Good-Bye, Pittsburgh

By Mary Lou Reed

In the years following Americas victory over Germany and Japan, the heady exhilaration of winning the war begins to fade in post-war Pittsburgh. The spewing filth of the steel mills and the stinging aftermath of the war take their toll on the Donatti family. Better jobs await them in California, and the family plans to head west.

Ten-year-old Marianne isnt happy about leaving her home, and she likes it even less when she and her family move into her grandmothers house for six months before heading to California. From the start, Marianne dislikes the new street and the mean kids on it. But at her new school, she finds a kindred spirit with the neighborhood whipping boy, Hurkey Polowski, and the two develop a deep friendship.

Even so, Marianne feels torn between acceptance by the other kids and loyalty to Hurkey. She finds solace with Hurkeys mother, Sophie, who is struggling with her husbands change of character since his return from the war. When tragedy strikes, however, Marianne and Sophie will need each other more than ever before.

A window into post-war America, Good-Bye, Pittsburgh is a moving tale of friendship, loyalty, and shattered dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781462405244

Mary Lou Reed

Mary Lou Reed is a writer and editor living in Torrance, California. Recently retired after twenty-five years as editor of California Diving News, she is a frequent contributor to Guideposts Magazine and other publications. Surrounded by her loving family, including eight grandchildren, Mary Lou keeps busy writing and painting.

Book preview

Prologue

Maria nne Donatti skipped her way up Murtland Avenue to ward the little grocery store around the corner, a dime clutched tightly in her hand. Just a loaf of bread, her mother said. And don’t dawdle, she said. But all Marianne kept thinking about was the bomb that had been dropped on a city in Japan that morning. That must’ve been some bomb. It killed everybody. She stopped skipping and her steps slowed. It was just like everyone in Pittsburgh could be dead. Her parents, her brother and sister, her grandparents—all dead. The thoughts whirled in her head. Some little girl in Hiroshima was probably going to the market to get some milk, or probably tea, or some strange food for her mother, too. And then, she was dead. Marianne thought she should be glad the Japanese were bombed, but she wasn’t glad at all. She didn’t want to think about it anymore and ran the rest of the way to the market.

Earlier that day, Marianne’s father shouted from the living room that President Truman was saying something important on the radio. They gathered around and listened as the president explained that a bomb—an atomic bomb—had been dropped on Hiroshima, Japan. It had to be done to end the war. Although Marianne didn’t understand what the bombing really meant—she had heard about countless other bombings—she knew this one was different by the way her parents reacted. Her mother and father reached out for each other, arms entwined, and just stood there, staring at the radio as the president spoke. When it was over, her mother turned from the radio and bowed her head. Two days later, another bomb was dropped on Nagasaki.

Every day that passed after the bombings found people see-sawing between the hope that the war was over, and the fear that Japan would never give up. People talked of nothing else. Even the kids in the street talked about how much damage twenty thousand tons of TNT could do. They ate dinner and talked; went to work and talked; played and talked and everybody was only a few yards away from a radio.

A few days later Marianne joined her friends, Judy and Iris, on the corner curb. It was late afternoon and already enticing aromas were drifting out of the houses. She couldn’t remember a time when the neighborhood wasn’t bustling with people and cars. Now it was eerily quiet.

Come on, let’s jump rope, Marianne said.

It’s too hot, Iris whined.

Marianne and Judy got up from the curb. It’s never too hot. You don’t want to play because you can’t do Double Dutch.

Marianne was in the middle of her turn when Kenny Monahan almost ran them over with his bike. Hey! Judy screamed at him. Watch where you’re going, you idiot."

If I’m an idiot, you’re a moron, he shot back.

Oh, yeah? Marianne shouted. Well, an idiot is dumber than a moron.

Kenny stuck his tongue out and pedaled away.

Judy took the rope end. Come on, Iris, it’s your turn. They each took turns singing some of their favorite rhymes, finishing with:

Whistle while you work,

Hitler is a jerk,

Mussolini hurt his weenie,

Now it doesn’t work.

They stopped turning the rope after Iris finished, all of them realizing that the words no longer held any meaning. They had jumped to the familiar words and tune for as long as they could remember and now, the words meant nothing. Both Hitler and Mussolini were dead.

