This Heart of Mine (2 page)

“I pass the time here because my tutor lives around the corner,” he answered mildly. “He takes organic chemistry very seriously, but time? I don’t think he owns a watch.”

Again I wanted to die. To dunk my head into the sink full of dirty dishes and drown myself. Was that the only reason he stopped in? To waste time until his tutoring session?

“I have to use the ladies’,” Rachel announced.

Hildy rolled her eyes. “Mrs. Greenbaum’s in the john,” she said. “I’ll take her downstairs to the employees’ lounge.” That was an overstatement—we relieve ourselves in a glorified hole in the ground.

My eyes flickered nervously from the medical student to the mostly empty diner. “Are you sure?”

Hildy grinned and patted her fire-red hair. “I won’t let her fall in,” she said, and shuffled Rachel from the room.

The man—boy?—reached into his back pocket, pulled out a billfold and extracted one dollar. My heart took another nosedive. Was he leaving?

“Want another cup?” I saw the word
yes
in my mind’s eye and focused on it. I’ve heard this really works.

“Not yet,” he said.

Yet
. A good sign.

He grabbed the spool of thread and expertly pulled a length of it, then cut it with his teeth. Carefully, he folded the dollar bill around the midpoint of the piece of thread and then tied one end to the leg of the napkin holder and wrapped the other around his eyetooth.

No, I’m not pulling your leg. HIS TOOTH.

I just stood there holding the coffeepot with my mouth hanging open.

He cupped his hands around the bill and scrunched it into a ball, careful to keep it wrapped around the thread. To test his work, he tilted his head backward and the thread tightened, raising the bill off the counter. Then he leaned forward and the thread slackened, the dollar resting on the table like a forgotten tip. For some reason I wanted to clap, but instead I topped off his coffee.

Rachel returned and hoisted her small body back onto the counter stool. The medical student casually picked up his cup and pretended to take a sip.

“Did we miss anything important?” Hildy said, a teasing note to her voice.

“I don’t know if you’re going to believe this,” the medical student said, holding his mouth a bit stiffly, “but Santa Claus popped in for a cup of joe while you were gone.”

This pricked Rachel’s ears. “No he didn’t,” she scoffed. “You’re just fibbing.”

The man leaned forward and raised his cup again, hiding the thread. “No lie. He left a whole dollar for it. Turns out, it’s a magical dollar.”

Rachel’s attention turned to the bill on the table. “Is not.”

He shrugged. “Say
Merry
Christmas
and find out.”

“Merry Christmas,” Rachel said flatly, obviously unimpressed.

While Rachel stared at the bill, he leaned backward, again tightening the thread. The bill rose, levitating a few inches from the counter. The clear thread was only visible if you were really looking, and Rachel was so floored by the trick she didn’t notice. The man twitched his head and the bill jumped in the air.

“Did you see that, Miss Hildy?” All the color had left the little girl’s face.

“I sure did,” Hildy said. She stared at the young medical student, most likely trying to see how he was going to finish things off. He bent forward, working his jaw, but it was apparently difficult to dislodge the thread.

I placed my hands on Rachel’s shoulders. “Go tell your mother what you just saw,” I said. She nodded dumbly, still in shock, and scooted into the kitchen.

The medical student reached into his mouth and gingerly removed the thread. “Thanks for the rescue,” he said. “I can never get that one right.”

I nodded.

“You two make a good team,” Hildy said. “Maybe you should run away together and hit the vaudeville circuit.”

I could feel the heat on my cheeks. The medical student didn’t say anything, just smiled as he stood and gathered himself. He picked up the crumpled dollar bill and smoothed it against the counter. Once flattened, he began to fold it using a butter knife, in half, and again, and then his fingers flew and I lost track of the bends and folds and tweaks.

He handed me the finished product, took a nickel out of his pocket and placed it next to his coffee cup. “I’ve gotta run,” he said. “See you around.”

He was out the door before I could say a word. I watched the back of his dark, shiny head disappear down Lincoln Avenue.

“Well, what is it?” Hildy said, breaking me out of my reverie.

I opened my palm. He’d folded the dollar into the shape of a butterfly. The wings curved downward, as if it was just about to take flight.

“Aw, geez,” Hildy said with a sigh. “You ain’t going to spend it now, are ya?”

