Daddy's Girls

A Mission From God

Allison

thirty-one years old

THE LAST TIME I saw Cherie she was still beautiful.

I used to envy her perfect nose, her perfect teeth. Even her artificially-straight artificially-blonde hair flattered her.

I dread seeing her now.

Mom says Cherie’s mental state deteriorated fast after her boyfriend/ cocaine connection dumped her, and soon she was seeing black helicopters following her, international conspiracies spying on her. When she ran out of money and tried to get the boyfriend to take her back—yelling on his doorstep, threatening, and frightening the neighbors—he called the police. They threw her into Egg Harbor State Hospital, where she’s been for over a year, court-committed, with reviews every six months.

Lost in memory, I stare out the airplane window, barely registering the dull roar of the engines or the attendants rolling carts down the aisle. Thirty thousand feet down, barren waves of earth undulate. Probably mountains, but from up here they just look like random abstract patterns. The plane hits an air pocket and I’m falling but my stomach stays behind, leaving me that much more nauseated than I already was about making this trip.

I remember Mom calling to tell me about Cherie’s hospitalization. Guilt, shame and outrage mingled in her voice.

The New Jersey State Police, no less. A crowd came to watch. I could picture the way she slits her eyes in disapproval. Can’t say I’m surprised. Cherie always was difficult. But a nervous breakdown in public on a quiet street in Cape May. It’s so humiliating!

Mom sounded as if she’d taken Cherie’s psychosis as a personal affront, and maybe it was. It was a long time coming, although Cherie was twenty-six when the first bona fide symptoms appeared. Late onset adult schizophrenia, the diagnostic manual calls it. Now Mom’s torn between trying to fix Cherie and just wanting to forget she ever had a second child.

She’d asked me to come right away, as if I could do anything about it. Too busy, I said, but really I couldn’t face it.

The aroma of burnt coffee penetrates my contemplation.

Like to try some of our special Starbucks brew? A woman in a friendly-skies uniform lifts a carafe at me.

No, thanks. I gaze disconsolately at the landscape below. We’re crossing a river that looks an inch wide, but is likely the Mississippi. I glance at my watch, already set to Philadelphia time, which tells me we’ll land in about an hour and a half. Even with a year to get used to the idea and as many psychotics as I’ve worked with, I still don’t feel like I can face this. It’s different when it’s your own sister. Maybe I should meditate.

I lean my head against the seatback and realize I’m sucking my tongue. Mom broke me of sucking my thumb all those years ago but not of the need to suck when I feel threatened. I sigh and look for a place of peace within myself.

I can hardly keep from crying at the sight of Cherie being led into the visitors’ area. A parody of her old self, she’s gained at least thirty pounds. Her eyes, outlined heavily in royal blue, peer out of her round face like a trapped animal cowering in a cave. Blood red lipstick smears way past the outline of her mouth; her tentative smile reveals receding gums and a couple of lost molars. Her peroxided hair is a rat’s nest with dark roots, thinning around its center part. Here and there a lock is wrapped in foil. Dressed in clothes she would never choose for herself, too-short red plaid pants and a badly pilled lime green sweater that clashes with every color in the plaid. She couldn’t look more like a lunatic if she tried.

I take a deep breath and stand. We embrace. I feel myself sink into her pillowy softness, so different from the strong solid body she used to have.

What are you doing here? she asks. They lock you up too?

No, I came to visit you.

Did you bring cigarettes? Can we go outside so I can smoke?

Let’s wait till Mom gets here. Then we’ll go out together.

Mommy’s coming? Is she bringing presents?

Probably, but I brought some too. Want to see?

Cherie claps her hands like an overjoyed toddler at her first birthday party. It breaks my heart. I think of times as kids when I refused to play with her and wonder if I’d been more open, more supportive, would it have changed anything? But we were programmed from day one to become competitors, enemies. Encouragement was unknown in our house. My eyes sting with bitterness.

