In John Adams, she had studied musical technique and harmony; this school had no such courses. In John Adams, she had been a member of a group that went to Saturday-morning rehearsals of the symphony, and to plays. In her sophomore year there, she had seen Katharine Cornell in Antony and Cleopatra, Paul Robeson in Othello, and Maurice Evans in Hamlet. In this school, the rich boys owned cars and the clique (the Christian clique) went out on Friday and Saturday nights to roadhouses and bars, and got drunk, and trashed the bars or cracked up their cars. The girls owned cashmere sweaters, and were rated according to how many they possessed. And worst of all, all the kids acted as if they and their school were superior to all others.
All the wealthy girls belonged to one clique or another. The Jewish girls wore soberer clothes than the Christian ones, and they were allowed to be smart and get good grades. If you were a Christian and got good grades, you were a little suspect, and likely to be classified as a drip. But both cliques contained some girls who were not wealthy, but who had some special trait—charm, lovableness, or very good looks. Any girl who was popular with boys could be in a clique except the tramps; you knew (how?) that the boys took the tramps out, but they never spoke to them openly or took them to school functions. But when Anastasia came to know the tramps, she found them the sweetest of any of the girls. They were invariably poor, and came often from homes where they were abused. They were in some way more grown up than the other girls. They seemed a little sad, but very kind, generous. One of the tramps, a girl named Sally, would ask Anastasia to come home with her almost every afternoon. She seemed very sophisticated to Anastasia. She lived on the wrong side of town, in a tiny house. There was never anyone home, and Sally seemed to tiptoe through the small shabby rooms. She’d get two Cokes from the fridge, then take Anastasia up to her room, and they would sit beside the dormer window that lighted it, and talk. But Anastasia never had anything to say, she would mainly listen, and Sally just talked desultorily. She didn’t say much, but she hinted at things. Anastasia was silenced by what she felt as something tragic in Sally or her life. After a few weeks, she stopped going. Sally didn’t reproach her, and always smiled when she saw her afterward.
In her two years at the high school, Anastasia became friendly with a few members of each group, but she was never an insider, and always felt that. At the time, and even later, she did not comprehend what made one an insider. Wherever she was, whatever she did—whether she was going to the movies and out for a Coke with a group of the “drips,” or sitting in her own backyard with one of the “tramps,” or providing company for one of the Christian clique as she baby-sat, or working on the school newspaper with one of the Jewish clique—she felt she was wrong, outside, and must tread with care.
It was in the two years she spent in this unhappy environment that Anastasia formed, not her character, but her persona. She determined not to be trapped by their categories, and violated them all. She had no money for clothes, so dressed simply, like the “drips”; but she wore her hair wild, and smoked with the boys in the parking lot at lunch hour. Even the “tramps” didn’t do that. She got good enough grades to be respected by the Jewish clique, but argued and contested with her teachers in class. She told everyone she was going to be an artist, and treated the shabby art classes with contempt. She wrote a term paper arguing that “miscegenation” was perfectly all right, and paraded the B her shocked and horrified teacher had been forced to award her. She joined a campaign started by a boy in her class, to survey the black—then called colored—part of town and find out why there was only one black child in the high school, Alice Boston, who was wary and timid, and spoke to no one. Where were all the others? Rockville Centre had a large black neighborhood, drawn there by their work as servants in the richer houses. She wrote a little story about her childhood that was published in the school newspaper (this high school had no magazine). She described a black family moving into their block in South Ozone Park. They were apparently placed there by the Welfare Department—the house had been empty for a long time. The family had two children, and Belle had insisted that Anastasia and Joy go down to their house and knock on the door and ask if the children could come out to play. Joy was perfectly willing, but shy Anastasia had to be prodded. Belle explained that because they were black, many people disliked them, and none of the other children would play with them. This persuaded Anastasia, and down the two sisters went. A worn, thin, still-young light brown woman came to the door and opened it a crack. The children, together, piped their request. The woman said abruptly that her children could not come out. She closed the door.
A month later, the family disappeared.