Kenny came barreling down the street toward them and at the last minute veered away, slamming on his brakes.

Creep! Iris hollered.

He crossed the street and got off the bike, taking a bottle of pop out of the bike’s handle basket. He also removed some empty tin cans from the basket, stacking them neatly on the curb.

Sitting down, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and slowly drank his Orange Crush, glancing at the girls now and then, when he thought they weren’t looking.

Although Marianne pretended to concentrate hard on jumping rope, she stole glances to see what Kenny was doing. They continued to jump:

In comes the doctor,

      In comes the nurse,

In comes the lady with the alligator

      purse…

Out of the corner of her eye, Marianne noticed that Kenny was tying the tin cans to the back of his bike with some cord. She stopped jumping and stood with her hands on her hips, the same way she had seen her mother do. She thought it looked ever so grown up. What are you supposed to be doing? she yelled. Mimicking their friend, Judy and Iris joined in.

But the boy continued trailing the cans to the end of his bike in a straight line. Finally, he stopped and raised his head. I’m celebrating the end of World War II.

The young girls started to laugh. It’s not over yet, you dummy, shouted Judy.

It’s gonna be, he said, before the day’s over.

Iris laughed. And how do you know? Did the president tell you? The girls began to jump up and down with glee.

He yelled out, You better get ready!

Then, he went too far. Within the hour, he said. You watch. And with that, he got on his bike and rode up towards Hamilton Avenue.

Marianne looked after him. He’s so silly, she said, watching as he disappeared around the corner. They continued jumping, this time jumping Double Dutch with the second rope.

Spanish dancer, Spanish dancer, do the splits,

Spanish dancer, Spanish dancer, dance like this.

They had been playing no more than fifteen minutes when fat Mrs. Levi ran onto her front porch and leaned over the railing, ringing a cowbell and screaming at the top of her lungs. The more she screamed, the more she leaned. Marianne was afraid she was going to topple over the rail. Almost at the same time, Marianne’s grandmother came rushing onto her front porch, followed by her uncles, aunts and parents.

The young girls looked on in surprise as people spilled out of the houses and into the street. Marianne’s mother bounded down the steps, laughing and crying at the same time. Dark lines of mascara streaked her cheeks, as she sniffled and hugged her. Honey, the war is over! she shouted. The president just announced it over the radio.

People ran up and down the street ringing a bell or banging pots and pans together. Many of them began decorating their cars with toilet paper before getting in and roaring off, their horns blaring, the paper flapping wildly as they screeched around the corner and out of sight. Some jumped up and down, as if they didn’t know what else to do. Many hugged and kissed anyone they saw.

Marianne had never before seen grown-ups act this way. She and her friends watched the commotion with their mouths open. Suddenly, she wanted to be a part of it. She motioned to her friends. C’mon! They dashed into the house, yelling and screaming.

While they rummaged around in the kitchen looking for anything that would make noise, Marianne could hear the voice of President Truman as he droned on with facts and figures about things she didn’t care about. It made her feel funny to hear the long-awaited words echo through an empty house. But the important words had already been said. The war was over.

She ran into the bathroom and grabbed two rolls of toilet paper, shoving one at Judy. Here—Mum’s going to kill me, but I don’t care. By the time they emerged from the house, the street was packed with people celebrating.

One older man had a bottle of champagne, and he was handing out paper cups. I’ve been saving this bottle since the start of the war, he said as he filled them. Marianne knew he lived alone at one end of the street. She took the cup from him, smiled and sipped the strange tasting liquid. The bubbles tickled her nose. Peace, he said to her.

Marianne smiled at him. Peace, she said, feeling quite adult. She turned to see shocked expressions on her friends’ faces. Here, she said, shoving the paper cup in their direction. Have a drink.

She was always allowed watered-down wine during the holidays, so alcohol was not new to her. But champagne was another matter. This was a drink that she was sure she would never have again until she was a grown-up.

Judy giggled as she took the cup. She raised it to her mouth, took a drink and handed it to Iris. After Iris polished it off, she turned it upside down. All gone, she said, laughing. Then she tossed it on the ground and crushed it under her heel. Mazeltov! she said gleefully.

