Gratitude stung Betty’s throat. She squeezed their hands and they squeezed back.
“I have a secret to tell you,” Betty said.
Doris dropped Betty’s hand. “I knew it.”
“Shush,” Georgia said.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Betty said.
Without another word, the girls crossed their hearts.
Betty’s conscience eased. Georgia and Doris would say it was okay. They would make it okay.
“Abe’s not really Jewish,” she said.
Doris smacked her hand over her mouth and opened her eyes as big as Ping-Pong balls.
“Oy gevalt,” Georgia said. “He lied to get the job?”
“No, his father is Jewish,” Betty said. The statement sounded weak and apologetic.
“So he lied. You know his father doesn’t count.” Doris placed her hands on her hips, then crossed her arms in front of her, then folded them at her chest, all while tapping her foot. She was trying to be calm and nonchalant, but her jitters made that impossible.
“What do your grandparents say?” Georgia asked.
Betty glanced out the window as if they might be peeking into the second floor and eavesdropping. “They don’t know. And they don’t know we’re . . . serious.”
“What do you mean you’re serious?” Georgia pursed her lips.
“We’ve talked about the future. Our future.”
Georgia stomped around the room. “Your future is at Barnard.”
“And Abe wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s going to move to New York when he graduates.”
“A gentile,” Doris whispered. “I guess that’s why he’s so handsome. He doesn’t look like any Jewish boy I know.”
“Don’t be childish,” Georgia said. “Jewish boys—Jewish men—are very handsome. Look at the husbands who show up every weekend.”
“Eww, they’re old.” Doris giggled. “But you’re right, some aren’t half-bad in their swim trunks.”
Betty rolled her eyes. “I don’t care about the guests. What do I do about Abe?”
“I think you have to end it,” Doris said.
Georgia shook her head. “If you want to be with him, even though you know it’s wrong, there’s only one thing I can tell you to do.”
“Anything,” Betty said.
“Pretend you don’t know,” Georgia said. “Sometimes it helps.”
“You want me to lie?”
“She shouldn’t lie,” Doris said.
“It’s not lying if you didn’t know. You want to be with him the rest of the summer, right?”
“Right.”
“And you don’t want your grandparents to interfere.”
“Right.”
“Then forget he told you.”
“But Abe wants to know I’m okay with it.”
“You being okay with it and your grandparents approving are two different things. I wouldn’t want to go up against your Nannie if she found out you’re planning a future with a boy who isn’t Jewish,” Georgia said.
Doris nodded. “I wouldn’t want to be there if she found out about the canoodling, let alone this!”
Guilt trickled into Betty’s heart. She owed her grandparents everything. But that’s what the pageant was for. If she won, they’d have bragging rights while she was off at Barnard. It was her way of contributing to the business when she wasn’t leading jumping jacks or ironing curtains.
Canoodling with a gentile boy didn’t change any of that.
As far as guilt for staying home that night, she’d only half fibbed to convince her grandparents. Betty did want to choose her dress and swimsuit outfits for the pageant, and this was the only time that she and her friends were off work at the same time. Nannie and Zaide had thought it a fine idea. They were all for having an advantage when it came to the pageant, and, like Zaide had said, “Three girls’ heads are better than one.”
Betty felt a twinge in her side, a reminder that she’d conveniently omitted another reason she’d wanted to stay home. Abe. The glamour of the nightclub, the rhythm and sway of the music, the elaborate displays of jewelry and fashion—yes, even fashion—didn’t matter to her without Abe. If he couldn’t be there, there was no way she’d spend an hour and a half primping, or dance with guests—even her new, old friend, Marv Peck.
Betty could see the lights in the main house from her window, but the music was muted by the distance. She flopped onto her bed next to Doris. Then Betty flipped open a magazine and turned pages one at a time and stared. She wasn’t reading the words or noticing the advertisements. She was counting minutes till Abe arrived.
Betty’s grandfather rarely summoned her, especially not in the middle of a summer Sunday. To Nannie and Zaide, summer meant tending to the guests, maintaining the property, and safeguarding their social status—each a full-time job on its own.
Betty inhaled and shook her hands by her sides so she wouldn’t fidget once she stepped inside. She knocked.
“Come in.” Zaide’s voice rang clear, as if the six-panel solid-wood barrier between them didn’t exist.
Betty turned the knob and opened the door just wide enough to poke her head in. “You wanted to see me? If you’re busy—”
Zaide beckoned her with his crooked index finger, and Betty felt as if there was a string attached to her conscience and every motion weakened her resolve.
Betty gulped. Deny, deny, deny. Georgia wouldn’t steer her wrong.
Betty stepped inside and shut the door. She was still wearing her shorts and staff-issue white blouse, her name embroidered in Stern Blue on the left breast pocket. “I can change out of these clothes first, if you want.”
Zaide pointed to the walnut and leather captain’s chair in front of his desk. “Sit, bubbeleh.” Betty sighed. He wouldn’t have called her that if he was angry. “You’ve been busy lately, haven’t you?” Zaide said.
Betty wasn’t sure if this was a trick question. “No busier than usual.” Maybe she should have said yes, she was busy.
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. I want to show you something.” Zaide leaned to the right. The large bottom desk drawer clicked open and squeaked as it slid out on its tracks. Zaide reached down and seemed to jimmy something out of the drawer with one hand.
Betty tapped her toes in a rapid rhythm to match her heartbeat. She wasn’t a liar. If Zaide asked her about Abe, she’d tell him. No, his mother wasn’t Jewish. Yes, she
