THE CHRISTMAS PAGEANT WAS just days away, and Miri had choir rehearsal after school. When she got home she found a strange man in Irene’s living room, sitting in the wing chair, wrapped in one of Irene’s crocheted afghans, his feet soaking in a pan of warm water, his trouser legs rolled up to reveal the hairiest legs Miri had ever seen. Even his toes were covered with dark hair. If she didn’t know better she’d have sworn they were animal legs.
“Miri, darling, this is Ben Sapphire,” Irene said, handing him a steaming cup of tea, or maybe it was soup. “He was freezing cold,” Irene told her. “His hands and feet were blue. I thought for sure they’d have to take him to the hospital.”
He was still shivering but he managed to say, “Irene was serving home-baked coffee cake.”
“Which one?” Miri asked. “Sour cream with cinnamon and walnuts, or streusel?”
He looked to Irene for an answer. “Sour cream,” she said, leading Miri into the kitchen where she whispered, “We knew each other in the old days, in Bayonne. He lost his wife in the crash.”
Miri didn’t want to think about the crash. “I’ll be upstairs,” she told Irene. “Call me when it’s time to set the table for supper.”
She and Rusty and Uncle Henry ate at Irene’s every night. Irene was a great cook, which was Rusty’s excuse for never having learned. Instead of encouraging her, Rusty said Irene shooed her out of the kitchen. Rusty was always harping that Miri should learn to cook, that Irene would have more patience with Miri than she’d had with her. Learning to cook from Irene would be a lot better than making lumpy and disgusting white sauce in the required cooking class at Hamilton Junior High.
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THE LEG OF LAMB materialized as lamb stew that night. Tasty, with little potatoes, green beans, carrots and celery, seasoned with rosemary. Ben Sapphire joined Miri and Rusty at Irene’s table. He broke down several times, covering his eyes with his hand, blowing his nose with a handkerchief. “I can’t think of her inside that plane…my darling wife, my Estelle…” Irene patted his hand.
“We took a place in Miami Beach for the season,” he told Rusty. “She was flying down early to get it ready. I was going to drive down with the luggage. She gets carsick—got carsick—never liked long drives.” He broke down again.
“I’m so sorry,” Rusty said. “I spoke with her on the phone on Saturday. She ordered six Volupté compacts to take to Florida.”
“The compacts,” he said, hitting his forehead with his hand. “I forgot about the compacts.”
Again, Irene patted his hand. “Never mind about that.”
“No, I want to pay.”
“Please, Ben…” Irene shook her head.
Miri stole a look at Rusty, who took her hand under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. Rusty’s fingers were warm.
Henry came home as they were finishing what was left of Rusty’s birthday cake. He was flushed with excitement, dropping a stack of papers on one end of the table, then handing each of them a copy of the Daily Post, with his story and byline on the front page.
He had no idea who Ben Sapphire was but he passed a copy of the paper to him, too. Ben Sapphire took one look and turned gray. He excused himself from the table and Irene helped him to the bathroom.
When she came back without Ben, she told Henry, “His wife, Estelle, was on that plane.”
“How was I supposed to know?” Henry asked.
“Sometimes you have to assume,” Irene said. Then she turned to Miri. “Darling, give me that paper.”
But Miri held on to it.
“She’s been through enough,” Irene said to Henry. “She doesn’t need the gruesome details.”
“She was there, Mama,” Henry said. “She saw it happen.”
“And that’s bad enough.”
“You don’t think she’s going to read the paper tonight?” Henry said. “You don’t think she’ll want to read my story?”
Miri wasn’t sure she wanted to read Henry’s story but she didn’t say so. She didn’t say anything. On the one hand, she wanted to forget it ever happened. On the other, she wanted to know who else was on the plane besides the dancer and Ben Sapphire’s wife, Estelle. She wanted to know why it crashed.
“Tomorrow there’ll be a story about Paul Stefanelli, the youngest of seven brothers,” Henry said. “Came through the war without a scratch and died on that plane. He worked at Ronson’s. And later this week I’m interviewing Ruby Granik’s family. I’m talking to anyone who has a story to tell, and so far, that’s pretty much everyone.”
Miri wished she could tell him about Natalie. She was betting Natalie was the only one who heard Ruby’s voice. “What about us?”
Miri asked. “Are you interviewing Mom and me?”
“Would you like me to?” Henry asked.
“No,” Rusty said. “Enough is enough. She’s too young to understand. None of us can make sense of it—how can you expect a young girl to?”
“Not by sweeping it under the rug and pretending it didn’t happen,” Henry said.
“Since when are you the expert?” Rusty asked. “When you have a young, impressionable daughter we’ll discuss it.”