Do you feel anything? Judy yelled to Marianne above the din.

Don’t be silly, Marianne said. It was only a sip.

Well, I feel something, Judy said.

Me, too, said Iris. I can feel the bubbles in my toes.

They trailed toilet paper behind them and rang their bells as they ran up and down the street. Marianne was watching the toilet paper fluttering behind her when she turned the corner on Hamilton Avenue and was almost run over by Kenny on his bicycle.

He screeched to a halt. He got off, and with a triumphant smile on his face, walked over to Marianne. See, he said, pointing to the tin cans still trailing the bicycle. I was right.

Marianne didn’t answer. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

I was right, he pressed, wasn’t I?

Then, so quickly it took her breath away he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. Without a backward glance, he got on his bicycle and rode off. Unfortunately, for Marianne, the act was not lost on her friends. They saw it. But as they teased her, and she saw everyone else kissing in celebration, she knew that she celebrated the end of the war in a way she would never forget.

She was only eight years old, but she could say she had already had her first taste of champagne. She had also had her first kiss.

Chapter One

Pittsburgh — 1947

Danbury Street began in the heart of the gritty, smoky city. No sunlight reached the sidewalks, filled with scurrying pedestrians, lying deep in the bottom of the concrete chasm. The looming skyscrapers, blackened from years of soot from the steel mills, stood guard over the street as it began its journey out of the inner city.

The street passed old movie houses where unsmiling young girls sat, snapping their gum and swinging their saddle shoes, as they punched out tickets under the glittering marquees; past gothic-style churches and old brick structures that changed their store fronts with each generation; past old city landmarks emblazoned with the names of Carnegie or Duquesne; past the ten-acre city park where young mothers strolled the paths, leisurely pushing their baby buggies; and past the storage barns housing the familiar orange-and-white electric streetcars.

Leaving the noisy downtown district, the street continued past the Cathedral of Learning and the verdant serenity of the university campus. Old weathered clapboard and insul-brick houses gave way to stately homes with large, manicured lawns fronted by wide avenues. Traffic noises softened as the street curved past St. Bernard’s, where the statue of the Madonna, her arms outstretched, nestled in the shadow of the pinnacled tower; and past Emerson Elementary, where sweating seventh-grade boys stopped their play on the basketball court to ogle the local school belle as she strutted by.

The street came to an intersection in a quiet residential area, and then began a slow, downhill descent. It came to a dead stop at the bottom of a twelve-foot high dirt embankment. At the top of the embankment, four chestnut trees, two on each side, towered over the dead-end street. Behind the trees, an iron-grill fence rose from a low stonewall where a curved gap, created by generations of children squeezing through the bars, was clearly evident on the far left end. It was here that Danbury Street completed its journey, with the previous tenants of the city on the other side of the iron-grill fence in their final resting place—Franklin Heights Cemetery.

Summer

Marianne slouched over, elbows on her knees, hands under her chin, as she sat on the front porch steps of the three-story house, two doors down from the iron-grill fence of the cemetery. The air was stifling. Although it was early morning, beads of perspiration had already formed on her forehead and upper lip. The weight of the heat matched her mood as she watched two moving men struggle with her bureau dresser up the ten steps to the porch.

When they reached the top, the older of the two lowered the bureau down with a grunt, jerked a dirty handkerchief out of his back overalls pocket and wiped his sweating face. He shot a disgusted look at his young partner. We’ll never make that other pick-up by two if you don’t move your stupid butt faster. Glancing over at Marianne, the young man’s face flushed as he picked up the bureau. But Marianne didn’t care. She was sure she would never care about anything again.

Marianne! The sound of her name washed over her like cold water. Marianne looked up to see her mother step out onto the porch. Brushing by the men, Beth Donatti stooped down and put her arm around Marianne’s shoulders. Come on, Dear. Your father’s gone to the store with your brother and sister to pick up some lunchmeat. When they get back we’ll have lunch. In the meantime, I’ll let you organize your room yourself. Beth gently brushed the light brown hair away from her daughter’s eyes, waiting for some response.