As if she can read my thoughts, Cherie’s face turns dark. She mutters about curses and devils and the wrath of God, punctuated with unearthly giggles. If it weren’t for my experience working in mental hospitals and halfway houses, I’d probably run from the room screaming at what’s become of my little sister.

I offer a distraction. How about we sit down and I’ll show you what I brought?

I extract treats one at a time, cigarettes first. Cherie tears open the cellophane wrapper, sniffs one like a fine cigar. Please can we go out now so I can smoke? she begs.

As soon as Mom gets here, I say, and hand her the bagel and lox sandwich I brought. I glance at my watch. Which should be any minute. We arranged to meet at two.

The wicked witch still lives. She scowls and looks away, then her face brightens as she catches sight of a tall lanky guy coming into the room.

James, my sister’s here and she brought me stuff. Want some bagel and lox? Or some cigarettes?

Not now. He scoots quickly out the door.

Is that a friend of yours?

Mmm-hmm.

What’s his name?

James Stevens. He lives on the men’s side of the ward. He likes me. Can I have that? She points at my wrist.

What, my watch?

Cherie nods eagerly. It’s a transparent Swatch, not expensive, but beloved.

Will you be able to hang on to it?

God will guard it as He guards my life, she says. I’ll sleep with it, I promise. I’ll never take it off. Can I have it, please?

I think about the time she dumped all my clothes in a pile in the middle of my bedroom floor and stomped on them because I wouldn’t lend her a skirt she wanted to borrow. I feel myself flush with embarrassment at how I bought into our mother’s rules about whose clothes were whose and what rituals we had to go through to borrow anything. Cherie never did stick with the program, any program. I unbuckle the watch and hand it to her.

Really? She grabs it and quickly straps it around her wrist as if I’d take it back if she waited another instant.

Really, I say. It’s yours.

Jesus told me all good things come to those who wait. He wants me to bear his child, and this watch is his promise. He doesn’t care about my scar.

What’s the aluminum foil in your hair for?

It helps block the surveillance so the helicopters can’t find me. The Anti-Christ hired the CIA to monitor me. To separate me from the Almighty.

It sounds so stereotypical it’s almost trite, like a bad movie. If only it were. One of my more disturbed clients once told me outright that his daily mission was to erase the memories of where he’d come from, of what he’d done. Could Cherie have unconsciously chosen going insane as a way to avoid taking responsibility for herself?

The psychologist in me understands her mental state as the product of a distorted family dynamic combined with a chemical imbalance in her brain. The explanation buffers my despair at seeing her like this, but still, it scares me. There but for grace go I.

I notice I’m sucking my tongue again and force myself to let go.

Cherie was always a devil, and overly sensitive, in the good and the bad way, susceptible to nuances that everyone else in her life ignores. And so am I. I feel guilty for being the sane one, assuming that I am. I may not hear voices, but I have plenty of delusions of my own. The fundamental difference between us is that my story is more socially acceptable than hers, for which I’m embarrassed to realize I’m thankful.

She examines the watch on her wrist, moving it around to admire from different angles.

Thank you very much, sister, for this generous gift, she says. I love you.

I love you too, sweet thing.

I know. Let’s play gin.

Ruth

fifty-six years old

TURNING THE CAR into the lane that leads to Cherie’s depressing hospital, I thank the powers that be for the taxes from gambling in Atlantic City that pay for New Jersey’s mental health system. If it weren’t for that, Cherie probably would have landed in my lap.

I hope Allison’s here by now. It’s about time she made it to visit her sister. Cherie will be her responsibility when I die, although I’d love to be free of her while I’m still alive. I’m tired of worrying about her, but I can’t just abandon her. A mother has to protect her children, like when they were in the womb.

The spacious and grassy hospital grounds aren’t bad, if it weren’t for cigarette butts and foam cups everywhere, but the buildings look like a prison. What did I do to deserve this?

Better lock the car. With all these crazies around you can’t be too careful.