Of course I can’t. The butterfly sits on my nightstand, secured by my mother’s favorite teacup.

See
you
around
.

Is it a promise or a send-off?

I can’t wait to find out.

Thursday, December 22, 1921

Dear Mary,

Yesterday Lincoln Avenue resembled one of those snow globes in the display windows at Marshall Field’s—soft flakes floating gently to the sidewalk, young women walking briskly while holding brightly colored packages, children lobbing snowballs at icicles hanging precariously from frozen gutters. I stood in the middle of my section holding a basket of brötchen, staring at the winter panorama like a dope, until Hildy gave the back of my arm a pinch.

“Mr. Hahn is among the land of the living,” she whispered. “Step lively.”

I hopped to it, leaving the hard rolls with Mrs. Greenbaum, helping Mr. Vecht to his usual seat, pouring coffee as if it was going out of style. Hildy and I didn’t catch a break until two o’clock, when the last of the lunch rush headed out into the brisk afternoon. Mr. Hahn, who had been poking his nose into the dining area for the past hour, noticed the room had emptied and asked us to come into the kitchen.

“Uh-oh,” Hildy said, and I thought the same but kept silent. Business was doing well, but you never know.

“Ladies—” he began, then caught sight of Jimmy standing in the corner. “
Staff
, I’d like to discuss the holiday working hours. The Mondlicht Café will be open Christmas Day.”

Marta gasped. “But this is never done.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Hahn said with actual enthusiasm. “We are differentiating ourselves. People have changed.
This
city
has changed. We need to be a restaurant for the modern era.”

Hildy and I locked eyes, each daring the other to laugh out loud.

Not everyone thought it was funny. Marta pointed one thick finger toward the crucifix hanging above the alley door. “Are we not a Catholic establishment? It’s sacrilegious.”

“We’ll only stay open until early supper Christmas Eve and Day,” Mr. Hahn explained, employing the careful cadence one uses with a child. “I’m certain our Lord will not take issue with families filling their bellies before evening mass.”

We were each silent, our thoughts most likely running in the same direction—would any additional compensation override the inconvenience?

“Do we get paid extra?” Hildy asked. Thank God for her big mouth.

Mr. Hahn didn’t answer right away. There was nothing to do but stare at the man and take inventory of his crimes against civilized society. A smear of what looked like plum jam marred the pocket of his grayish-white shirt. His tie had begun to fray at the tip. A smattering of dandruff, light and fluffy as the snow outside, dusted the tops of his shoulders. Doesn’t he ever check himself in the mirror?

“Yes,” Mr. Hahn finally said. “Three dollars extra.” He focused his attention on Marta. “One for each of the Wise Men.”

It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing either.

“I’ll do it,” Hildy said. “Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.”

The rest of us studied our shoes.

“Libby and Kathleen have already said no,” Mr. Hahn said, referencing the early-morning girls. “Will the rest of you give it some thought?”

I’ve accepted an invitation to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Maier on Christmas Eve. They haven’t yet mentioned what time they’ll begin. I haven’t begun to think about Christmas Day. Too depressing. “I think I can work both days,” I said, “but I’ll let you know for certain on Friday.”

Mr. Hahn smiled—no lie—revealing yellowed teeth. “Thank you, Marguerite.”

“It’s Rita,” Hildy muttered, and we all got back to work.

I was off today, so I knocked on the Maiers’ door during the lunch hour, when I could be fairly certain the missus wasn’t napping. The mister answered, his faced lined with exhaustion. “Yes, dearheart?”

My father’s pet name for me. My face must have fallen, because Mr. Maier invited me inside. “Come, Marguerite, I’ve made some potato soup. You’ve gotten too thin.”

The apartment smelled of onions, cabbage and illness. The familiar scent provided a strange sort of comfort—I knew what to do when sickness invaded a household. “Is Mrs. Maier awake?”

“She is.”

“Will you allow me to serve her soup while you catch a bite to eat?”

He closed his eyes for a second, nodding his thanks. When he opened them, tears shone in the corners.

