The Girl Is Murder (19 page)

Suze nodded. “I didn’t realize you were Jewish.”

“We changed our last name.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” The one time I asked Mama about it, she’d said it was like how Deanna Durbin had changed her first name from Edna Mae—sometimes you had to have a name that better fit who people wanted you to be.

Suze pushed her hair behind her ear. “When people already think bad of you, it’s pretty easy for them to assume the worst. You knew her, though. No matter what anyone says, you know the truth, right?”

It was like with Tom and how his father assumed he was headed down the wrong path. Actually, it was probably like that for all the Rainbows. Once people thought you were bad news, there was no hope of redeeming yourself. You either proved them right or made up your mind that what they thought of you didn’t matter.

“You there, baby girl?”

I looked up and found Suze staring at me. She’d been talking this whole time, buzzing in my ear like a trapped fly, and I hadn’t heard a word of it. How long had I been lost in my own thoughts? “Sorry.”

“No need for apologies. What I said was, if you’re still worried, I bet your pop could clear everything up.”

I almost laughed at the thought. Even my imaginary pop, the one still fighting the war, would never be able to talk to me about this. And who could expect him to? If the idea made me sick, it was a wonder he was able to get up in the morning.

I drank some of the milk shake and fixed a smile on Suze. “You’re right.”

“Where’d you hear these women talking, anyhow?”

“Upper East Side. I went to see a friend I went to school with and the minute I left the room, her mother started telling this other woman all about me.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized that Suze might put two and two together and realize I’d gone to see Grace.

“What a bunch of vipers. What did your friend say?”

“I couldn’t tell her. Sarah—that’s her name—would’ve been mortified. I just made an excuse and left.” So now there was an imaginary Sarah to remember.

“And she didn’t come after you? Some friend.” The door sounded its bell, warning of the arrival of more customers. “They’re playing my song,” she said with a smile. “I better get moving or get fired. You going to be okay?”

I nodded.

She slid out of the booth and straightened her uniform. “You want to come to my cave tonight? I’m watching the brat.”

“I wish I could, but I think my aunt would have a conniption.”

“All right. Then I’ll see you Monday.” She paused, like she wanted to say something else but couldn’t think of what magical words it would take to make everything go away. Instead, she leaned toward me and planted a kiss on top of my head.

I WAS FEELING much better by the time I got home. Maybe Suze was right. These were bored society women, after all, who had nothing better to do with their time than gossip. And I knew Mama loads better than they did. She loved Pop, practically worshipped him, and if there was another man he was temporary at best. He certainly wouldn’t have been the reason for her to kill herself, any more than Pop’s return would’ve been the motivation for her to do herself in.

I let myself into the house and was about to go upstairs to take a nap when Pop’s voice stopped me.

“Where have you been?” He was sitting on the sofa in the parlor with an ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes resting in front of him.

It wasn’t a friendly question. I wasn’t in the mood for combat, so I gave him the truth. “I went to the Upper East Side to visit Grace.”

“And what made you think you could leave this house without telling anyone where you were going?”

“You weren’t here and neither was Mrs. Mrozenski.”

“I wasn’t here because I went to get us this.” He gestured toward a bakery box sitting beside his ashtray. Pastries that had once been fresh but had now begun to grow stale in the hours since he’d purchased them huddled together on a waxed paper sheet. How many sugar ration tickets had he used for those?

He’d intended them to be a peace offering. I could see that. After last night’s run-in he was trying to call a truce by offering me sweets and hoping that
The Children’s Parade
would bring me back to myself, or at least to the self I used to be before he went to Pearl Harbor.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

My apology had no effect on him. Whatever anger had been bubbling inside him after he discovered I wasn’t home rose to a full boil. “First Harlem, now the Upper East Side? New York’s not your playpen, Iris. You don’t get to pick and choose where you want to go without talking to me first.”

His ire awoke something in me. Why was he being this way? “You. Weren’t. Here.”

“Then you write a note or, heaven forbid, wait until I come home and ask me if you can go.”

I rolled my eyes.

