It was a good time for a visit to the ladies’ room, so Helen excused herself and left the table. Why was everything going so wrong?
When Helen came out of the stall, Rose was sitting at the vanity table, waiting for her.
“Helen, I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have come. Mort gets … uneasy around Sol. I knew he wouldn’t want Judith to sit next to him.”
“It’s fine,” said Helen. “You know Sol just likes to joke. He would never say anything inappropriate with Judith sitting next to him.”
“I know,” said Rose, though she didn’t sound convinced. It bothered Helen that Rose so obviously disapproved of her brother. She knew Mort did, but that was different; Mort disapproved of almost everyone.
“We should get back,” Rose said, and she opened the ladies’ room door for Helen. There was an awkwardness between them that hadn’t been there before, and Helen was surprisingly uncomfortable. Having walked out of the ladies’ room first, Helen tried to slow her pace so that Rose could catch up. But no matter how hard she tried, she was always a little bit ahead. For the first time since they had known each other, the two women were out of step.
Chapter 11
MORT
(October 1947)
After the news of Rose’s pregnancy became public, Mort became increasingly annoyed with his coworkers. Most of them seemed to think he had nothing better to do with his time than to answer personal questions about Rose’s condition and their family life. If it were not for his daily point quota, he would have refused to acknowledge the questions at all. But he knew what he had to do to keep the covenant he had made. It would be so much easier to be nice to people if only they would stop talking to him.
Mort tried to prepare himself as he approached the company coffeepot Monday morning. It was a place where he was often drawn into conversation, and he wanted to be ready.
“Good morning, Mort.” It was Sheila, the only woman who worked at Box Brothers. Sheila answered phones and did the typing for Abe and Mort. She arrived on time and was generally pleasant and efficient. Abe referred to Sheila as a “gem.” Mort felt she was adequate.
“Good morning,” he responded. This was a classic one-point encounter for Mort, but the next moment was critical. He could take his coffee, keep his head down and walk back to his office. Or, he could prolong the meeting with a follow-up remark, thereby creating a multiple-point situation. It was the sort of decision Mort had come to dread. The follow-up remark was dangerous—who knew how much time he might waste if he risked it? On the other hand, the possibility of earning extra points was tempting. The weekend had not been a good one for him. He had made some unkind remarks to Judith about a book she was reading, and his weekend score had plummeted as a result. Here was an opportunity to get himself back on track.
He took a deep breath and spoke. “I hope you had a nice weekend,” he said to Sheila.
As the words came out of his mouth, he congratulated himself on his phrasing. He had not made the mistake of asking the open-ended question How was your weekend? Through trial-and-error he had come to realize that asking open-ended questions led to long, drawn-out answers from people. The question Did you have a nice weekend? was slightly better (if you were lucky, you might get a quick yes or no) but still risky. In stating he hoped Sheila had a good weekend, Mort felt certain he had bypassed the need for Sheila to provide any answer at all. The most appropriate way to respond to such a statement, Mort felt, was to nod. Certainly no more than that was necessary.
How wrong he was! “Aren’t you sweet for asking,” Sheila replied. Asking? He had asked nothing. In fact, he had gone out of his way specifically not to ask. Did no one understand grammar? Syntax? The etiquette of language? He gritted his teeth.
“My girlfriend Pamela and I met for lunch and a matinee on Saturday. They were showing The Red Shoes.” She sighed. “It was such a wonderful film, Mort. Just lovely. Have you seen it?” Mort shook his head. Why did she feel the need to suffocate him with the specifics of her weekend?
“No? You really should take Rose to see it one of these days. Maybe try to have a night out before the baby comes.” The baby. There it was. He braced himself for the inevitable interrogation.
“How is Rose feeling?” What is it about pregnancy that makes people so comfortable prying into personal matters?
“She’s fine.”
“When my sister was pregnant, she was sick every day. I’m so glad Rose is having an easy pregnancy.”
It might be easy for Rose, Mort thought, but it certainly isn’t easy for me. He was having difficulty keeping the “smile” on his face.
The phone rang and Sheila stopped stirring her coffee. “Sorry, Mort, I have to grab that. Can’t keep the customers waiting!” She was back to her desk in a flash.
Mort exhaled. He filled his coffee cup. It had taken several weeks for him to learn that if he filled his cup at the beginning of a conversation, his coffee would most likely be cold by the time he returned to his desk. Is this what office pleasantries had come to? Wasting time and cold coffee? He was relieved his conversation with Sheila was finally over. He would go back to his desk and decide exactly how to score it. It was lucky for him that the phone had rung when it did.
Chapter 12
ROSE
From the minute Rose got out of bed that morning, she felt changed, lighter somehow. Mort had gotten up early to go to Philadelphia with Abe, and the whole day lay ahead of her, unencumbered. Once the children were off to school, she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Mort was always gone by this time of the morning, so the day shouldn’t have felt different from any other. But it did.
The first thing she realized was that she didn’t have to make pot roast for dinner. It was Wednesday, and Wednesday night was pot roast night, at least according to Mort. If something else was served, or if she made pot roast on a Saturday instead, Mort would be visibly disappointed. His absence freed her of this restriction.
It came to her then, pot roast and enlightenment entwined: the reason why Mort’s absence affected her so. She hadn’t known what it was until it wasn’t there. The daily dread of being judged, of being measured and found lacking in some way, no matter how small, was a burden she carried, compact and profound. It was a too-heavy purse, worn and comfortable on her shoulder, which she did not know the weight of until she set it down.
Ever since Judith was born, Rose realized, Mort had been struggling to maintain control. He could not manipulate the outcome of her pregnancies, and he could not change their daughters into sons. Faced with these setbacks, he was determined to control whatever else was left—what their girls were allowed to read, what they wore, where they went, how much affection he would show to his wife and, though it seemed trivial, even what Rose made for dinner.
Rose opened up the cabinet next to the sink and took out her mother’s recipe box. The box was yellow painted tin, with black and red flowers etched onto the sides. The top was copper, faded with brown spots or stains. Some of the recipes were typed onto cards, and some were handwritten on scraps of paper. Others were just torn pieces of magazine pages, folded haphazardly and stuffed inside. None of the recipes was in any particular order, and every time Rose looked through them, she had to spend at least ten minutes searching for the one that she wanted.