“It was just . . . out.”
“What was—oh!”
“Yeah. Like this guy hadn’t even kissed me. And it was just out.”
“What did you do?”
“I said I had to go home, and I left! But like . . . What did my grandma tell his grandma about me if he thought that was appropriate on a first date fixup?”
Joe laughed. “I guess the bar was set pretty low for me, then.”
I looked up at him. “It could have been set at the moon. You still would have passed it.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, and I stopped breathing, wondering if I had said too much. Then he rolled on top of me, kissing me slowly, pressing his body deliciously into mine.
“Stay the night?” he whispered. I nodded as he kissed me again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
July 1955
Hereford, Massachusetts
Evelyn stood dry eyed at the funeral, her hand cool in Fred’s despite the humidity of the summer day. The cemetery was farther inland, and the day was hot, the sun merciless against their black clothes. She hadn’t cried when the police came to the door, first to get information from a panicked Miriam, who was convinced Vivie had run off to New York, and a stoic Joseph, who was a terrible actor. Nor had she when they returned a couple of hours later with the news that left her mother weeping on the floor. She had slipped quietly to the room she shared most recently with her sister and sat on the edge of the bed, willing the tears to bring some sort of release. But they didn’t come.
She and her father had hardly spoken in the two days since. The funeral was arranged quickly, as Jewish custom dictated that the deceased be buried as soon as possible. Fred took the train up that day, the rest of the family arriving with their children, crowding the Main Street house, Bernie’s house in town, and both cottages.
Numbly, she recited the Mourner’s Kaddish from memory, murmuring the Hebrew words along with her family through a mouth that felt like it was full of cotton. The casket was lowered into the ground, and the rabbi handed a small spade to Joseph, who, crying openly, took it and shoveled a small pile of dirt into the grave, the sound making Evelyn wince.
I can’t do it, she thought, taking an involuntary step backward. Fred looked over and wrapped his arm around her. She wanted to shake him off and run away. Her breathing intensified as her mother’s shovelful of dirt made the same muffled thud.
“You don’t have to do it,” Fred whispered. “It’s okay. Not everyone does.”
Evelyn swallowed dryly. “It’s a mitzvah,” she whispered back. “It’s the last thing I can do for her.”
He squeezed her briefly and then released her as she took her turn to scoop a small pile of dirt to cover her sister.
She stood at the edge of the grave holding the spade of soil and looked down at the plain pine box that already had a fine layer of earth scattered over it. Oh Vivie, she thought. I’ll never stop missing you. She let the dirt fall and stepped back quickly, handing the shovel to Margaret, who was bawling. But still Evelyn could not cry.
Returning to Fred, she looked around the mourners, trying to distract herself from the muffled thumps as more clods hit first the wood and then the previous dirt. Ruthie was there, of course. And Vivie’s friends from school. Some had come from New York, news traveling quickly because Evelyn had called Vivie’s roommate. There was no sign of George—her sisters had questioned if he would come and what they would do if he did. But Evelyn knew he wouldn’t be there.
Ruthie’s father sat down, fanning himself, and Evelyn’s eyes widened. Tony stood behind him. Their eyes met across the grave, and they held each other’s gaze for a long time, each trying to communicate so many of the things left unsaid through the air.
If Fred noticed, he said nothing.
Then the funeral was over, and the mourners moved to the Main Street house to sit shiva for the customary seven days. The mirrors were covered, the chairs low, armbands available to rend, a pitcher of water at the door to wash before entering. And platters upon platters of food brought by a seemingly endless supply of neighbors.
“I wish we didn’t have to do this,” Gertie said quietly as she sat with Helen, Margaret, who was still crying, and Evelyn, who still hadn’t. “It should be just us. Not the whole town.”
Evelyn looked around the room, a plate of food untouched on her lap. Fred was in the other room with Bernie, Sam, and her sisters’ husbands, all ostensibly smoking, but actually drinking. She didn’t think Tony would come to the house for shiva, but she hadn’t expected him at the funeral either.