He looked vaguely Mediterranean, tanned from the sun even in winter, with strong, even features and thick dark hair. But his eyes, the warm brown of mahogany, were full of a fire that Evelyn recognized as the match for that in her own.
As she walked home from the store that afternoon, she mused over the young man’s actions. Her father didn’t care about a piece of candy. But to return it and try to pay. Evelyn may have had a Machiavellian streak a mile wide when it came to self-preservation, but she also respected those whose moral compasses pointed due north—perhaps because her own didn’t.
And it was that, as much as his eyes, that returned to her over and over as she tried to sleep. So when she saw him leaning against the side of the drugstore to light a cigarette that blustery February afternoon, she realized she wanted something sweet. And she took it.
Evelyn heard the chairs push back from the table and the sounds of her mother and sister clearing the dishes, then the lumbering tread of her father on the stairs. She quickly hid the remnants of her sandwich, listening as he paused outside her bedroom door. This was most unusual.
He cleared his throat to announce his presence before knocking softly. “Evelyn? It’s your father.”
She fought the urge to laugh. Who else could it possibly have been? But she had to play her part. She composed her face and opened the door a crack. “What is it, Papa?”
“May I come in?”
Evelyn opened the door and gestured for him to enter. He stood awkwardly as Evelyn sat on the bed, then went to the small secretary desk and sat in the straight-backed chair where she did her homework and wrote letters to her sisters. He cleared his throat again and opened his mouth but did not speak.
“Yes, Papa?”
“You need to eat,” he said. Evelyn slid her foot along the floorboard, making sure no trace of sandwich wrapper was visible.
“I’m not hungry.”
He wrung his hands in his lap. “What about a compromise?”
Evelyn felt her eyebrows rising. This was quite out of the ordinary. “What kind of compromise?”
Joseph sighed. “You can go on dates. But only with Jewish boys.”
She eyed him with the look of a prizefighter circling her opponent and seeing a weak spot. “But I want to date this boy.”
“No.”
“Honestly, Papa, what’s the difference? I’m going to college in the fall. If you’re going to let me date people in town, why not this person?”
“You can’t date someone who works the docks.”
“He doesn’t. He’s in school.”
“And when he’s not?”
“He helps his family. Just like both Bernie and Sam did in the store when they were in high school. He’s a good boy.”
“No.”
Evelyn threw her hands in the air. “Then you can keep your compromise.” She lay down and closed her eyes, placing her hands deliberately over her stomach. “I’m going to sleep.”
Joseph watched her for a long moment. Then relented. “You cannot marry him.”
Her eyes sprung open. “I’m seventeen. I’m not marrying anyone.”
“And you can’t date only him. You have to see Jewish boys too. And nothing interferes with college.”
Evelyn sat up, swinging her feet back onto the floor. “And Mama?”
He hesitated again. “Maybe—maybe you only tell her about the Jewish ones. You tell her you stopped seeing this boy.”
A laugh bubbled up in her chest, threatening to escape, but she contained it. “Okay.”
Looking guilty, he reached into his pocket and pulled out some brisket and a piece of bread, wrapped in a linen napkin. “Don’t tell your mother about this either. I don’t want you going to bed hungry.”
She crossed the room and hugged him tightly. “Thank you, Papa.”
“I love you, ziskayte,” he said, pressing the napkin of food into her hand as he stood. He kissed her forehead gently, then left, closing the door softly behind him.
Evelyn set the food on her desk and twirled in a circle, thinking to herself that if she wouldn’t need to climb down the pear tree anymore, she could probably fly instead.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As the driving got more complicated around New York and then through Westchester County on the Hutchinson River Parkway, my grandmother paused her story to insist I was going the wrong way. I tried to explain Google Maps to her; instead of the ten hours she was used to, we would be there in nine with stops. But she argued there was no need for a map. She could drive there blindfolded. Which was probably a step up from her actual driving, but I kept that thought to myself and told her I needed to concentrate.