Sixteen,’ Papa says before Vera can open her mouth. ‘She’s sixteen.’
The restaurant woman turns to him with a stern look. ‘If she’s going to wait tables, she’ll have to speak for herself.’
Papa folds his arms across his chest, leans back against the hard chair. ‘No electric slicers, though. And no heavy lifting.’
‘I understand you coming to your daughter’s first job interview, and I appreciate your concern for her safety,’ the woman says, pushing bleached bangs up her forehead with a bony hand. ‘But I do know the law.’ She glances down at the neatly lettered application on the café table between them. ‘Now. Vera. We’re closed Sunday and Monday, and I can handle Tuesday and Wednesday by myself. I’ll need you Thursday and Friday, four to nine, noon to nine on Saturday. You can see we’re a small place, just eight tables. So if you’re late or don’t show, I have a problem. Pay’s two fifty an hour, plus tips. Okay?’
Vera feels suddenly shy. Would Mama want me to do this? Am I ready? She blushes deeply, stammers, ‘Y-yes, ma’am. Thank you.’
‘Call me Aggie. Save the ma’ams for the customers. Maurice?’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘Come meet our waitress.’
Aggie stands up just as Maurice swings open the kitchen door. Her lanky six-foot frame towers over his five-two. Maurice sports trendy Elvis mutton-chop sideburns and a droopy Sonny Bono mustache. He wipes his fingers on a splattered chef’s apron, gravely shakes Vera’s hand. ‘Enchanté,’ he intones, with a slight bow. He smells of garlic, lemon, and something sweet, like burnt sugar and cinnamon. Delicious, Vera thinks, and blushes again.
‘Maurice makes the sauce,’ Aggie explains. ‘Although where a French Canadian learned to make barbecue, after twenty-five years of marriage, I still don’t know. I do desserts – French apple tart, double-cream rice pudding, and my Swiss grandmother’s chocolate Charlotte.’ She smiles, showing a gap between large white teeth. ‘We open next week. Wear a uniform, any color you like, and comfortable shoes. We’ll provide the apron.’
‘All right.’ Papa holds the door open for Vera. ‘You take the bus from school and I’ll pick you up at night.’ He eases the old red and black ’56 Buick, brakes whining, into the early October evening traffic. ‘We’ll stop at Woolworth’s for a uniform,’ he says. ‘But you still have to help your grandmother at home, and do your schoolwork. No honor roll, no job.’
THE RESTAURANT STANDS in the middle of an ordinary suburban shopping strip, along with a dry cleaner, drug store, florist, Lou’s Hardware, and Renée’s Frost ‘n Curl. The public library and town hall are a couple of blocks away; Aggie and Maurice have gambled on attracting people to their unique eatery, leaving stacks of colorful promotional postcards on every counter within walking distance.
It takes no time for Vera to learn the menu: barbecued chicken, pork, or beef on crusty French bread, potato salad brightened with a touch of vinegar, green apple coleslaw, fresh corn on the cob. Minted iced tea, squeezed-to-order lemonade, good strong coffee and the fabulous desserts complete the selection. ‘We’re not a something-for-everyone roadside diner,’ Aggie likes to say. ‘What we do, we do very, very well.’
Papa folds his arms across his chest, leans back against the hard chair. ‘No electric slicers, though. And no heavy lifting.’
‘I understand you coming to your daughter’s first job interview, and I appreciate your concern for her safety,’ the woman says, pushing bleached bangs up her forehead with a bony hand. ‘But I do know the law.’ She glances down at the neatly lettered application on the café table between them. ‘Now. Vera. We’re closed Sunday and Monday, and I can handle Tuesday and Wednesday by myself. I’ll need you Thursday and Friday, four to nine, noon to nine on Saturday. You can see we’re a small place, just eight tables. So if you’re late or don’t show, I have a problem. Pay’s two fifty an hour, plus tips. Okay?’
Vera feels suddenly shy. Would Mama want me to do this? Am I ready? She blushes deeply, stammers, ‘Y-yes, ma’am. Thank you.’
‘Call me Aggie. Save the ma’ams for the customers. Maurice?’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘Come meet our waitress.’
Aggie stands up just as Maurice swings open the kitchen door. Her lanky six-foot frame towers over his five-two. Maurice sports trendy Elvis mutton-chop sideburns and a droopy Sonny Bono mustache. He wipes his fingers on a splattered chef’s apron, gravely shakes Vera’s hand. ‘Enchanté,’ he intones, with a slight bow. He smells of garlic, lemon, and something sweet, like burnt sugar and cinnamon. Delicious, Vera thinks, and blushes again.
‘Maurice makes the sauce,’ Aggie explains. ‘Although where a French Canadian learned to make barbecue, after twenty-five years of marriage, I still don’t know. I do desserts – French apple tart, double-cream rice pudding, and my Swiss grandmother’s chocolate Charlotte.’ She smiles, showing a gap between large white teeth. ‘We open next week. Wear a uniform, any color you like, and comfortable shoes. We’ll provide the apron.’
‘All right.’ Papa holds the door open for Vera. ‘You take the bus from school and I’ll pick you up at night.’ He eases the old red and black ’56 Buick, brakes whining, into the early October evening traffic. ‘We’ll stop at Woolworth’s for a uniform,’ he says. ‘But you still have to help your grandmother at home, and do your schoolwork. No honor roll, no job.’
THE RESTAURANT STANDS in the middle of an ordinary suburban shopping strip, along with a dry cleaner, drug store, florist, Lou’s Hardware, and Renée’s Frost ‘n Curl. The public library and town hall are a couple of blocks away; Aggie and Maurice have gambled on attracting people to their unique eatery, leaving stacks of colorful promotional postcards on every counter within walking distance.
It takes no time for Vera to learn the menu: barbecued chicken, pork, or beef on crusty French bread, potato salad brightened with a touch of vinegar, green apple coleslaw, fresh corn on the cob. Minted iced tea, squeezed-to-order lemonade, good strong coffee and the fabulous desserts complete the selection. ‘We’re not a something-for-everyone roadside diner,’ Aggie likes to say. ‘What we do, we do very, very well.’
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘DO YOU WEAR your hair that way all the time?’ Renée from the beauty shop, in for her daily four o’clock coffee break, peers at Vera over half-glasses perched on her nose, the ruby-tinted frames embedded with tiny rhinestone hearts that sparkle in the harsh fluorescent light.
‘All the time,’ Vera echoes, fingering the neat chestnut braid at the nape of her neck. ‘Ever since I can remember.’
‘Your hair’s too thin to wear long. You’d look cute in a page boy, or a flip, like Jackie Kennedy,’ Renée remarks, licking the last bit of rice pudding off her spoon. ‘God, this is good, Aggie. You’re a wicked woman.’
‘I like the braid. Keeps hair out of people’s food,’ Aggie says absently. She clips last week’s receipts together and closes her ledger with a sigh. ‘When does a wicked woman break even?’
ONLY ONCE, FOR her seventh birthday studio photograph, did Mama loosen Vera’s hair. The dark halo of feathery tendrils, held back with a white ribbon adorned with a traditional oversized Russian bow, fanned over the shoulders of her First Communion dress like the locks of a fledgling mermaid. Vera keeps a copy of the picture in her memory box, along with her eighth grade graduation program, smiling snapshots of her two best friends, Nina and Solange, a tiny porcelain doll with a crocheted red and white dress and minuscule beret, an assortment of especially meaningful birthday cards, and a small book of poems she made when she was ten.
‘You look just like Vasilisa,’ Mama had beamed, braiding Vera’s hair after the photo session, tucking a strand behind Vera’s ear. ‘Like a real Russian maiden.’ Vera knew it wasn’t true. Vasilisa, in all the storybooks, is called the Magnificent, the Wise. She is clever enough to outwit the evil Baba Yaga, scourge of small children and God-fearing people, while staying ever kind, graceful, demure, and soft-spoken. Fair-haired, blue-eyed. Beautiful.