Marianne rolled her eyes. My room? Some room—in the kitchen. I hate it here.

Beth rested her cheek against Marianne’s. It’s not as if it’s a strange house. It’s Nonna’s house, your grandmother’s. You’ve always loved it. She looked into Marianne’s face. It won’t be long— just six months. As soon as we sell it, we’ll be leaving for California. Can’t you concentrate on that?

Marianne stared down at her lap. "But it isn’t the same. Nonna’s not here. My cousins are gone. And you said we’re going to have to rent the second and third floors out—to strangers. I don’t see why we couldn’t have stayed at our old house."

When she looked up again she noticed, not without some guilt, the sadness in her mother’s eyes. All right, Mum, she said softly. I know. It won’t be for long.

Marianne stood up and clomped into the house, catching up to the movers in the hallway. Squeezing by them, she motioned with her finger. Follow me, she said, trying to sound more adult than her ten years.

Marianne led them through the formal dining room, past the swinging door into the kitchen. Her mother was right; in spite of everything, Marianne loved the old family house. If she did have to move, the thought of living here was some consolation. But she would never admit it to her mother.

She stood in the kitchen while the moving men huffed toward her with their load. Even though all doors and windows in the house were open, it was like an oven in the room, and a squeaking turning fan on the sink did little to cool the heat.

The men entered the kitchen as she pointed to a spot by the pantry. Over there, she said.

The older man stopped short, causing the younger partner to almost drop his end of the bureau. This is bedroom furniture, he said. You sure your mother wants it in the kitchen?

Positive. She stood with arms akimbo, trying to look authoritative. This is my room.

The older man smiled. Whatever you say, little lady. The two men shuffled over, lowered the piece of furniture down with a thunk and left without saying another word.

Marianne stared at the familiar bureau, running her hands over the smooth mahogany finish. She glanced over at the embroidered red and green Chinese room divider propped against the wall. With some difficulty, she slid it over to the bureau and fanned it out. Then she stood back and studied it. Folding the panels back and forth, she tried for a better look. At least it would give her privacy, she thought. And the kitchen was certainly large enough to be two big rooms. She began to feel better. So what if this wasn’t a real bedroom? At least it was hers—and she didn’t have to share it with her brother or sister. Besides, when she got to California, she’d have her very own bedroom, one with palm trees right outside the window.

Marianne opened a door beside the pantry and peered up into the darkness. Although her mother’s side of the family didn’t move into the house until the thirties, her grandmother used to tell stories about how rich people had built this house at the turn of the century. A hidden set of stairs winding up through the center of the house was used by servants to make sure the help was never seen on the main staircase. Marianne flicked the light switch on and off, but the darkness remained. How these stairs used to terrify her as a four-year-old! Memories of her cousins scurrying throughout the vast house hiding in all the deliciously dark places flooded her mind.

She closed the door and walked back to the kitchen sink. To the left of the sink was the dumbwaiter, no longer in use. She pulled up on the handle, and the door slid open. Looking inside the dusty, empty cupboard, she remembered the day she had hid inside it during a game of hide-and-seek. She seemed to wait an eternity, hearing sounds of running footsteps, squealing and muffled whisperings, before the door was finally opened to the widened eyes of her cousins. Marianne used to imagine what it must have been like in the old days, when maids sent steaming breakfasts on silver trays up to the second and third floors. Now the house had separate kitchens and bathrooms on each floor.

With a sigh, Marianne slid the dumbwaiter door shut. She turned around and looked at the mess in the kitchen. Boxes, each with her mother’s distinctive handwriting marking its proper room, were stacked on the table, floor, and kitchen counters. Trying hard to shake her mood, she began pulling the dishware out, stacking the pieces on the counter by the sink. Halfway through the box, Marianne came across the teacup her grandmother gave her the day the rest of the family left for California, two months before. The dainty white tea set, trimmed in pink and gold, had sat on the second shelf of her grandmother’s china closet for as long as she could remember. Then one day, her grandmother set the cup and saucer before Marianne and invited her to have tea. She was only four years old. Later, she found out that the tea wasn’t tea at all, but milk sweetened with a little sugar.