This seemingly pointless story—for Anastasia had not made any point, had not felt up to writing about black fear of whites—won her no friends in her new school, except for one teacher, Mrs. Sherman, who taught English and was, Anastasia thought, the most intelligent of the teachers. The story accomplished one thing: it consolidated Anastasia’s position as an outsider.
Belle did not notice Anastasia reeling from the shock of this new environment. The child was out all the time, she had friends, her grades were all right, if not superb, as they had been before. And Joy seemed truly happy, having to walk only a few blocks to the pretty Hewlett school, and having almost immediately been embraced by its sixth-grade clique. Belle herself was consumed with worry and plans.
To buy the house, they had had to sell both Ed’s small insurance policies, and the policies she’d taken for the girls’ education. She asked Anastasia’s permission to sell hers, which was fervently granted. Anastasia had always hated the neighborhood they lived in; she was eager to move. They were fortunate that the builder of the house, a man who appeared as solid and honest as the houses he built, had agreed to hold the mortgage on it. This meant they could pay only the interest, which came to about as much as they had paid in rent in the old house. But now Belle could not work in Gertz anymore. Travel there and back would be so expensive and time-consuming as to devour most of her wages. And she could not work on Long Island unless she could drive.
She asked Ed to give her driving lessons, and she got her license, but she never felt safe driving a car, and she drove slowly and uncertainly. She tried to drive only locally: like all the other ladies in the neighborhood, she went with her husband to the station every morning and drove the car back, then drove to the station in the evening to meet him. She drove to the supermarkets, the dry cleaners, and occasionally, dared the longer drive to Hempstead or Garden City, where the department stores were. She remained terrified to drive on the parkway, and for several years did not try.
She knew she should get another job. She was thrilled with her nice house, but it needed furniture badly. She couldn’t even afford to buy curtains for all the windows. She had made the small side room off the living room her “porch.” It had five windows, so was bright, and was too small for most uses. It was the room in which—after the kitchen—she spent most of her time. The people who had lived in the house before them had left a nice little breakfast set in the breakfast nook, and someday when Ed had time, she would have him repaint it. But that allowed her to put their old kitchen table and chairs in the dining room. Ed had already painted them grey, and she had bought a cheap blue-grey rug for the room, but it still looked empty. So she had him paint Momma’s old sewing machine cabinet grey, and she set it against the wall like a buffet.
But the living room was her pride. It was true, she had no end tables, no tables of any sort, but there were the fine Queen Anne couch and chair, and the high-backed chair with the wooden arms; there was the old imitation Persian rug; and there was her new piano, a Baldwin baby grand. When Hal Grunbacher was drafted, he urged her to buy a new piano. They were on sale, he said, and were no longer being made since the war. He would help her pick one out. It was a beautiful piano, and everyone said it had wonderful tone. And Hal’s mother Gertrude, who had taught him to play, was now giving the girls their lessons. She drove all the
way from Forest Hills to Rockville Centre, and charged only a dollar and a half for the lessons. Belle knew Mrs. Grunbacher thought Anastasia could be a professional pianist, if only she applied herself more. Still, where would they find the money to back such a career? She knew it took money. Hal had told them Anastasia could be a concert pianist, but that she had to have a special kind of education, spending five hours a day on music. Anastasia had said she didn’t want to. That was all right. A career as a concert pianist was so hard. She played beautifully, which would help her find a man to marry, a big lawyer or a big doctor, someone who could give her a decent life.
The living room also held Sokolowski’s painting in its broad gilt frame, in its place of honor over the couch, where it had hung in every house Belle had ever occupied. Belle knew that many of the houses in this neighborhood were very grand. But she loved this house. She was proud of it. She wished, oh how she wished that Momma could have seen it, that Momma could have seen her in it: My house, Momma. And Momma would have had to say, “Good, Bella.”