Vera still braids her hair day after day, securing the end with a plain rubber band, even though Mama is dead these nine months and Papa doesn’t seem to notice much how she wears it. It’s easy to do, and had seemed so important to Mama. I’m clumsy and rude, not fair-haired, blue-eyed, or wise, but I’m trying to be a good girl. You can see that, Mama, can’t you?
‘All the time,’ Vera echoes, fingering the neat chestnut braid at the nape of her neck. ‘Ever since I can remember.’
‘Your hair’s too thin to wear long. You’d look cute in a page boy, or a flip, like Jackie Kennedy,’ Renée remarks, licking the last bit of rice pudding off her spoon. ‘God, this is good, Aggie. You’re a wicked woman.’
‘I like the braid. Keeps hair out of people’s food,’ Aggie says absently. She clips last week’s receipts together and closes her ledger with a sigh. ‘When does a wicked woman break even?’
ONLY ONCE, FOR her seventh birthday studio photograph, did Mama loosen Vera’s hair. The dark halo of feathery tendrils, held back with a white ribbon adorned with a traditional oversized Russian bow, fanned over the shoulders of her First Communion dress like the locks of a fledgling mermaid. Vera keeps a copy of the picture in her memory box, along with her eighth grade graduation program, smiling snapshots of her two best friends, Nina and Solange, a tiny porcelain doll with a crocheted red and white dress and minuscule beret, an assortment of especially meaningful birthday cards, and a small book of poems she made when she was ten.
‘You look just like Vasilisa,’ Mama had beamed, braiding Vera’s hair after the photo session, tucking a strand behind Vera’s ear. ‘Like a real Russian maiden.’ Vera knew it wasn’t true. Vasilisa, in all the storybooks, is called the Magnificent, the Wise. She is clever enough to outwit the evil Baba Yaga, scourge of small children and God-fearing people, while staying ever kind, graceful, demure, and soft-spoken. Fair-haired, blue-eyed. Beautiful.
Vera still braids her hair day after day, securing the end with a plain rubber band, even though Mama is dead these nine months and Papa doesn’t seem to notice much how she wears it. It’s easy to do, and had seemed so important to Mama. I’m clumsy and rude, not fair-haired, blue-eyed, or wise, but I’m trying to be a good girl. You can see that, Mama, can’t you?
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
VERA HAS A secret: Gregory’s letter, hidden behind the order book in her apron pocket. She can reach in and touch it, in its pale blue airmail envelope, whenever she wants to. Dear Vera, I hope you didn’t get in trouble after Nina’s party. She told me how strict your father is about drinking and stuff. I had a really nice time, being with my friends and especially meeting you. I’m not much of a dancer, but I had a nice time dancing with you. I often think about holding you in my arms.
No, Vera thinks, remembering Gregory’s cheek, smooth as sun-warmed glass against her own, his breath humming ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’ into her ear, Ray Charles moaning in ecstasy on the spinning record. An earth-shattering, unforgettable, for-always time. Much, much more than nice.
Perched on the stool behind the register, her two tables of diners oblivious to her presence, she opens the letter and reads, for the thousandth time, the rest of the words already committed to memory. We drove through Saigon on the way to the jungle posting. It’s kind of like Chinatown, people selling food and stuff on the street, but more like a regular city, too. It’s really hard to tell who’s who in this country, since most of the people, even the soldiers, just wear regular clothes - in the jungle, some of the men run around practically naked – so how are we supposed to know who’s North and who’s South? They say we should look out for the women and children, too, especially the boys. I guess if it was my country, I’d be doing the same thing, like protecting my turf.
Vera glances up at her customers. She clears away the plates empty of everything but a few crumbs and a chewed-down corncob. She serves slivers of chocolate Charlotte, the portions precisely marked by Aggie’s steady hand and sharp chef’s knife. She sampled this confection only once, in the early weeks of her employment, before word got out and people started coming by for dessert. What might seem like a miserly slice turns out to be almost more than a person can eat, the dense mousse rich and ethereal, melting sweetly the way only chocolate can, leaving a sense of profound satisfaction in the mouth. People leave happy and come back for more; now there is no leftover Charlotte for the help to savor at the end of its three-day shelf life.
Vera leaves her customers to their dessert and returns to her stool. She unfolds the letter to read the last bit, scribbled in Gregory’s round handwriting along the side margin. I don’t even know what they’re fighting about. It’s mostly jungle here and rice fields, hot and humid all the time, full of snakes and bugs. Why do they need us to figure out who gets which piece of it? I’ll tell you, I’d much rather be home, pumping gas at my uncle’s station and hanging out with my friends. It might take a while to get mail here, but please write me anyway and maybe send me a picture, if you don’t mind me showing it to the guys. Your friend, Gregory
She puts the letter away, looks up and smiles at everyone – the young couple paying their bill, the other pair still deep in conversation over chicken barbecue, the middle-aged threesome just coming in, Aggie peering through the kitchen door to check on her dining room. All’s well, Vera nods. I can do this. Gregory loves me.
And then she is lost, the restaurant a distant drone, while she remembers the forbidden whiskey-sharp taste of Gregory’s tongue, the surprising baby softness of his lips, the intoxicating aroma of his aftershave. Not pungent, like Papa’s Old Spice, but mellow; it clings to her skin long into the sleepless night after Nina’s party.
‘I AM ZDRAVKO. I come for the job.’ Vera lands with a jolt to stare at the man in front of the counter. She takes in his Brylcreemed black hair and seawater eyes, the immaculately pressed shirtsleeves rolled up over hairless muscular arms. He points to the hand-lettered window sign. ‘The job,’ he repeats, ‘To wash dishes. I am Makedón, from Yugoslavia. I have other job in furniture factory. My father is old, I must send money.’
‘Don’t tell me, I’m not the boss,’ Vera stops him.
‘I know. But you pretty girl,’ he grins, flashing a gold tooth, rolling his r’s just like Papa does, confirming unmistakable Eastern European roots.
‘So are you Zdravko, or Makedón?’
‘Makedón is my people. Zdravko is my name.’
‘Oh, well, you have to talk to Aggie.’ She turns away to hide her infuriating blush and shows him into the kitchen.
There are more people now, the Friday evening rush is on. No time for reverie. Vera moves into high gear, serving, clearing, cleaning tables, taking cash, accepting enthusiastic raves for the food, pocketing tips for college.
Zdravko starts work the next day, Saturday. In the hot tiny kitchen, with its eight-burner stove and required array of sinks, they all bump into each other, Aggie or Maurice dishing up orders, Vera in and out with plates and bowls, Zdravko scrubbing the five-gallon stainless steel pots and cast-iron roasters, hosing down stacks of dishes with scalding water and commercial-grade disinfectant soap. There is no time for talk. When things slow down, Vera sees him slip out the back door for a smoke. She notices how he cups the lit end of the cigarette under the palm of his hand, like men in old war movies do. She thinks it looks sophisticated, cool, but old-fashioned, too.
IN MAY, THE WEATHER turns unseasonably warm, forcing up armies of dandelions to confound lawn purists; Mama’s rosebushes bud weeks ahead of schedule. Vera changes into her uniform in the school bathroom. The city bus seems more crowded than ever; by the time she reaches work, the thin nylon wrinkle-free fabric is plastered to her skin with perspiration that spreads between her shoulder blades, under her arms and along the backs of her thighs.
In the second week of the heat wave, Zdravko pulls up in his used Cutlass just as she is getting off the bus. ‘You take bus every day?’
‘Yes,’ she answers, irritated at the obvious. ‘From school.’ Everyone at the restaurant knows Papa takes her home at night, waiting for her at the curb by nine o’clock sharp.
‘Tomorrow, I pick you up. I have air-condition,’ Zdravko offers, winking.
Vera agrees. The prospect of another steamy bus ride is too unpleasant to contemplate. ‘Three o’clock, by the football field.’
