In the Unlikely Event (8 page)

“I’m sorry,” Suzanne said when the bell rang and they left for their first-period classes. “I didn’t know she’d make you read the morning psalm.”

“It’s okay,” Miri told her. “Just, please, don’t tell anyone else.”

“I won’t.”

No other teacher mentioned the crash.

Right after fifth period algebra, Natalie took Miri aside in the girls’ room and said, “I have this buzzing inside my head.”

“You want to go to the nurse?”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“Maybe it’s your period,” Miri said.

“This is different,” Natalie told her. “And when the buzzing stops, Ruby starts talking to me.”

“Ruby?”

“The dancer who was on that plane. Didn’t you listen to Walter Winchell last night? He spent half his show talking about her.” As soon as she admitted Ruby was talking to her, before Miri even had the chance to take it in, Natalie grabbed her shoulders. “Swear you won’t tell anyone what I just said.”

What could Miri do? Natalie was her best friend. She had no choice but to swear she would never tell. For the rest of the day, whenever the other kids were buzzing about the crash, Miri was thinking about the buzzing in Natalie’s head.

OBITUARIES—Mrs. Estelle Sapphire of Bayonne was among the first identified at the makeshift morgue set up in the two garages behind Haines Funeral Home. She was identified by her wedding ring. Her husband, Benjamin Sapphire, collapsed at the scene and was taken by police car to the home of a friend.

—

THE CHRISTMAS PAGEANT WAS
just days away, and Miri had choir rehearsal after school. When she got home she found a strange man in Irene’s living room, sitting in the wing chair, wrapped in one of Irene’s crocheted afghans, his feet soaking in a pan of warm water, his trouser legs rolled up to reveal the hairiest legs Miri had ever
seen. Even his toes were covered with dark hair. If she didn’t know better she’d have sworn they were animal legs.

“Miri, darling, this is Ben Sapphire,” Irene said, handing him a steaming cup of tea, or maybe it was soup. “He was freezing cold,” Irene told her. “His hands and feet were blue. I thought for sure they’d have to take him to the hospital.”

He was still shivering but he managed to say, “Irene was serving home-baked coffee cake.”

“Which one?” Miri asked. “Sour cream with cinnamon and walnuts, or streusel?”

He looked to Irene for an answer. “Sour cream,” she said, leading Miri into the kitchen where she whispered, “We knew each other in the old days, in Bayonne. He lost his wife in the crash.”

Miri didn’t want to think about the crash. “I’ll be upstairs,” she told Irene. “Call me when it’s time to set the table for supper.”

She and Rusty and Uncle Henry ate at Irene’s every night. Irene was a great cook, which was Rusty’s excuse for never having learned. Instead of encouraging her, Rusty said Irene shooed her out of the kitchen. Rusty was always harping that Miri should learn to cook, that Irene would have more patience with Miri than she’d had with her. Learning to cook from Irene would be a lot better than making lumpy and disgusting white sauce in the required cooking class at Hamilton Junior High.

—

THE LEG OF LAMB
materialized as lamb stew that night. Tasty, with little potatoes, green beans, carrots and celery, seasoned with rosemary. Ben Sapphire joined Miri and Rusty at Irene’s table. He broke down several times, covering his eyes with his hand, blowing his nose with a handkerchief. “I can’t think of her inside that plane…my darling wife, my Estelle…” Irene patted his hand.

“We took a place in Miami Beach for the season,” he told Rusty. “She was flying down early to get it ready. I was going to drive down with the luggage. She gets carsick—got carsick—never liked long drives.” He broke down again.

“I’m so sorry,” Rusty said. “I spoke with her on the phone on Saturday. She ordered six Volupté compacts to take to Florida.”

“The compacts,” he said, hitting his forehead with his hand. “I forgot about the compacts.”

Again, Irene patted his hand. “Never mind about that.”

“No, I want to pay.”

“Please, Ben…” Irene shook her head.

Miri stole a look at Rusty, who took
her
hand under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. Rusty’s fingers were warm.