Now Marianne rummaged around in the box and found the matching saucer. Cradling the set in her hands, she envisioned her Nonna, white hair pulled back in a bun, blue eyes sparkling, as they sat at the big family table, sipping their tea. Tears sprang to her eyes and she set the cup and saucer down on the kitchen table, out of harm’s way. She returned to unloading the boxes until the entire counter was stacked high with plates and saucers.

Oh, honey, her mother said, obviously pleased by Marianne’s efforts as she entered the kitchen. My, you’re such a big help. What would I do without you? She opened the cupboards over the sink. Here, you can start putting the dishes on this shelf—the cups, here—pots and pans, here. She indicated areas to Marianne. My, we’ll have this place ship-shape in no time. Your father should be back soon. I’m getting hungry. Are you hungry?

Marianne knew that her mother was chattering on, trying to make things better. Honestly, thought Marianne, parents must think children are stupid. Occasionally, she felt the need to blurt out her age, simply to remind her mother that she was not a little kid, like Jimmy or Angie. Her mother was more understanding than most, but lately Marianne began to think adults treated children like idiots most of the time. She looked forward to the day when she, herself, would be grown-up. And she would remember not to talk down to children.

Marianne and her mother were putting away the last of the pots and pans when her father, brother and sister trooped into the kitchen loaded down with milk, bread, lunchmeat and Grapette pop, Marianne’s all-time favorite drink. Marianne brightened. Things were looking up.

Although her mother wanted the family to eat together in the kitchen, Marianne took her sandwich and grape pop out onto the back porch, banging the screen door nosily. Sitting on the top stoop, she propped her drink between her legs and bit into her sandwich.

Hi, Marianne. Marianne lifted her head in the direction of the soft voice. A girl, about eleven, was standing in the back alley peering over their backyard fence. Marianne didn’t recognize her at first. She shaded her eyes and then caught the glint of red hair. She smiled and lifted her hand in a small wave. Hi, Vicky.

Vicky unlatched the back gate and entered the yard. I was visiting a friend two doors down and saw the moving van. All moved in?

Marianne nodded. Pretty much. She nibbled at her sandwich, picking delicately around the crust. She hated to eat in front of people. She had watched herself chew in the mirror once, and she thought of a camel, the way her jaw worked as she ate. She didn’t think other people looked quite as bad, so she was always careful to chew slowly, taking little bites.

Vicky smiled, but instead of sitting next to her, she reached up to one of the horizontal bars on the iron fence next to the porch walkway, pulling herself up. She nonchalantly swung back and forth as she talked. I’m glad you’ve moved here. I heard your mother telling a neighbor it won’t be for long though—maybe a year.

Marianne’s heart tightened. Oh no, she said quickly. Only six months.

Vicky frowned. Six months. Boy, you won’t be able to get a dog or a cat or anything.

Having a pet was the last of Marianne’s worries. I’ll wait till I get to California.

They have earthquakes in California, you know, Vicky said, continuing to swing back and forth on the bars.

I know. I don’t care.

Well, you should. My father used to say they were going to have a big shaker one of these days.

Marianne sipped her Grapette, while Vicky talked. She remembered Vicky occasionally coming over from her house across the street and playing with her and her cousins. The thing she remembered most was that her father had been killed in the war. Marianne’s mother said to be especially nice to her because she didn’t have a Daddy, and she didn’t have any brothers or sisters. But it wasn’t easy because she was so bossy. Still, Marianne liked her anyway, because Vicky was everything she was not. Vicky had red hair, but insisted it was strawberry blonde and got mad at anyone who said it was anything else. She wore it in a soft shoulder-length pageboy. Not a hair was ever out of place, unlike Marianne’s hair, which always seemed to hang in disorderly tangles, even after being combed. Vicky had blue eyes, a turned-up nose and perfect teeth, while Marianne had brown eyes that were bordering on black, a nose that had a small bump in it, and two front teeth that just begged for braces. To make matters worse, Vicky had dimples that flashed when she smiled. Marianne often thought that God overloaded all the good stuff onto some people at the expense of others.