‘I play foot-ball. You say: soccer. Makedón against Serbian, Croat.’
‘Who wins?’
‘Everybody,’ Zdravko shrugs. ‘Except sometimes we fight.’
‘Why?’
‘Makedón, Serbian – is Orthodox…’
‘Like me,’ Vera interrupts. ‘Only I’m Russian.’
‘Yes? Okay. Croat is Catholic, other people – Kosovar – is Muslim. Now President Tito say, we all Yugoslav. But we still different.’
‘So what? Why do you have to fight about it?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. Boys like to fight.’ He laughs. ‘After fight, we go drink beer together. Hah!’
Vera squirts Windex on the glass doors of the dessert case. It’s too confusing. In Vietnam, the people are the same but want to be different. In Yugoslavia, people are different but forced to be the same. Why can’t people just be? She takes a last swipe with the cloth, checks her work for the smudge Aggie is sure to find anyway.
And why is there no letter from Gregory? He did say it might take time, but Vera is beginning to think he never received her answer. Or worse. She’s aware of the escalating body count, listens nightly with nagging worry to reports of servicemen kept captive in enemy camps deep in the southeast Asian jungle. She’s seen the pictures of bombed out roads and burned villages, the huts reduced to piles of ash and scarred timber. She pushes the thought away. If something happened to Gregory, someone at school would have known. There would have been news, or at least a rumor. Wouldn’t there?
No, Vera thinks, remembering Gregory’s cheek, smooth as sun-warmed glass against her own, his breath humming ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You’ into her ear, Ray Charles moaning in ecstasy on the spinning record. An earth-shattering, unforgettable, for-always time. Much, much more than nice.
Perched on the stool behind the register, her two tables of diners oblivious to her presence, she opens the letter and reads, for the thousandth time, the rest of the words already committed to memory. We drove through Saigon on the way to the jungle posting. It’s kind of like Chinatown, people selling food and stuff on the street, but more like a regular city, too. It’s really hard to tell who’s who in this country, since most of the people, even the soldiers, just wear regular clothes - in the jungle, some of the men run around practically naked – so how are we supposed to know who’s North and who’s South? They say we should look out for the women and children, too, especially the boys. I guess if it was my country, I’d be doing the same thing, like protecting my turf.
Vera glances up at her customers. She clears away the plates empty of everything but a few crumbs and a chewed-down corncob. She serves slivers of chocolate Charlotte, the portions precisely marked by Aggie’s steady hand and sharp chef’s knife. She sampled this confection only once, in the early weeks of her employment, before word got out and people started coming by for dessert. What might seem like a miserly slice turns out to be almost more than a person can eat, the dense mousse rich and ethereal, melting sweetly the way only chocolate can, leaving a sense of profound satisfaction in the mouth. People leave happy and come back for more; now there is no leftover Charlotte for the help to savor at the end of its three-day shelf life.
Vera leaves her customers to their dessert and returns to her stool. She unfolds the letter to read the last bit, scribbled in Gregory’s round handwriting along the side margin. I don’t even know what they’re fighting about. It’s mostly jungle here and rice fields, hot and humid all the time, full of snakes and bugs. Why do they need us to figure out who gets which piece of it? I’ll tell you, I’d much rather be home, pumping gas at my uncle’s station and hanging out with my friends. It might take a while to get mail here, but please write me anyway and maybe send me a picture, if you don’t mind me showing it to the guys. Your friend, Gregory
She puts the letter away, looks up and smiles at everyone – the young couple paying their bill, the other pair still deep in conversation over chicken barbecue, the middle-aged threesome just coming in, Aggie peering through the kitchen door to check on her dining room. All’s well, Vera nods. I can do this. Gregory loves me.
And then she is lost, the restaurant a distant drone, while she remembers the forbidden whiskey-sharp taste of Gregory’s tongue, the surprising baby softness of his lips, the intoxicating aroma of his aftershave. Not pungent, like Papa’s Old Spice, but mellow; it clings to her skin long into the sleepless night after Nina’s party.
‘I AM ZDRAVKO. I come for the job.’ Vera lands with a jolt to stare at the man in front of the counter. She takes in his Brylcreemed black hair and seawater eyes, the immaculately pressed shirtsleeves rolled up over hairless muscular arms. He points to the hand-lettered window sign. ‘The job,’ he repeats, ‘To wash dishes. I am Makedón, from Yugoslavia. I have other job in furniture factory. My father is old, I must send money.’
‘Don’t tell me, I’m not the boss,’ Vera stops him.
‘I know. But you pretty girl,’ he grins, flashing a gold tooth, rolling his r’s just like Papa does, confirming unmistakable Eastern European roots.
‘So are you Zdravko, or Makedón?’
‘Makedón is my people. Zdravko is my name.’
‘Oh, well, you have to talk to Aggie.’ She turns away to hide her infuriating blush and shows him into the kitchen.
There are more people now, the Friday evening rush is on. No time for reverie. Vera moves into high gear, serving, clearing, cleaning tables, taking cash, accepting enthusiastic raves for the food, pocketing tips for college.
Zdravko starts work the next day, Saturday. In the hot tiny kitchen, with its eight-burner stove and required array of sinks, they all bump into each other, Aggie or Maurice dishing up orders, Vera in and out with plates and bowls, Zdravko scrubbing the five-gallon stainless steel pots and cast-iron roasters, hosing down stacks of dishes with scalding water and commercial-grade disinfectant soap. There is no time for talk. When things slow down, Vera sees him slip out the back door for a smoke. She notices how he cups the lit end of the cigarette under the palm of his hand, like men in old war movies do. She thinks it looks sophisticated, cool, but old-fashioned, too.
IN MAY, THE WEATHER turns unseasonably warm, forcing up armies of dandelions to confound lawn purists; Mama’s rosebushes bud weeks ahead of schedule. Vera changes into her uniform in the school bathroom. The city bus seems more crowded than ever; by the time she reaches work, the thin nylon wrinkle-free fabric is plastered to her skin with perspiration that spreads between her shoulder blades, under her arms and along the backs of her thighs.
In the second week of the heat wave, Zdravko pulls up in his used Cutlass just as she is getting off the bus. ‘You take bus every day?’
‘Yes,’ she answers, irritated at the obvious. ‘From school.’ Everyone at the restaurant knows Papa takes her home at night, waiting for her at the curb by nine o’clock sharp.
‘Tomorrow, I pick you up. I have air-condition,’ Zdravko offers, winking.
Vera agrees. The prospect of another steamy bus ride is too unpleasant to contemplate. ‘Three o’clock, by the football field.’
‘I play foot-ball. You say: soccer. Makedón against Serbian, Croat.’
‘Who wins?’
‘Everybody,’ Zdravko shrugs. ‘Except sometimes we fight.’
‘Why?’
‘Makedón, Serbian – is Orthodox…’
‘Like me,’ Vera interrupts. ‘Only I’m Russian.’
‘Yes? Okay. Croat is Catholic, other people – Kosovar – is Muslim. Now President Tito say, we all Yugoslav. But we still different.’
‘So what? Why do you have to fight about it?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. Boys like to fight.’ He laughs. ‘After fight, we go drink beer together. Hah!’
Vera squirts Windex on the glass doors of the dessert case. It’s too confusing. In Vietnam, the people are the same but want to be different. In Yugoslavia, people are different but forced to be the same. Why can’t people just be? She takes a last swipe with the cloth, checks her work for the smudge Aggie is sure to find anyway.
And why is there no letter from Gregory? He did say it might take time, but Vera is beginning to think he never received her answer. Or worse. She’s aware of the escalating body count, listens nightly with nagging worry to reports of servicemen kept captive in enemy camps deep in the southeast Asian jungle. She’s seen the pictures of bombed out roads and burned villages, the huts reduced to piles of ash and scarred timber. She pushes the thought away. If something happened to Gregory, someone at school would have known. There would have been news, or at least a rumor. Wouldn’t there?
