is a valuable antique at home now, she thought, rubbing the caked gray ashes off the bottom with her thumb.
There was a delicate, fluted vase in opaque, cobalt blue, and a fluted oil and vinegar flask in pale green glass. Each side was a 94
ENTR’ACTE
bulb that was fused seamlessly together at the base, ending in a slender spout with a tiny cork stopper.
Joyce’s mother collected this type of glassware, beginning her collection with the items in this apartment. The younger Mrs.
Waszlewski persisted in calling the items “Depression glass,” a name that brought no end of scorn from her mother-in-law.
Although the value had increased sharply over time, Muriel had confided to Joyce that she had paid about 10 cents for each piece of glassware when it was new.
“It’s called carnival glass, for the suckers who buy it,” she’d say. “It’s really junk, spelled j-u-n-q-u-e.”
95
Chapter 17
There was the black onyx snuff box on the coffee table, with its design in metal on the lid of a geometric fan. “Dipping snuff was a terrible habit old ladies in my day used to have,” Muriel had told her.
“I never dipped myself, but I bought a snuff box once because it suited me so well. It was brash and confident, and that’s how I felt.”
Joyce picked up the box that later in her grandmother’s life would serve as a symbol of her days in New York. The box was with Muriel when she died in the nursing home; it was given to a friend of hers at the memorial service.
That reminded Joyce she was still wearing the watch Muriel passed on to her. She slipped it off her wrist and set it on top of the tall radio cabinet.
A few moments later, Muriel breezed through and, seeing the watch, picked it up and put it on. “I was wondering where I’d left that,” she said.
While they ate, Joyce searched her mind wildly for appropriate dinner conversation. She did not know her grandmother’s life well enough to know exactly what man she’d be seeing or job she’d have at this particular time.
96
ENTR’ACTE
And although she’d had to come and get her out of the hospital, Muriel wasn’t treating “Connie” like the incident was anything unusual. Except for giving her aspirin for her pain, Muriel hadn’t seemed interested in playing nurse to her sister.
“What do you hear from Joe Waszlewski back home?” Joyce asked after an uncomfortable silence.
“Who?” Muriel was searching her mind. “That farmer who has the land up by Route 1? Why would I hear from him?”
“Didn’t he propose to you before you left?” Joyce pressed on.
Muriel laughed. “Yea. Wildly passionate that Joe. But when you get proposed to as often as we do, you don’t remember them all.” She punched Joyce playfully on the upper arm.
“Well, do you ever think of him?”
Muriel stared at Joyce from under raised eyebrows again. “You got a good knock on the noggin’, didn’t you? I haven’t heard from him in more than a year and I can’t say I think about him. Too much going on here.”
“He’s a good man, don’t you think?” Joyce continued on.
“Someone someday to settle down with and raise a family?”
It was a calculated risk. Joyce hoped in a way that the question would spark her grandmother somehow to recognize her by getting her to think about her later life.
It wasn’t interfering in family history, she felt, because Muriel and Joe did marry and had a long happy life together.
“He’s kind of colorless, like that new cell-o-phane, don’t you think?” Muriel finally said. “He’s a good man I guess, but I’d never want to go home. That would be admitting failure, having to look at those people in that little town day after day, and have them whisper when you went by, “she left but she had to come back’.
“Besides, I don’t see myself as somebody’s wife and especially not as somebody’s mama.”
97
FRANK JULIANO
Joyce winced and continued eating, until she felt Muriel’s hand on her arm. This is
There was a delicate, fluted vase in opaque, cobalt blue, and a fluted oil and vinegar flask in pale green glass. Each side was a 94
ENTR’ACTE
bulb that was fused seamlessly together at the base, ending in a slender spout with a tiny cork stopper.
Joyce’s mother collected this type of glassware, beginning her collection with the items in this apartment. The younger Mrs.
Waszlewski persisted in calling the items “Depression glass,” a name that brought no end of scorn from her mother-in-law.
Although the value had increased sharply over time, Muriel had confided to Joyce that she had paid about 10 cents for each piece of glassware when it was new.
“It’s called carnival glass, for the suckers who buy it,” she’d say. “It’s really junk, spelled j-u-n-q-u-e.”
95
Chapter 17
There was the black onyx snuff box on the coffee table, with its design in metal on the lid of a geometric fan. “Dipping snuff was a terrible habit old ladies in my day used to have,” Muriel had told her.
“I never dipped myself, but I bought a snuff box once because it suited me so well. It was brash and confident, and that’s how I felt.”
Joyce picked up the box that later in her grandmother’s life would serve as a symbol of her days in New York. The box was with Muriel when she died in the nursing home; it was given to a friend of hers at the memorial service.
That reminded Joyce she was still wearing the watch Muriel passed on to her. She slipped it off her wrist and set it on top of the tall radio cabinet.
A few moments later, Muriel breezed through and, seeing the watch, picked it up and put it on. “I was wondering where I’d left that,” she said.
While they ate, Joyce searched her mind wildly for appropriate dinner conversation. She did not know her grandmother’s life well enough to know exactly what man she’d be seeing or job she’d have at this particular time.
96
ENTR’ACTE
And although she’d had to come and get her out of the hospital, Muriel wasn’t treating “Connie” like the incident was anything unusual. Except for giving her aspirin for her pain, Muriel hadn’t seemed interested in playing nurse to her sister.
“What do you hear from Joe Waszlewski back home?” Joyce asked after an uncomfortable silence.
“Who?” Muriel was searching her mind. “That farmer who has the land up by Route 1? Why would I hear from him?”
“Didn’t he propose to you before you left?” Joyce pressed on.
Muriel laughed. “Yea. Wildly passionate that Joe. But when you get proposed to as often as we do, you don’t remember them all.” She punched Joyce playfully on the upper arm.
“Well, do you ever think of him?”
Muriel stared at Joyce from under raised eyebrows again. “You got a good knock on the noggin’, didn’t you? I haven’t heard from him in more than a year and I can’t say I think about him. Too much going on here.”
“He’s a good man, don’t you think?” Joyce continued on.
“Someone someday to settle down with and raise a family?”
It was a calculated risk. Joyce hoped in a way that the question would spark her grandmother somehow to recognize her by getting her to think about her later life.
It wasn’t interfering in family history, she felt, because Muriel and Joe did marry and had a long happy life together.
“He’s kind of colorless, like that new cell-o-phane, don’t you think?” Muriel finally said. “He’s a good man I guess, but I’d never want to go home. That would be admitting failure, having to look at those people in that little town day after day, and have them whisper when you went by, “she left but she had to come back’.
“Besides, I don’t see myself as somebody’s wife and especially not as somebody’s mama.”
97
FRANK JULIANO
Joyce winced and continued eating, until she felt Muriel’s hand on her arm. This is
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