The Property of a Lady (31 page)

He turned to Missie, his eyes hot with desire. “And it belongs to my wife, if you’ll only say yes, Missie. I want to share it all with you, this house, the land … everything.”

Her eyes opened wide with alarm and he held up his hand. “Before you say anything, let me just show you.” He walked up the steps to the wooden porch, turning so he could show her his new estate. “As far as you can see, Missie,” he told her proudly, “and beyond. That’s my land.”

She stared at the smooth, grassy slopes dotted with clumps of trees and the herd of black and white cattle in the distance, looking like toy farm animals. She closed her eyes, breathing the fresh country air, listening to the birds calling, and feeling the late autumn sun still warm on her face. She might have been back home in Oxfordshire. “It’s beautiful, O’Hara,” she whispered, “just beautiful.”

“Come inside,” he urged. “Leave the child to sleep. Let me show you around.”

The front door had a curved fanlight with a stained-glass panel and the spacious hall ran all the way through to another glass-paneled door at the back, with a view of the garden. There was a square sitting room with a big fireplace and a separate dining room; there were polished wooden floors and diamond-shaped window panes, and a
proper kitchen with a proper sink with hot and cold water and a proper stove; there was even electric light. A nice wide flight of stairs led to an upper hallway with three bedrooms, as well as a real bathroom with what O’Hara told her was the latest cast-iron enameled tub
and
a toilet.

“But it’s a
proper
house,” Missie cried, rushing excitedly from room to room. “It’s lovely, O’Hara, it’s really lovely—only—” She stopped, looking at him, puzzled. “Only how are you going to run the saloon and live here? It’s so far away.”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” he said, taking her by the shoulders and gazing into her eyes. “Missie, I’m closing the alehouse in a couple of weeks. The Prohibition Act will soon kill the trade and I’m getting out before the rest of them realize it. I’ve laid my plans, Missie, and this house is part of them. And so are you. I can run my new business from here. It’s close enough to the railroad and the port at Newark.”

Missie’s heart sank. If O’Hara closed the saloon she was out of a job. She felt faint suddenly and leaned against the veranda rail, staring at the pretty, bucolic scene below. “What new business?” she asked dully.

O’Hara grinned. “Oh, property, building, a little ‘distribution’ shall we say. It’s real private up here, no one would know my business.” He winked at her and then frowned; all the light had gone from her face and she looked about to faint.

“Missie, are you all right?” he demanded, gripping her shoulders protectively. “What’s up, me girl? Have I shocked you then, with all me talk of new businesses? It’ll be nothing
really
illegal, Missie, just skirting round the edges of the law a bit, selling moonshine—we’ve been doing it in Ireland for centuries. Why, I promise you it’s nothing. And then I plan to use the money to build houses. There’ll be lots of young couples anxious to move out of the cities into a place of their own in the country.
Pleasant, cheap housing, that’s what I plan to give ‘em. You’ll see,” he promised, “once I provide it, they’ll come flocking. And don’t worry about the other part, Missie, my partners are in charge of that.”

“Your partners?”

“Giorgio and Enrico Oriconne, the guys who own the restaurant we were just at. You have to meet them, Missie, they’re real sweet Italian family men, you saw the way the waiters were with Azaylee, they just love
bambini
. But they’re busy men themselves and they needed someone like me to front this business for them. Of course I’ve got me own investment in it and I tell you, Missie, I intend to make meself a fortune. No more pulling pints of ale for me. I’m a businessman from now on.”

He looked at her soberly. “I always promised meself that no wife of mine would live behind an alehouse, the way me mother had to. And now I can ask you properly, Missie. I’ve bought this house for you and for Azaylee, for us and our children. Missie, will you please be me wife?”

