Until then, Miri had never heard an angry word between Rusty and Henry. She couldn’t believe they were talking this way in front of her, as if she weren’t sitting right there. This was a first after a lifetime of silences, of secrets, of pretending everything was fine.
Irene pushed her chair back from the table, signaling the end of this argument. “I’m going to check on Ben.”
“Miri, don’t you have homework?” Rusty said.
Oh, sure. Homework. The answer for everything.
Elizabeth Daily Post
56 KILLED AS FLAMING PLANE CRUMPLES,
FALLS INTO FROZEN RIVER
By Henry Ammerman
DEC. 17—Elizabeth, long fearful because of its proximity to Newark Airport, gained a permanent listing in the annals of aviation tragedy at 3:09 o’clock yesterday afternoon when a two-engined non-scheduled airliner plummeted in flames into the east bank of the Elizabeth River, only seven minutes after its takeoff. All 52 passengers and the four crew died, the most tragic civil catastrophe in Elizabeth’s three centuries of existence.
Thousands in streets already flooded with holiday shoppers turned their eyes skyward to the thunderous roar of a low-flying plane in trouble. They gaped in horror as a thin streak of smoke turned to flame, and the plane struggled to return to the airport, before its right wing collapsed.
The plane hurtled earthward into the heart of the city like an angry, wounded bird. It sheared off part of an unoccupied house at 70 Westfield Ave., crashed into a brick warehouse of the Elizabethtown Water Company, and landed on its back in the frozen riverbed, a mass of twisted fiery wreckage.
It was one of the only open areas in a mile-square radius, perhaps a silent tribute to the deceased pilot’s skill.
3
Miri
Miri sat on her bed reading the beginning of Henry’s front-page story, then had to lower her head to the floor. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember how to take a breath. When she felt the blood rush back to her face she sat up and took a sip of water. Then she lay back against her pillows and thumbed through the paper until she came to her favorite section.
Debutante Judith Merck, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. George Merck of West Orange, a student at Sarah Lawrence College, will be presented tomorrow night at the Grosvenor Ball. After, Miss Merck will be heading anywhere there’s snow for some holiday skiing.
She closed her eyes, picturing Miss Judith Merck in her white ball gown at the Grosvenor Ball, dancing the first dance with her father. She tried to imagine herself wearing a beautiful long white dress, dancing with her father, though she’d never seen a photo of him.
She was glad she didn’t have her father’s last name. Monsky—ugh! No one ever said his name. She still wouldn’t know it if Henry hadn’t taken her to Spirito’s for a pizza last April, on the day President Truman had relieved General MacArthur of his command. The whole school had been called to the auditorium to listen to MacArthur’s speech. Old soldiers never die—they just fade away. Eleanor was allowed to cover the story in the school paper, because of the special assembly.
She explained why President Truman had fired General MacArthur, had kicked him out of the military for insubordination after MacArthur voiced disagreement with his policies.
Most kids dumped the paper in the trash, as usual. But Miri had read every word. She’d asked Uncle Henry about it. He’d been surprised but pleased by her interest. Between bites of pepperoni, he’d explained. “I want you to know the truth, Miri. Always.”
So she’d gathered all her courage and asked him about her father, just la-di-dah, as if they were still talking about the president and the general. She prayed Henry couldn’t tell how fast her heart was beating. He swallowed the food in his mouth, swigged some Pabst Blue Ribbon, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and told her. Not everything. She knew he was holding back, but for now, she was satisfied just to know her father’s name, Mike Monsky, that he and Rusty had gone out for a few months and—Bingo!—she was pregnant. She didn’t say what she was thinking—You can’t get pregnant from playing Bingo.
Once, when Miri was in sixth grade, she’d tried asking Rusty. “So this father of mine…is he alive or dead?”
The color had drained out of Rusty’s face. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, Mom…”
“Honestly, Miri, I don’t know.”
“Were you married to him?”
“That’s a hard question to answer.”
“Either you were or you weren’t.”
“I said that’s a hard question to answer, Miri.”
“I just want to know if I’m a bastard or not.”
Rusty exploded. “Don’t ever let me hear you using that word! That word has nothing to do with you.” Then she choked up. “You were loved from the moment you were born.” That was the last time Miri asked her mother about her father. Because what was the point? At least no one said he was a no-good son of a bitch, the way she’d heard Cousin Belle describe her daughter’s husband. They didn’t say anything, which in a way was worse.