“What’s going on?”
“She knows, Asher. About law school. About the bar exam. About me wanting a career. Both your parents do.”
“You and my mother got into it?” He sat on the bed, his face pale, the plate cockeyed in his hands. When the cookies started to slide off the plate, he set it on the bed. “I’m sorry. I never meant for you to face them alone.”
Ruth could tell by his face that he meant it. Still, why not tease him a little? “All alone,” Ruth said, feigning as much of a somber tone as she could manage.
“Honey, I’ll go talk to them. Tell them I’m behind you one hundred percent. That . . . if they don’t accept your career . . . we’ll move out.”
Ruth realized she might have gone too far with Asher, but she was touched at how he stood up for her. How lucky she was that her husband was such a fine man, raised by such fine parents, lucky that Asher had a father who showed him how to respect, appreciate, and stand by his wife.
She felt so close to him at that moment. Closer than she’d ever felt. Any doubts she had disappeared.
“How did it come out?” Asher said.
Ruth’s heart sank. She should have expected that question. Prepared an answer. She’d been on such a roller coaster today—Carrie, Shirley’s confession, telling Shirley about law school and finding out she already knew—Asher had been the last thing on Ruth’s mind.
Now he wanted details.
And she couldn’t say. Couldn’t tell her best friend.
Couldn’t tell him about Carrie, about Shirley, about the Esthers, about teaming up with his mother to help Carrie escape. Asher was her husband, yet she had to keep these secrets. Carrie’s life, the lives of other women, depended on it. And Shirley couldn’t tell him either.
“We were making brisket together, and it just seemed like the right time.” Ruth turned her face so he wouldn’t see her lie splayed all over it.
“She never lets anyone help her with the brisket,” Asher said. “Perhaps that’s why it smells extra tasty this evening.” He smiled at Ruth. “What did she say?”
“That they already knew.”
“What?”
Ruth smiled at the idea that she knew more about Shirley than Asher did. She was honored that her mother-in-law trusted her with her deepest secrets.
But these secrets were Shirley’s to tell, not Ruth’s.
Dinner was livelier than Ruth expected, and it was a nice change from the heaviness of the day. As they ate the meal of perfectly cooked brisket, brussels sprouts, and potato kugel, Ruth felt a rush of belonging. Leon asked about the bar exam and what she felt her most challenging classes were in law school.
“Ruth volunteered at Legal Aid in New York,” Asher said. “She helped abused women and their children.”
The table got quiet for a moment. Ruth wondered exactly how much Asher knew about his mother’s history and his father’s involvement. She suspected it wasn’t much, if anything at all, but Ruth knew she must never ask him. He would have to volunteer the information himself.
“That’s admirable,” Shirley said.
“Someone needs to stick up for those who need help,” Leon said.
“You’re right,” Ruth said, giving him a conspiratorial look. “Thanks.”
The next day, after Leon and Asher had left for work, Ruth barreled into the kitchen and slapped a paper down on the counter in front of Shirley.
“It’s a list of names and phone numbers. My father and two of my brothers want to help.”
Shirley raised an eyebrow.
“What? I didn’t tell them anything I shouldn’t have.”
Shirley seemed to be waiting for more.
“Okay, when I spoke to them last night, they wanted to be sure I was happy. Quizzed me about Asher, about you and Leon, about how you were treating me.”
Shirley looked taken aback. “Really?”
“Relax. I told them it was for my friends at Legal Aid in New York. They knew I volunteered there. They don’t think anything of it now. They want to help. It makes them feel closer to me to do something together, even though I’m a hundred miles away.”
“In that case, great. I have a list as well.” Shirley looked pleased as she set a cup of coffee in front of Ruth. “Just saccharin, right?”
Ruth nodded at the kindness.
By ten o’clock, Ruth, Shirley, Lillian, and Irene were sitting around the map-draped dining room table drinking coffee and eating Shirley’s apricot schnecken. Shirley and Lillian were writing lists of names and addresses alphabetically and geographically, marking the map with Xs. Ruth and Irene rose and began folding baby clothes, diapers, and blankets, smoothing out maternity dresses, ready to pack in a donated steamer trunk, together with bath essentials, books, and a few tchotchkes to personalize a strange place—a miniature Liberty Bell, a C-shaped brass paperweight, and the silver tray from Ruth and Asher’s dresser. The trunk would be sent ahead to wherever Carrie was going to be living.
“Why do men get away with bad behavior just because they’re men?” Ruth said as she folded cloth diapers into squares. “We should have been able to call the police for Carrie and know she’d be safe.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Shirley said.
“It should,” Ruth said. “It could.” Someone needed to change that.
“I agree,” Lillian said. “I’m embarrassed to say I’ve been part of the problem.”
Ruth looked over at her.
“I didn’t believe what you said, until I saw Carrie. I should have known better. I should have believed you, Ruth. I’m sorry for how I treated you.”
Ruth nodded. Somehow her vindication wasn’t as sweet as she’d expected, knowing there were few people who believed beaten women at all, and few laws that would protect them.
“I, of all people, should have listened,” Lillian said, and paused before seeming to come to a decision. “Apparently . . . my father burned my mother with a cigar. And who knows what else he did.”
A collective gasp seemed to pull all the air from the room.
“You never said. I guess we all have family secrets,” Ruth said.
Of all the people, Lillian.
“I only just found out. From my mother,” Lillian said.
“You have a mother?” Irene’s absurd question refilled the room with normalcy and titters of inappropriate laughter. Even Lillian’s. Abashed, Irene clarified. “I meant living.”
Shirley stood behind Lillian and patted her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“I was a child. I didn’t know.”
“How did you find out?” Shirley asked, moving around to face Lillian and grasping her hands.
“Admittance records.”
“Admittance?” Ruth asked.
Lillian sighed. “For the last twenty-four years my mother has been in a hospital.” She looked at the floor. “A mental hospital.”
“Oh, how awful for you,” Irene said.
Yes, Ruth thought. Her own mother had died. How must it feel to have a mother who was alive, yet unavailable? To have your mother be a living, breathing woman you couldn’t have over for dinner or talk to about your problems? Ruth suddenly felt a new kinship toward Lillian and was reminded that she was more than an etiquette maven.