Henry came home as they were finishing what was left of Rusty’s birthday cake. He was flushed with excitement, dropping a stack of papers on one end of the table, then handing each of them a copy of the
Daily Post
, with his story and byline on the front page.

He had no idea who Ben Sapphire was but he passed a copy of the paper to him, too. Ben Sapphire took one look and turned gray. He excused himself from the table and Irene helped him to the bathroom.

When she came back without Ben, she told Henry, “His wife, Estelle, was on that plane.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Henry asked.

“Sometimes you have to assume,” Irene said. Then she turned to Miri. “Darling, give me that paper.”

But Miri held on to it.

“She’s been through enough,” Irene said to Henry. “She doesn’t need the gruesome details.”

“She was there, Mama,” Henry said. “She saw it happen.”

“And that’s bad enough.”

“You don’t think she’s going to read the paper tonight?” Henry said. “You don’t think she’ll want to read my story?”

Miri wasn’t sure she wanted to read Henry’s story but she didn’t say so. She didn’t say anything. On the one hand, she wanted to forget it ever happened. On the other, she wanted to know who else was on the plane besides the dancer and Ben Sapphire’s wife, Estelle. She wanted to know why it crashed.

“Tomorrow there’ll be a story about Paul Stefanelli, the youngest
of seven brothers,” Henry said. “Came through the war without a scratch and died on that plane. He worked at Ronson’s. And later this week I’m interviewing Ruby Granik’s family. I’m talking to anyone who has a story to tell, and so far, that’s pretty much everyone.”

Miri wished she could tell him about Natalie. She was betting Natalie was the only one who heard Ruby’s voice. “What about us?”

Miri asked. “Are you interviewing Mom and me?”

“Would you like me to?” Henry asked.

“No,” Rusty said. “Enough is enough. She’s too young to understand. None of
us
can make sense of it—how can you expect a young girl to?”

“Not by sweeping it under the rug and pretending it didn’t happen,” Henry said.

“Since when are you the expert?” Rusty asked. “When you have a young, impressionable daughter we’ll discuss it.”

Until then, Miri had never heard an angry word between Rusty and Henry. She couldn’t believe they were talking this way in front of her, as if she weren’t sitting right there. This was a first after a lifetime of silences, of secrets, of pretending everything was fine.

Irene pushed her chair back from the table, signaling the end of this argument. “I’m going to check on Ben.”

“Miri, don’t you have homework?” Rusty said.

Oh, sure. Homework. The answer for everything.

Elizabeth Daily Post

56 KILLED AS FLAMING PLANE CRUMPLES
,
FALLS INTO FROZEN RIVER

By Henry Ammerman

DEC. 17—Elizabeth, long fearful because of its proximity to Newark Airport, gained a permanent listing in the annals of aviation tragedy at 3:09 o’clock yesterday afternoon when a two-engined non-scheduled airliner plummeted in flames into the east bank of the Elizabeth River, only seven minutes after its takeoff. All 52 passengers and the four crew died, the most tragic civil catastrophe in Elizabeth’s three centuries of existence.

Thousands in streets already flooded with holiday shoppers turned their eyes skyward to the thunderous roar of a low-flying plane in trouble. They gaped in horror as a thin streak of smoke turned to flame, and the plane struggled to return to the airport, before its right wing collapsed.

The plane hurtled earthward into the heart of the city like an angry, wounded bird. It sheared off part of an unoccupied house at 70 Westfield Ave., crashed into a brick warehouse of the Elizabethtown Water Company, and landed on its back in the frozen riverbed, a mass of twisted fiery wreckage.

It was one of the only open areas in a mile-square radius, perhaps a silent tribute to the deceased pilot’s skill.

3

Miri

Miri sat on her bed reading the beginning of Henry’s front-page story, then had to lower her head to the floor. She couldn’t breathe,
couldn’t remember how to take a breath. When she felt the blood rush back to her face she sat up and took a sip of water. Then she lay back against her pillows and thumbed through the paper until she came to her favorite section.

Debutante Judith Merck, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. George Merck of West Orange, a student at Sarah Lawrence College, will be presented tomorrow night at the Grosvenor Ball. After, Miss Merck will be heading anywhere there’s snow for some holiday skiing.

