But every Friday, she tied an old cloth around the dry mop and mopped the woodwork around the ceiling, and the walls; then she used the dry mop itself on the wood floors. She vacuumed; and then she dusted. It was important to do the dusting last, or you would have to do it again. The bathroom was completely washed down—tiles, the fixtures cleaned with Bon Ami or Old Dutch cleanser, and the inside of the toilet bowl cleaned with a hard brush. Last was the kitchen. The side cabinet was wiped down, and the glass doors of the dish shelves washed. You had to do this often in a kitchen because of the grease. She cleaned the top and front of the stove, and washed the kitchen floor with a wet mop. When that was done, she was finished—except for cleaning the mop—and she would treat herself to a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and put her feet up on another kitchen chair,
Other tasks were sprinkled in among these standing chores. She would bake a pie or an apple bar sometimes; and most days she made some kind of dessert early in the day. And she still had to dress Joy and bathe both girls, and sometimes she took Joy with her to the grocery store, if Anastasia was not at home to watch her. And in the evenings she would darn her rayon hose with a special needle she had discovered, that filled up ladders; and turn the collars of Ed’s old shirts; and she always made each of the girls a sunsuit for the summer and a dress for Easter Sunday.
She was not altogether isolated. The Italian vegetable man came through with his wagon once a week, and she usually bought something from him and chatted a little about the weather. The iceman, also Italian, came by every few days in the summer, and every week in winter, often accompanied by his little son, who helped him carry in the big block of ice with a set of giant tongs. The iceman spoke very little English, but he was very sweet, and always smiled and nodded his head. The little boy was so shy he would hardly look up at Belle. He worked hard for a five-year-old, and she felt sorry for him. He made her remember….
And sometimes the knife grinder came by too, but she never hired him. Ed kept her knives and scissors sharp. It was an unnecessary expense, and they had no unnecessary expenses. Belle never bought soft drinks or pretzels or candy. The only reason she bought canned goods was in case of a crisis; they almost never ate anything from a can except peaches out of season and Boston brown bread, which Belle loved when they had frankfurters and beans. She would steam it hot in the can, and breathe in the aroma as she opened it.
And in a very short time, she had come to know most of her neighbors. They were nice people, although Belle never allowed herself to get too close to them. There was Mrs. Carle. She lived next door, and her husband owned the house Belle and Ed rented. He was tall and thin and very somber, and Minnie had already confessed to Belle that he beat her. It was terrible, especially since Minnie, who wore a lot of makeup and dyed her hair blond and had once been (she said) a chorus girl, was tiny, less than five feet tall, and had a humpback. Minnie went out every morning and cleaned the house of some wealthy people in Richmond Hill, and whenever she came over to have coffee with Belle, she would tell her about this rich family. Belle learned a lot from her about the way rich people do things. These rich people had a son in college, and they were worried about him. He was unstable.
The McClintocks lived across the street. Mrs. McClintock worked as a telephone operator, and she told Belle how she had to hide her purse, because her husband would take all the money she had and lose it at the races. Belle thought privately that Mr. McClintock, who was rarely seen by daylight, also drank, but Mrs. McClintock never mentioned that. She idolized her daughter Dorothy, a nice-looking girl, sober and sensible, just starting high school. Her mother thought she was very smart. Belle thought that Dorothy at thirteen was not as smart as Anastasia at six, but of course she said nothing of the sort. Minnie Carle only worked until two each day, and so she came over for coffee often, pushing the buzzer of the side door and entering through the cellar steps into the kitchen. Mrs. McClintock worked longer hours, and came over only when she had a day off, which wasn’t often. Even when she had spare time, she had to take care of her house and do the laundry and the marketing.
