Modern Girls Read Online Free Page B

echoed through the street and the children scampered about. No doubt the children outnumbered the adults.
    The roiling in my stomach threatened to erupt, and I was grateful I hadn’t eaten yet, that there was nothing to return. That nausea that was so familiar and so unwelcome. Despair settled over me.
Please,
Hashem
, let this be my change.
Seeing all those children brought a deluge of unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts of Joey; thoughts of Yussel—who was a twelve-year-old boy last I saw him—trapped in Europe; thoughts of what this sickness I was experiencing might be.
    The voice of the newsboy faded as he made his way down the street again, pausing at each newly outstretched hand.
    All those children.
    “Are you crying?” Alfie asked, his voice tinged more with fear than with concern.
    Raising my hand to my cheek, I realized it was indeed wet.
    “It’s okay, Ma,” Eugene said, always anxious at anyone’s distress. “You won’t be sad about Will Rogers forever. This too shall pass.”
    I wanted to smile, but I couldn’t force my lips to move. My baby quoting back to me what I often said to the children.
This too shall pass.
It worked for scrapes and frights and playgroundinjustices. It was a lie that was easy to believe when you were a child. But as an adult, I well knew some things hurt for a lifetime.
    Pulling up my apron, I wiped my face. “Just some sweat dripping into my eye.” I scuttled over to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out the tin with my grocery money, fishing out two copper coins for Alfie. “Here.” I shoved them at him. “Go.”
    Alfie paused a moment, knowing that if I gave in so quickly, then surely something was wrong. But the boy had enough smarts to take the coins and leave before I could change my mind.
    “Thanks,” he said, as he bounded with Eugene out the front door, slamming it behind him.
    “Don’t slam the door,” I yelled.
    Back at the window, I stared out. Those children. Teasing and taunting one another. Children everywhere. So many children. Too many children.
    Despite the emptiness of my stomach, another wave rose through my chest. Quickly reaching toward the sink, I vacated what little there was in my belly. I paused over the sink, afraid if I moved too quickly, more sickness would come.
    Glancing back out the window, I saw Alfie running down the street, trailed by four other boys, waving a newspaper in his hand. Eugene could barely keep up.
    I refused to allow the notion of babies to take root. This was old age. Pure and simple.
No more children,
I thought.
I am done with children.
But then, when did God ever listen to the plans of a
Yiddishe
mama?

Dottie

    THAT night, walking home from work, I dawdled. I should have taken the elevated, or at least the streetcar, to make sure I arrived in plenty of time for
Shabbes
, but the idea of facing my mother was more than I could bear. I told myself I didn’t want to end up sick on a crowded train, but it was simply an excuse. I shouldn’t have been walking; my limbs were leaden, my feelings vacillating with each footfall between exhilaration at my new promotion and a growing fright at the way my body was betraying me.
    With my mind distracted, I didn’t notice where I stepped, and my heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. As I lunged forward, my clutch flying from my hands, I let out an unladylike “Ow!” as I landed on my knee. A rip in my stocking. Just what I needed. A man passing by reached out and took my arm, helping me to my feet. He leaned down to pick up my purse and handed it to me. “Are you all right, miss?” he asked.
    “I’m fine,” I said, going for what I hoped was a smile. “Nothing bruised but my pride.”
    The man touched the brim of his hat and continued on his way, not a care in the world. Probably going home to his wife. And children. In a lovely uptown apartment with a new Kelvinator and a Westinghouse electric range, and a dinette set from Bloomingdale’s and a powder room full of Helena