Are you going to go to St. Bernard’s or Emerson? Vicky asked, jumping down from the bars.

St. Bernard’s. My mother wants me to stay in Catholic school. Marianne sighed and picked at the last of her sandwich. But I’ll sure miss Holy Spirit.

Vicky winced. Holy Spirit? That’s a dumb school. You should be glad to go to St. Bernard’s. It’s ever so much better. And it’s in a better neighborhood. Vicky sat down next to her on the porch step. Don’t you think?

Marianne was surprised at the statement. She never thought of her school as not being as good as another school, nor one part of the city being better than another part of the city. She liked the kids in her old school and in her old neighborhood. Her sandwich, half-eaten, no longer appealed to her. Her head was beginning to ache.

The screen-door opened quietly and two pairs of eyes peered out at them. Marianne’s little brother and sister slowly stepped out onto the porch, staring. Marianne always considered their entrance an intrusion into her life. Being four years older than her brother and eight years older than her sister, she was often left with the unhappy duty of either watching them or having them tag along when she went somewhere. She loved them, but they were a nuisance. In a way, she envied Vicky for not having any brothers and sisters.

Hi, I remember you guys, Vicky said, tickling Angie’s stomach. You were just a baby the last time I saw you. You’re such a big girl now. Angie giggled and sidled up to Vicky. Jimmy wandered off, more concerned with finding bugs in the backyard.

So what grade will you be in, Marianne? Vicky asked.

I’ll be in sixth grade, she said proudly.

Vicky’s eyes widened. You’re kidding. I thought you’d be in seventh by now.

Marianne’s expression fell. Sixth grade is right for my age, she said, hesitating for a moment. Isn’t it?

Vicky didn’t answer. She picked Angie up, sat her in her lap, and bounced her up and down on her knees. Angie giggled and turned pink.

Marianne felt like she was being ignored. Finally, Vicky said, I’m teasing. In fact, you and I’ll be in the same grade.

Oh, really? Well, I think that’s—

Of course, Vicky cut her off, that may not be too good—for us, that is. We’re probably going to have Sister Zita.

What’s she like?

She’s a horror! Vicky said, continuing to bounce Angie, who by now had stopped smiling and had an odd look on her face. "She’ll wrap your knuckles if she has a mind to. She gives tons of homework. She doesn’t allow talking in class, and I mean no talking, and she’ll flunk you in a minute. Why, she flunked half her class last year. She’s the only sister who isn’t nice, so you better say a prayer we don’t get her. Better yet, say a novena."

Marianne’s head felt like it would burst, and her stomach knotted. All she wanted to do was lie down.

Vicky set Angie down and stood up. Marianne’s eyes widened to see a big, dark stain blotting the front of Vicky’s sundress. She put her hand to her mouth, staring at it.

Vicky looked down in the direction of Marianne’s gaze. Oh jeez! She fanned out the folds in the skirt. This is my best sundress—my best! Her voice startled Angie, who began to cry. She continued to stare at the dark spot as if hoping it would disappear. It’s positively ruined.

Marianne didn’t know what to do. Angie ran into the house, crying. Marianne finally found her voice. Gosh, Vicky, I’m sorry. Angie still wets sometimes…when she’s excited. She stood up. Put it to wash right away. It’ll come out, I hope. Her voice trailed off.

Vicky flounced down the porch steps. It better! she shouted over her shoulder. Otherwise, you owe me one sundress, and it cost a lot. She disappeared between the two houses.

Jimmy came running up to Marianne and thrust a bug in her face. Look! he said, barely able to contain his excitement. A praying mantis. Marianne glanced at the squirming insect pinned in his grimy fist, then burst into tears. Jimmy walked away, a puzzled look on his face, but not before Marianne heard him mutter, Sissy.

That night, before bedtime, Marianne quietly crept up the front staircase to the second and third floors, which were once home to her aunts, uncles and cousins. She shuddered to think strangers would soon occupy them.

She switched on the light in the hallway of the third floor and went into the living room overlooking Danbury Street. The air in the darkened room was stifling. She opened a window and rested her head on the sill, hoping for any night breezes, however warm, that drifted in from the rivers. From her vantage point, she had a good view of the street below and the cemetery beyond the dead-end. The moon was so bright the tombstones and statues cast strange and eerie shadows onto the hills of the cemetery.