There were others, too. In the afternoons, when her work was finished, Belle would go upstairs and wash herself and put on a fresh housedress and makeup, and fix her hair, and on nice days, sit out on the front stoop. People would pass by and stop and chat: Mrs. Murphy, who was the organist at St. Mary’s and who lived up the block and had to pass Belle’s house when she went to the church; and Mrs. Callahan, whose husband, Belle soon discovered, was a thief and a drug addict. Mrs. Callahan was very skinny and harried-looking, and she often had bruises on her face and arms, but she never confided in Belle. There were the Schinkels, and two families of Costellos who lived side by side and were neat and quiet and did not mix with the others in the neighborhood. Across the street were two more German families; Mr. Bock was a butcher in Jamaica, and Mrs. McClintock told Belle he used to chain his teenaged daughter to her bed when he went out at night—and he went out every night. From his color, Belle sensed he drank considerably too. His daughter was never seen by neighbors, and it was unknown whether she went to school. It was strange, in such a little neighborhood, such a nosey block, how many people were never seen. The DiNapolis lived in the end house, directly across the street from Mr. DiNapoli’s parents. The older Mrs. DiNapoli could sometimes be seen in their backyard, which bordered the sidewalk, sitting near a fig tree and bushes espaliered in the ancient way, in a black dress, huge, on a folding chair. But the younger Mrs. DiNapoli never showed herself at all, and had it not been for the children who regularly appeared every couple of years, Belle would have doubted her existence.
Belle did not know why she felt superior to these people, only that she did. She had no concept of cultural class, and would never have said or even thought that none of these people knew who Mozart was, or had read books, or gone to art school. But this was the difference she felt. She did not find an Elvira in South Ozone Park, and she never confided any problems to the women who came for coffee. She listened, she did not gossip, she never told tales, she treated them with respect. They liked her, she could tell. She felt at peace. She was almost happy.
Anastasia was skipped past 1B, and again, and again, and soon she was miserable. She was as bored as ever in school; no matter how fast they skipped her, she could learn everything they had to learn in that grade in the first week, and after that, she sat daydreaming. The teachers sent her to the back of the room to teach slow students; or asked her to write the school play; or sent her to the small room that served as the school library, to catalog its holdings; or sent her to the principal’s office to run errands. But she remained bored. In addition, she was no longer popular. Two years younger than her classmates, tiny in stature, and raised smooth in a rough neighborhood, she was overwhelmed socially, and crawled more and more into a dream life. She suffered frequently from stomachache, and Mommy would usually let her stay home. Then she could read and draw and play with her paper dolls and listen to the soap operas on the radio, and she was, if not happy, less unhappy than she was in school. She had no friends, and her timidity was so extreme she could barely speak to another child. Surrounded by yelling roughhousing kids, she felt threatened, and cultivated a superior disdainful manner to protect herself. When she asked Mommy why the other kids didn’t like her, Mommy always said they were jealous. Anastasia suspected this was not the case, but she gave her soul a hard shrug and told herself she didn’t care about them anyway, they were all stupid.
She was just as frightened of the kids on the block, most of them either considerably older or younger than she, but she wondered at herself, because Joy, at three and four, ran outdoors first thing in the morning, and played happily with the other children all day long. She didn’t understand why she should be frightened of the children little Joy played with, but she was. She explained to herself that they were stupid and Joy was a baby and that was why they could play with each other. For she already knew, Mommy had told her many times, tha
t Joy was just a baby, that she wasn’t as smart as Anastasia, and that Anastasia had to be forbearing, like an adult, with her younger sister. Most of the time that was not hard, because Joy was sweet and always looked up at Anastasia with a sweet trusting smile; but sometimes, when Joy messed up something that belonged to Anastasia, it was impossible, and Anastasia would burst out “I hate her!” and then Mommy would refuse to speak to her.
The best time of day was dinner. Mommy made such good dinners. One time, Anastasia had to go to fetch Joy from the Costellos, where she had been playing with Dolores, who was Joy’s best friend, and she went into the kitchen and they were eating dinner, and they each had a big plate of potatoes in front of them. Just potatoes, imagine! Another time she went for Joy, they were eating cabbage. But Mommy told Joy it was rude to stay while the Costellos ate and she had to come home then. So Anastasia never saw if they had anything else for dinner.
