Barnegat Bay - 21. Chapter 21

Throughout the summer, while Mary, Spence, and I were getting used to having Ann in our lives, and Claire was watching and helping out as much as she could, and the guys and their new and old girlfriends were occasionally tagging along when Larry, Al, and Mike weren’t dancing or sandy and wet, my dad was negotiating for a brownstone.

It was in our area – 81st Street between Amsterdam and Columbus, closer to the Columbus end – and was owned by a woman in her late eighties who’d lived there for almost forty-five years.

“It’s in terrible shape,” my father admitted. “Not from abuse, so much as neglect. It’s never really been converted to electricity – the wires just run in tubes on the walls – and the plumbing isn’t close to modern. She has children and grandchildren, and all sorts of other relatives, but no one wants to live there with her, though they all seem to visit.”

“Is she living alone?” I asked.

“Not completely. One of her great-nieces – a very friendly woman in her forties – is there in the evenings. But Mrs. Morris only uses the street level floor, and Ruth rarely goes upstairs.”

“How many floors?”

The usual – five.”

“Do the women need to leave?”

“No – but it might be better. There’s a family business that supports them all – several generations – I think they manufacture medical equipment. But everyone knows Mrs. Morris should be someplace more comfortable. And no one wants the house.”

“Why aren’t other people grabbing it? It doesn’t sound expensive.”

“It’s not. But everyone wants to divide it into apartments. Small ones – two to a floor – all people can afford these days. And Mrs. Morris is sentimental. She had wonderful years there – and has terrific memories. And she thinks the house should belong to a family.”

“Is that being realistic?”

My father grinned, and I had to ask why.

“She really is lovely. Sharp. Very intelligent. And fairly sophisticated. She came here when she was young – with her new husband, soon after the Civil War. You can still hear the German in her accent. And she still speaks the language – she slips into it whenever she wants to talk privately with Ruth. They think I can’t understand.”

“You don’t speak German.”

“No – but I was raised around it from my grandparents. So I understand. And it overlaps Yiddish, which I know a bit more of.”

“Is the house worth fixing up?”

“I think so. It may take a couple of years, and we may have to do it little by little – floor-by-floor – and do a lot of the work ourselves.”

“I don’t...”

“I know – you don’t have time. Your mother and I have already talked about that.”

“I was going to say I don’t know anything about plumbing or electricity.”

“Or carpentry.”

“I know what little you taught me.”

“And I’m only passable. And this is finish work – not fix-it stuff.”

“Maybe Mac...”

“He doesn’t have the time. It’s amazing he’s so busy. We’re all lucky to have jobs.” He hesitated. “And that’s because we all have businesses – small, but necessary. Besides, Lily and Mac keep saying they’re moving to Long Island.”

Lily’s husband helped to run his family’s restaurant – more of a diner – in Brooklyn. And he felt he could do better on his own, along the expanded train line.

“But what I’ve been thinking,” Dad went on, “and I know you’re not going to like this immediately. But there are families who owe you money. Quite a number of them. And don’t lie about how many because I do your books.”

“I’m not about to...”

“I knew you’d say that – you’re not about to ask them to pay. And they couldn’t anyway, and we know it. But I also know that some of them are tradesmen. Carpenters. Electricians. Plumbers. Painters. And they have occasional work but could always use more. And if they don’t want to do it as a kind of barter, at least, we might get a more reasonable rate.”

“And where are we getting money?”

Dad had to smile at that.

“Well... your mother and I aren’t exactly poor. We’ve always saved her salary – small though it is, compared to all she does. And you, Lily, and Ben haven’t lived home for years, so we don’t have a lot of expenses. You even give us money towards dinners. And it’s not like we go to the opera every night.”

“Once a year would kill you.”

“Once a lifetime.”

I smiled to acknowledge that.

“Still,” he went on, “I’ve invested a little money – more carefully perhaps than most people. And my stocks are down, like everyone else’s. But they’re not worthless, and they’ll come back.”

“When I’m ready to retire...”

“Let’s see what Mr. Roosevelt does.”

I had to grin. My father and mother were often complete optimists.

