Barnegat Bay - 17. Chapter 17

So when did Mary get to see what I looked like without my bathing suit? When did I finally satisfy the curiosity of the woman who was steadily becoming my closest friend? I knew I wasn’t her closest. That was Claire and possibly always would be. But even as I was trying to pretend I was convincingly married, I was slowly becoming use to the idea of it being real. But with Claire.

Still, there was a night when Mary accidentally came out of the bedroom just as I was putting on my pajamas. Normally, I went to the bathroom to change. But that night, I was sure she was asleep, and I’d read too late, trying to figure out a operation I really didn’t understand. And I was tired and pulled off my clothes just as she walked into the living room, heading to the kitchen for a fresh glass of water.

We both laughed. Immediately.

“So much for that,” I offered.

“Don’t make it a habit,” she joked. And politely turned away.

What was I supposed to say next? “Disappointed?”

Though if she had no effect on my personal life, I had as little on hers. I didn’t even know much about it. As her doctor, I might have asked questions. But I avoided that, even with patients I knew less well. There were indirect ways to learn the same things.

I didn’t even know if Spence was the first man she’d had sex with. There was always flirting, and Mary had that small apartment above her aunt’s store. I’d never been in it but knew the store had a delivery entrance off its back alley, and I suspected there was a – possibly dark – flight of stairs leading upward. Still, Spence might not have been the first guy to use those stairs, and he may not have even been the first that summer. Mary seemed so innocent that almost no one connected that kind of interest with her. And while Claire might know otherwise, I wouldn’t pry.

Also, I’d barely been alone with Claire since just before Niagara Falls. A few minutes here or there when she was visiting with us or when we were all in Toms River, seeing Mary’s family. Or on Barnegat. But there was so much to plan about Mary that Claire and I simply trusted our relationship. And I always felt in touch with her, even if it was through Mary.

I didn’t wonder if Claire had been with other men. That was almost part of going to college. “Those Ivy League boys,” she’d joke.

“And Holyoke girls?” I’d kid back.

“They’re more cautious than Smith’s.” Then she’d smile. “Not that it would matter – to a man with his own yacht.”

“Luxurious beyond description.”

“It only takes a cot.”

“Berth.”

And we’d laugh again.

Of course, the one night we’d spent together, we were a little drunk. And giddy past understanding what we were about to start.

“You really think we can do this?” she asked.

“Yes – with Mary. We’re all bright.”

“We’ll see.”

But the point was that we were doing this. Mary wrote Claire almost every day, Claire wrote back, we all saw each other nearly every weekend, and the two of them occasionally talked on the telephone. That was an extravagance, considering the distance, but it sometimes seemed important.

Mary let me read her letters. Then Claire’s. And we all used each other for ideas, which worked out fine. So it’s not like anything changed on the night without my pajamas. It was just another point reached with a nod. It went along with our hand-holding, and touching in front of my parents. And the occasional kiss and looks of pretend affection. And if there were any thoughts either of us had beyond that – of the comfort we seemed to manage so easily and almost naturally fell into – they never showed.

Meanwhile, Claire was keeping herself busy with the lumber yards. She was helped by her brothers, who – as with Claire at college – were becoming more interested in the world outside Toms River.

“How does your father feel about that?” I asked her one weekend.

“Resigned,” she said, smiling. “It may not be the best way to keep my job, but I’m fine with it. And Dad can’t deny that I do everything my brothers could – except be ‘one of the guys’ – and I’m working on that. Plus, he really has no choice, unless he wants to sell the business when he retires. And he’s not close to doing either.”

“Would he really do that to you?”

“It’s too soon to tell – maybe in twenty years. Though, unfortunately, he still seems to think I’m only doing this till I get married. And he’s said – far more than once – that he doesn’t want me turning into a spinster.”

“Like the woman who helped Mary’s aunt?”

“She was married – I thought you knew that.”

“I’m not sure it’s been mentioned.”

“Her husband was killed in an accident – in a factory. Well, not exactly. He was badly injured and died about a year later.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago, and then Mary’s aunt lost her first husband. And they had children, where the woman and her husband didn’t.”

“People’s lives get complicated.”

“But Mary’s aunt had worked in the woman’s family’s dress shop from almost before the age Mary began. And when she needed more than pin money, the woman helped.”

“That was generous.”

“Not entirely.” Claire smiled. “Mary and I have always joked that Lila Hartman was a little sweet on her aunt. She always seemed happiest when Tess was around.”

I let that go unanswered. It was something I didn’t know how to comment on.

“Anyway, that’s how her aunt got started.”

Not long after that conversation, my father came to me with his own business idea.

“You know how cheap real estate is,” he began.

That alone was strange. Dad had never owned, nor been interested in owning, property, claiming its upkeep was rarely worth the investment. He also didn’t believe in the stock market, which was fine because it had protected my parents’ savings – along with the fact they lived modestly. Still, he went on about real estate.

