“Hey, Gus-Gus,” he said into her hair. “What are you doing here?”
She opened her eyes and realized he was sitting across from a man she didn’t know.
“Vic, this is my daughter, Gussie. Gussie, this is Mr. Barnes.”
“Nice to meet you, Gussie.”
Gussie didn’t know what to say. She just nodded her head and looked around for Anna, who was slowly making her way through the crowded restaurant. It would be better when she arrived and could help fill the strange silence.
“Isaac,” Anna said, when she finally caught up with Gussie.
“Anna, this is Vic Barnes. Anna is a friend of the family’s.”
Anna extended her hand and Mr. Barnes took it. “Pleased to meet you.” Then she turned back to Isaac. “We’re sorry to have interrupted.”
Gussie inched closer to her father, sure that Anna was going to suggest they leave. She could smell his shaving cream and the tonic he put in his hair. His visits to the apartment had grown less and less frequent, and she knew it might be several more days before she saw him again.
“You’re not interrupting,” said Mr. Barnes, who hadn’t yet managed to let go of Anna’s hand. Mr. Barnes reminded Gussie of a badger, or maybe an otter. He had a long neck and a skinny face, with a mustache that obscured his lips entirely. Gussie didn’t like the way he leered at Anna and was relieved when Anna pulled her hand free and used it to smooth her skirt.
“Gussie, we should be getting back,” Anna said in a singsong voice that was much cheerier than the one she normally used.
“Isaac, you mentioned the land in Florida but you failed to mention this lovely asset.”
What was Mr. Barnes talking about? Gussie hated it when adults spoke in code. Gussie’s father cleared his throat, and Anna, quick as a sand crab, grabbed Gussie by the hand and yanked her out of the booth and to her feet.
“Owww—”
Before Gussie had time to issue any more exclamations, Anna said, “We’ll let you get back to your conversation. Gussie just wanted to say hello. Nice to meet you, Mr. Barnes. Isaac, give my regards to Fannie.”
“When are you coming over?” Gussie thought to shout at her father as Anna began dragging her back the way they had come.
Gussie didn’t know why but by the time Anna had pulled her all the way out of the restaurant and onto Pacific Avenue, she was crying. It wasn’t nice of Anna to force her to leave so abruptly. And it wasn’t like her father not to give her a big hug hello. Ever since Florence had died, no—ever since her mother had gone into the hospital, no—ever since Anna had come to stay with her grandparents, everyone had been acting so strangely.
“I want my mother,” she whispered as tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Anna offered her a handkerchief and waited patiently for her to make use of it. The handkerchief had pale pink flowers at the corners and a scalloped edge, and in one corner, it was initialed AE. Gussie wondered if Anna’s mother had made it for her, and then asked as much. Anna nodded her head, yes.
“May I keep it?” Gussie asked, peering up at Anna, who looked far less sure of herself, considering the request, than she’d looked just a few minutes earlier, storming out of Kornblau’s. Gussie didn’t know why she wanted the handkerchief so much. She just knew that if her own mother had stitched her anything half as pretty, Gussie would have carried it around in her pocket like a kiss.
Esther
Esther had grown to hate the mornings, particularly those first few moments of consciousness, when she did not yet recall that her younger daughter was gone. For several seconds upon waking, her eyes remained shut tight, the images from her dreams still etched upon the back of her eyelids. When she opened them, she found the familiar artifacts of her bedroom—the white iron bedframe, the cherry dresser, the rocking chair by the window—all unchanged. Sometimes, for Esther to recall that Florence was dead, she had to first remember that tucked away in a dresser drawer were the trinkets Fannie and Florence had made for her in school—everything held together with paste—or that Joseph had purchased the rocking chair so that she could nurse her babies. The remembering was the worst part of her day, and she wondered how many days would have to pass before she felt Florence’s death in her bones, the way she knew her own name or the contours of her husband’s face, and could no longer be surprised by it.
It was always a little later—after she’d pushed the sheets off her sticky skin but before her bare feet touched the floor—that Esther remembered she was keeping the truth from Fannie. She lay in bed, listening to the quiet whir of the oscillating fan on her dresser and making mental lists of (1) people who knew Florence was dead and (2) people who were at risk of finding out.
On the first list there was herself and Joseph, Isaac, Gussie, Anna, Stuart, the lifeguards and bystanders who’d been on the beach that day, Abe Roth and his staff, Rabbi Levy, the members of the Chevra Kadisha, Samuel Brody, Superintendent McLoughlin, Dr. Rosenthal, and the nurses whom he’d pulled into his confidence. Esther didn’t like how many people were on the list but she took some comfort in knowing that, with the exception of the lifeguards and bystanders on the beach, she could identify most of them by name.
It was the second list that caused her the most anxiety. Esther was certain Joseph hadn’t told anyone, but she couldn’t be sure about anyone else. How many people had Samuel had to talk to in order to keep Florence’s name out of the paper? Who had been sitting around the dinner tables