“Do need my decision now?” I asked, knowing I’d put him off once

“Not really. I know you’ll go along with this anyhow – because it’s best for you – and for Mary and Ann. I’m mostly telling you that I’m about to close on the brownstone. And not soon – but sooner than later – and I certainly hope within a year – we’ll all be moving.”

“Then I’ll just have to adjust to it,” I allowed. “But it’s been a year of changes, and one more will just slip in.”

He nodded.

“How Mom feel about this?” I went on, maybe as a last attempt to stall.

“She thinks it’s a great – a real adventure. Like exploring the west.”

“More like the moon.”

“It’s around the corner.”

“But we’ve never been property owners before – not at our end of the family, in the city. You’ve always told us, ‘There’s safety in renting.’”

“And I’m changing my mind.”

I laughed. “Then I’m in. As you knew I would be.”

“Of course.” He grinned back at me. “You want to see the place? Inside? You’ve probably been walking by it for years.”

“Do I need a gas mask?”

I didn’t, but I should have worn an older suit. Nothing above the street level had been cleaned or dusted for at least a generation. Downstairs, Mrs. Morris lived in the immaculate front room – it was both her bedroom and sitting room – and her great-niece had a twin bed on one side of their dining room/kitchen. Between the rooms was a serviceable bathroom which had been built for the former cook and daytime staff. But it didn’t have a tub, so the women bathed with hot water from a basin.

“Is the house really sound?” my mother asked, as she, Dad, and I explored. Mom had met Mrs. Morris before. “Several times. She’s always served us tea.” But this was the first time Mom had been upstairs. “I wouldn’t go until your father assured me he was serious.”

“We wouldn’t be buying it if it weren’t solid,” Dad promised. “I’ve had it well inspected – three different times. Besides, the house isn’t even fifty years old.”

“The family moved into it new?”

“With their ten children – they’d outgrown their row house in Greenwich Village.” He turned to my mother. “Was it really ten?”

Mom nodded, and Dad went on.

“They came from Hamburg – without kids – right after they were married. It was partly a wedding trip and partly funded by their joined families when no one knew what German unification would mean – especially for the Jews. They were sent to explore whether they could transfer the family business. And they did. And by working hard, they were almost immediately successful. Then they started sending for the others.”

“And having children,” Mom added. “And ten were only the ones who lived.”

“That would keep you working,” Dad joked.

I needed to think. “I wouldn’t have known the building was that recent,” I admitted. “I don’t know enough about this area. It’s always just been here.”

By then, we’d slowly inspected the place, all the way to the top, and were gently holding back a dusty curtain so we could squint out a clouded window. We could barely see across the street. And this curtain was thin. In the rooms below, almost every window had heavy outer curtains, lighter inner ones, and shutters. Nearby, old Victorian wallpaper matched the furniture. Nothing was falling apart or was embarrassing. It was just a museum of dust.

“Quite a job,” Mom said. “Cleaning this up.”

“Yes – another challenge.”

“Which you know I like.”

Fortunately, we had unexpected help. Once Mary, Ann, the gang, and I were back in the city after Barnegat closed up – and since none of the guys had much to do besides look for work – they began to see us more often.

Spence would stop by for a couple of hours, two or three times a week. He’d often be walking back from midtown, on his way to 131st Street where he lived.

“I only save a nickel each way,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t take an hour.”

“How far is it?” I asked. “Five miles?”

“Just about. Eighty-nine blocks from Times Square – twenty to a mile.”

“I don’t walk close to that – no more than a couple miles a day. But I keep crisscrossing the Upper West Side.”

“As long as the weather’s not bad, it’s okay. I’ll go back to the subway in the winter.”

He made it sound like he’d still be looking for work.

“Why don’t you move closer?” Mary suggested. “There’s no reason for you to be near school anymore.”

Spence shrugged. “I’ve been living in the same boarding house for four years, and I know a lot of the people. And the woman who runs it treats me well.”

“That makes sense.”

Spence mainly played with Ann when he was visiting. At nearly six months, that meant largely holding her on his lap and occasionally helping feed or change her.

“Surprised?” he asked, when we noticed his skills. “I learned them for my brothers’ and sisters’ kids.”

“So did I,” Mike admitted, on a day he followed Spence in. But Mike was holding his nose.

One of the guys would often come in with Spence – though not after walking. Mike, Al, and Larry still took the subway, since they were living at home and didn’t have to pay expenses.

