Miri stole a quick look at Mason, who was looking at the floor.
For a minute Miri’s thoughts went to Natalie. But she didn’t want to think about Natalie tonight or where or how she might be. She was glad when Irene called them to the table, where Henry proposed a toast to Mason, calling him a “true hero.”
“I’m proud to have a hero at my table,” Irene said.
“I’m not a hero,” Mason argued. “I didn’t even stop to think. I just did it.”
“You saved the stewardess’s life,” Henry told him. “She’ll never forget you. And neither will the others.”
Mason’s leg was jiggling under the table. Miri could feel it. He didn’t want to be the center of attention.
“What do you call this?” he asked, holding up a spoonful of soup.
“It’s soup,” Miri whispered.
“Yeah, but what kind?”
“Potato leek,” Irene said. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah, a lot.”
Later, in the middle of the brisket, kasha, and peas, Mason said, “You know, I’m almost sure one of my grandfathers was half-Jewish.”
Irene put down her fork and looked over at him. The others waited.
“My mother’s father. I never knew him and it was kind of a secret but when my father got mad at my mother he’d call her a—” Miri kicked him under the table and Mason dropped it. Was it true, or did he think he had to fib to get the family to accept him?
“I’d like to marry a Jewish man,” Miss Rheingold announced. “Everyone says they make the best husbands. How about it, Henry? You know someone for me?”
“My girlfriends have first dibs on Henry’s friends,” Leah said in a serious voice.
Miss Rheingold smiled her beauty-pageant smile and said, “Of course they do. I was just joking. You never know where you’ll meet Prince Charming.”
“Well,” Henry said, “how about seconds, Mason? You won’t get a brisket like my mother’s anyplace else in the world.”
“I already know,” Mason said, holding out his plate. “Sure, I’ll have seconds.”
Irene was pleased he liked her food. When she brought out a chocolate cake for dessert, frosted with white buttercream and decorated with red hearts, Mason licked his chops. “Boy-oh-boy, I can’t believe you baked that!”
Miri couldn’t decide if he was stuffing himself to impress her family or if he was really that hungry.
Later, they gathered around the television set that Uncle Henry recently brought home to Irene. He’d moved the old set, with rabbit ears, upstairs to Rusty’s living room.
“That’s some television set,” Ben Sapphire said, when he saw the twenty-inch Motorola. Henry tuned in to You Bet Your Life with Groucho Marx. If they stayed late enough they’d get to see Dragnet, the new police show. Just the facts, ma’am.
“Did you know, Naomi,” Ben Sapphire said to Miss Rheingold, “Henry is making quite a name for himself. He’s getting offers from big papers around the country. And newsmagazines, too.”
“I had no idea, Henry,” Miss Rheingold said. “You must be an ace reporter.”
“He is,” Leah said proudly. “His paper just gave him a big bonus. They don’t want to lose him.”
Everyone looked over at Henry. Ben Sapphire held up his glass of brandy and proposed a toast. “To our Ace. You’re going places, Henry.”
“Are you thinking of moving to another paper?” Miss Rheingold asked.
“I’m considering my options but I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt at finding success at the expense of tragedy.”
“Come on, Henry,” Ben Sapphire said, “that’s what reporting is all about. You make a name for yourself reporting wars, bad politics, tragedy. Not the social section.”
Miri didn’t want to think about tragedy tonight. But it always came back to that, didn’t it?
Steve
He’d swiped a photo of Kathy from her house when he’d been there for shiva. Just a little photo. Probably no one would notice it was gone. He bought a Valentine’s Day card for her and signed it, Love Steve. Then he scrawled, Hope it’s nice wherever you are, at the bottom. Maybe he was going cuckoo like his sister. But he didn’t really believe that. He was just pissed off. He took the story he’d torn from the newspaper out of his desk drawer, the story about how Kathy was going home to see a boy she’d met over the holidays. A boy she really liked. He folded it and slipped it inside the Valentine’s Day card. He laid her photo on his pillow and kissed it. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Kathy.” Then he went downstairs to the finished basement and grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the bar. Scotch, his father’s drink of choice—he liked it on the rocks. His mother was more of a whiskeysour drinker. One was more than enough for her. Back in his room he took a swig straight from the bottle. Jeez, the stuff was awful. It burned his throat. Here’s to us, Kathy, he said. This time he poured himself a shot and gulped it down. It got easier. By his sixth shot he was blotto. He lay on the floor while his room spun around. Whirly-beds. It didn’t feel good. He crept on all fours to the bathroom—spinning spinning—and puked his guts out. Then he fell back on the cool tile floor and everything went black.
