Don't Forget to Write: A Novel(17)

The supervisor considered this for a moment, and Ada flashed another one of those smiles. He looked left and right to make sure no one else was watching, other than the workers, who hadn’t done a lick of work since we arrived.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said quietly. “And you have to walk exactly where I tell you. And don’t touch anything.”

Ada mimed crossing her heart. “You’re an absolute gem,” she told him. “We’ll be as good as church mice.”

“Come on, then,” he said, gesturing for us to follow him into the building.

“Isn’t it as poor as church mice?” I whispered to Ada.

“How should I know?” Ada whispered back. “I don’t spend time in churches. Or places with mice, for that matter.”

Scaffolding lined much of the walls, but the supervisor brought us into a darkened room, then flicked the switch on the wall. The construction so far seemed to be confined to the outer rooms, as this one appeared untouched. The bell sat on a large wooden pedestal, a staircase with white-painted wooden balustrades next to it, separated by a crisp American flag, with all fifty stars for the newly added Alaska and Hawaii. The iconic crack spread from just below the name of Pass to the bottom.

“What do you think?” Ada asked.

“It’s bigger than I expected.”

“May you say that on your wedding night,” she said quietly.

“What?”

Ada laughed.

“Can I touch it?” I asked the supervisor.

“Absolutely not.”

Ada touched his arm. “What if you just turned around for a moment? I promise she won’t harm it.”

He looked down at the hand on his arm, then back up to her face, lingering a little too long on her bosom on the way there. “I suppose I need to check that scaffolding over there,” he said gruffly.

Ada nodded to me, and I walked up, laying a hand on the split in the metal. This piece of Americana had been here much longer than my family had been in this country.

“Let’s go before our sweaty friend gets into trouble,” Ada said, taking my arm again. “Sir?” she called. “We’ve taken up enough of your precious time. And I think we’ve hooked the young lady.”

“Impressed yet?” he asked me.

I nodded my head. “Consider me converted.”

He nodded. “I’ll walk you out. And I’d best not hear about this or find out you’re reporters.”

“Of course not, darling. But you’ve given this girl a precious memory, and we both thank you for that.”

He tipped his hard hat to us at the door, then retreated to the cooler air of some unseen office when we walked out.

“How did you do that?” I asked once we were safely back around the front of the building.

She smiled. “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. And don’t ever let anyone tell you we’re the weaker sex.”





CHAPTER TWELVE


There was a letter bearing my mother’s flowing script waiting for me when we returned to the house. I grabbed it and made a beeline for my room, where I flopped onto the bed and tore open the envelope, inhaling the scent of her perfume that rose from the page.

Dearest Marilyn,

I hope you are enjoying Philadelphia more than when you first wrote. I know it’s a change, but you will adapt beautifully. Your father is still angry, of course, and vowing he can never return to Beth Shalom. Personally, I think he just likes being able to sleep in on Saturdays and read the newspaper. But I’m working on him.

I have sent several books that I believe you will enjoy along to the shore house, as well as your radio. It didn’t make sense to send them to the Philadelphia house just for you to pack and move them in a few days’ time.

Try to enjoy yourself. I know this wasn’t how you wanted to spend the summer, but I think you’ll find this is actually a welcome respite once you settle in.

Love always,

Mama

PS: If Ada took your lipstick, far be it from me to replace it.

I made a face at the postscript. I had held out hope of wearing my signature color when I wasn’t around Ada. But at least I would have entertainment when confined to my room at night, unlike now, when I got an hour of television—whatever Ada watched—after our nightly prowls for available men, then was sent off to bed like a child.

I went to refold the letter when I realized there was a second postscript on the back.

PPS: Do not let Ada see you write a return address like that. If she sends you home now, I don’t know what your father will do.

Grimacing, I shoved the letter back into its envelope and grabbed my stationery to send a reply thanking her for the books and radio. Excited, if for nothing else, that in a few days I would have a distraction.





When the day came to leave for the shore, it looked like a mass exodus as families were running up and down stairs with suitcases and other bags all along the street, which was now lined with the first taxis I had seen since arriving, as well as private cars.

“Does everyone leave on the same day?” I asked as I loaded our suitcases into the car. We had sent trunks along ahead with most of our things so that we wouldn’t need help unloading when we arrived.

“The women and children do. The men tend to come down for the weekends.”