My head aches as I drag myself up the ramp to Cherie’s building. I ring the bell and wait for one of the grumpy, lazy psych-techs to open the door. I’d rather turn around and go home but Cherie needs me.

It seems like an hour before the door swings open. A very fat woman in stretch pants and a white lab coat glowers at me.

I’m here to see Cherie Krazny, I tell her.

She shuffles down the hall to the elevator and I follow. Rifling through a bulging ring of keys, she chooses one and inserts it where the call buttons would normally be.

Second floor, left to Ward B. Ring the bell next to the door at the end of the hall. She sounds like she’s angry at me. Does she think it’s my fault that Cherie’s crazy?

The elevator clanks and rattles its way upward. Alone in the compartment, I wonder again if I did anything to make Cherie the way she is, and what I can do to fix her. Allison seems fine, sane enough to be a therapist at least. I’m an ordinary everyday person. And even though Warren could be infuriatingly obnoxious, he wasn’t certifiable.

Abruptly, the elevator stops but the doors don’t open immediately. I start worrying about being stuck here. When they finally slide apart, the cold gray hallway hits me with the smell of piss and disinfectant.

There’s another bell at the locked door to the ward. I push it, and peer through the chicken wire-fortified window. A psych tech, a man this time, sporting a lush handlebar moustache, answers my ring, using his overly muscled body to block the entrance. I tell him who I am.

What’s in the bag? he asks, reaching for the goodies I’ve brought Cherie.

I surrender it, knowing he has to rummage through everything to see for himself. He pulls out the tube of lipstick, inspects it to make sure it’s still sealed.

Nail polish okay, no file though. Too dangerous. He pockets the Revlon nail file, inspects the cigarette pack for forbidden matches, opens deli containers of food and sniffs them. Does he think I stashed a gun in the potato salad?

It seems like days pass before he hands the bag back. Why are all these people so slow?

In there. He nods toward the entrance to the visitors’ lounge.

Inside, people are gathered in scattered clusters, a patient with family or friends. Allison and Cherie are playing cards at a table by the window. Junk spreads out around them, most of it looking like the same kinds of things as I brought. Damn it. I wish I’d known what Allison was bringing so my stuff wouldn’t pale in comparison.

I force cheerfulness into my voice. Hi, girls.

Mommy, Mommy. Mommy’s here, Cherie chants.

Allison stands to greet me. She looks comfortably elegant in faded jeans, boots and a cable-knit sweater. Her hair is shorter, curling gently around her face. Cherie’s still sitting, grinning at me. I can tell another tooth is gone. She’s fatter than ever, and sloppy, in shabby mismatched clothes.

I accept Allison’s hug, then lean to press my cheek on Cherie’s head.

She shrinks away, like she can tell what I’ve been thinking.

Contamination! she shrieks. The Lord Jesus Christ our Savior will condemn you for Eternity for defiling his Chosen One!

I sit heavily. Cherie, honey, be nice. We haven’t all been together in years. Let’s try to have a good time.

Don’t take it personally, Mom, Allison says quietly, as if I had a choice. This is my child we’re talking about, flesh of my flesh. Tainted.

"It is her fault, Cherie roars. God knows. She has never treated His Servant with proper respect. For that, she’ll burn in Hell!"

What else can I do? I ask. I’ve been trying to help you.

Repent, sinner. Let the Evil be cast out from your blackened soul.

What’s in the bag, Mom? Allison interrupts in a bright tone. Offerings for the chosen one?

Cigarettes? Cherie wants to know. Red licorice and M&M’s?

All your favorite stuff. I clear a space to empty the contents onto the table, glad to be in familiar territory.

Ooh, lipstick, eye shadow, Marlboros, nail polish, Oreos! Jesus’ll cut you some slack for that.

Why does she have to do this Jesus routine? She’s Jewish, for God’s sake. Is she crazy because I sent them to Vacation Bible school at the Presbyterian church around the corner when they were little? Was it too much to ask to have a few minutes to myself once a day for two weeks?

