He had not been faithful to Estelle. Men are different, he’d explained early on, men have needs. And she’d understood. Not that she hadn’t cried the first time, until he’d taken her in his arms and reassured her. I will never leave you. You understand? I will always be here for you and the boys. The others, he didn’t love them, they weren’t worth the hem of her dress. He just couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t ask her to do the things he could pay for, things that made him feel dirty. She was his wife. Now he was done with all that. He’d been done with it for years. Couldn’t remember the last time. But there it was, gnawing at him, giving him sharp pains in his left side, as if he’d eaten popcorn and set off his diverticulitis.
The priest listened as Ben explained he was a Jew but too ashamed to talk about this with his rabbi. The priest was kind and forgiving. He asked Ben to think of others before thinking of himself, to help others before helping himself. To do good with the time he had left. Ben promised. He made a generous donation to the church and another to his synagogue.
He visited the cemetery every day to talk to Estelle, to apologize for the things he’d done, to tell her she’d been his one and only love. If I could do it over…he’d cry. Please, Stellie, give me another chance to prove how much I love you. But Estelle never responded. He stood alone as the winter wind whipped his hat off his head, hoping for a sign—a falling leaf, a dove flying by. He’d have settled for a pigeon. But there was nothing. This was why he cried.
Elizabeth Daily Post
Editorial
NEW YEAR, BUT OLD BUSINESS
DEC. 31—We watched while giant machines of the air skimmed our rooftops in ever-increasing numbers. We warned against that inevitable day when disaster would follow in their wake.
They said it couldn’t happen. They said we were attempting to block progress.
We watched as the last twisted wing of the plane that had claimed 56 lives was dragged from the banks of the Elizabeth River. We waited in vain for a solution that would make recurrence impossible.
We are still watching and waiting.
When will a concern for the safety of our citizens take precedence over a concern for the business of the Port Authority’s Newark Airport?
8
Miri
Every year Corinne let it be known that Miri was welcome to bring her mother to the Osners’ New Year’s Eve party. Every year Miri explained to Corinne that Rusty never went out on New Year’s Eve because New Year’s Eve was when Rusty’s father had died.
“I’m sorry,” Corinne would say. “But maybe this year…”
“I doubt it,” Miri would tell her. Not that she ever extended Corinne’s invitation to Rusty. Why would she? It wasn’t like the Osners and Rusty socialized, it wasn’t like they were Rusty’s friends, or Rusty’s second family, the way they were hers.
Henry dropped Miri at Natalie’s house on his way to pick up Leah. They were going to the Riviera nightclub in Fort Lee, the place where Frank Sinatra sometimes sang, where Martin and Lewis did their comedy act and Pupi Campo and his band played Latin music. Henry looked dashing in his rented tux. Miri wished she could see Leah. Would she be wearing velvet, taffeta? Would she look like Doris Day in I’ll See You in My Dreams? Sometimes Leah had that Doris Day look, other times she was more Debbie Reynolds, peeking out from under her bangs.
When he pulled up in front of the Osners’ house, Henry turned to Miri and said, “Tonight’s the night,” which embarrassed her at first, until he dug a small black velvet box out of his pocket. “I’m proposing to Leah at midnight.” He opened the box to show Miri the ring.
Miri felt herself choke up. She knew the ring. How many times had she gone with Irene to the vault when she was younger to watch as Irene checked the contents of her safe deposit box, making sure the ring was still there, along with her diamond pin and her important papers? The ring and the pin were the only pieces of good jewelry Irene had left from before 1929, before the stock market crash, a different kind of crash from the one in the Elizabeth River two weeks ago—back when Irene and Max Ammerman still had money, before Max lost his fancy food emporium, before Irene sold the rest of her jewelry to pay the bills, before Max had the first stroke, and then the second, the stroke that killed him on New Year’s Eve, 1937, just weeks before Miri was born. Rusty named her for him. They always lit a yahrzeit candle for Max on New Year’s Eve and another when the notice came from the synagogue listing the date of his death on the Hebrew calendar.
“It’s beautiful,” she told Henry. And it was. A lacy design of small twinkly diamonds. Irene had always let her try it on. And even though Irene had said, Someday, when Uncle Henry finds the right girl, he’ll give her this ring, she remembered exactly how disappointed she was at age nine to learn it would not be hers.
“You’re the first to know,” Henry said.
“Nana doesn’t know?”
“Maybe tomorrow, if Leah says yes.”
“Of course she’ll say yes,” Miri told him. “If she doesn’t she’s crazy and you wouldn’t want to marry a crazy person, would you?” She hugged him.
“Happy New Year, Miri. I hope someday I have a daughter exactly like you.” He ruffled her hair.
I am your daughter, Miri told him inside her head.
“I know,” Henry whispered, as if he’d actually heard what she hadn’t said. Then he hugged her again.