“I live in California,” he said, tapping out an Old Gold cigarette. Same brand as his sister, she noticed. Or maybe Frekki had bought the carton and he’d filched a pack. “Los Altos.” She must have given him a blank look because he added, “San Francisco Bay Area. This is my first trip back since I enlisted.” He fumbled around in his wallet and pulled out a picture. “My wife and sons,” he said. “Your half brothers.”
She didn’t want to look but she couldn’t help herself. The boys were little, maybe four and six. The wife was blond, pretty, not put-together-pretty like Corinne, but casual pretty. She was younger, with chubby cheeks, wearing Capri pants and a shirt. Posed like a movie star—leaning back against a tree with one foot on the ground and the other leg bent at the knee, her foot up against the tree, making it look as if the bottom half of that leg were missing. Miri passed the photo back without commenting.
“Jeffrey and Josh,” Frekki said. “Those are your brothers’ names.”
“What’s your wife’s name?” Miri asked Mike Monsky.
“Adela.”
“Adela. What kind of name is that?”
“It’s an old family name.”
“Is she Jewish?”
“That’s a personal question, Miri,” Frekki said.
“I thought we were getting personal.”
“She’s half, but we’re raising the boys Jewish,” Mike Monsky said. “I work in my father-in-law’s business.”
As if she cared enough to ask, What business?
He told her anyway. She knew he would. “Shoe stores,” he said. “He’s got a chain of shoe stores.”
Did that mean Mike Monsky was rich?
As if he could read her mind he added, “He’s got two sons working in the business, besides me. We were all in the Pacific together.”
“Uncle Henry was in the war. He got shot in the leg.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mike Monsky said.
“How about you?” Miri asked. “Did you get shot?”
“No, I was lucky.”
“Rusty says they used to call you ‘Lucky.’?” This was a complete lie. She didn’t know why she said it.
“Really? I never heard that.”
“Neither did I,” Frekki said.
“Lucky you didn’t get caught getting someone pregnant before Rusty.” She was getting in too deep now.
“That’s a joke, right?” Mike Monsky asked.
She shrugged. “If you say so.”
“My daughter’s got a great sense of humor,” Mike said to Frekki, who just shook her head.
Then he turned back to Miri and smiled. She didn’t want to like his smile but she did.
“Please stop calling me your daughter,” she told him. “You don’t know me.”
“You’re right. But I hope I’ll have the chance to remedy that.”
Frekki looked at her watch. “I don’t want to break this up but I’ve got to get home. We have company coming for dinner. Don’t forget,” she reminded Mike, “seven-thirty, in a tie and jacket.”
“Go ahead,” Mike Monsky told Frekki. “I’ll make sure Miri gets home safe and sound and I’ll see you later.”
“Take the Cadillac.” Frekki passed her car keys to him. “I’ll take the Buick.”
In the car, he turned on the radio. Pete Seeger and the Weavers were singing “So Long, It’s Been Good to Know You”—a song that perfectly described her feelings about today. She bet he was sorry he’d turned to that station. Maybe he did it so he wouldn’t have to talk to her on the drive home. Maybe it was to save her from having to talk to him.
When they got close to Sayre Street she told him to drop her off two blocks away, where there was less danger of Rusty or Irene seeing her in the car with him. He turned off the ignition and faced her. “You should know,” he said, “I changed my last name to ‘Monk’ when I married Adela. My sister doesn’t know and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her. I’d like to be the one to break the news.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“You know why. Because you’re my daughter.”
She bristled.
“It would be your last name, too.”
“My last name is Ammerman.”
“You know what I mean.” He reached for her hand. For one second she looked into his eyes and saw her own. Then she pulled her hand away, jumped out of the car and ran for home.
Later, she remembered the way his hand had felt, warm and strong. My father, she thought. That asshole was my father. She reminded herself not to like him. Reminded herself he’d abandoned Rusty before she was even born. She didn’t know if it happened that way, but she assumed it had. He planted the seed, then he flew the coop. She vaguely remembered Rusty telling her that when she was small and asking about her daddy. She had no idea what it meant at the time. She’d imagined a chicken sitting on an egg. Now she heard Irene’s voice in her head. You can’t trust the Monskys. And it was true, wasn’t it? Frekki had tricked her. And who was this guy who called himself her “father,” really? He could be anybody. His stories could all be invented. No, she would not allow herself to like him.
—
RUSTY AND IRENE WANTED to hear about her day with Frekki. She told them about the restaurant, the show, ice cream at Gruning’s. But she didn’t mention Mike Monsky. Seeing him was her latest secret.
Elizabeth Daily Post