Cherie swivels the lipstick out of the tube and touches up her already scarlet lips, scraping unnoticed bits onto her front teeth.

I pull a mirror and tissue from my pocketbook. Here, let me help you clean that up.

Be gone, heathen! Away! She jumps up, knocking over her chair.

Allison studies her, then turns to me. Sometimes I think she’s speaking metaphorically.

Cherie stops mid-tantrum, looks interested.

You know, like poetry, Allison says. You say you want to help but she doesn’t appreciate you. Maybe, through the filter of her delusions about sin and evil, she’s saying she doesn’t want what you’re trying to give.

You’re talking as though your sister isn’t in the same room. Is this some new psychological theory?

Just an experiment. What do you think, Cherie?

Cherie giggles maniacally. I think, um … She makes a deep buzzing sound.

I guess she doesn’t want to talk about it, Allison says. But you could try not nagging her for a while and see if she relates to you any better.

I refuse to answer the little snot. Thinks she’s so smart because she has two degrees in psychology and I had to drop out of college after one year.

Cherie takes a quick breath, renews the buzz.

Nurse Humphries appears at the door to see what the ruckus is about. I look helplessly at Allison, afraid that if I try to say anything, I’ll make things worse. Allison takes her sister’s hand, pulls her down to her chair, smoothes her tangled hair.

Sorry about the noise, she says. Cherie’s okay now, aren’t you, honey?

Cherie eyes the nurse suspiciously, then nods emphatically. I’ll be good, she promises sweetly.

As the woman retreats, Cherie cocks her head like she’s listening to her voices, then mumbles back at them.

I just wanted to help, I repeat. I didn’t mean to upset you.

It galls me to have to apologize to Cherie’s sickness, but if we don’t keep her calm they’ll throw us out and lock her up again.

You used to be so pretty, I tell her. Maybe if you parted your hair on the side, went to the dentist and got a partial plate …

Cherie snorts. She looks like she’s gearing up for another fit. Allison shoots me a warning look, changes the subject.

Now that Mom’s here, why don’t we go out? Cherie wants to smoke. Maybe we can take a ride, do a little shopping?

Cherie beams. Can we go to WalMart and buy clothes? They steal all my clothes here.

They don’t steal your clothes, I say. You put them in the communal laundry and they get sent to other wards.

Mom, please, Allison says.

I hate Allison acting like she knows more than I do about how to treat my own daughter. But it does seem that everything I try backfires. Since the day she was born, Cherie never understood how hard I tried to put her on the right path. Sometimes I think she went crazy just to spite me.

Cherie

twenty-eight years old

THEY’RE STEALING MY stuff. Everyone here is in on it. Even the air here is poison. Hate, fear, death floating around. Don’t breathe it. Don’t breathe it. Why am I here? What did I do wrong?

You are not the cause. It is my will. Everything is of that.

Me too?

Everything is filled with my holiness.

I am You? Not a loser?

You are. Only those who scorn me lose. They are those you see as living dead—pretending, stumbling, blind.

Then fly me to your Heavenly Palace. I’m an alien in this world. Why am I locked up with these zombies? Why am I still here?

Remember …

Cherie

minus nine months

"I HAVE AN assignment for you, dear one, if you accept it. A physical manifestation."

I don’t know, Boss. I don’t see the value in this individual consciousness stuff. I like it here where it’s all one.

\ know you do, angel. But \ have a job waiting there for you

Why me?

"Only you have the particular combination of skills and quirks to carry off this assignment."

Flatterer. So what do I have to do?

Nothing.

What do you mean, nothing? Am I going to die being born?

"Oh, no. You will have a relatively long life, although you will not enjoy most of it because of the state you will be in"

What is it? Brain damage? Will you render me paralyzed? Some great deformity?

"Not exactly. But you will never amount to anything by that world’s standards. You will choose what seem like dead-ends. You will spend time in a mental hospital."

Why? What have I done to deserve it? What do I need to learn?