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
WHEN ZDRAVKO’S OLDSMOBILE sails into view, Vera is glad none of her friends is there to see. She hesitates, her hand on the chrome door handle. Hadn’t Mama warned her about getting into cars with men? But this is no date, just a ride to work with a coworker. She glances up at the overcast sky; it’s hard to breathe, the air is heavy with impending rain. She opens the door and gets in just as lightning splits the black mass of clouds in two and raindrops big as half-dollars bounce against the windshield.
‘We wait,’ Zdravko says. Sheets of rain stream off the car’s hood. Almost immediately, the water is a torrent. It sweeps accumulated trash out of the gutters, stains the trunks of trees and soaks the receptive ground. Within minutes, it’s over. Brilliant mid-afternoon sunlight squeezes through a horizontal slit in the receding clouds, like a celestial seam opened by an unseen tailor, showing a hint of vast blueness beyond. Zdravko starts the engine, turns onto Broadway in the direction of the Maple Leaf.
He shuts off the blower. ‘Is not so hot now,’ he says. ‘You can open window.’
Vera tugs at the skirt of her uniform, trying to cover her knees with the flimsy cloth. She sits at the far end of the front seat, her right side pressed against the passenger door. ‘How old are you, Zdravko?’
‘I am twenty-two in March. I live with my brother and two friends in small apartment, three rooms. But we all have big car. Girls like big car.’ He glances at Vera, flashes his gold-toothed smile.
‘No sisters?’ Vera pulls her braid over her shoulder, twists the loose ends around her fingers.
‘Sure, sisters, yes. Sisters stay with Mama and Papa, then find husband, make baby. Your hair is nice. I like long hair.’ The back of his hand brushes lightly against her temple. The touch sends a shivery jolt down Vera’s spine. She freezes. She doesn’t dare look at him.
‘Listen,’ Zdravko announces. ‘Is early for work. We take a ride, okay?’
Before she can respond, he takes the Parkway ramp and heads south, gathering speed and weaving from lane to lane with reckless glee. Vera grips the seat edge with her left hand, holds on to the door with the right, rigid and pale.
‘Zdravko! Too fast!’ she shouts, watching the speedometer needle edge toward ninety. ‘Slow down!’
‘No,’ he laughs. ‘Is good. Is like riding horse!’
Vera had read about soldiers going into battle, or the condemned facing execution finding serenity in the presence of grave danger. Is this how Gregory feels, why he can’t tell her about it? Mama, I may die today, she thinks, and finds unexpected comfort in the words. Whatever happens now, it’s out of her hands.
She slides down the seat, leans her head against the window frame and turns her face into the wind. The rush of air whips at her, forces her eyelids to close, stings her cheeks and neck. Its insistent fingers loosen strands of hair from the restraining braid. Unable to catch her breath through her mouth, she inhales deeply through her nose and holds the air in her lungs as long as she can.
Light-headed, Vera feels everything peel away – schoolwork, job, family, expectations, memories, restrictions. There’s only this crazy moment, her mind blank, her body propelled into a terrifying, exhilarating now. When Zdravko slows down to exit the highway, she turns to him with a cryptic smile.
‘You like it?’ he asks, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.
Vera rakes her fingers through her disheveled hair. ‘Yes,’ she admits. ‘I like it.’ By the time she’s finished braiding, her hands are no longer shaking. She gives him a sideways glance. ‘Don’t pick me up again, Zdravko.’
MUCH AS SHE LIKES school, Vera is glad when the year ends. After the unexpected joyride, Zdravko starts turning up, the amber Cutlass shadowing her as she heads for the bus. She shakes her head no the first time she sees him, then tries to ignore his increasingly predictable presence, not looking in his direction, wishing him away.
‘Hey, that guy’s kinda cute,’ Nina says, one Thursday in mid-June. ‘You know him?’
‘No.’ Vera looks down at her shoes, avoids her best friend’s eyes.
‘Yes, you do,’ Nina insists. ‘Come on, tell. Who is he?’
‘Just…’ Vera searches for a suitable story, but her imagination fails to produce one. ‘Oh, all right. He’s from the Maple Leaf. He gave me a ride once, now he won’t leave me alone.’
‘Did you – you know…’
‘No!’
‘So, what’s he like, really creepy or something? Can’t you have a little fun until Gregory gets back? It’s not like you’re engaged or anything.’
‘No, he’s okay, I guess. He has two jobs, he’s never late for work, and he seems like a happy kind of guy. But he’s older and too ‘international’ for me.’ Vera gives Nina a crooked little smirk. ‘You know, Roman hands…’
‘…and Russian fingers,’ Nina finishes the appraisal. ‘I get it. So if he’s bothering you, tell your father, or call the cops.’
‘Are you kidding? My father would make me quit in a minute, and I’ll never find a summer job now. And what would I say to the police – Oh, officer, that man is looking at me!’ Vera simpers.
Nina’s breath explodes in an exasperated bark of a laugh. She lays a freckled hand on Vera’s arm. ‘No, silly. If somebody follows you around, that’s a crime, you know? You don’t have to take it.’
Vera thinks about Nina’s words all the way to work. Is it worth creating an incident over behavior she finds just a shade more than annoying? Nothing happened. He had not threatened or assaulted her. He had touched her hair, once. It’s easier – and more believable – to hint to Nina at his taking liberties, easier than trying to explain an experience she herself is struggling to understand. She had glimpsed something wild and raw, something alien to everything she thought she knew about herself. Where had it come from? What did it mean? What kind of girl is she, really? No matter. Instinct tells her that giving in to it will bring nothing but trouble.
IN THE CRAMPED Maple Leaf kitchen, she does her job and he does his. Their paths cross when she brings dirty dishes in from the dining room and piles them near the sink for washing, or when she needs fresh cutlery and drinking glasses for the next table of diners. She has learned how to move to keep from touching him, how to press herself against the prep table, her back to the sinks along the wall, and slide away just when he turns to stack clean plates on the shelf above. Zdravko seems aware of her discomfort. He murmurs ‘Sorry, sorry,’ if they brush shoulders or hips in spite of her precautions. No, there will be no police, Papa will know nothing. She can handle this. She needs this job.
A few days after her confession to Nina, Vera is in the kitchen, stashing her handbag and school books in the cabinet near the refrigerator. Aggie is in the basement, putting away a shipment of institutional-sized canned tomatoes. ‘Zdravko,’ Vera says when he walks in the back door. ‘Stop following me. It makes me mad.’ To her surprise, the blush she expected and decided to ignore does not materialize, as if all her body’s energies are focused on finding the courage to speak the confrontational words.
‘I want to help you,’ he says. He buttons a starched cotton work jacket over his undershirt and hangs his own shirt on a hook behind the door. ‘Is too hot for bus.’
Papa wears that kind of sleeveless undershirt, Vera can’t help thinking, only Papa doesn’t have such smoothly sculpted arms or toned shoulders. She forces her mind back to the task at hand. ‘Well, stop it. It bothers me.’ If my father finds out there will be trouble for you, she wants to add, but doesn’t. She knows how it is in Zdravko’s world, how daughters are a precious commodity protected by fathers and brothers to hand over intact to suitable husbands. But this isn’t the old country. She thinks of small, fiery Betty Friedan on the eleven o’clock news the other night, saying a woman needs to listen to her inner voice to find out who she is, what she can do. I’m no feminist, Vera tells herself; I just need to know I can do this right now, by myself.
Zdravko removes his street shoes, squats to tie the laces of his kitchen sneakers. He looks up at her. ‘I love you,’ he says, the green in his eyes opaque, intense. He looks to Vera for all the world like a handsome modern-day storybook prince in peasant clothing, kneeling at her feet in earnest supplication.
‘No.’ She shakes her head, backing toward the dining room. ‘No. No.’
