The Four Temperaments by Yona Zeldis McDonough Page A

produce—which Penelope cooked and ground herself—to eat; only clothing from organically grown cotton to wear. Good thing Ruth found one of those environmentally friendly catalogs to order from, because Penelope wouldn't allow anything else to touch that child's skin. Ruth knew because she had sent a big batch of perfectly adorable things from Macy's when Isobel was born and Penelope sent them all back, with a lengthy note explaining her philosophy on the chemical toxins present in commercially made clothing and their potentially devastating effect on newborns. Ruth was disappointed, but instead of taking the things back to Macy's, she took them to the hospital, where it cheered her up to see the babies wearing them.
    Ruth's second son, William, and his wife, Betsy, were closer—they lived in New Jersey—but Betsy had been trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant for more than two years and Ruth frankly thought her daughter-in-law avoided her. She was not sure why; maybe Betsy thought Ruth wanted grandchildren so badly (and, yes, that much was true) that seeing her felt like a kind of a reproach. And they were both so busy with their work—he was a cardiologist; she was in banking—that they didn't find much time to socialize. Then there was Ben, who was gone for so many months of the year. It was virtually impossible to pin him down, though his last postcard—the one with the picture of a beach in the Indian Ocean—said he would be home in November, in time for Thanksgiving.
    â€œIsn't he a little old for all this wandering?” Oscar said when he inspected the card.
    â€œMaybe,” Ruth said, “but he's also too old for us to ground him.”
    Tuesdays and Thursdays Ruth swam in the pool at the YMCA on West Sixty-third Street, not far from Lincoln Center, where Oscar worked. Oscar was always after her to join the expensive gym on Eighty-sixth Street. “We can afford it now,” he told her. But she preferred the more relaxed and democratic atmosphere at the YMCA. No women with diamond bracelets and expensive face-lifts there. It was right in front of the Y's big double doors, on a crisp Thursday in October, that Ruth ran into the girl Oscar had brought home, Ginny Valentine.
    â€œMrs. Kornblatt!” Ginny called out, waving her hand eagerly in greeting. The bag she carried over her shoulder looked as if it might have contained bricks. Ruth hadn't seen her actually, as she was intent on getting to the pool before three o'clock, which was when the free swim began. She knew from experience that there was no way to do laps when that happened. But before Ruth could pull open the heavy doors, Ginny strode quickly toward her.
    â€œHow are you? It's so nice to see you. I had the most wonderful time at your house; you are the best cook, really you are.” Ruth paused, touched by the girl's effusive compliments. She found herself asking if Ginny had plans for Thanksgiving and when Ruth learned she didn't, inviting her to their apartment—Ruth had been making Thanksgiving dinner since the boys were little—the following month. “I would love to come!” Ginny said, “Can I bring something? Not home cooked, because I just don't, I mean I can't cook, but something I could buy?”
    â€œNo, no, I can take care of it,” Ruth said to her. “Just bring your appetite.”
    â€œDon't worry about that.” Ginny laughed as she continued down the street, toward the theater. As Ruth watched her go, she wondered whether she should have asked Oscar first, but it was, of course, too late.
    Ruth's swim was refreshing if uneventful. Afterward, no longer in a hurry, she strolled slowly up Broadway, which had been the main street of her life for more than twenty years. She had watched it change and grow, and though there are those who preferred its older incarnation (“Too gentrified, too many big-box stores,” people said), Ruth would always love