The Property of a Lady (30 page)

It had all been arranged through a marriage broker, Rosa had told her. The matchmaker had said this man was big news in business in Philadelphia. He had come to the house to meet her family, and she had been shocked when she had seen how old he was—almost as old as her father. She herself was just seventeen, younger even than Missie. Meyer had been polite, but he hadn’t smiled and his hand had felt sweaty when he shook hers. All evening he had practically ignored her, sitting around the table telling her father what a big man he was in cloaks and suits in Philadelphia, and she could see her father twirling his beard and looking interested and her mother smiling and bringing out the best glasses and the Shabbas tablecloth, as if he were the rabbi himself come to visit.

She had hidden her hands behind her back when he came to leave, refusing to shake his, and her father had glared at her angrily, apologizing for her bad manners. And there had been an unholy row that night when she had demanded to know why, if Meyer Perelman was such a big man in cloaks and suits in Philadelphia, he didn’t yet speak English.

“He’s from Poland,” her mother had explained.

“So? And why then did he not attend night school like everybody else and learn to speak?”

Her father had slapped her then and called her an ungrateful daughter. There he was paying good money to the matchmaker and all she did was shame him in front of a good, honest man, a man who would work his fingers to the bone for her, a man who would give her everything, a house, fine clothes, jewels even….

“Hah, jewels!” Rosa had said, laughing, as she glanced around the cramped apartment. “And houses and cloaks and suits! The big shot turned out to be a machinist in a small factory owned by his brother-in-law. He thought he was marrying into money by getting me; the marriage broker had told him I was an heiress to my uncle, Samuel Glanz, the one with the department store on Grand Avenue.”

“And are you?” Missie had asked hopefully.

Rosa had shrugged. “He has no children, but knowing him, he’ll leave what he has to the temple and let the relatives fight over the will. But Meyer still lives in hope. He drags those children over there every Saturday, rain or shine, to remind Uncle Samuel what fine nieces he has.” She had thrown back her head, laughing so heartily Missie could see her throat pulsating. “It was all a fairy story,” she said at last, wiping away tears of laughter, “and now I’m stuck with Meyer’s sweaty hands and my kids have a father who still doesn’t speak English. The people where he works make a joke of him. Each morning they say,
‘Nu
, Meyer, then have you yet learned to speak?’ After all these years in America, it’s a shame on him.”

“How can you bear it?” Missie had asked, wide-eyed with horror at the thought of spending a lifetime with a man you didn’t love.

“I’ve got my kids,” Rosa had said with a shrug, “and maybe some day, when they are older, I’ll leave him. I’ll just bide my time until then, day by day.”

Missie had flinched, imagining life taken day by day with Meyer Perelman. At least she didn’t have that to put up with, she was her own person.

“You are excited,” Rosa said, taking another biscuit, “I see it in your eyes. Something’s happened.”

Missie quickly explained about O’Hara and that she was going out to lunch with him on Sunday. “Look,” she said proudly, showing her the bunch of pink roses, “I bought these for my old felt hat. I thought it would smarten it up a little. And new ribbons for Azaylee’s hair.”

Rosa admired the flowers and said, “So? Azaylee goes too? Then this is no affair? No lovers’ rendezvous?”

“Of course not, silly,” Missie protested, blushing. “I mean, well, you remember O’Hara said he wanted to marry me, but that was only because he was sorry for me. He’s a very kind man, Rosa.”

“And you are a very beautiful girl,” Rosa said shrewdly. “Don’t forget that, Missie.”

Missie thought of Rosa’s words early Sunday morning as she tried on the old felt hat with the pretty pink roses pinned on one side, turning her head this way and that in front of the tiny square of mirror, wishing she had something smarter to wear.

“Oh, Missie,” Azaylee breathed, watching her, “you look beautiful.”

Missie smiled at her, but she knew the mirror spoke the truth: She was too pale and her cheeks looked sunken and her neck too thin. She had lost the bloom of youth, and she thought that the only thing beautiful about her was the roses in her hat.

