Evelyn would, too, Miriam knew, providing this local boy didn’t get in the way of that. When Vivie excused herself to go to bed, Miriam cornered her in the bedroom Vivie had shared with Margaret and Evelyn until Helen and Gertie left, vacating a room.
“Who is he?” she asked quietly, closing the door behind her.
“Who?”
Miriam sat on the bed and fixed her daughter with a knowing stare. “The boy Evelyn is seeing.” Vivie’s mouth dropped open, but she closed it quickly. “I know you know.”
“Mama, please. She’ll hate me.”
“She won’t. She needs you too much.”
“I promised.”
“And she keeps her promises?” Vivie’s eyes welled up, and Miriam felt a wave of pity. It was hard living in Evelyn’s shadow. “Is he Jewish?” she asked finally.
Vivie shook her head and Miriam hesitated. That was both better and worse. Joseph perhaps could have been swayed by a Jewish boy who had marriage potential. But when he learned this, he would be the one to insist it end. For once, Miriam would not have to be the heavy with Evelyn. He doted on her, and while Miriam understood why—even she wasn’t immune to the girl’s charm—it meant that Miriam was the one who had to put her foot down. The other children she could soothe when Joseph wouldn’t let them curl their hair or wear lipstick or go to the movies on Shabbat or do so many of the things the other American children did. But Joseph never refused Evelyn, so Miriam had to. And Joseph, inexplicably and infuriatingly, argued with Miriam for Evelyn to receive the same privileges that he had denied their first five children.
“Your father will put a stop to that.”
“You can’t tell her I told you.” Vivie’s eyes were wide, and Miriam pulled her in to her bosom and held her. “Shh, bubbelah. I won’t.”
When Miriam returned to her bedroom, she retrieved a hatbox from the trunk in the corner and sat heavily on the bed with it.
Checking the clock on the nightstand, she gingerly lifted the top and removed the hat, revealing a stack of letters, tied in a faded ribbon, from oldest to newest. They were all sealed. Miriam held the stack to her chest, closing her eyes and feeling an overwhelming sense of sympathy for the daughter who thought she didn’t love her.
Miriam loved Joseph for saving her from a life alone in her father’s house. For giving her their seven children, each a miracle in their own right. For the six grandchildren she had from her three eldest, and the seventh on the way. For trusting her to run the household as she saw fit. For denying her nothing. For the life they had built together.
She loved him as much as she could, but her whole heart wasn’t hers to give. And as long as a letter arrived each year on her birthday, she knew, even though she couldn’t bring herself to read them, that Frank still loved her. Even though her father had sent him away. Even now, more than thirty years later.
For a moment, she wavered, remembering the heartbroken months she spent after Frank left. The despair she thought would swallow her whole. But she saw the photograph she kept on her dresser of Bernie, her firstborn, as a baby.
No, Miriam thought. Ending this dalliance was the right thing to do. Besides, nothing could crush Evelyn. She might be willful and spoiled and impossible. But she was strong. And stopping this now would only ensure that she recognized the right path when it presented itself.
And where would Miriam be now if she had married Frank? A sailor’s wife with no family, no real home? She was better off where she was. And Evelyn would be too.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“What happened to Vivie?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I know she died young.” When Grandma didn’t reply, I looked at her. She was looking out the window, but I saw a muscle jump in the loose skin of her jaw. “How did she die?”
“It was an accident. She drowned.”
“In the ocean?”
“It wasn’t in the bathtub.”
There was a note of pique in her voice, so I tried to go for a laugh. “The bathtub with the fish on Fridays?”
That elicited a small smile. But when she didn’t keep playing with me, I realized I had touched a subject that wasn’t open for discussion. There was no outlandish lie. No equivocation. Just short answers and silence. The most un-Grandma answer I had ever received. So I steered the conversation back to the story she had been telling me.
“Your mother was onto you and Tony, then?”
“She had her reasons. I didn’t understand them until she was gone. But I took one look at Vivie when I got home and knew the jig was up. Mama had her so cowed. Vivie was . . . delicate. She couldn’t handle yelling and Mama was a yeller. I just yelled back. Maybe that’s why Mama didn’t like me.”