a lawyer. You could.”
Sighing, she stretched out her hand, the one with the wide gold band on which he had had engraved “J to A, May 16, 1913.”
“I’m a wife,” she said aloud.
“How do you feel about it?”
She did not answer at once. He followed her gaze through the door to the yellow-painted kitchen and the clean, new linoleum on the parlor floor. Everything was clean in the home he had prepared for her. Unfortunately, the rooms were level with the street so that the shades had to be drawn all day. When you raised the shades you couldsee feet passing on the street, at eye level. You could crane out to see the Hudson and the Palisades, and feel the fresh river wind. At night the bedroom was a closed private world, the bed a ship on a dark quiet sea.
“How do you feel about it?” he repeated. This time she turned
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