“That’s his job,” her father told her. “But he still likes to play.”
“I want a different kind of cat,” Rusty told him. “One who lives at home, or else a dog. A dog would be even better.”
But then the market crashed, and in the Depression that followed a pet was the least of their concerns.
Rusty hid the wrapped presents in the corner of her closet, on the highest shelf, not that Miri would snoop around the way she had when she was little, but still, there was something satisfying about hiding them.
Now that she’d finished her housework for the week, a little luxury was in order, starting with a long, hot bath. As the water ran in the claw-foot tub, Rusty chose her bath salts carefully, sniffing each one. Was she in a lavender mood, vanilla, musk? Yes, musk. Something to remind her she was just turning thirty-three. She was still young. It wasn’t too late. She stepped into the steamy bath, then lowered herself, sinking lower and lower until only her face was above water.
Irene
Downstairs, in her first-floor apartment, Rusty’s mother, Irene Ammerman, poured a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream into a crystal decanter, to welcome the holiday shoppers she hoped would flock to her house from four to eight p.m., despite the falling temperatures. She’d sent out penny postcards, inviting all her regular customers, encouraging them to bring friends.
This morning, before he left for work at the newspaper, Henry had opened her dining room table to its full length, big enough to seat twelve. She’d created a tabletop display with fluffy cotton, white as fresh snow, arranged the Volupté compacts just so, then scattered sparkly snowflakes around. The snowflakes would make a mess, she knew, and she’d be Hoovering tomorrow morning, but they were worth it. This year’s line featured a style to appeal to every taste. If you wanted gemstones, there were gemstones. If you preferred gold accents on silver, fine. And if you wanted simple but elegant, there were plenty to choose from. She set the Ronson lighters, the other line she carried, in small groups, ranging from large silver tabletop models to small, pocket-size squares. There was still time to have the Ronsons engraved, but not much.
She had to be careful what else she put on the table. Last year she’d used her leaded crystal candlesticks to add height to her display, along with a few colorful antique bowls. A mistake, since customers assumed they were also for sale. So she sold a few bowls, making up prices on the spot. But the candlesticks—no. She didn’t have much left from the old days, when they were flush from the store, and these she was keeping for Rusty, or Miri, or even Henry’s wife, if he married, which she hoped he would.
Yesterday, she’d splurged on a wash, set and manicure at Connie’s Beauty Salon. She needed to look as stylish as the gifts she was hoping to sell. Presentation was presentation, and that included her. She moved the family photos, usually lined up on the sideboard, to the top of the spinet to make room for her famous coffee cakes. Her customers would expect a nosh. She touched her lips to Miri’s photo and stood it next to one of Max, her husband, who’d died two weeks before Miri was born. Boom boom boom—just like that—Rusty turned eighteen, Max died, Miri was born. She was forty-one at the time and in one month she’d become both a widow and a grandmother.
Bad things happen in threes, her cousin Belle reminded her, but Irene couldn’t say that Rusty having a baby at eighteen was a bad thing, or maybe it was, given the circumstances, but the baby herself was not. The baby, Miri, was a precious gift, with her grandfather’s high cheekbones and dimpled cheek. Not a beauty like Rusty, not yet, but growing into her looks. The eyes, she knew where they came from, but she kept that to herself. She hoped to god she would never again come face-to-face with the person responsible for those eyes. If she did she didn’t know what she might do. He’d better hope she wouldn’t have a carving knife in her hand. If she kept thinking of him she might need a nitro under her tongue. She brushed off her hands as if brushing away bad thoughts and poured herself a small glass of sherry.
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