There was also a small separate package with a key to the office in a purple leather key holder. Her own key to the office. That meant they trusted her. It meant they thought she was mature enough to handle emergencies and to lock up after hours if she was last to leave. The key meant more than the book. Until she looked at the book. The book shocked her. And it made her wet down there. She’d have to keep it hidden under her mattress and read it only at night before she went to sleep.
She would write a friendly thank-you note to Daisy, making a big deal out of the key and a smaller deal out of the book.
Elizabeth Daily Post
LITTLE THINGS SAY A LOT
By Henry Ammerman
DEC. 21—When Elizabeth firemen hacked their way through the underbelly of the wrecked C-46, they piled the shoes, gloves, eyeglasses and other salvage into boxes that were carried into the Elizabethtown Water Company’s garage.
The items revealed stories that for a moment made the victims seem alive. A set of medical records told of a soldier who had survived the Korean battlefield, only to perish here. A pile of press clippings and photographs of a man described as a “212-pound Brooklyn wrestler” reminded us that the strong fall with the weak.
Other pieces of salvage, though anonymous, told their own stories. A pair of high-powered binoculars, the carrying case burned off, would never be used at a Florida racetrack. A child’s twisted bicycle would never be ridden in the warm afternoons. An anticipated Merry Christmas was evidenced by the gay holiday wrapping on a set of men’s pajamas.
“Handle with care” was the admonition scrawled on the remains of a photo album.
If only it could have been.
6
Miri
Was it wrong to go to a holiday dance just a week after something horrible had happened in their town? None of her friends thought so. They hardly talked about the crash anymore. They wanted to dress up and dance and have a good time. There might be boys from the Weequahic section of Newark at the Y, older boys who wouldn’t necessarily know they were just ninth graders.
Miri wore her favorite dress, red wool with a full skirt and metallic buttons down the front that either were or weren’t made of old coins. Rusty thought they were. Her boss’s wife saved their daughter’s best things for Miri. Miri used to think Rusty bought them at a snazzy shop, Bonwit Teller, because that’s what the labels inside said. But last year Miri met Mrs. Whitten, the boss’s wife, at an office party, and when Mrs. Whitten admired Miri’s dress, Miri jumped at the chance to say it came from Bonwit Teller. Mrs. Whitten said, “Yes, dear, I know. We get almost all of Charlotte’s good clothes at Bonwit’s.”
How embarrassing that until then she’d had no idea Rusty was bringing her hand-me-downs from Charlotte Whitten. What must Mrs. Whitten have thought? But when she’d confronted Rusty about Charlotte’s dresses, expecting, she wasn’t sure what, Rusty said, cheerfully, “I never said I bought them, honey.”
“You never said you didn’t.”
“They’re beautiful dresses. What’s the difference if Charlotte wore them half a dozen times?”
So Miri learned to adjust, to be grateful to Charlotte Whitten for being her size, for having good taste, for taking care of her clothes. But she didn’t tell her friends. She wasn’t sure she ever would.
Some of the girls wore Cuban heels to the dance and others wore saddle shoes or ballet flats, but Miri carried Rusty’s black pumps with heels and changed into them in the coatroom at the Y.
“Just don’t get them wet,” Rusty had said, before Miri left the house.
“Don’t worry. I’m not walking outside.”
“Even from the car to the Y, wear your flats.”
“Okay.”
They weren’t Rusty’s best shoes. These were leather and scuffed around the heel, though Rusty kept them polished. Miri was hoping to attract the attention of the older boys with her heels, and she did, for a minute—until they realized she was just in ninth grade and was friends with Steve Osner’s younger sister.
At first the boys stood around surveying the room. The girls stood around talking to one another and pretending not to notice the boys. Then someone put on the first slow dance of the night—Nat King Cole singing “Unforgettable.” That was the moment Miri would always remember, the moment she thought of as changing her life, because he was there, the mystery boy from Natalie’s party, and he was heading her way. When he put his arms around her to dance, she melted into him, praying the song would never end.
Unforgettable, that’s what you are
Unforgettable, though near or far…
But like all songs, it did end, and when it did, he took a step away from her and looked deep into her eyes. His were blue. Miri held her breath. “You’re taller than I remembered,” he said.
“It’s the shoes.”
“Oh, the shoes.” He smiled at her, a smile so disarming she melted on the spot.
She smiled back. “I’m Miri.”
“I know.”
He knew?
“I’m Mason.” His voice was gravelly, as if maybe he had a sore throat.
“Mason.” She tried it out. She’d never known anyone named Mason.
“Mason McKittrick.”