Shirley would be pretty distraught if I told her what you were doing.” Uncle Mel was squirming. Bethie could see beads of sweat gleaming through the coarse hairs of his mustache, and how he couldn’t look either one of them in the face.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“A while back, our father asked to borrow money. Remember? He wanted to open a Laundromat with Henry Sheshevsky. And you told him no.”
“Only to protect your family!” Mel said, his voice loud and self-righteous. He looked toward the door, lowered his voice, and continued, “Your father . . . he didn’t have a kop far geshefte . No head for business. He’d have lost my money, and whatever he’d invested of his own.”
“Maybe,” Bethie said. Jo was glaring across the desk with her hands in fists. Bethie knew that her sister probably hated hearing her father insulted that way, like he was dumb, or incompetent. She could feel her heart pounding, the sound of it in her ears. “Or maybe we’d be the ones living in Southfield with a swimming pool in our backyard. We’ll never know. That’s the road not taken, right?” She gave Uncle Mel her prettiest smile. “You can’tgo back to where the road diverged. But I bet you’d feel better if you helped my mother out.” Bethie squeezed her hands together so that he couldn’t see them tremble. “Whatever my father asked to borrow from you. I want you to write our mom a check.” She sat back, her stomach twisting again, her palms sweaty and her mouth dry. Now , she thought. Now he’ll tell me that I made the whole thing up. He’ll call my mother and tell her I’m a liar. He’ll start yelling, and he’ll throw us out.
Instead, her uncle sighed and bowed his head. After a minute, he opened the top drawer of his desk. He wrote out a check and put it in an envelope with his name—Dr. Melvin Kaufman—and his office’s address embossed in the upper-left-hand corner, and put it into Bethie’s outstretched hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said . . . and, to Bethie’s horror, he did sound genuinely sad. Whatever else he’d been, whatever he’d done, he had been her father’s little brother. As much as she hated to think it, he had lost someone, too. She tucked the check into the zippered pocket of her purse. Jo stood up, and the two of them left Uncle Mel without a word. Bethie was hurrying toward the door, planning on leaving without even a “goodbye” to Aunt Shirley, but as she passed the dining room, she saw the Negro girl humming as she stood in front of an ironing board with a stack of white napkins piled on one end. Bethie stopped, so suddenly that her sister almost walked into her back. When the girl looked up, with her face immobile and her eyes wary, Bethie thought she’d used up all the courage she had for that day, for that week, maybe for the rest of her life. Then she remembered her uncle’s hands on her, the horrible stink of his breath, and that her sister was standing behind her. It made her brave enough to step forward.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Coralee, ma’am,” said the girl. Up close, Bethie could see that she was older than she’d thought, in her twenties at least. Her face was small and heart-shaped. Her two front teeth overlapped slightly, and her eyelashes curled up at the tips.
“I’m not a ma’am,” Bethie said, and shook her head. Her eyes were stinging. “I’m just a kid.” She stepped close to the young woman, lowering her voice. “Does he ever touch you?” she whispered. Coralee’s eyes got wide. She shook her head. “If he ever does . . . if he ever tries anything . . .”
Bethie didn’t know what to say next, but her sister did. “We’re his nieces. Jo and Bethie Kaufman.”
Coralee nodded. “I remember.”
“We live on Alhambra Street. Our number’s UNiversity 2-9291. Call us if you need us.”
The girl nodded, and Bethie turned again toward the door. In the living room, there was the heavy glass
“What do you want?” he asked.
“A while back, our father asked to borrow money. Remember? He wanted to open a Laundromat with Henry Sheshevsky. And you told him no.”
“Only to protect your family!” Mel said, his voice loud and self-righteous. He looked toward the door, lowered his voice, and continued, “Your father . . . he didn’t have a kop far geshefte . No head for business. He’d have lost my money, and whatever he’d invested of his own.”
“Maybe,” Bethie said. Jo was glaring across the desk with her hands in fists. Bethie knew that her sister probably hated hearing her father insulted that way, like he was dumb, or incompetent. She could feel her heart pounding, the sound of it in her ears. “Or maybe we’d be the ones living in Southfield with a swimming pool in our backyard. We’ll never know. That’s the road not taken, right?” She gave Uncle Mel her prettiest smile. “You can’tgo back to where the road diverged. But I bet you’d feel better if you helped my mother out.” Bethie squeezed her hands together so that he couldn’t see them tremble. “Whatever my father asked to borrow from you. I want you to write our mom a check.” She sat back, her stomach twisting again, her palms sweaty and her mouth dry. Now , she thought. Now he’ll tell me that I made the whole thing up. He’ll call my mother and tell her I’m a liar. He’ll start yelling, and he’ll throw us out.
Instead, her uncle sighed and bowed his head. After a minute, he opened the top drawer of his desk. He wrote out a check and put it in an envelope with his name—Dr. Melvin Kaufman—and his office’s address embossed in the upper-left-hand corner, and put it into Bethie’s outstretched hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said . . . and, to Bethie’s horror, he did sound genuinely sad. Whatever else he’d been, whatever he’d done, he had been her father’s little brother. As much as she hated to think it, he had lost someone, too. She tucked the check into the zippered pocket of her purse. Jo stood up, and the two of them left Uncle Mel without a word. Bethie was hurrying toward the door, planning on leaving without even a “goodbye” to Aunt Shirley, but as she passed the dining room, she saw the Negro girl humming as she stood in front of an ironing board with a stack of white napkins piled on one end. Bethie stopped, so suddenly that her sister almost walked into her back. When the girl looked up, with her face immobile and her eyes wary, Bethie thought she’d used up all the courage she had for that day, for that week, maybe for the rest of her life. Then she remembered her uncle’s hands on her, the horrible stink of his breath, and that her sister was standing behind her. It made her brave enough to step forward.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Coralee, ma’am,” said the girl. Up close, Bethie could see that she was older than she’d thought, in her twenties at least. Her face was small and heart-shaped. Her two front teeth overlapped slightly, and her eyelashes curled up at the tips.
“I’m not a ma’am,” Bethie said, and shook her head. Her eyes were stinging. “I’m just a kid.” She stepped close to the young woman, lowering her voice. “Does he ever touch you?” she whispered. Coralee’s eyes got wide. She shook her head. “If he ever does . . . if he ever tries anything . . .”
Bethie didn’t know what to say next, but her sister did. “We’re his nieces. Jo and Bethie Kaufman.”
Coralee nodded. “I remember.”
“We live on Alhambra Street. Our number’s UNiversity 2-9291. Call us if you need us.”
The girl nodded, and Bethie turned again toward the door. In the living room, there was the heavy glass
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