"This one is not for you, angel. \t is a life of service. You will show people parts of themselves they refuse to look at. By opening to themselves, they will learn to love others"

And I get nothing out of it?

To the contrary. You get the satisfaction of being a great teacher, and of returning to me with expanded wisdom and compassion

Cherie

birth

BOSS? CAN YOU still hear me? I don’t like this job already.

It’s getting weird in here. I’m crushed and battered by endless squeezing. I want to go Home. Isn’t there another soul who can take over?

Ow. Pressure on my belly, sliding across. Then an opening above me, and warm wetness. I’m lifted out. No, please, I don’t want this life.

Bright lights, cold, cold air, and hands all over me, moving me, slapping, rubbing …

WAAAHHH! I scream as chest and vocal cords engage. I don’t want to be here.

I’m slipping into an alien realm, out of control. Please, Boss, take me back.

No answer.

My awareness of Before is fading fast, but I still remember that the Boss knows best. Much as I hate it, I’m born now. I surrender to my fate.

Cherie

twenty-eight years old

THANK YOU MOMMY and Sweet Sister Ally. I’m so excited you’re both here. Can’t we all just go home now?

Right now we’re going to WalMart, the queen of spades says. Cockroaches crawl all over her.

What would you like to buy? asks the crown princess. Through the magic doors. Lights sparkle, colors, products of every variety for your home, and the smell of …

Popcorn! Extra-large! With lots of butter! Please, please can I have some popcorn?

I follow the delicious smell, pushing through piles of boxes in my path. Make way, make way. Jesus’s chosen, the Empress of Heaven, is coming, trailed by pretenders to the throne, the ladies-in-waiting who conspire to overthrow her.

They will not succeed. The Empress is on a mission from God.

Senior Prom

Ruth

eighteen years old

FOR GOODNESS SAKE.

I’m eighteen years old already but Mama won’t let me accept an invitation from Stu to our senior prom. By the time she was my age, she was already married. She treats me like I’m an infant, runs my life with an iron fist without the velvet glove. I’m just another item in her household which has to be molded to fit the way she sees the world.

Even though Stu passes her number one criteria by being Jewish, his father pumps gas, and the whole family wears hand-me-down clothes. Mama volunteers at the B’nai Brith thrift shop, but she thinks blue collar jobs and second-hand stores are beneath our station. Daddy drives his own car to work, which probably runs on Stu’s father’s gasoline. No trolleys for us, not any more.

I don’t see what the big deal is. Daddy worked his way through dental school. Stu might do the same thing one day. Daddy has a healthy practice, but Mama still scrimps and saves every penny so she can send my obnoxious little brother to law school one day so he should have some power in the world. We may buy new clothes, but with a quest for bargains that’s like a religion.

Mama insisted I take my cousin Arnie to the prom, figuring I’d have someone to dance with and a chaperone all rolled into one. And just like it’s been my entire life, I don’t know how to win an argument with her. She sewed me up this frilly pink organza, never mind how much I hate pink.

You look like an angel, she said as we did the last fitting yesterday. It’s not a bad dress, actually, except for the color.

At eight o’clock on the button, Arnie shows up in a rented tuxedo, which my father sprung for, toting a pink camellia. Daddy chauffeurs us to the high school in his Dodge.

The gym is decorated with twisted crepe paper hanging from the ceiling. All the light fixtures are covered with paper globes we girls made in Home Ec classes. The bleachers are pulled down, and blue and yellow Kleenex flowers are stuck to the ends of the rows. A big bowl of some sick-looking punch is sitting smack in the center of a long table covered with a pink paper cloth which exactly matches this stupid dress. Lots of homemade-looking cakes and cookies, donated by most of the mothers of our class, are scattered across the surface in unmatched serving dishes. I’m mortified as Daddy follows us in to deliver Mama’s mandlebrot on its paper plate.

When I’m sure Daddy’s gone, I put as much distance as possible between me and Arnie. At the far end of the room, I hide where the light is dim. The band’s playing You Belong to Me, a slow dance. I look around for Stu but I can’t find him. I’m disappointed and glad at the same time. At least he’s not here with someone else.