In their house, they had something different for dinner every night. Mommy made meatballs; she mixed up chop meat (which Anastasia loved raw, but it was bad for you, so she would sneak a fingerful when Mommy wasn’t looking) with bread and milk and onions cooked in bacon fat until they were yellow, and they were delicious. With the meatballs, they had mashed potatoes and peas, or peas and carrots, or string beans. They had lamb chops, but she always wished she could have two, but no one had two, even Mommy and Daddy only had one little loin chop. Sometimes they had pork chops, which were a little bigger than lamb chops and almost as good. Most of all, Anastasia loved the fat Mommy cut off pork chops before she fried them. She’d cut it into little pieces, and melt it in the frying pan, and take out the pieces when she put the chops in the pan. And Anastasia was allowed to eat some of the little pieces that were drying on a paper towel. Sometimes they had frankfurters and beans and brown bread, but Anastasia didn’t like brown bread. She ate it because she was hungry. And Mommy made spaghetti with Mueller’s spaghetti and a can of Campbell’s tomato soup, and that was good too.
On Sundays, they had a big dinner pot roast with gravy; or roasted chicken; or roast pork with crackling brown skin with applesauce; or roast lamb; or baked Virginia ham. Even when she didn’t like something, like ham, she ate it because she was hungry. There were vegetables she didn’t like, for instance: turnips, and brussels sprouts, and cabbage. Even with the butter melting on it, cabbage didn’t taste good. But Mommy always said just take a little, and then you can have dessert. And Anastasia would, because she loved dessert.
Anastasia knew when Mommy didn’t have money because of what they had for dinner, but she felt it didn’t matter, because she liked the things they had to eat then just as well as the others. Mommy made lamb stew and put carrots and onions and potatoes in it and it was delicious. And sometimes they only had canned soup and baloney sandwiches, but Anastasia loved that. They had scalloped potatoes and baked potatoes and boiled potatoes with scallions and butter on them, but Anastasia’s favorite was mashed. Spinach burned her tongue, but Mommy said it was good for her. And she didn’t like cauliflower, but when Mommy put cream sauce and paprika on it, it tasted okay. Or sometimes, she would put little browned bread crumbs on it. She put them on asparagus too.
Only on Fridays, when she came downstairs from reading in her room and smelled the dinner, many times her heart sank. On Fridays they didn’t have meat, and Anastasia loved meat. But she didn’t mind if they had macaroni and cheese with spinach; or french fried eggplant with tomatoes and scalloped potatoes; or creamed spinach with poached eggs and potatoes fried with onions. But sometimes they had vegetables she didn’t like; and sometimes they had fish. Mommy would bake a mackerel in the oven, and as soon as she smelled it, Anastasia wanted to cry.
It was terrible, she knew it was terrible and babyish to be that way, but she so much looked forward to dinner, and when it was something she really hated, she couldn’t help crying inside her heart. She never cried outside. She hated the smell of the fish and the taste, it was dry and tasted bad like liver, which they also sometimes had for dinner. But she wouldn’t cry, she’d just play with her food and Mommy would say just eat a little, Anastasia, and you can have dessert, and Anastasia would eat a few mouthfuls and Daddy would finish her dinner.
On Friday, Mommy would usually make a good dessert. Chocolate or vanilla pudding from a My-T-Fine package, with whipped cream on top; or Jell-O with whipped cream and fruit. Mommy made her own puddings too, but Anastasia didn’t like them as much as My-T-Fine. Mommy made bread pudding, which Anastasia hated, but she would put a lot of the lemony hard sauce on it, and then it was good. And she made rice pudding with raisins, and tapioca. Daddy loved Mommy’s puddings. Sometimes she made pie for Sunday dinner, and lemon meringue pie was Anastasia’s favorite thing in the world except for lamb chops and icebox cake. When Mommy made icebox cake, she let Anastasia lick the whipped cream bowl. And sometimes she made crepes, little French pancakes. She’d fill half of them with jelly and the other half with cottage cheese mixed with sugar and cinnamon. Anastasia could never decide which ones she liked better. And in the summer, Mommy would make strawberry shortcake or banana shortcake, which Anastasia loved even though she didn’t like bananas. In the fall, Mommy made baked apples with cream. That was bad, and Anastasia often didn’t finish hers, which made Daddy happy because he could have two. But sad as it made her to have a dessert she didn’t like, it didn’t make her want to cry, the way fish and liver did. Sometimes for dessert they only had canned peaches, but that was all right, Anastasia loved them; she liked them better than canned pears. And sometimes: she didn’t know why it happened: but sometimes they would have a big gooey chocolate layer cake from a bakery. And then Anastasia’s mouth would water even before dinner, just looking at it. Her eyes would widen and she wanted to put her finger in the icing and lick it, but Mommy said she should wait, so she did.