When Mama was sick, I grew to hate the way her illness made me so grateful for even the smallest kindness. It overwhelmed me, the mountain of favors I’d never return. And if I’m telling the truth, I hated the people offering, whatever their impetus. Pity, duty, a surefire route to heaven—I hated all those reasons. Looking at Mr. Maier, though, I suddenly understood that the motivation to help someone in need hardly mattered. One responded without thinking because it was a decision made from the heart.

Mr. Maier took my hand and led me to the kitchen. It was neat as a pin. I ladled a bowl of soup and left him to the luxury of an unhurried meal.

The smell of decay was stronger in Mrs. Maier’s bedroom. She lay on the bed, her upper body propped into an unnatural position with a stack of pillows. A chair was already set next to the nightstand.

“No need to tiptoe, Marguerite. I heard you speaking with Peter.”

I slid into the chair and scooted it next to the bed. “Would you like some lunch, Mrs. Maier?”

She opened her eyes, gazing at the soup as if it were an old friend she no longer had much time for. “Put it on the table,” she said, coughing in short, raspy bursts. “Maybe I’ll eat it later.”

I knew it would grow cold there, just as my mother’s had at the end.

We sat for a minute, Mrs. Maier’s rattled breathing the only sound in the room. After a while, I said, “Thank you for inviting me for Christmas Eve dinner. What time would you like me to arrive?”

“Dinner? Oh, darling, your parents would be upset if you didn’t join them. Come for dessert. I’ll make a nice Christstollen. Your father always likes it.”

My heart, so full at the sight of Mrs. Maier, wrung out like a sodden dish towel. “Of course,” I said. “We’ll see you then.”

She turned to me, eyes rheumy with visions of the next world. “It will be lovely,” she whispered. “So festive.”

I tucked the blankets around her. “Of course it will. Of course.”

When I rejoined Mr. Maier in the kitchen, he sat at the well-worn table, staring into an empty bowl. “It was good,” he said. “Have some.”

I poured myself a bowl and sat across from him. “You’ve been overexerting yourself. Don’t worry about cooking Christmas Eve dinner. I’m working the holiday shift at the diner, so I’ll bring you and Mrs. Maier something good.”

Mr. Maier smiled wanly. “Don’t look so sad, Marguerite. She should have died three years ago. I’ve been lucky to have her for so long.”

I slurped my soup and didn’t say anything, not trusting my tongue. Luck should not be measured by the amount of times one avoids tragedy. That would make the world a very dark place, would it not? Shouldn’t luck be measured by the good things that happen out of the blue, with no strings attached?

I thanked Mr. Maier and ran upstairs to my empty apartment. He is a nice man trying to do the best with his situation and I am a sorrowful girl who knows what his future holds. Those things should not mix, especially at Christmas.

Friday, December 23, 1921

Mary,

Last night I prayed for something to happen to take my mind off my troubles. Today my prayers were answered, though not exactly the way I’d intended. I’m still trying to make sense of why such strange emotions have taken to visiting my head as of late, and why they take forever to leave.

This is definitely a story I would not tell Mama. So now you are a confidante, dear Mary. I wish you could write back with answers. I don’t know where to search for those.

Well...

During off times, when the stream of customers dwindles to a trickle, Marta zips down to the basement to clean Mr. Hahn’s office. She hates doing it because it truly is a job that will never be done, but he gives her a little extra for it, and Lord knows she could use the extra. Today when she returned to the first floor, her mouth was set in a grim line. She held her arm in front of her, fist closed. “Girls,” she said. “In the kitchen. Please.”

The diner was fairly empty, so Hildy and I shrugged at each other and followed her into the back.

Jimmy was there, sweeping the floor. Marta paused for a minute when she saw him, then pressed on, unfurling her fist and letting what was inside fall onto the steel counter. “I found this in Mr. Hahn’s office,” she said, making a face.

It was a single woman’s stocking. Mild tan, the kind all of us wear. There was a hole in the thigh with a ladder leading up to it.

We all stared at the stocking as though it was a rat someone had hauled in from the alley. Well, everyone except Jimmy, who stood transfixed by an object so closely tied to the female body.

Hildy broke the tension. “I, for one, have never seen anything like that in all my days,” she said, crossing the line into melodramatic. “How scandalous!”

“It is probably yours,” Marta countered, drawing her face to Hildy’s. “You are not a respectable girl.”

“I have plenty of respect,” Hildy said, her eyes deadening, “just not for you.”