sight of Mrs. Warner’s husband entering the room during our Saturday-night spy session, where he shed his clothes and took his wife in his arms. It was the first time we had ever seen a naked man with an erection. We screamed, then clapped hands over each other’s mouths so my mother wouldn’t hear us, and whispered for hours afterward with horror and delight.
“I never thought Jessie Warner was a hussy,” I told Marilyn now. “I always thought it was because she wasn’t Jewish.”
“The way she looked, or getting undressed in front of the window? Or giving her husband a woody?”
“All of the above.”
Marilyn snorted, but I had actually believed this. Since my family didn’t keep kosher or go to services, for me Jewishness was essentially a social matter like belonging to a club. Almost everyone in Riggs Park was Jewish. We followed a certain code of behavior. Jessie Warner didn’t. Though I’d been glad for the few Christians who’d decorated their houses in the dark of December, who’d opened their curtains so everyone could view their spangled trees from afar, I’d seen them as exotics with strange and unusual customs. Like Jessie Warner, they might all believe not only in Christmas trees but in leaving the blinds open while they undressed.
Marilyn nudged me and pointed toward a yard farther down the alley. A white dog with a black patch around one eye was jumping against the fence, trying to get our attention. It was the first animal we’d seen.
“A pit bull,” Marilyn announced as she marched over and stuck her hand through the chain-link fence to pet it.
“A pit bull! Leave it alone!” I jumped back even though the beast was only slavering on Marilyn’s hand.
“Oh, Barbara, relax. It’s harmless.” Marilyn had always been the expert about dogs. Sometimes she’d owned three at a time when her boys were small, to make up for her parents never allowing her more than a parakeet. “Feel it,” she ordered. “Pit bulls feel tough, like a pig.”
Gingerly, I extended my hand. Sure enough, the hide was steely, as if strung over one long muscle. The dog wagged its whole hind end with happiness.
“I guess it’s supposed to be fierce and bark at us, but it’s just a puppy. Fine watchdog you are,” she crooned as she leaned over to let it lick her face. Marilyn’s last dog, a black Lab, had died just after her first diagnosis of cancer.
“If you like dogs so much, why don’t you get another one?”
“Bernie and I are both at work so much. It would be alone.”
“That never bothered you before.”
“You’re not the one who has to walk it. Who feels guilty.” Marilyn wiped her slobbery hands on her slacks as we headed back to the street.
“You have a fenced yard,” I persisted. “It might be nice.”
Marilyn tossed her head, annoyed, but then we were diverted by the sight of a young woman wrestling a toddler toward a house down the hill and across the street. The little boy wriggled and fidgeted until she put him down. Not much more than twenty, the mother was solid-looking and stylish, in jeans and an imitation leather jacket, hair pulled back into cornrows around her head, then hanging down her back in dozens of braids.
“The people around here look better than the houses do,” Marilyn whispered as I unlocked my car.
“Maybe that’s because the people are younger than the houses.”
Glancing in our direction, the black woman regarded us suspiciously. She minced her steps to let the toddler keep up with her—a tiny boy wearing new red basketball shoes of the smallest possible size.
Finally she swept the toddler into her arms and opened the gate of a chain-link fence that had been erected, hideously, around one of the minuscule front yards. It wasn’t until she disappeared inside that Marilyn and I realized, at the same moment, that the transformed, gated house was where Penny’s family had once lived.
“My God,” Marilyn gasped—whether because she hadn’t
“I never thought Jessie Warner was a hussy,” I told Marilyn now. “I always thought it was because she wasn’t Jewish.”
“The way she looked, or getting undressed in front of the window? Or giving her husband a woody?”
“All of the above.”
Marilyn snorted, but I had actually believed this. Since my family didn’t keep kosher or go to services, for me Jewishness was essentially a social matter like belonging to a club. Almost everyone in Riggs Park was Jewish. We followed a certain code of behavior. Jessie Warner didn’t. Though I’d been glad for the few Christians who’d decorated their houses in the dark of December, who’d opened their curtains so everyone could view their spangled trees from afar, I’d seen them as exotics with strange and unusual customs. Like Jessie Warner, they might all believe not only in Christmas trees but in leaving the blinds open while they undressed.
Marilyn nudged me and pointed toward a yard farther down the alley. A white dog with a black patch around one eye was jumping against the fence, trying to get our attention. It was the first animal we’d seen.
“A pit bull,” Marilyn announced as she marched over and stuck her hand through the chain-link fence to pet it.
“A pit bull! Leave it alone!” I jumped back even though the beast was only slavering on Marilyn’s hand.
“Oh, Barbara, relax. It’s harmless.” Marilyn had always been the expert about dogs. Sometimes she’d owned three at a time when her boys were small, to make up for her parents never allowing her more than a parakeet. “Feel it,” she ordered. “Pit bulls feel tough, like a pig.”
Gingerly, I extended my hand. Sure enough, the hide was steely, as if strung over one long muscle. The dog wagged its whole hind end with happiness.
“I guess it’s supposed to be fierce and bark at us, but it’s just a puppy. Fine watchdog you are,” she crooned as she leaned over to let it lick her face. Marilyn’s last dog, a black Lab, had died just after her first diagnosis of cancer.
“If you like dogs so much, why don’t you get another one?”
“Bernie and I are both at work so much. It would be alone.”
“That never bothered you before.”
“You’re not the one who has to walk it. Who feels guilty.” Marilyn wiped her slobbery hands on her slacks as we headed back to the street.
“You have a fenced yard,” I persisted. “It might be nice.”
Marilyn tossed her head, annoyed, but then we were diverted by the sight of a young woman wrestling a toddler toward a house down the hill and across the street. The little boy wriggled and fidgeted until she put him down. Not much more than twenty, the mother was solid-looking and stylish, in jeans and an imitation leather jacket, hair pulled back into cornrows around her head, then hanging down her back in dozens of braids.
“The people around here look better than the houses do,” Marilyn whispered as I unlocked my car.
“Maybe that’s because the people are younger than the houses.”
Glancing in our direction, the black woman regarded us suspiciously. She minced her steps to let the toddler keep up with her—a tiny boy wearing new red basketball shoes of the smallest possible size.
Finally she swept the toddler into her arms and opened the gate of a chain-link fence that had been erected, hideously, around one of the minuscule front yards. It wasn’t until she disappeared inside that Marilyn and I realized, at the same moment, that the transformed, gated house was where Penny’s family had once lived.
“My God,” Marilyn gasped—whether because she hadn’t
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