“No, that’s not—” Esther began to protest, but the woman, not paying any attention, went on.
“It’s a pretty house,” she continued, gazing around the sunlit kitchen, appraisingly. “Much prettier than mine. Well, time does wear a house down. And I have been here going on eight years in June now.”
“Really? Eight years you say?”
Florrie nodded as her eyes took in the white porcelain sink, the gold refrigerator with its own freezer attached.
“Mm-hmm . . . but our place isn’t nearly as nice as yours. And we didn’t build it from the ground up like your husband did. I could tell that you and your man designed the place yourself, because when I’d be coming home from the store with my groceries, you two would always be outside looking at some big poster spread out on the roof of your car. I figured it was some kind of blueprint, a plan for the house that you were huddled over. Not that I was spying or anything, because I’m not that kind of neighbor.” She paused, coughed into her hand, and continued.
Esther wanted to object, wanted to let Florrie know that it wasn’t her husband who pored over blueprints with her, but their dear friend, Zalman. But she thought it best to remain silent for now. The woman went on like a runaway train.
“Sid and I weren’t so lucky, and besides, I wouldn’t know the first thing about building a home. No, our house was built some ten years earlier by the Saccones, who lived there with their six kids—can you imagine? Six kids running around in that three-bedroom house with no basement! Mr. Saccone drove a hard bargain, but Sid, that’s my husband, got him down to fourteen thousand.” She swiveled in her seat, facing Esther.
“Hey, you got any kids?”
Esther, no longer shocked by the woman’s presumptuousness, shook her head.
“No. We haven’t—”
“That’s okay, me neither,” said Florrie, interrupting again. “But yours will come soon enough. Sid and I don’t have any kids, and we won’t either. I had a woman’s problem when I was twenty. After a few years, they had to take everything out of me,” she disclosed without any trace of emotion that Esther could detect.
“Oh well,” she went on, shrugging, “I got three brothers who have a bunch of little ones, so I’m everybody’s auntie. I take ’em to the zoo, or the park, do up Marni and Shari’s hair with pretty ribbons. They’re the littlest ones. And when any of ’em starts to squawk, well, I just give ’em back to their parents. That’s the good thing about being an auntie. You only have to put up with ’em for so long. Don’t get me wrong, I love each one of ’em, even Joey, the oldest boy. He’s kind of quiet and serious, but I guess that’s the way boys are at that age, almost twelve. But, like I say, I love all ten of ’em just the same. Matter of fact, I love all kids. That’s why I work part-time at Murray’s Toys on Ocean Avenue. I love to see the children walk in, their eyes all big, and smiling from ear to ear. When I bring down one of them little balls attached to a paddle, a bright-red Hula-Hoop, or one of those Tiny Tears or rubber dollies, you should see their faces! It’s like I was Santa Claus or something. I swear I love them children.”
Florrie sat back, looking satisfied, as if she had just finished a slice of Ebinger’s blackout cake with a big glass of cold milk on the side.
“So? And you, you are young and healthy. I suppose you’ll be having a few little ones running around within the year?” she asked.
“N-no, maybe not so soon. There is still much to be done in this house. Much work.”
“Well, I wouldn’t wait too long if I was you. I was already thirty when I found out that for me a family was a lost cause.” She paused then, as if she had forgotten something.
“Hey, you got an accent! You from Europe? Poland, I bet that’s where you’re from!” When Esther nodded, the woman snapped her fingers gleefully.
“I can always tell! My husband’s got family from there. Mine are from Austria, I think, but we’ve been here for a couple of generations already.” Then Florrie got up abruptly and, again lifting the gingham cover off the lid of the Pyrex casserole dish, prodded the noodles with her finger.
“It’s cooled off. Now I think you can put it in the fridge.” Instead of waiting for Esther to make a move, though, she lifted the dish off the table, went over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and placed it delicately on the top shelf.
“Looks like you need some milk for your husband’s coffee. I’ll put you in touch with Mr. Ryland, the milkman. He delivers mine twice a week, so it’ll be a snap.”