‘We wait,’ Zdravko says. Sheets of rain stream off the car’s hood. Almost immediately, the water is a torrent. It sweeps accumulated trash out of the gutters, stains the trunks of trees and soaks the receptive ground. Within minutes, it’s over. Brilliant mid-afternoon sunlight squeezes through a horizontal slit in the receding clouds, like a celestial seam opened by an unseen tailor, showing a hint of vast blueness beyond. Zdravko starts the engine, turns onto Broadway in the direction of the Maple Leaf.
He shuts off the blower. ‘Is not so hot now,’ he says. ‘You can open window.’
Vera tugs at the skirt of her uniform, trying to cover her knees with the flimsy cloth. She sits at the far end of the front seat, her right side pressed against the passenger door. ‘How old are you, Zdravko?’
‘I am twenty-two in March. I live with my brother and two friends in small apartment, three rooms. But we all have big car. Girls like big car.’ He glances at Vera, flashes his gold-toothed smile.
‘No sisters?’ Vera pulls her braid over her shoulder, twists the loose ends around her fingers.
‘Sure, sisters, yes. Sisters stay with Mama and Papa, then find husband, make baby. Your hair is nice. I like long hair.’ The back of his hand brushes lightly against her temple. The touch sends a shivery jolt down Vera’s spine. She freezes. She doesn’t dare look at him.
‘Listen,’ Zdravko announces. ‘Is early for work. We take a ride, okay?’
Before she can respond, he takes the Parkway ramp and heads south, gathering speed and weaving from lane to lane with reckless glee. Vera grips the seat edge with her left hand, holds on to the door with the right, rigid and pale.
‘Zdravko! Too fast!’ she shouts, watching the speedometer needle edge toward ninety. ‘Slow down!’
‘No,’ he laughs. ‘Is good. Is like riding horse!’
Vera had read about soldiers going into battle, or the condemned facing execution finding serenity in the presence of grave danger. Is this how Gregory feels, why he can’t tell her about it? Mama, I may die today, she thinks, and finds unexpected comfort in the words. Whatever happens now, it’s out of her hands.
She slides down the seat, leans her head against the window frame and turns her face into the wind. The rush of air whips at her, forces her eyelids to close, stings her cheeks and neck. Its insistent fingers loosen strands of hair from the restraining braid. Unable to catch her breath through her mouth, she inhales deeply through her nose and holds the air in her lungs as long as she can.
Light-headed, Vera feels everything peel away – schoolwork, job, family, expectations, memories, restrictions. There’s only this crazy moment, her mind blank, her body propelled into a terrifying, exhilarating now. When Zdravko slows down to exit the highway, she turns to him with a cryptic smile.
‘You like it?’ he asks, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.
Vera rakes her fingers through her disheveled hair. ‘Yes,’ she admits. ‘I like it.’ By the time she’s finished braiding, her hands are no longer shaking. She gives him a sideways glance. ‘Don’t pick me up again, Zdravko.’
MUCH AS SHE LIKES school, Vera is glad when the year ends. After the unexpected joyride, Zdravko starts turning up, the amber Cutlass shadowing her as she heads for the bus. She shakes her head no the first time she sees him, then tries to ignore his increasingly predictable presence, not looking in his direction, wishing him away.
‘Hey, that guy’s kinda cute,’ Nina says, one Thursday in mid-June. ‘You know him?’
‘No.’ Vera looks down at her shoes, avoids her best friend’s eyes.
‘Yes, you do,’ Nina insists. ‘Come on, tell. Who is he?’
‘Just…’ Vera searches for a suitable story, but her imagination fails to produce one. ‘Oh, all right. He’s from the Maple Leaf. He gave me a ride once, now he won’t leave me alone.’
‘Did you – you know…’
‘No!’
‘So, what’s he like, really creepy or something? Can’t you have a little fun until Gregory gets back? It’s not like you’re engaged or anything.’
‘No, he’s okay, I guess. He has two jobs, he’s never late for work, and he seems like a happy kind of guy. But he’s older and too ‘international’ for me.’ Vera gives Nina a crooked little smirk. ‘You know, Roman hands…’
‘…and Russian fingers,’ Nina finishes the appraisal. ‘I get it. So if he’s bothering you, tell your father, or call the cops.’
‘Are you kidding? My father would make me quit in a minute, and I’ll never find a summer job now. And what would I say to the police – Oh, officer, that man is looking at me!’ Vera simpers.
Nina’s breath explodes in an exasperated bark of a laugh. She lays a freckled hand on Vera’s arm. ‘No, silly. If somebody follows you around, that’s a crime, you know? You don’t have to take it.’
Vera thinks about Nina’s words all the way to work. Is it worth creating an incident over behavior she finds just a shade more than annoying? Nothing happened. He had not threatened or assaulted her. He had touched her hair, once. It’s easier – and more believable – to hint to Nina at his taking liberties, easier than trying to explain an experience she herself is struggling to understand. She had glimpsed something wild and raw, something alien to everything she thought she knew about herself. Where had it come from? What did it mean? What kind of girl is she, really? No matter. Instinct tells her that giving in to it will bring nothing but trouble.
IN THE CRAMPED Maple Leaf kitchen, she does her job and he does his. Their paths cross when she brings dirty dishes in from the dining room and piles them near the sink for washing, or when she needs fresh cutlery and drinking glasses for the next table of diners. She has learned how to move to keep from touching him, how to press herself against the prep table, her back to the sinks along the wall, and slide away just when he turns to stack clean plates on the shelf above. Zdravko seems aware of her discomfort. He murmurs ‘Sorry, sorry,’ if they brush shoulders or hips in spite of her precautions. No, there will be no police, Papa will know nothing. She can handle this. She needs this job.
A few days after her confession to Nina, Vera is in the kitchen, stashing her handbag and school books in the cabinet near the refrigerator. Aggie is in the basement, putting away a shipment of institutional-sized canned tomatoes. ‘Zdravko,’ Vera says when he walks in the back door. ‘Stop following me. It makes me mad.’ To her surprise, the blush she expected and decided to ignore does not materialize, as if all her body’s energies are focused on finding the courage to speak the confrontational words.
‘I want to help you,’ he says. He buttons a starched cotton work jacket over his undershirt and hangs his own shirt on a hook behind the door. ‘Is too hot for bus.’
Papa wears that kind of sleeveless undershirt, Vera can’t help thinking, only Papa doesn’t have such smoothly sculpted arms or toned shoulders. She forces her mind back to the task at hand. ‘Well, stop it. It bothers me.’ If my father finds out there will be trouble for you, she wants to add, but doesn’t. She knows how it is in Zdravko’s world, how daughters are a precious commodity protected by fathers and brothers to hand over intact to suitable husbands. But this isn’t the old country. She thinks of small, fiery Betty Friedan on the eleven o’clock news the other night, saying a woman needs to listen to her inner voice to find out who she is, what she can do. I’m no feminist, Vera tells herself; I just need to know I can do this right now, by myself.
Zdravko removes his street shoes, squats to tie the laces of his kitchen sneakers. He looks up at her. ‘I love you,’ he says, the green in his eyes opaque, intense. He looks to Vera for all the world like a handsome modern-day storybook prince in peasant clothing, kneeling at her feet in earnest supplication.
‘No.’ She shakes her head, backing toward the dining room. ‘No. No.’
⸎ ⸎ ⸎
‘LETTER FROM YOUR pen pal?’ Renée comes in without Vera noticing, catches her with the airmail envelope in her hand. The restaurant is empty of diners, the August air outside hot and hazy, the street deserted. The air conditioner strains, its drone interrupted by muffled kitchen sounds – the tapping of a metal spoon against a sauce pot, the suck-and-thwack of refrigerator doors, the hiss of water spray and clang of lids on stainless steel sinks.
‘My – no – my…boyfriend,’ Vera’s tongue trips over the strange word in her mouth. But what else do you call a man who has held you in his arms, who carries your photograph in his wallet and closes his letter with the words, I can’t wait to see you again. Don’t forget me.