She shook her head bewilderedly; he was so kind, so gentle, under his rough-and-ready surface, and so naive. She looked at O’Hara waiting anxiously for her reply, and she looked at the house, with its pretty rooms and its garden and the acres of hillside that could be hers, imagining herself living here, filling it with new furniture, with paintings on the walls and flowers in crystal vases, and herself sitting out here on a summer evening, maybe rocking a new baby in a cradle. But no matter how hard she tried, she just could not fit O’Hara into the picture. She thought of Rosa tied to Meyer Perelman for the rest of her life and she shook her head again; tears rolled down her cheeks, and he put up a gentle finger and brushed them away.

“I can tell you’re saying no,” he said with quiet dignity, “but I’ll tell you something, Missie O’Bryan, I’ll never share this house with another colleen. I’ll be waiting on
you to say yes one day. And when that day comes, I’ll be the happiest man in New Jersey.”

The journey back was silent. O’Hara had lost all his bounce and Missie thought tiredly that it was all her fault. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but she had never encouraged him to think she might marry him. As the skyline of Manhattan came into view she told herself there must be more to life than this, there just had to be. And then she remembered the reality, that in a few weeks the alehouse would be closed and she would be out of a job. And there would be no money coming in.

It was a bitter cold February Friday. Zev stared at the people hurrying past his window, necks wrapped in mufflers, hands thrust into their jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. It was almost four o’clock and his regular customers had already been in and temporarily reclaimed their weekend items of clothing until Monday. Sometimes he thought his shop was just a wardrobe for the Lower East Side, since their clothes spent more time with him than they did on their owners’ backs.

He glanced at his watch yet again; Missie was late. She came every week, sometimes with one dollar, sometimes with two. He hated taking her money when he knew she needed it, but she was determined to pay him back. And if he asked himself the truth, sitting here staring out of the window hoping to see her tall, slender figure hurrying around the corner, he was glad of the excuse to see her. Not that he ever said much beyond “Good afternoon, Missie” and “How are matters by you today?” but at least it gave him a few moments in her company, moments he would treasure later when he was alone in his room remembering exactly how she looked, the way her brown hair shone with golden lights, the curve of her cheek, the softness of her mouth, and the deep, deep violet eyes that could lead a man into her soul.

He sighed, checking that his new tie was straight. He was all spruced up for the Sabbath, but he knew it was really for her.

The bell pinged and he stared sharply at Mrs. Lipkin from Canal Street, coming for her Shabbas tablecloth. “You’re late today, Mrs. Lipkin,” he said, handing her the cloth and taking her money quickly, praying she would leave before Missie came.

“You too, Mr. Abramski,” she said wearily. “I had to wait until my son brought home the money before I could reclaim. Better hurry and close now, it’s almost Shabbas.”

“I know it, I know it,” he answered irritably, and she glanced at him in surprise as she closed the door. Abramski was usually so polite.

The brass hands on the big wooden wall clock moved one minute nearer to four and he stared anxiously at the window. It was already dark and he must close … but a few more minutes, just in case she was late….

At ten past four he locked the door, turned the sign to “Closed,” and walked sadly through to the back room. She had never been late before, and he knew now she wasn’t coming. Though she hadn’t mentioned it, he knew O’Hara had closed the saloon last week, and he guessed she was out of a job and didn’t have the money.

Wearing his black overcoat and hat, he walked through the icy streets to
shul
, but he did not linger afterward among the families greeting each other on the temple steps.

Back in his room he lighted the Sabbath candles in his mother’s precious candlesticks and sat for a while alone, thinking of Missie. She had already paid him eighteen of the fifty dollars and he knew that when she had paid all of the fifty, he would never see her again.

On an impulse he stood up, put on his coat and hat, locked the door carefully behind him, and strode determinedly around the corner. Rivington Street was still littered with the day’s refuse from the pushcarts and bits of torn newspapers fluttered skyward in the icy wind; cats and dogs scavenged and fought for the fishtails and
scraps of offal, and he wrinkled his nose fastidiously against the smell.