He plucked a cruller from the box and tore it in two. “Something horrible could’ve happened to you last night.”

“Why? Because there were negroes there?”

He looked like I’d slapped him. “This isn’t about black and white. This is about you being fifteen years old. The world isn’t a safe place.”

I headed toward the stairs.

“I’m not done talking to you.”

“I am.”

“Get back here, Iris.”

I mounted the first step. “No.” I paused, expecting him to order my return even more loudly, but we’d reached a stalemate and he knew it. I was my mother’s daughter, stubbornness and all.

“Go then,” he said. I continued my climb. As I reached the top of the stairs, he spoke again, not to me, but to himself. I couldn’t make out the words, at least not most of them. The only word I was certain I heard was my mother’s name.

IT TOOK ME AN HOUR to fall asleep, even with the assistance of my baby blanket. As tired as I was, I was too irritated to doze right away. When I did finally sleep, I dreamed of Mama.

She and I are in the dining room of our old apartment, decorating it for a party. She sings as she works—“Alle Meine Entchen,” a silly little German song about ducklings that she used to entertain me with when I was very small. Pop’s photo is on the mantel, two candles flickering on either side of it. He is dead and has been for a while. The party we are preparing for is to commemorate the anniversary of Pearl Harbor, when Pop was killed in action.

I awoke with a start just as the sun was going down. I wasn’t sure what had jolted me awake until I heard the doorbell.

It had been ringing for a while.

Did Pop have a client? I crept down the stairs and saw his office door open and the room empty. He was gone again. No lights had been left on in the parlor and what little light was left in the day made the room look sleepy and sad. I clicked on a lamp, smoothed my hair, and approached the front door.

Grace was standing on the other side.

She’d never been to the Orchard Street house before. In fact, I was pretty sure she’d never been to the Lower East Side. As I watched her through the curtained glass panel that ran alongside the entryway, I could see her growing discomfort. She was most likely asking herself why she’d come here, and I was wondering the same thing. And while I was pretty sure it was fear that fueled her nervousness, mine was powered by embarrassment. What would she think of this house? Of Mrs. Mrozenski? Of the entire neighborhood that I now called home?

“Hello?” she called out. She must’ve seen the curtain move. It would be impossible to pretend no one was home now without appearing unforgivably rude. With no other choice, I opened the door and pretended to be surprised to see her there.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I was worried. You left so fast today and you were acting so strange. Rolph said you got sick in the hallway.”

Rolph? That must’ve been the doorman. I felt a jolt of pleasure that he was the one responsible for cleaning up my mess.

“You could’ve called,” I said. “There was no reason to come all this way.” My fingers found the molding around the door and worked it loose.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t call me back. May I come in?”

I backed away in silent invitation. She entered the house, making no effort to hide her curiosity at the way the other half lived. I went into the parlor and sat on the sofa, one leg bent beneath my body, the other dangling over the cushion.

“What upset you?” asked Grace.

I played with the cushion’s cord trim. “Nothing.” She cocked her head at me. It was such an old familiar gesture that I instantly felt like I’d been fed a truth serum and had to respond honestly to her questions. “I overhead your mother and her friend talking about Mama.”

“Oh.” She didn’t look surprised. “I thought as much. I could just die. I’m so sorry, Iris. You know Mother is a terrible gossip, and Mrs. Huckabee is twice as bad.”

So now I didn’t need to worry just about Mrs. Dunwitty thinking these things about Mama; the entire Upper East Side would be talking about it.

“She said my mother was having an affair.”

Grace sighed and took a seat on the upholstered rocker to my left. It was a comfortable chair—overstuffed and worn until its cushion was perfectly molded to fit the human form—but she sat on it stiffly, like she didn’t trust that the furniture was strong enough to maintain her slight, feminine weight. In fact, everything about her seemed stiff—even the language she used in the Orchard Street house was overly formal.

How had she ever hooked up with someone like Tom? He must’ve hailed from a house just like this, where the furniture never got reupholstered or replaced, but instead bore the stains, scars, and burn marks it received until its working parts ceased functioning and someone put it out of its misery and left it out for the garbage collectors to retrieve.