‘What’s his name? Is he a student?’ Renée eyes the contents of the dessert case; her outrageous glasses dangle from a twisted black cord around her neck.
‘He’s in Vietnam. Gregory. The apple tart is fresh, Aggie made it this morning.’
‘I swear I gain two pounds every time I walk in here,’ Renée groans. ‘Just bring me a cup of coffee, dear.’ She runs a manicured hand over the picture-perfect French twist on the back of her head, pats her bouffant Miss Clairol Radiant Burgundy bangs; the touch of her hairdresser’s fingers leaves the teased and lacquered crown undisturbed. ‘What’s he say?’
Vera unfolds the letter, skips modestly over the opening – Thanks for the picture. I wish you didn’t look so serious. I know you have a pretty smile – then reads aloud: I’m writing to you from the field hospital. My buddy Nick and me drew some sniper fire the other day. We were on routine night patrol. Things had been quiet, so maybe we got a little careless. There we were, standing around and talking about home (he’s from Cincinnati,) when some gook started shooting at us. I guess I ducked just in time. The bullet ricocheted off a tree and hit me in the shoulder. Nick wasn’t so lucky, he took one in the gut. I hope he makes it, he’s got a wife and kid living with his folks in Ohio. Nights are so dark here, like, I don’t know, ink or something. We never did see the shooter. Could have been a kid from the village, all alone like that, doing some target practice. My shoulder’s kinda sore, but the Doc says I should be fit for duty in a couple of days, so I guess my ‘vacation’ is almost over.
Vera tucks the letter away and goes back to filling salt and peppers, wiping the diminutive ridged domes with a damp cloth. ‘That’s about it. He doesn’t know when he’s coming home.’
‘Hm. My mother fell for an infantryman.’ Renée drops another sugar cube into her cup. ‘He went off to war and never came back. World War I. Left her with a few memories and a baby to raise.’ She dribbles in more cream, catches the last drop poised on the pitcher’s lip with her finger and licks it off.
‘So you never knew your father?’ Vera asks, trying to imagine her own life without her Papa’s stalwart presence.
‘You could say he never knew me.’ Renée presses her palms against her knees and rises stiffly from the chair. ‘And the other one, the dishwasher?’
Vera flushes bright red. Renée must have seen her getting out of Zdravko’s car that afternoon. ‘I missed the bus. He saw me walking and gave me a lift. He–’ She hesitates. ‘He says he wants to marry me.’ Vera blurts out and turns away to greet the first of the evening customers.
‘I’ll bet,’ she hears Renée mutter behind her back. ‘I’ll just bet.’
Vera seats the couple, gives them menus and water and the obligatory smile. Renée is waiting for her at the cash register. ‘Listen, honey. I have three words for you,’ she whispers. She taps Vera’s hand with her index finger. ‘Permanent resident status. So watch yourself.’ She pays for her coffee, leaves Vera her usual princely fifty-cent tip.
‘It’s not…’ Vera starts to protest, but Renée is already half-way through the door.
‘Gotta go. I have four heads to do before closing.’
HOW HAD IT happened, earlier that day?
‘Vera, hang the laundry out for me before you go,’ Baba said. ‘I have to roll these pies out or the dough will fall.’ She peeled a threadbare towel off the bread bowl. A perfect satiny gloss of dough ballooned to the earthenware bowl’s faded blue edges. Pots of savory fillings – ground meat with onions, chopped cabbage with hardboiled eggs – stood ready on the stove.
‘Ai, Baba, I’ll be late for work,’ Vera grumbled, but she knew dough couldn’t wait. Miss the moment, and the crusts would be leaden yeasty slabs they would chew politely, washed down with soup or tea, the last few pieces crumbled to feed the birds. It would take her grandmother a good half hour or more to roll and fit the pastry into rectangular baking pans, spread the fillings and cover with a top crust. Finally, the fluted, pricked, and egg-washed pies would be ready for their last rising and baking, while the crumpled laundry in its overflowing basket formed its own crust of drying cloth. Vera would have to iron it later if she did not hang it out right now. She plucked at the damp sheets and weighty towels, stabbed the clothespins onto their edges with record speed and spun the clothesline out into the little yard over Baba’s tomatoes and eggplants. She ran out of the house to the street corner just as her bus sped by without stopping.
It was six blocks to Broadway, then another three miles or so to the Maple Leaf. Vera walked, more anxious than angry, hoping to catch a downtown bus once she turned onto the main street. When Zdravko pulled up beside her, it made no sense to hesitate. ‘Thank you,’ she exhaled and slid onto the seat. ‘I missed the bus.’
He drove in silence for several blocks, then turned into a side street and parked in front of a small two-story house, its patch of dry grass sheltered within green chain-link fencing.
‘What are you doing?’ Vera demanded, her guard up.
‘I want to marry you,’ Zdravko said, looking straight ahead. The occasional car swished by on the quiet street. Somewhere nearby, a baby wailed.
‘To get your green card?’ Vera knew well enough how precarious immigrant existence was without that essential scrap of paper.
‘No! I have green card.’ He eased his wallet from his pants pocket, showed her the coveted document. He smiled. ‘You a good girl. I want to marry you.’
‘Zdravko, I’m sixteen. I have to go to college. And I have a boyfriend.’
‘Boyfriend?’ By now, everyone at the restaurant knew about Gregory. ‘He a soldier, far away. Maybe he die…’
Vera gasped. ‘How can you say that?’
‘I’m sorry. Is possible, yes? I am here. I wait two year, then we go to Yugoslavia, meet mother and father.’
‘And college?’ Vera inclined her head to one side. ‘What about college?’
‘Why college?’ He opened his hands, palms up, in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘To find husband?’ He threw his chest out, pointed at himself. ‘Zdravko is good husband, not drink too much, work hard, buy nice house.’ He waved at the row of pastel wood-frames finished with stucco or fake-brick first floor façades, with nearly identical porches, mailboxes, lacy white front-room curtains. Vera looked at them, picturing the modest rooms and flowered slip-covered sofas, the second-hand maple veneer console television sets, yellow or green speckled Formica kitchen dinettes and small upstairs bedrooms shared by pairs of gender-matched siblings. It may have been a step up from the run-down rental her family lived in, but was this really what Mama and Papa meant by a better life in America? Or was there something else, something you did for yourself that opened the way to unimagined possibilities?
‘Zdravko.’ She shifted around on the car seat to face him. ‘I need to go to college, to study. I want to know history, literature, science, art. I want to be – I don’t know – a writer, an editor, an educated person. I’m not thinking about marriage, not now, not yet.’ She looked at her hands folded in her lap. ‘And I love Gregory. You are a nice man, a decent man, but I don’t love you.’
‘Ah,’ he said, brightening as if she had finally said something that made sense. ‘Is okay. I love. We make family, then you love.’
It was hopeless. ‘Take me to work,’ Vera said. ‘And leave me alone.’
THE NIGHT AFTER Renée’s warning, Vera sits on the edge of her bed. She starts to open one of Gregory’s letters, to read it again before secreting them under her pillow for the night. She stops, fingers the tissue-thin paper, its edges curled like onion skin. She knows the words. The word love is not among them.
On her way to the bathroom, her glance falls on the telephone, its cord coiled under the hall table. All is quiet. Her grandmother snores lightly in the little room off the kitchen; Papa’s light is out, his door closed. She holds the phone close to her chest, hoping her bathrobe will muffle the clicking of the rotary dial.
‘Nina. You awake?’
‘I am now. Why you whispering?’
‘No phone calls after ten, Papa says. I’m in the hall closet, the cord won’t reach to my room.’
‘What’s up? Must be important. Not like you to take a chance on getting caught breaking the rules.’
‘Well, kind of.’ Vera tugs on the door, trying to close it all the way over the phone cord.
‘So?’ Nina yawns.