“Just now,” he pointed out, “we’re paying three rents. And this is separate from your sister’s and brother’s. Lily’s plans are tied with Mac’s, and Ben’s not ready to rent more than a room. The alternative is moving back with us.”

“He’s not about to do that.”

“No – though we can include them indirectly.”

“In what?” I had to ask.

“Buying a brownstone.”

“What!”

A brownstone was a narrow, five-story, single-family house, which used to be where upper middle class New Yorkers lived when families regularly had ten children.

“Let me finish,” Dad went on.

I let him.

“Well, your mother and I pay a reasonable rent for our four rooms – and even then, there’s a bedroom we hardly use, except when someone’s visiting. And that rarely happens because everyone on my side lives close by, and why would your mother’s family visit when we can see them all on Barnegat?”

“Go on.”

“And you pay even less rent – for a tinier apartment in a building with no elevator.”

“It’s an easy climb.”

“I’m not disagreeing.”

Dad was usually polite.

“But you also pay for your pocket-sized office. And while that costs less than the difference between our rent and yours, that’s still the equivalent of two decent payments.”

“But not the same as buying a brownstone.”

“It could be better – considering all the extra space. Which you and Mary will need for your family.”

I laughed at that “Are you gonna tell me next how many children I can have?”

“Three,” he said. Without even a grin.

Of course, I didn’t tell him I didn’t really have one. And I couldn’t tell him for another six months. Though even after Mary left, I was thinking of keeping the apartment. I couldn’t see going back to my cot.

“Why do you think I’ll have three kids?” I asked instead. I didn’t bother saying “we,” though I was thinking “Claire and me.”

“Well, you were raised as part of three, and one isn’t enough. And with two, one can always get sick. So three is safer.”

“I’ll have to tell Ben he’s a spare.”

“It could be you. You’re around the most disease.”

“Gee, thanks.”

And we both laughed.

“So I’m thinking,” he went on, “that a five-story brownstone would give you room for an office on the street level. Which is basically what you have now. And the main floor would be the living room, dining room, and kitchen – people are moving that upstairs, now that no one can afford a cook and a maid.”

“Some people even rent the downstairs to poor young doctors.”

“You’ll be paying half of these expenses.”

“Will I?” I joked.

“You didn’t expect to live for free?”

“No – of course not.”

“And the second floor would be for your mother and me. That’s almost bigger than our apartment.”

“And the third for Mary and me?”

“And your children. There’d be plenty of room, since we’d all be sharing a dining room and parlor.”

“Fancy word.”

“Land owners.”

And we smirked.

“And the top floor would be a playroom and a place where Lily and Ben and their families could stay when they’re in the city – assuming Lily and Mac really do move to the country.”

“The country” was ten miles away – in what was mostly Long Island potato fields. Cars and more frequent passenger trains were making that possible.

“And we wouldn’t even have to squeeze storage out of the playroom because there’s a basement under the your office.”

“Usually damp, with low ceilings.”

“We can build shelves.”

“I’ve never seen you with a hammer.”

He ignored that and seemed to be waiting for my answer.

“Have you figured out how much this’ll cost?” I finally asked.

“Why else would I suggest it?”

“And you’d risk getting a mortgage? If we even can.”

“I’m talking about buying – no expenses besides taxes and repairs. And I know you have no savings.”

“Almost.”

“So you could pay us back every month. It wouldn’t be more than your two rents.”

I thought about that, then asked, “Can I consider this?”

“Absolutely – brownstones are only getting cheaper. Though it’d be nice to find one nearby – where we know all the stores.”

“The ones that’re still open.”

“Shopkeepers are doing surprisingly well – they’ve always had to be careful. And their customers here – middle-class Jews, like us – also have to be that way – no one can tell when we’ll be told to leave again. Still, I know you need to talk about this with Mary.”

That was the first thing he’d gotten wrong – she had no part in the decision. Claire might, but first I’d have to get her over to what she called “the mainland.” I rightly pointed out that Toms River and New Jersey were directly connected to the continent, while Manhattan floated free. But she was talking about sophistication. Still, getting her to ever live in the city might take longer than the two years I thought I had.

The other thing I was thinking about was my parents. Youngest daughters used to take of them, but that wasn’t happening anymore. My parents were in their mid-fifties, and their parents were in their mid-seventies, so it might be good for all of us to end up in one place. I was already thinking that my office could eventually move upstairs, so someone could have the more accessible street level. Or we might be able to afford a small elevator.

I must have laughed because my father looked at me.

“I’m planning your future,” I told him.

“It’s not unwise.”

I grinned. “And I suppose you’ll take credit for having raised me so well.”

“I think your mother had a little to do with it.”

“Yeah. She beat – er, taught – her view of sense into us.”

“And never forget that.”