Suddenly she noticed a movement. Something white was moving between the tombstones. Then it disappeared. She strained her eyes to see it again. She waited, trying not to blink for fear of missing it. There it was again. Something white, something shapeless, appearing and disappearing behind the tombstones. And then it was gone. Marianne waited for five minutes, looking out at the moonlit hillside for more movement. At first, she was just curious, but as the seconds ticked by, she became uneasy. The room seemed to get darker, the cemetery, more scary. Her heart beating fast, she rose quickly and went out into the lighted hallway.

She went to bed that night without saying a word to anyone about what she had seen. As she fell asleep, her dreamlike thoughts were of the cemetery, oddly mixed in with Vicky’s warnings about the horrible Sister Zita.

Chapter Two

Sophie Polowski watched as her new neighbors moved into the house next door to her. Throughout the day, she paused to look out her dining room window as the movers carried the Donatti family possessions into the house. Although she only knew Beth Donatti slightly because of her weekend visits with her mother, Sophie found an instant rapport with her. Beth had a face that made you feel good when she smiled—one that strangers could approach comfortably. Although Sophie yearned to have that kind of face, she knew she didn’t. Her own appearance was austere, punctuated by her severe hair-do, a dishwater blond straight-cut, parted on the side and falling slightly below her ears. No curls, no bangs, no fluffy softness surrounded her face. She had tried different hairstyles over the years but always returned to what was comfortable to her. She permitted only a slight touch of lipstick, which only emphasized her paleness even further. Unlike Beth, smiling didn’t come easily to her either, which didn’t help.

Sophie heard a noise in the hallway and looked up to see her husband, Sam, enter the kitchen. He was already dressed for work.

I don’t like these late shifts, he said, more to himself than to her.

Sophie poured him a cup of coffee and turned the heat on under the frying pan to cook bacon for Sam’s breakfast. I love it. Ever since you went on days, I feel there’s some order to our lives.

He yawned and picked up the morning paper. The day’s half gone.

That’s what you get for being a supervisor. You get to—as you call it—sleep in.

Sam didn’t look up. Very funny, he said, opening the newspaper.

How many eggs? Two—three?

Two. Where’s Howie?

She pushed the sizzling bacon around in the frying pan. Gone. He was out the door before seven this morning. Didn’t even eat breakfast. That boy… I told him he’s got to eat better to get his strength back. God knows what he does out of my sight. He worries me so.

Sam looked up and turned to another part of the paper. She could tell by the way he turned the page he was rankled. You’re too protective. You’re going to turn him into a pansy.

The doctor said that Rheumatic Fever is nothing to fool around with. Howie’s supposed to take it easy for a good year. Sophie got out two eggs from the refrigerator, then peeked at Sam around the open door. And I don’t baby him. I’m only doing what the doctor ordered. She slammed the door. You might help to remind Howie to take it easy, too, you know.

She put two slices of white bread into the toaster, glancing at Sam for a reaction, but he had disappeared behind the paper. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of the sizzling bacon.

Sophie folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the paper. "Sam, I read in the paper the ballet’s in town—at the Syria Mosque. I was thinking. We haven’t been out in ages. We could go out to a nice dinner, then see Giselle. It’s always been my favorite. When he didn’t answer, she said loudly, Sam, did you hear me?"

I heard.

Sophie lifted the bacon out of the pan, put it on a plate, and broke two eggs into the hot grease. We never go out anymore. It’d be fun to get out again. If not the ballet, let’s go to a movie. You pick it.

He turned the page. We’ll see. Let’s talk about it later.

Sophie picked up the spatula and splashed hot grease onto the eggs, waiting for the egg whites to set, just the way Sam liked them. "If not a show, then let’s go out and do something."

He looked up, his eyes narrowed in concentration. I said I don’t want to discuss it right now.

She knew what that meant. The subject was closed.

