The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [98]
“Hah, jewels!” Rosa had said, laughing, as she glanced around the cramped apartment. “And houses and cloaks and suits! The big shot turned out to be a machinist in a small factory owned by his brother-in-law. He thought he was marrying into money by getting me; the marriage broker had told him I was an heiress to my uncle, Samuel Glanz, the one with the department store on Grand Avenue.”
“And are you?” Missie had asked hopefully.
Rosa had shrugged. “He has no children, but knowing him, he’ll leave what he has to the temple and let the relatives fight over the will. But Meyer still lives in hope. He drags those children over there every Saturday, rain or shine, to remind Uncle Samuel what fine nieces he has.” She had thrown back her head, laughing so heartily Missie could see her throat pulsating. “It was all a fairy story,” she said at last, wiping away tears of laughter, “and now I’m stuck with Meyer’s sweaty hands and my kids have a father who still doesn’t speak English. The people where he works make a joke of him. Each morning they say, ‘Nu, Meyer, then have you yet learned to speak?’ After all these years in America, it’s a shame on him.”
“How can you bear it?” Missie had asked, wide-eyed with horror at the thought of spending a lifetime with a man you didn’t love.
“I’ve got my kids,” Rosa had said with a shrug, “and maybe some day, when they are older, I’ll leave him. I’ll just bide my time until then, day by day.”
Missie had flinched, imagining life taken day by day with Meyer Perelman. At least she didn’t have that to put up with, she was her own person.
“You are excited,” Rosa said, taking another biscuit, “I see it in your eyes. Something’s happened.”
Missie quickly explained about O’Hara and that she was going out to lunch with him on Sunday. “Look,” she said proudly, showing her the bunch of pink roses, “I bought these for my old felt hat. I thought it would smarten it up a little. And new ribbons for Azaylee’s hair.”
Rosa admired the flowers and said, “So? Azaylee goes too? Then this is no affair? No lovers’ rendezvous?”
“Of course not, silly,” Missie protested, blushing. “I mean, well, you remember O’Hara said he wanted to marry me, but that was only because he was sorry for me. He’s a very kind man, Rosa.”
“And you are a very beautiful girl,” Rosa said shrewdly. “Don’t forget that, Missie.”
Missie thought of Rosa’s words early Sunday morning as she tried on the old felt hat with the pretty pink roses pinned on one side, turning her head this way and that in front of the tiny square of mirror, wishing she had something smarter to wear.
“Oh, Missie,” Azaylee breathed, watching her, “you look beautiful.”
Missie smiled at her, but she knew the mirror spoke the truth: She was too pale and her cheeks looked sunken and her neck too thin. She had lost the bloom of youth, and she thought that the only thing beautiful about her was the roses in her hat.
Azaylee was sitting on the very edge of her chair so she wouldn’t crease her blue dress, swinging her white-stockinged legs and admiring her new boots bought from Zabar’s cart yesterday. Missie had braided her hair and tied it with the new yellow ribbons, but stray curls had already escaped, framing her small oval face. Her skin had that golden glow Anouska’s had, and her pansybrown eyes that same dreamy look. She was an angel, a dream child, Missie thought, rushing over and hugging her tightly, and she couldn’t love her more if she were her own. She was only four years old and she never complained about anything, accepting their one room as her home and Rosa as her aunt and the street as her playground. It wasn’t fair, Missie thought, as she kissed her again, it just wasn’t fair.
A horn honked loudly in the street. Azaylee leapt from her chair and rushed to the window. It honked again and she called excitedly, “Matiushka, it’s O’Hara in an automobile!”
Missie stuck her head out of the window, staring down in astonishment at O’Hara, smart in a