Vera sighs. ‘I’ve been thinking about…’ She hears her grandmother make her way to the bathroom. She drops her voice. ‘…love.’
‘About what? I can’t hear you.’
‘Wait.’ Vera holds her breath until the old woman shuffles back to her bed. She clears her throat and brings the phone piece right up to her mouth. ‘You know. Love.’
‘Oh, yeah? How come? Is this about Gregory?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Your parents, for example. Did they love each other before they got married?’
‘How would I know? You have to stop reading those sappy old novels, Vera.’ When Vera doesn’t answer, she continues, ‘Look. You know how they fight. But then things go on like before. So I wouldn’t know. Bet it’s the same in your house – oh, damn, Vera. I’m sorry. I’m half asleep. I forgot about your mother for a minute.’
‘It’s okay,’ Vera whispers.
‘No, it’s not. I’m such a jerk. Anyway, why now, in the middle of the night?’
What better time? Vera wants to say. When things pop into your head in the dark and won’t leave you alone. ‘I’m just wondering. That dizzy feeling I got when Gregory kissed me, is that love? Or is it when two people get used to each other and solve problems and take care of their kids and stuff? It’s all love, right? Is it the same or different?’
‘Hey, did something happen? Is it that guy at the restaurant?’
‘No, no. Nothing happened.’ Vera pushes in deeper among the coats. She can’t talk about Zdravko’s proposal, not even with her best friend; she’s too ashamed. ‘I’m just mixed up, is all. Thinking.’
‘Well, stop thinking and go to sleep. I’m on the early shift at the bakery. If I’m late again I’ll get fired for sure.’
‘I’m sorry I woke you up, Nina.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Let’s talk tomorrow, okay? Now go to sleep.’
BACK IN HER ROOM, she slides the folded sheet of Gregory’s letter into its envelope.
What if love is, after all, little more than habit, as Zdravko suggested? Maybe the spark of infatuation is not enough to light the way to genuine partnership. Aggie, Maurice – are they too old, too busy with the restaurant and worrying about money to think about how they feel toward each other? Or maybe love is like Aggie’s chocolate Charlotte, seductive in small slices but too rich to live on, the intense pleasure a fading memory on the tongue. Gregory’s kiss felt like that, but what about Zdravko’s touch, the wild ride? Is there another name for the turmoil they stirred up in her mind, her body?
‘I don’t know,’ she says out loud. She drops the letters into the memory box and closes the lid.
None of this agonizing has much to do with the future she is starting to see for herself. If anyone embodied love, it was Mama, giving and kind. I’m not like that. Were you happy, Mama? I know Papa misses you. I believe you loved each other. Was it enough? Did you want more? Vera’s grandmother is practical, hardworking, meek. Yet she endured war, lost everything, fled her home, suffered conditions that only the strong – or the very lucky – survived. Am I strong?
Vera knows she cannot share Zdravko’s vision of the obedient wife and selfless mother who will learn to love him, grateful for his protection. She must find a way to become a determined woman with something to do, some small accomplishment of her own. A woman like Aggie, with enough voice to say, yes, I was here, I did this.
She picks up the issue of LIFE magazine she took from the living room to examine at her leisure. She studies the pictures, her eye drawn to the horror of the elegant First Lady’s bloodied pink suit. Vera admires this woman who refuses to be coddled or sedated until after her vigil for the dead President is done, who is soft-spoken but also smart and brave. Is this another way to be a wife and mother, another way to love?
ON MONDAY, WHEN the restaurant is closed, Vera gathers up her library books to justify a trip downtown. She drops them in the book return, then walks to Reneé’s Frost ‘n Curl, plants herself in a swivel chair and says, ‘Do it. Short, like Jackie Kennedy.’
‘My – no – my…boyfriend,’ Vera’s tongue trips over the strange word in her mouth. But what else do you call a man who has held you in his arms, who carries your photograph in his wallet and closes his letter with the words, I can’t wait to see you again. Don’t forget me.
‘What’s his name? Is he a student?’ Renée eyes the contents of the dessert case; her outrageous glasses dangle from a twisted black cord around her neck.
‘He’s in Vietnam. Gregory. The apple tart is fresh, Aggie made it this morning.’
‘I swear I gain two pounds every time I walk in here,’ Renée groans. ‘Just bring me a cup of coffee, dear.’ She runs a manicured hand over the picture-perfect French twist on the back of her head, pats her bouffant Miss Clairol Radiant Burgundy bangs; the touch of her hairdresser’s fingers leaves the teased and lacquered crown undisturbed. ‘What’s he say?’
Vera unfolds the letter, skips modestly over the opening – Thanks for the picture. I wish you didn’t look so serious. I know you have a pretty smile – then reads aloud: I’m writing to you from the field hospital. My buddy Nick and me drew some sniper fire the other day. We were on routine night patrol. Things had been quiet, so maybe we got a little careless. There we were, standing around and talking about home (he’s from Cincinnati,) when some gook started shooting at us. I guess I ducked just in time. The bullet ricocheted off a tree and hit me in the shoulder. Nick wasn’t so lucky, he took one in the gut. I hope he makes it, he’s got a wife and kid living with his folks in Ohio. Nights are so dark here, like, I don’t know, ink or something. We never did see the shooter. Could have been a kid from the village, all alone like that, doing some target practice. My shoulder’s kinda sore, but the Doc says I should be fit for duty in a couple of days, so I guess my ‘vacation’ is almost over.
Vera tucks the letter away and goes back to filling salt and peppers, wiping the diminutive ridged domes with a damp cloth. ‘That’s about it. He doesn’t know when he’s coming home.’
‘Hm. My mother fell for an infantryman.’ Renée drops another sugar cube into her cup. ‘He went off to war and never came back. World War I. Left her with a few memories and a baby to raise.’ She dribbles in more cream, catches the last drop poised on the pitcher’s lip with her finger and licks it off.
‘So you never knew your father?’ Vera asks, trying to imagine her own life without her Papa’s stalwart presence.
‘You could say he never knew me.’ Renée presses her palms against her knees and rises stiffly from the chair. ‘And the other one, the dishwasher?’
Vera flushes bright red. Renée must have seen her getting out of Zdravko’s car that afternoon. ‘I missed the bus. He saw me walking and gave me a lift. He–’ She hesitates. ‘He says he wants to marry me.’ Vera blurts out and turns away to greet the first of the evening customers.
‘I’ll bet,’ she hears Renée mutter behind her back. ‘I’ll just bet.’
Vera seats the couple, gives them menus and water and the obligatory smile. Renée is waiting for her at the cash register. ‘Listen, honey. I have three words for you,’ she whispers. She taps Vera’s hand with her index finger. ‘Permanent resident status. So watch yourself.’ She pays for her coffee, leaves Vera her usual princely fifty-cent tip.
‘It’s not…’ Vera starts to protest, but Renée is already half-way through the door.
‘Gotta go. I have four heads to do before closing.’
HOW HAD IT happened, earlier that day?
‘Vera, hang the laundry out for me before you go,’ Baba said. ‘I have to roll these pies out or the dough will fall.’ She peeled a threadbare towel off the bread bowl. A perfect satiny gloss of dough ballooned to the earthenware bowl’s faded blue edges. Pots of savory fillings – ground meat with onions, chopped cabbage with hardboiled eggs – stood ready on the stove.
‘Ai, Baba, I’ll be late for work,’ Vera grumbled, but she knew dough couldn’t wait. Miss the moment, and the crusts would be leaden yeasty slabs they would chew politely, washed down with soup or tea, the last few pieces crumbled to feed the birds. It would take her grandmother a good half hour or more to roll and fit the pastry into rectangular baking pans, spread the fillings and cover with a top crust. Finally, the fluted, pricked, and egg-washed pies would be ready for their last rising and baking, while the crumpled laundry in its overflowing basket formed its own crust of drying cloth. Vera would have to iron it later if she did not hang it out right now. She plucked at the damp sheets and weighty towels, stabbed the clothespins onto their edges with record speed and spun the clothesline out into the little yard over Baba’s tomatoes and eggplants. She ran out of the house to the street corner just as her bus sped by without stopping.