How about a dance, Ruthie? My bloodhound cousin has found me, and takes my silence for acceptance. He leads me by the hand into the center of the floor. His other hand creeps around my waist. He clomps around so badly out of time I wonder if he can hear what the band’s playing. I can’t even think about following. The best I can hope for is keeping him off these specially-purchased and dyed-to-match pink silk shoes. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine the arms holding me are Stu’s, except for the sweaty palms. I try to lose myself in the music and make the best of it.

Ruthie, you look so cute, I hear my best friend Gloria call. I open my eyes. She waves as she whirls by in her boyfriend’s arms.

Thanks, I say, hoping I don’t sound too ungrateful. You too.

I’m filled with overpowering envy that she can come here with someone she likes while I’m with my cousin, who dances like Doctor Frankenstein’s monster.

The music transitions into a jitterbug, way too complicated for Arnie’s two left feet, so he abandons me in the middle of the floor.

I’ll get us some punch, he mumbles. Meet me at the bleachers.

Sure, I say. He’ll never know I’m being sarcastic. I’m free, at least for the moment, and I’m not going to waste it. I wander off to cruise the perimeter of the gym, trying again to spot Stu, hoping he’s alone so we can dance together.

The music changes. This time it’s Gogi Grant’s hit song, The Wayward Wind. I sing along as I walk, acting out the words with movement. As I pass the bandstand the sax player flashes thumbs-up approval. I look behind me to see who he’s signaling to, but no one else around is nearby. Is he saying he liked my singing? I’ve always liked singing in the school choir, and the music teacher says I have a good voice. But the thought of being appreciated by a real musician almost knocks me off my feet.

I meet his eye, and he winks. The song ends. I’m still standing by the stage with my mouth hanging open when the guitar player announces that the band’s taking a short break.

The sax player leans his instrument gently into its stand, then hops off the stage in front of me.

I’m Brian Reilly, he says. I heard you out there, liked your style. This band is looking for a female vocalist. Would you like to try out?

I nod, speechless.

Good. Let me introduce you to Hal. You have a name?

That shatters my stupor, and makes me laugh. I’m Ruth Markowitz. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m just a high school senior at my prom.

Which is a magical event. Brian’s eyes twinkle. He makes me think of a leprechaun, although he’s at least six feet tall. Maybe it’ll change your life.

Brian Reilly puts a hand under my elbow and guides me backstage. I’m really nervous, afraid that my cousin Arnie or one of my teachers will see and tell my mother and I’ll never be allowed out of the house again as long as I live. But once I’m behind the curtain, safe from discovery, I’m excited.

This is Hal Green, the band’s leader. Brian smiles at a tall man with a beaked nose and curly dark hair. Hal, shake hands with Ruth Markowitz, a beautiful girl with a great voice. I think we should audition her.

Nice to meet you, Ruth. If Brian says you’re good, you must be. He’s very fussy. Would you like to sit in for a song in the next set?

Oh, I couldn’t. I mean, I’d love to, but my parents would kill me.

Are they here?

No, but—

Well, then, they’ll never know, will they?

My cousin Arnie—

"Oh, I get the picture. Nice Jewish girls don’t sing with bands. Well, you can tell your parents my real name is Harold Greenberg, and I’ll watch over you like you were my sister to make sure the goyim like Bri here don’t take advantage."

I’d really love to, but— Oh, God, what to do? The chance of a lifetime, but can I get around my parents if I really get the job?

I refuse to take ‘but’ for an answer. Know any Patsy Cline?

I can’t resist. We decide on Patsy Cline’s song, Crazy, which they’d already planned for the next slow dance. Hal offers me a Coke, and the guys guzzle some beers they’d smuggled in their instrument cases. They rehash the list for the next set and I’m happy as a pig in dirt to be here. The drummer starts a joke that sounds like it’s going to be dirty and Hal shushes him. I wonder if they’ll really like having a girl in the band.