“My dad jokes about chipping in,” Al said. “Now that I’m finished with school. But there’s nothing to chip in with. I’m getting by on errands and dimes I get for favors.”

“And bottles little kids miss on the street.”

“It’s strange that people just leave them there, considering the deposits. But it’s no stranger that some people’s lives have barely changed.”

I had to admit that my family was part of that group – both my parents and our relatives on Barnegat. They still had their bakeries.

“That’s one of the reasons we went to Barnegat to start with,” Mike reminded us. “We figured people with summer houses might still have decent businesses and could hire us.”

“No luck, either year.”

“You met us,” Mary pointed out.

“Yeah – but are you ready to start hiring?”

Actually, yes – it turned out my father was. Though that happened indirectly.

“What’s Larry been doing?” Claire asked Mike, one Sunday in early October. “We haven’t seen him for a while.”

Claire was usually with us by Saturday afternoon. Nothing had really happened between her and Al over the summer. She’d stayed friendly but comfortably distant, and he soon realized he was comfortable with his younger girlfriend. Still, Claire was always happy to see the gang.

Saturdays, she and Mary – and Ann – would go shopping or for walks in the park. I still made house calls – this wasn’t the summer – though Sundays, I managed to stay free.

“Larry’s been painting,” Mike told us. We were playing cards. “He’s helping his father and two of his uncles. The third one fell off a ladder and broke his wrist. So he can’t do much. And the grandfathers have retired.”

“That can’t be good,” Mary said.

“No. And his uncle’s as unhappy as Larry – Larry hates to paint. He even hates the smell.”

“I’ll do it for him,” Spence volunteered. “And I’ve told him that already.”

“His uncles wouldn’t feel comfortable. They’re a very tight family.”

“And Larry may hate the work, but he likes the money.”

“All those rich people need their houses painted.”

“Or their apartments.”

“Or their offices.”

“Or their summer homes.”

“Well, anytime they have too much work...” Spence finished.

“Me, too, I suppose,” Mike said, sighing.

Which is how I mentioned it to Dad.

“Do they know how to paint?” he asked.

“At least Larry does. And Spence seemed willing. So he must know something.”

“Would they do other things?”

He was clearly thinking something out.

“Like what? I’ve never heard them talk about carpentry or wiring.”

“But would they move things? Cart away junk? We have this house to clean out,” he said grinning.

“At least, rearrange,” Mom corrected. “You know, we can’t refurnish five floors. And between Mary, Doc, and us, we don’t have enough to furnish two.”

“But we need to get rid of things,” Dad said. “Like all those heavy drapes. And the wallpaper needs to go down to plaster. And the worn rugs... And the trash that’s piled in the basement...”

“Steamer trunks, and suitcases, and outdated clothes.”

“Sounds like a great place for Ann to play,” Mary put in. “If she were older.”

“It’s full of mold,” Dad warned. “And smells like horses.”

“I’ll ask the guys,” I offered. “But it doesn’t sound inviting.”

“How much?” was the first thing Mike wanted to know.

“I’m sure anything that laborers make. ”

“I’ll do it for half,” Spence bid.

“Hey! I didn’t say ‘no,’” Mike jumped in.

“There’s plenty of work for everyone,” I assured them.

“Can we see the place?”

“Sure.”

Mrs Morris and Ruth had recently moved out, and Dad hadn’t done more than repeatedly survey. “Thinking of possibilities,” he told us, over dinners. So on a mid-October Saturday afternoon, he led Mom, Mary, Claire, the gang, and me on his familiar tour. Wisely, we left Ann in the care of neighbors.

“Whew!” Larry admitted at the end. “What a job! The painting alone.”

“It stinks.”

“I warned you.”

“We could be at this for years,

“But would you be interested?” Dad asked carefully.

“If they’re not, I am,” Spence said immediately.

“And anything Spence can do,” Al followed.

“And me,” Mike nearly groaned.

“And someone’s gotta teach them to paint,” Larry put in.

“I already know,” Spence insisted.

“The right way,” Larry joked. “Better than what’s good on a farm.”

We all laughed at that then went outside to try to brush off. Though it seemed the guys would have to get used to the dust. Because it looked like Mom and Dad had a crew.