Azaylee was sitting on the very edge of her chair so she wouldn’t crease her blue dress, swinging her white-stockinged legs and admiring her new boots bought from Zabar’s cart yesterday. Missie had braided her hair and tied it with the new yellow ribbons, but stray curls had already escaped, framing her small oval face. Her skin had that golden glow Anouska’s had, and her pansybrown
eyes that same dreamy look. She was an angel, a dream child, Missie thought, rushing over and hugging her tightly, and she couldn’t love her more if she were her own. She was only four years old and she never complained about anything, accepting their one room as her home and Rosa as her aunt and the street as her playground. It wasn’t fair, Missie thought, as she kissed her again,
it just wasn’t fair
.

A horn honked loudly in the street. Azaylee leapt from her chair and rushed to the window. It honked again and she called excitedly,
“Matiushka
, it’s O’Hara in an automobile!”

Missie stuck her head out of the window, staring down in astonishment at O’Hara, smart in a new brown suit complete with collar and tie, sitting proudly behind the wheel of a rakish yellow Stutz. He honked the horn again, waving to the awed faces sticking out of every window along the street. Then he opened the door, stepped onto the running board, and, removing his hat, he bowed to Missie.

“Oh, Azaylee!” She gasped, pulling her head in, embarrassed. “Now everybody knows I’m going out with O’Hara.”

She flung one last anxious glance in the mirror and, taking Azaylee’s hand, she hurried down the stairs.

“It’s a grand morning, Missie,” O’Hara called. “I thought it would be nice to take a little drive.”

All the heads at the windows swiveled from O’Hara to Missie as she walked quickly to the car. He lifted Azaylee into the little bucket seat at the back and held the door open for her courteously.

“Bye, Rosa,” Azaylee cried, waving excitedly at the Perelmans hanging out their second-floor window, but Missie refused to look. She knew everybody on Rivington Street was watching interestedly as O’Hara put the car into gear and they chugged noisily down the street.

“I just bought her yesterday,” O’Hara said proudly, “and you are the first to ride in her. Well? What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful, O’Hara,” Azaylee cried, bouncing excitedly in her seat and waving at the passersby.

“It’s lovely,” Missie said, hanging on to her hat as he took the car around another bend, “but I might have preferred to make a quieter exit from Rivington Street.”

O’Hara roared with laughter. “I promised you a proper day out, didn’t I?” he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “And I’m a man of me word, Missie O’Bryan.”

As they turned the corner into Orchard Street she laughed; there was something appealing about O’Hara’s simple pleasure in the car and the sunny day and his treat. He was a man out to please and she sank back into the leather seat, allowing herself to relax and enjoy the ride.

Caged in his brass eyrie, Zev watched the long yellow car drive past; O’Hara was honking the horn and looking at Missie like he owned her, and Missie was laughing, looking like springtime in a big violet hat trimmed with pink roses. Jealousy burned like a flame in his heart.
“Ganzer macher!” he
shouted bitterly as they disappeared. “Big shot!”

“Where are we going?” Missie asked as the car bounced over the bridge, heading toward New Jersey’s hills on the opposite side of the Hudson River.

“Wait and see,” he said mysteriously. But there was a grin on his big, handsome face that told her he knew she would like it.

They drove along the banks of the Hudson for several miles admiring the view until they came to a large brick building set back from the road behind some trees. The sign said “Giorgio’s Italian Restaurant,” and Missie’s eyes widened as she noticed the white damask tablecloths and matching napkins, the gleaming silver and crystal and the flowers on every table.

“I’m not grand enough for this,” she whispered, embarrassed by her old gray coat and shabby blouse and skirt.

“You’re grand enough for anywhere,” O’Hara replied loudly, “and a lot better than any of the other women here.”

He removed his new hat as the headwaiter shook his hand, greeting him like an old friend and showing them to a table near the window. “Good morning, Mr. O’Hara,” he said, “and how are you today, sir?”

“Good, good,” O’Hara boomed, grinning as a second waiter arrived bearing a champagne bucket. He nodded approvingly as he showed him the bottle and Missie’s eyes widened.

“Champagne?” she asked, amazed.

“What else?” he said, reaching across and taking her hand. “On such a great day.”

She blushed as the waiters smiled knowingly. O’Hara was giving them the wrong impression. They probably thought they were lovers or something….

She stared at the foaming glass, remembering the last time she had had champagne. It had been her eighteenth birthday and Misha had poured it for her, and they had gazed into each other’s eyes, knowing it might be for the last time….

“Penny for your thoughts?” O’Hara said, but she shook her head, picking up her glass and toasting him instead.