But upstairs, there were no rugs, and the furniture was sparse. There was no way they could buy more furniture unless Belle worked. It took everything Ed earned even when he worked overtime just to pay the bills. Still, she did not want to get in the car and drive over to Hempstead to the Franklin Shops and apply for a job as a saleslady. She was forty years old; she had worked all her life; she was tired. She wanted to sit in her lovely home and gaze out at the quiet streets and the trees, and not have to work. She wanted to welcome Gertrude Grunbacher every Thursday, and serve her coffee and cake while they waited for the girls to get home from school. She loved sitting in the garden, such a lovely garden, in the old Adirondack chair, for an hour in the afternoon, sipping iced coffee and smoking. Here she had finally got the house she dreamed of, her, a stupid Polaka from the slums. She wanted to be in it.
They had been in the house only two months when the letter came. The kindhearted builder, who had lowered the price of the house so they could manage the down payment, was now demanding the mortgage be paid up completely. They would have to get an ordinary mortgage from a bank. That would mean they would have to amortize the loan in addition to paying interest. They could not do that. They would lose the house.
A new darkness descended on the household. Joy felt helpless in the face of her mother’s depression, and simply restored her habit of staying out as much as possible. But Anastasia was old enough to be told what the problem was. She too was aghast, not because she loved the house so much or the neighborhood or the school, but because she knew what losing the house would mean to her mother. She offered to do what she could: she took a job at the five-and-ten afternoons and Saturdays, and she told her friends she was available for baby-sitting in the evenings. She began to work steadily, but she knew her working was little help to her mother, for all Belle had been able to give her before was seventy-five cents a week allowance. Still, she could buy Christmas presents for everyone, and maybe some clothes for herself, and she would not have to beg fifty-cent pieces from her mother for the Saturday-night movie. Belle did not seem to notice Anastasia’s efforts; nor did she remember her birthday that year. Not until it was Thanksgiving did she realize that Anastasia’s fifteenth birthday had come and gone. She couldn’t worry about that; she had too much else to worry about.
They obtained a mortgage from Eric’s insurance company, but making the payments was impossible. Belle juggled bills, paying only small sums on the telephone, electric, and oil bills. Dunning notices arrived almost every day from one company or another. Belle was forced to serve paltry meals, which the family ate in a deeper silence even than usual.
Every morning, as she raised the shade in the dining room, and glanced at the house next door, Belle saw a heap of white things through the window. She saw the heaps increase and diminish, disappear and reappear. With her background, she had some idea what they were.
She had met the woman who lived next door, a lovely woman, Ann Gwyn. She and her husband and their twin sons had also moved in recently, and their house was almost identical to the Stevenses’, having been built by the same man. Belle kept an eye out for Mrs. Gwyn, and the next time they were both outside hanging clothes on the line—in this neighborhood, one did not have pulley lines; one had an umbrella-shaped dryer, on which the clothes did not dry as quickly, but which looked neater—she called hello, and walked over, showing herself ready for a chat.
Ann Gwyn was a tall, gaunt, patient-faced woman of great dignity. She had a grave manner, but a deep sweet smile. The two women struck sympathetic chords in each other, recognizing without being told the other’s pride and suffering. Over coffee and a bakery yeast cake, they spoke decorously, softly, intelligently, sympathetically to each other.
After a time, Belle ventured, “Ann…sometimes I’ve noticed white…are they caps?…in your porch. Do you make them?”
Ann blushed. Her husband was an accountant, and made a good salary, but he was close with money. She did not say this. She said her husband’s father owned a million-dollar business selling medical supplies—nurse’s outfits, doctor’s coats, wheelchairs, that sort of thing. And she was permitted to share his wealth. She sewed nurse’s caps and he paid her 10 cents for each one. Of course, he sold them for $1.25. But they didn’t take too long to make. She could earn a few extra dollars every week, and sit at home.
“It gives me a little money of my own,” she explained. “I can buy a few things for the boys. Charles,” she laughed a little, “you know how men are. He doesn’t understand how important the right sweater or a little spending money is to boys their age. High school is such a hard time for children, don’t you think?”
“Of course,” Belle said sympathetically. Then, nervously, “Could I see them?”