After Sam left for work, Sophie picked up her coffee cup from the breakfast table and walked over to the dining room window. She lifted the Priscilla curtains, peering out at the three-story house next door, which seemed to be resting from the previous day’s hubbub of activity. She thought of the times Beth had visited her family on the weekends. It was absolute chaos, with children pouring out of every door and window of the house, running, screaming and playing. Adult conversations were conducted in a voice level two or three octaves higher than normal, and the whole house seemed to shake. This was in marked contrast to her own household, which was subdued most of the time.

I’ll bake them some chocolate chip cookies, Sophie thought, as she went back into the kitchen. If it ever cools down, she muttered to herself. She couldn’t bear the thought of turning on the oven in the sweltering heat.

Sophie flicked on the small, white radio on the kitchen counter. Grabbing a notepad and pencil from the top of the refrigerator, she poured herself her fourth cup of coffee of the morning and sat down at the kitchen table. As she scribbled down her chores for the week, the news announcer’s somber voice flooded the kitchen.

"Since President Truman enunciated his Anti-Communist Doctrine in March, diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union continues to be strained. With communism on the march in Hungary, Poland, Romania and Yugoslavia, Truman sees no future for establishing further talks until Russia ceases their communist expansion…"

Sophie chewed on her pencil as she half-listened to the news and wrote her list for the week: Finish wallpapering bathroom, cookies for new neighbors, call Madge for lunch, Boy Scouts for Howie.

She laid the list aside, then lit a cigarette with the lighter Sam had given her when he returned from the war. He had purchased it in Rome and she treasured it. The delicate black case had small forget-me-nots bordering a silver scroll. She stared at the engraving: To my Sophie—Love forever, Sam

Memories of seeing him for the first time after a three-year absence came flooding back. Her eyes filled with tears, as she remembered seeing him standing in the doorway in his army uniform, looking tired, a half-smile on his lips, his knapsack at his side. The engraving on the lighter blurred until she could no longer see. Then she swiped quickly at the tears that splashed onto her cheeks. She got up quickly, leaving the burning cigarette in the ashtray. She turned up the volume dial on the radio, trying to drown out her thoughts and feelings.

"The engagement of the former Lt. Philip Mountbatten, twenty-six, former prince of Greece and Princess Elizabeth Mary Windsor, twenty-one, presumptive heiress to the British throne, was announced by King George VI and Queen Elizabeth in London."

Sophie carried the breakfast dishes over to the sink and ran the water into the basin. Although it was still early morning, she knew it was going to be another scorcher. The heat had already infiltrated the kitchen, but she planned to have most of her housework done before the day got too hot. She washed each dish, cup and piece of silverware thoroughly, putting them to drain on a towel on the sink, cocking her ear toward the radio whenever something of interest caught her attention. The cigarette had burned all the way down by the time she returned to it. She stamped it out and lit another one. She took out the broom and began to sweep the kitchen floor.

As she swept, her thoughts wandered to that morning’s conversation with Sam. While ballet was not something he relished, he used to occasionally surprise her with tickets. Now, she couldn’t remember the last time they’d been out to dinner, let alone those lovely elegant evenings at the Mosque, watching Swan Lake or Giselle.

She put away the broom and dustpan into the broom closet and grabbed the furniture polish and dusting rag. Monday was washday, Tuesday, ironing, today—Wednesday—heavy cleaning day. Walking into their formal dining room, she removed the fruit bowl and doily from the center of the cherry wood table, and put them on the matching hutch. She poured a little pool of furniture polish onto the table, and began polishing, in nice, even strokes. It was while she was doing housework that thoughts of moving to a smaller home nagged at her. It would certainly be easier on her. After all, there were only three of them. But Sam wouldn’t hear of moving. This was his father’s house and his father’s before him, and Sophie knew that keeping it in apple-pie order was an unspoken demand.

She finished the tabletop and started on the chairs. Sophie took great pride that her home was always visitor ready. The trouble was they had very few visitors. Still, if she didn’t have the house and her son to keep her busy, she thought she’d go mad. She tried to push such thoughts from her mind, but they always centered on how different her life had become since she, as well as her friends, turned over their jobs to the returning servicemen. At first, she was relieved. The future was bright. They were a family again. And if Sam hadn’t begun