She eyed the ashtray, still overflowing with the fruit of Pop’s afternoon. “Is your father around?”

“No,” I said. “He went out.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

I said no only because I was so surprised by the question. What was she going to ask next? If I’d make her a cocktail?

She retrieved a cigarette from her purse and, once it was lit, inhaled it in a practiced way that made it clear that many, many cigarettes had come before it. Maybe it was an upperclassman thing. If I’d stayed at Chapin, I, too, might’ve learned how to blow perfect smoke rings and master the art of ashing with one hand while wielding a cheese knife with the other. “It’s shameful behavior, but you must understand how your mother’s death rattled everyone. Dying … as she did left so many questions, and I’m sure Mother was only theorizing to put her own mind at ease.”

Was she really defending her mother? It didn’t seem possible, and yet—

“Of course it was completely inappropriate and I’m sure she’d be mortified to learn you’d overheard her.”

“Please don’t tell her,” I said.

“She needs to learn.” She tweaked her mouth to the left, releasing a stream of smoke. “I won’t allow her to upset my friends like this.”

I could imagine how that conversation was going to go. Would Grace really be doing it because of me, or because of the joy she got from putting her mother in her place?

“Really, I’m fine, Grace. I know gossip is gossip. It just took me by surprise.”

The front door rattled and Mrs. Mrozenski appeared, her arm filled with bags and boxes containing that week’s groceries. She smiled when she saw me, then her gaze drifted over to the strange girl sitting in her chair, smoking in her house.

“Let me help you.” I leaped to my feet and took two boxes from her. Grace remained sitting and smoking, completely unconcerned that an adult had arrived. “This is Grace Dunwitty, an old friend of mine from Chapin. Grace, this is Mrs. Mrozenski. She owns the house.”

Grace raised an eyebrow but still didn’t get up. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, you, too,” said Mrs. Mrozenski. I followed her into the kitchen and deposited the bags on the table. “Your friend is smoking,” she whispered as she removed eggs, flour, and cabbage from the packages. “She is allowed to do this?”

I shrugged, uncertain how to respond. I couldn’t imagine Grace doing it in her own house. But that was the point, wasn’t it—she wasn’t in her house.

Mrs. Mrozenski shooed me with her hand. “Go, enjoy your company. I get this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

I returned to the parlor. Grace wasn’t there. She had moved into Pop’s office, where she stood before his desk, examining the papers he’d left out the night before.

I cleared my throat. “That’s Pop’s office,” I said. “It’s kind of off-limits.”

“Sorry. The door was open.”

She gave the room another glance before returning to the parlor. Nervous energy propelled her. Instead of sitting, she approached the fireplace. On the mantel was a collection of porcelain bells, some photos, and a glass box intended for cigarettes.

“So all this stuff belongs to Mrs.—? I’m sorry, what’s her name?” asked Grace.

“Mrozenski. Most of it’s hers.” Only the radio belonged to me and Pop, and the glassless photo of Mama sitting atop it.

“I guess she doesn’t let you decorate, huh?” What she really meant was, she couldn’t imagine anyone choosing to live among these cheap furnishings and belongings if they didn’t have to.

“It’s her house,” I said.

“You know, our last cleaning lady was Polish. I don’t think you met her. Mother fired her when she found out she was stealing from us.” She picked up one of the bells and shook it. I half expected Mrs. Mrozenski to come running from the kitchen and demand she put it down.

When she didn’t, I decided to do it myself.

“We’re not really supposed to touch her stuff,” I said.

“Why? It’s not like it’s worth anything.”

I wanted her to leave. While her visit initially seemed like a kind gesture, it was starting to feel like something very different. I glanced at the mantel clock and feigned surprise. “It’s getting late,” I said.

“When’s your pop coming home?” she asked. She put down the bell and picked up a photo of Mrs. Mrozenski’s family, letting the cigarette dangle as she examined it. A piece of ash fell from the tip and landed on the faded wool rug. I kept my eye on it, worried it would burn a hole right through, but it smoldered and disappeared before any damage could be done.