It was six blocks to Broadway, then another three miles or so to the Maple Leaf. Vera walked, more anxious than angry, hoping to catch a downtown bus once she turned onto the main street. When Zdravko pulled up beside her, it made no sense to hesitate. ‘Thank you,’ she exhaled and slid onto the seat. ‘I missed the bus.’
He drove in silence for several blocks, then turned into a side street and parked in front of a small two-story house, its patch of dry grass sheltered within green chain-link fencing.
‘What are you doing?’ Vera demanded, her guard up.
‘I want to marry you,’ Zdravko said, looking straight ahead. The occasional car swished by on the quiet street. Somewhere nearby, a baby wailed.
‘To get your green card?’ Vera knew well enough how precarious immigrant existence was without that essential scrap of paper.
‘No! I have green card.’ He eased his wallet from his pants pocket, showed her the coveted document. He smiled. ‘You a good girl. I want to marry you.’
‘Zdravko, I’m sixteen. I have to go to college. And I have a boyfriend.’
‘Boyfriend?’ By now, everyone at the restaurant knew about Gregory. ‘He a soldier, far away. Maybe he die…’
Vera gasped. ‘How can you say that?’
‘I’m sorry. Is possible, yes? I am here. I wait two year, then we go to Yugoslavia, meet mother and father.’
‘And college?’ Vera inclined her head to one side. ‘What about college?’
‘Why college?’ He opened his hands, palms up, in a gesture of bewilderment. ‘To find husband?’ He threw his chest out, pointed at himself. ‘Zdravko is good husband, not drink too much, work hard, buy nice house.’ He waved at the row of pastel wood-frames finished with stucco or fake-brick first floor façades, with nearly identical porches, mailboxes, lacy white front-room curtains. Vera looked at them, picturing the modest rooms and flowered slip-covered sofas, the second-hand maple veneer console television sets, yellow or green speckled Formica kitchen dinettes and small upstairs bedrooms shared by pairs of gender-matched siblings. It may have been a step up from the run-down rental her family lived in, but was this really what Mama and Papa meant by a better life in America? Or was there something else, something you did for yourself that opened the way to unimagined possibilities?
‘Zdravko.’ She shifted around on the car seat to face him. ‘I need to go to college, to study. I want to know history, literature, science, art. I want to be – I don’t know – a writer, an editor, an educated person. I’m not thinking about marriage, not now, not yet.’ She looked at her hands folded in her lap. ‘And I love Gregory. You are a nice man, a decent man, but I don’t love you.’
‘Ah,’ he said, brightening as if she had finally said something that made sense. ‘Is okay. I love. We make family, then you love.’
It was hopeless. ‘Take me to work,’ Vera said. ‘And leave me alone.’
THE NIGHT AFTER Renée’s warning, Vera sits on the edge of her bed. She starts to open one of Gregory’s letters, to read it again before secreting them under her pillow for the night. She stops, fingers the tissue-thin paper, its edges curled like onion skin. She knows the words. The word love is not among them.
On her way to the bathroom, her glance falls on the telephone, its cord coiled under the hall table. All is quiet. Her grandmother snores lightly in the little room off the kitchen; Papa’s light is out, his door closed. She holds the phone close to her chest, hoping her bathrobe will muffle the clicking of the rotary dial.
‘Nina. You awake?’
‘I am now. Why you whispering?’
‘No phone calls after ten, Papa says. I’m in the hall closet, the cord won’t reach to my room.’
‘What’s up? Must be important. Not like you to take a chance on getting caught breaking the rules.’
‘Well, kind of.’ Vera tugs on the door, trying to close it all the way over the phone cord.
‘So?’ Nina yawns.
Vera sighs. ‘I’ve been thinking about…’ She hears her grandmother make her way to the bathroom. She drops her voice. ‘…love.’
‘About what? I can’t hear you.’
‘Wait.’ Vera holds her breath until the old woman shuffles back to her bed. She clears her throat and brings the phone piece right up to her mouth. ‘You know. Love.’
‘Oh, yeah? How come? Is this about Gregory?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Your parents, for example. Did they love each other before they got married?’
‘How would I know? You have to stop reading those sappy old novels, Vera.’ When Vera doesn’t answer, she continues, ‘Look. You know how they fight. But then things go on like before. So I wouldn’t know. Bet it’s the same in your house – oh, damn, Vera. I’m sorry. I’m half asleep. I forgot about your mother for a minute.’
‘It’s okay,’ Vera whispers.
‘No, it’s not. I’m such a jerk. Anyway, why now, in the middle of the night?’
What better time? Vera wants to say. When things pop into your head in the dark and won’t leave you alone. ‘I’m just wondering. That dizzy feeling I got when Gregory kissed me, is that love? Or is it when two people get used to each other and solve problems and take care of their kids and stuff? It’s all love, right? Is it the same or different?’
‘Hey, did something happen? Is it that guy at the restaurant?’
‘No, no. Nothing happened.’ Vera pushes in deeper among the coats. She can’t talk about Zdravko’s proposal, not even with her best friend; she’s too ashamed. ‘I’m just mixed up, is all. Thinking.’
‘Well, stop thinking and go to sleep. I’m on the early shift at the bakery. If I’m late again I’ll get fired for sure.’
‘I’m sorry I woke you up, Nina.’
‘Don’t be sorry. Let’s talk tomorrow, okay? Now go to sleep.’
BACK IN HER ROOM, she slides the folded sheet of Gregory’s letter into its envelope.
What if love is, after all, little more than habit, as Zdravko suggested? Maybe the spark of infatuation is not enough to light the way to genuine partnership. Aggie, Maurice – are they too old, too busy with the restaurant and worrying about money to think about how they feel toward each other? Or maybe love is like Aggie’s chocolate Charlotte, seductive in small slices but too rich to live on, the intense pleasure a fading memory on the tongue. Gregory’s kiss felt like that, but what about Zdravko’s touch, the wild ride? Is there another name for the turmoil they stirred up in her mind, her body?
‘I don’t know,’ she says out loud. She drops the letters into the memory box and closes the lid.
None of this agonizing has much to do with the future she is starting to see for herself. If anyone embodied love, it was Mama, giving and kind. I’m not like that. Were you happy, Mama? I know Papa misses you. I believe you loved each other. Was it enough? Did you want more? Vera’s grandmother is practical, hardworking, meek. Yet she endured war, lost everything, fled her home, suffered conditions that only the strong – or the very lucky – survived. Am I strong?
Vera knows she cannot share Zdravko’s vision of the obedient wife and selfless mother who will learn to love him, grateful for his protection. She must find a way to become a determined woman with something to do, some small accomplishment of her own. A woman like Aggie, with enough voice to say, yes, I was here, I did this.
She picks up the issue of LIFE magazine she took from the living room to examine at her leisure. She studies the pictures, her eye drawn to the horror of the elegant First Lady’s bloodied pink suit. Vera admires this woman who refuses to be coddled or sedated until after her vigil for the dead President is done, who is soft-spoken but also smart and brave. Is this another way to be a wife and mother, another way to love?
ON MONDAY, WHEN the restaurant is closed, Vera gathers up her library books to justify a trip downtown. She drops them in the book return, then walks to Reneé’s Frost ‘n Curl, plants herself in a swivel chair and says, ‘Do it. Short, like Jackie Kennedy.’
Marina Antropow Cramer is the child of post WWII Russian refugees from the Soviet Union. Her work has appeared in Blackbird, Istanbul Literary Review, Wilderness House, Bloom Literary Magazine, and the inaugural issue of the other side of hope. She is the author of the novels Roads, Anna Eva Mimi Adam, and Marfa’s River (2023).
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