If dinner was the best thing in the day, dinnertime was not. If Anastasia’s mouth watered when she smelled the lamb chops or the meat loaf cooking, she always tensed up as she approached the dinner table. They ate in the kitchen, because they didn’t have a dining room, but Mommy always set the table nicely, with the silver laid out properly and the napkins on the right side and the salt and pepper and butter on the edges of the table with the bowls of steaming food in the center. They all would help themselves, except when there was a roast and Daddy carved it. But Mommy always got funny just at the time for dinner, strange, almost annoyed. She always was putting the dinner on the table exactly as Daddy walked in the back door at 5:15. She had already called them: “Children! Dinner’s ready! Wash your hands!” And sometimes Anastasia looked at her hands and they weren’t dirty, so she didn’t wash them, and when she entered the kitchen, Mommy would always say, in her annoyed-before-dinner voice, “Did you wash your hands?” and Anastasia would say “Yes,” even if it was a lie. But sometimes Mommy would call her over and look at her hands, turn them over in her hands, and once they were dirty. Anastasia saw it before Mommy did: there was black from her pencil all over one finger. And Mommy said,
“Anastasia, your hands are filthy! You couldn’t have washed them! Go and wash them!”
Anastasia walked toward the kitchen sink, which was hard for her to reach, but Mommy insisted she go upstairs to the bathroom to do it.
She sounded really mad, so Anastasia ran back up to the bathroom, but she muttered “Why do I have to go upstairs,” and she felt Mommy was being mean and petty for no reason (she didn’t know the word capricious), was acting mad at Anastasia just because she was mad at something. Still, angry as she was, her throat had a lump in it and she wanted to cry because Mommy talked to her that way. She didn’t understand herself. Because she heard other children’s mothers talking to them, and they yelled and screeched and called them names and were horrible, and other children didn’t cry. Sometimes they turned around and muttered something nasty like, “Yeah, ya old man’s mustache” (a phrase she did not comprehend, but knew to be insulting). And children talked about their pa
rents in insulting ways, calling them “my old lady” and “my old man.” Anastasia would never describe her parents that way. But the other children didn’t cry. Why did Anastasia always feel like crying? She couldn’t understand it. The least thing made her teary. She was a baby. She knew it and she tried not to be, but she still was. She went back downstairs with pink scrubbed hands and a frown. But Mommy didn’t even look at her hands, she was talking in her annoyed-before-dinner voice to Joy and then Daddy came in.
They always said “Hello, Daddy,” whenever he came home and sometimes he would say “Hello, Anastasia, hello, Joy,” in a friendly voice, and sometimes his voice wasn’t friendly. But he was always nice to Mommy. He would come in and say “Hello, Belle,” in a special voice, as if he loved her. Then he would carry his hat to the cellar door, where he’d put up hooks, and put his hat on one hook and take off his coat and hang it on a hanger and put that on another hook. And then he’d walk over to Mommy as if he were dancing, as if he were sliding across the floor, and he’d put out his arms to embrace her and bend his face to kiss her. And Mommy would turn her face quickly so her cheek was toward him and he’d kiss her cheek and sometimes he’d try to hug her. Anastasia would turn her head when he did this because she couldn’t stand it. Because he wanted to hug Mommy and she wouldn’t let him; and Anastasia felt terrible for her father because she knew that it must feel bad if you wanted to kiss someone and they wouldn’t kiss you back.