He knew where she lived. He had walked past her building many times and he paused as he always did, staring up at the window he knew was hers. A lamp glowed behind the thin curtain. He hesitated, glancing down at the ground and then back up at the window. Usually he just waited awhile, hoping she might appear, but now he hurried across the street and into the building.

The hallway was crowded with the unwanted junk of a dozen families, a broken chair, splintered apple crates, an iron-rimmed wheel from a pushcart, papers and bottles, and the pervading tenement smells of garbage and urine. From behind the closed doors along the narrow stairway came the sounds of a shrill argument and a woman crying. A baby screamed, somebody laughed, and music blared loudly from a phonograph.

Zev climbed the ill-lighted stairs, avoiding the grimy banister that had been greased by a thousand filthy hands. “How can she bear it?” he asked himself again. “Such a
baryshnya
, such a lady.”

He rapped on the door, coughing nervously behind his hand as he waited.

Viktor barked loudly and Azaylee sat up, yawning and rubbing her eyes.
“Matiushka,”
she said, “there’s someone at the door.”

She turned from the sink, astonished. “But who could it be?”

Azaylee laughed. “I don’t know,” she said.

Missie thought for a minute. It couldn’t be the rent because she had paid that this morning, though she had no idea where she would get the money to pay next week’s. Smoothing her hair, she hurried to the door.

“Excuse me if I am disturbing you,” Zev said, taking off his hat politely, “but you did not come today.”

Missie’s hand flew to her mouth guiltily. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Abramski, but I couldn’t. I just didn’t have the money.
I … I’m afraid I’m out of a job, you see. Please, will next week be all right? I’m sure to find something by then.”

She looked shaken and he realized that she thought he had come to demand his money. “No, no, is all right of course, not to worry,” he reassured her quickly. “It was … I just … the fact is, I wanted to see you.”

His dark eyes looked at her pleadingly and Missie stepped back. Holding open the door, she said, “Please, Mr. Abramski, won’t you come in?”

The dog growled at him standing nervously just inside the door and the little girl said, “Hello, I’m Azaylee. Who are you?”

He coughed nervously. “Abramski, Zev Abramski, from Orchard Street.”

Azaylee nodded. “My friend Rachel Cohen lives there.”

“Won’t you sit down?” Missie asked.

He sat politely upright on the wooden chair she offered and glanced around the room. Her home. Everything was spotless, a clean white tablecloth, clean white cotton curtains, and her coat and the hat with the roses hanging from a nail on the wall. The bed was discreetly hidden behind a lopsided wooden screen, and the damp-stained walls were naked except for a small square of mirror over the sink. It was a poor, bare room but there was a bunch of flowers on the table and it smelled sweetly of soap, and somehow, in the glow of the lamp draped with a scrap of pink silk, it looked more homey than any room he had seen since he had left Russia.

Missie sat at the table opposite him. “Excuse me, Mr. Abramski,” she said, “it’s not much of a place to ask you into, but maybe you would like a glass of tea?”

He shook his head. “Thank you, no. I came to ask you … I wondered only if you might take supper with me one night.” The brim of his hat crunched under his fingers as he clutched it anxiously tighter; her violet eyes were round with astonishment, and she was looking at
him as if she were really seeing him for the first time. He put up his hand to straighten his tie and she smiled.

“Why, Mr. Abramski,” she said quietly, “I should be delighted.”

His face lighted up suddenly. “Sunday would be nice?” he said quickly before she could change her mind. “I will come by your apartment at six o’clock.”

“Six,” she agreed. “I’ll be ready.”

At five-thirty on Sunday Missie took Azaylee down to Rosa’s, then she brushed her hair, twisting it into a knot on top of her head. She rubbed her cheeks to bring the color to them, put on her hat, and asked herself dismally for the tenth time why she had agreed to have supper with Zev Abramski. He was a man she barely knew, a man who had lent her money, a man she had an obligation to pay back. She wondered for the hundredth time what he was leading up to by asking her to supper.