Elizabeth Daily Post
SURVIVORS
They Live to Tell Their Stories
By Henry Ammerman
FEB. 15—The bus driver’s classic call to “step to the rear” might be heeded by airline passengers. Most of the survivors of the National Airlines DC-6 crash on Feb. 11 had been seated in the rear of the aircraft. When the plane broke apart in the crash it left the rear section less damaged and more accessible to rescuers.
Gabrielle Wenders, the stewardess, was the only surviving member of the crew. She had been found hanging upside down, still strapped in her seat. “I don’t know how I ever got out alive. It was a fiery nightmare. We were all so helpless. If it hadn’t been for that young man, Mason McKittrick—a name I’ll always remember—I might have died that way.”
Chubby little Patty Clausen, age 5, was unharmed, but her mother perished. With her father hospitalized, hospital authorities put out a plea. “Can’t someone take this most adorable child home? She keeps asking for her ‘bow wow.’ ” The dog had been left in a kennel while the family went on vacation. Her uncle picked her up last night, but said he would wait before telling her of her mother’s death.
Hospitalized newlywed Linda West, 25, was unaware of the status of William, her husband. They were married at noon on Feb. 10, and pulled from the wreckage 12 hours later. “When can I see my husband?” She begged her mother to bring him to her bedside. Her mother didn’t know how to break the news to her daughter that Mr. West had died of a fractured skull and brain injuries the previous night.
In much better spirits was 17-year-old Cele Bell, who was anxious to get on another flight. “I want to go on vacation to Miami! I’d go tomorrow if I could,” she told reporters. She had been traveling with her mother, who was pinned under her seat after the crash. But Cele was able to pull her to safety. They had been in the last two seats on the right side of the plane.
Of the 38 who survived the initial crash, two have died in the hospital. Some remain in critical condition, but the prognosis for most is good.
24
Natalie
Natalie’s parents took her to New York, to the Central Park West office of some old man who smelled bad. Her mother assured her he was a famous psychoanalyst from Vienna, that he knew Anna Freud, daughter of the great man. Anna lectured frequently in the United States and Dr. Boltzmann might be able to arrange for Anna to see Natalie. Today’s appointment with Dr. Boltzmann was a consultation, not a session, not that Natalie knew the difference.
The walls were paneled in dark wood, the floor covered with overlapping Oriental rugs. A faded red brocade sofa strewn with needlepoint pillows stood in the middle of the room, a crocheted afghan folded at one end. There was a big leather chair and two smaller chairs. Dr. Boltzmann sat in one of the smaller chairs, a cushion behind his back. She didn’t like this. Didn’t like that her parents were in the waiting room, not with her. Maybe the famous doctor had already seen them. Either way, she wasn’t going to tell him anything. Half the time she couldn’t even understand what he was saying, his accent was so thick. It reminded her of when they used to play Dracula. They’d run around the playground shrieking, I vant to bite your neck! She knew enough not to lie down on that faded sofa. She would never lie down on it, even if her parents brought her here every week. Instead she slumped in the big chair, feeling small, feeling like her old Raggedy Ann doll, which she still kept in her closet.
The famous doctor cleared his throat. It sounded like he had phlegm. Robo’s father had phlegm. When he drove he often rolled down the window and spit it out. Natalie hated when he did that. She had to look away to stop herself from gagging. She thought she might gag here, in this dark, faded room.
“You can talk,” the famous doctor said. “No one can hear you.”
You can hear me, she thought. But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead she said, “I don’t want to talk.”