She closed her eyes, picturing Miss Judith Merck in her white ball gown at the Grosvenor Ball, dancing the first dance with her father. She tried to imagine herself wearing a beautiful long white dress, dancing with
her
father, though she’d never seen a photo of him.

She was glad she didn’t have her father’s last name.
Monsky
—ugh! No one ever said his name. She still wouldn’t know it if Henry hadn’t taken her to Spirito’s for a pizza last April, on the day President Truman had relieved General MacArthur of his command. The whole school had been called to the auditorium to listen to MacArthur’s speech.
Old soldiers never die—they just fade away
. Eleanor was allowed to cover the story in the school paper, because of the special assembly.

She explained why President Truman had fired General MacArthur, had kicked him out of the military for insubordination after MacArthur voiced disagreement with his policies.

Most kids dumped the paper in the trash, as usual. But Miri had read every word. She’d asked Uncle Henry about it. He’d been surprised but pleased by her interest. Between bites of pepperoni, he’d explained. “I want you to know the truth, Miri. Always.”

So she’d gathered all her courage and asked him about her father, just
la-di-dah
, as if they were still talking about the president and the general. She prayed Henry couldn’t tell how fast her heart was beating. He swallowed the food in his mouth, swigged some Pabst Blue Ribbon, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and told her. Not everything. She knew he was holding back, but for now, she was satisfied just to know her father’s name, Mike Monsky, that he and Rusty had
gone out for a few months and—
Bingo!
—she was pregnant. She didn’t say what she was thinking—
You can’t get pregnant from playing Bingo
.

Once, when Miri was in sixth grade, she’d tried asking Rusty. “So this father of mine…is he alive or dead?”

The color had drained out of Rusty’s face. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Mom…”

“Honestly, Miri, I don’t know.”

“Were you married to him?”

“That’s a hard question to answer.”

“Either you were or you weren’t.”

“I
said
that’s a hard question to answer, Miri.”

“I just want to know if I’m a bastard or not.”

Rusty exploded. “Don’t ever let me hear you using that word! That word has nothing to do with you.” Then she choked up. “You were loved from the moment you were born.” That was the last time Miri asked her mother about her father. Because what was the point? At least no one said he was
a no-good son of a bitch
, the way she’d heard Cousin Belle describe her daughter’s husband. They didn’t say anything, which in a way was worse.

“This talk has to be a secret between us,” Henry had said that night last April as they’d walked to his car, each of them with an ice cream cone. “Okay?”

She didn’t tell him how much she hated secrets. Hated them with a passion. Were adults ever honest with kids? Aside from Henry, none had been honest with her—not Rusty, not Irene. They lived in a world where children, even teenagers, were protected from the truth for their own good. That’s how they got out of saying anything. Ever since she could remember, the adults would stop talking when she walked into the room. They’d smile at her, then change the subject.

Now here was Henry telling her
she
had to keep this a secret from Rusty and Irene.
With pleasure, Uncle Henry
.

“I’d be in big trouble for breaking their rules. Who am I to say you have the right to know about your father? I don’t have kids. I don’t know how I’d feel if I did.”

“Thank you, Uncle Henry.” She didn’t ask any of the hundreds
of questions already forming inside her head. She’d save them for another time.

She wondered where Mike Monsky was now. Maybe he’d been a passenger on the plane to Miami yesterday. Maybe Dr. Osner would have to identify him by his teeth and dental X-rays. Rabbi Halberstadter would pray over him, even though there would be no next of kin for the rabbi to comfort. Who’s to say Mike Monsky hadn’t bought a huge insurance policy on his life before he’d boarded the doomed flight and once they discovered
she
was next of kin, she would get the money? Would she take it? She didn’t have to think twice. Yes, she’d take it! For Rusty and Irene and Henry, who had raised her without a dime from him. Just don’t expect her to visit his grave, Rabbi. She’d give him the same thing he’d given her. Not a second thought. Even if he’d bought that policy she knew it was just because he’d felt guilty for all the years he’d neglected his daughter. If he even knew he had a daughter.