“Certainly!” Ann gleamed with pleasure. She had been anxious that Belle might look down on her for this work, for not having money. But then, she had never seen the inside of the Stevenses’ house. She led the way to her porch, through a living room very much like Belle’s. There were four stacks of twenty-five caps each: high puffed organdy with a ruching border. A sewing machine was open, and there were big brown boxes filled with ruching standing on the floor.
“How do you make them?”
Ann was happy to show her. “Well, Dad brings me bolts of organdy and tells me the size he needs. I cut out circles of fabric, using this cardboard as a guide.” She pointed to a stack of cardboard circles labeled with sizes. “Then I cut the ruching to fit the cap, and I sew it, by machine, to the edge of the cap. Then I flute the organdy. You have to do that by hand, it’s a little hard on the fingers because organdy is so stiff. It helps to have long nails, but mine are so soft they break.” She held out her hand. The pad and thumb of her right hand were covered with tiny cuts. “The organdy has sizing in it, and that irritates my fingers. I’ve ruined some caps by getting blood on them. Now I put Band-Aids on my fingers when I do it. That helps. It’s really not hard,” she finished cheerily.
Belle examined a cap, and laid it down slowly. Ann looked at her carefully. “Would you like to do some?” she asked softly.
“Oh, I’d love to!”
“I’m sure Dad would be glad to have you do it. He sells hundreds of these caps every week, and is always looking for women to make them.”
Belle went home elated. She began to plan. She could surely do twenty a day; that was $2. Maybe she could do thirty, or even forty. If she worked every day, that would be $14–$28 a week. She’d been earning only $18 a week at Gertz, and had had expenses—carfare, stockings—a real problem during the war—and she’d had to buy two good black dresses. Doing this, she’d have no expenses at all.
A few days later, old Mr. Gwyn drove up in his Cadillac and rang her bell. He carried two large boxes, one of organdy, the other of ruching. He accepted Belle’s offer of a cup of coffee and some bakery cakes. He was a man in his seventies, portly but manicured, with fine white hair and a satisfied face. He was on his th
ird wife, and lived in a great house on the water in Long Beach. He liked Mrs. Stevens, and was sure she would do good work. Some of the women he’d hired had not. There was a Polack, for instance, who’d lived in Freeport, who had ruined an entire bolt of organdy by cutting it sloppily. Mrs. Stevens was an intelligent lady, he could see that, and would do fine.
Belle did not want her work to be apparent. Anastasia and Joy often brought their friends home, and she did not want them to be embarrassed. So she moved the sewing machine up to her bedroom, and set up shop there. She cut the organdy on the carpeted floor, being very careful not to allow it to get dusty. She would cut a hundred caps at a time. Then she would sew the ruching on. These two steps took her several days. Then she did the fluting. That was the most time-consuming task.
She would get up at seven to drive Ed to the station, return and have coffee and toast and call the girls, who no longer ate breakfast. She would finish her housework by ten, except on washdays. She had the small radio in the bedroom and every morning except Monday, she would go up there and sit and work. It was a light bright room, and she could see out to the street, noticing when Mrs. Brand went out in her car, which was almost as old as Ed’s; noticing that Mrs. O’Neill’s sister was visiting her; and watching Ann Gwyn drive slowly past on her way to market, almost as nervous behind the wheel as Belle herself.
Joy came home for lunch every day, and at quarter of twelve Belle went downstairs to prepare a little meal for her. She would have a scrambled egg and some toast while Joy ate, and listen to the child jabber happily about her little schoolmates. Such a gay little kid she was, so unconscious of Belle’s problems, so happy in her own world. It refreshed Belle to listen to her for twenty minutes. Then she went off again and Belle washed the dishes and returned to her bedroom, her workroom. Once in a while, every couple of weeks, she would call Ann Gwyn and ask her to come over for a cup of coffee or Ann would call her. They’d sit for an hour in the afternoon talking, always decorous, always polite. Belle thought Ann was a very intelligent woman. And in the spring, she came to know her neighbor on the other side, a little. Mildred Bradshaw was much older than Belle, and had been a principal of a school in the Bronx. She had married after her retirement, a man older than she, and lived very comfortably. Mildred too was very intelligent. Belle felt honored by the friendship of these two women.