“To you, Shamus O’Hara,” she said, managing a smile, “and thank you for a lovely day.”

“It’s not over yet,” he promised, “not by a long chalk.” He gazed admiringly at her as she studied the menu. “You surely look a picture in that hat, Missie,” he said gently. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes,” Azaylee said importantly, “I told her so.”

O’Hara grinned. “And you, young lady,” he said, tugging her braid, “had better watch out, because when you are as old as Missie, you’re gonna be a knockout.”

“What’s a knockout?” she asked.

“Wait and see.” he replied, taking a small parcel from his pocket. “Here, I almost forgot.”

“A present?” she asked hopefully.

He nodded, “A present just for you, beauty.”

She stroked the pretty red tissue paper, awed. “It’s lovely,” she said, her high childish voice trembling with excitement.

O’Hara looked at Missie and then back at the child, “Presents have to be opened,” he told her, “so you can see what’s inside.”

She pulled off the paper carefully, smoothing out the creases before opening the box, gasping when she saw what was inside. “Oh, oh, look,
matiushka.”
She gasped. “Just look.”

It was a doll, petite and perfect in every detail, from its porcelain face to its soft blond hair, its sweet little lace-trimmed coat and bonnet and tiny kidskin boots.

“What shall you name her?” Missie asked, smiling as Azaylee stroked the doll’s face lovingly.

“I’ll call her Anouska,” she whispered, picking her up and holding her to her chest. “Anouska.”

Missie felt as if she had been struck by lightning; in all this time Azaylee had never once mentioned her mother. She had hoped she had forgotten.

“But this is an American doll,” she protested quickly. “Don’t you think she should have an American name?”

Azaylee’s eyes had that familiar faraway look.

“How about Kathleen?” O’Hara suggested. “It’s a good Irish name, and the name of my own mother.”

“Yes, we should let O’Hara choose,” Missie agreed quickly. “Why not call her Kathleen?”

Azaylee hugged the doll to her cheek, closing her eyes and smiling. “Kathleen Anouska,” she said. “Kathleen Anouska O’Hara.”

O’Hara grinned as he poured more champagne. “The little one’s got the right idea,” he said, glancing significantly at Missie.

She looked away as the waiter appeared with their soup. “It smells delicious,” she said evasively.

O’Hara smiled. “It is,” he promised. “This restaurant is one of the best in New Jersey. I’ve been coming here a few years now, ever since I started some business interests in the area.”

Missie realized suddenly that she was enjoying herself. The good Italian home cooking was ambrosial after her meager meals, and the wine went to her head; she felt mellow and relaxed as she listened to O’Hara’s story of his life in Ireland and his beginnings in America.

“And now there’s another beginning,” he said, lighting a grander cigar than usual, watching as she sipped her coffee.

Azaylee yawned as the kindly Italian waiters plied her with candies and tiny
amoretti
in flimsy pink and blue wrappers, snuggling down on her big chair and hugging her new doll.

O’Hara stroked her hair gently and said, “There’s a side of me you haven’t seen yet neither, Missie. I’m a serious man and also a man of ambition. And that’s what I want to tell you about today. But first I have something to show you, so let’s be on our way.”

He paid the bill with a flourish. After picking up the sleeping child, he carried her in his big arms, just as she carried her own little doll, and they left the restaurant with smiles and thanks and please come back again soon. He laid Azaylee down on the backseat, covering her with a plaid rug, and said wistfully, “It’d be grand to have a little girl like that, just grand.” Then he helped Missie politely into the car, climbed in himself, and turned the car in the direction of the hills.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he threaded his way through rough country lanes, heading even higher.

“Not far,” he said, smiling. “Just you be patient now.”

They drove for another ten minutes, winding up a hill until they came to a cedarwood boundary fence. O’Hara
got out to open the gate, and Missie peered through the tall elms and bushy chestnut trees that were shedding the last of their leaves.

“Almost there,” O’Hara said, grinning as he drove up a newly graveled lane and stopped in front of a square, red-roofed house with a wooden porch. “It’s bigger than it looks,” he said proudly. “Inside is three bedrooms and outside is three acres. Them numbers sounded good enough for me, so I bought it. And besides, I bought all the rest of the land around here. Fifty acres of Smallwood, New Jersey, now belongs to yours truly.”