If my mother knew what her perfectly choreographed prom had brought me, she’d have a stroke. But this is a chance I refuse to give up.

Then Hal calls time and the band heads back onstage. Wait here, he says, planting me in the wings. I’m so scared my knees are knocking. I’d heard about that and couldn’t imagine what it was like, but now I know firsthand.

The guys play a few up-tempo numbers before Hal introduces me as the new girl in the band.

I walk on stage and straight into heaven. The jitters disappear. In the lights, I can’t see any familiar faces. The band starts the intro. I hope I come in at the right time. I start off a little shaky, then suddenly I’m lost in the song, in the passion and torture of love gone wrong. I know here and now I never want to do anything else for the rest of my life. I picture myself ten years from now on the stage at Carnegie Hall. That’d show my mother, who thinks only she knows how I should live my life.

When the song ends, I don’t want to leave the spotlight.

Ladies and gentlemen, Fairmount High’s own Ruth Markowitz. My classmates hoot and cheer and stomp on the bleachers like I’m Patsy herself. Thank you, Hal says. Now it’s time for us to take a break, but we’ll be back in a few minutes for more dancing, so don’t go away. He puts his guitar down and escorts me off the stage.

You’re hired, he says. Don’t leave tonight without letting me know how to reach you.

I’m so ecstatic that I throw my arms around him in a hug. Brian gallops over and whirls me away.

You were fabulous! Do I have an ear for talent or what? He plants a big kiss right on my lips.

I’m surprised, and too happy to stand on ceremony just because I only met him tonight, so I kiss him right back. Hal’s standing beside us clearing his throat real loud, but after all, Brian just changed my life! I’m so exited, I can almost ignore my dread about what will happen when I tell my parents my plans.

Onstage

Ruth

eighteen years old

OH, MY GOD, I’m terrified.

This is it. The big opportunity. I’m backstage on my first real job with the band, waiting for them to do a few tunes to warm up the crowd before they bring me on.

I’m frozen solid. My heart’s in my throat. There isn’t the tiniest bit of room for sound to come out. Even if I could sing, I’ll never remember the lyrics. I’ll make a fool of myself. I can’t believe I ever thought I could do this.

I peek through the curtain. There are hundreds of people out there. They’ll all be watching if I bomb. My armpits ooze sweat. Maybe I should just disappear before it’s time for my first number. The band can get through the night without me, just go back to the boy-singer numbers they did before I joined.

And miss out on all this fun? I don’t think so.

There are two parts of me, excited and afraid, and I don’t know which one to listen to.

But I do know that I absolutely love this dress. When I told Hal that I planned to wear the same outfit I wore to my prom, he got this sick look on his face, then said he’d take me shopping for a new one. He picked this one out. It’s the newest style. Soft and slinky instead of stiff and ruffly. I feel like Marilyn Monroe. Which helps, considering how nervous I am. My fingers and toes are tingling like the circulation’s been cut off.

The song ends and I can’t remember what it was. Was it my cue? I peek through the curtains again but Hal’s turned away, talking with Brian. Then he counts off the next tune, and I hear the organ playing the silky intro to I Love How You Love Me, my first number. Oh, God.

The drummer swishes his brushes over the snare, Hal fingers the bass pattern, Brian noodles the melody on the guitar. People are filling the dance floor. Everyone dances to the slow ones.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special treat for you. Please help me welcome our wonderful new vocalist, Miss Ruth Marks.

Marks? He changed my name! I’m glad. It sounds much more … normal. American. Like I belong here.

I suck in a deep breath, paste a smile on my face and stroll onstage. Facing the crowd directly overwhelms me, just like Hal thought it might. That’s why he chose this song for my first. He said it would put people in a good mood, make them want to love me. I let the music take me, sway to the rhythm while I look around at the expectant faces nearby.

The next time the top of the chord pattern rolls around, I start.

I love how your eyes close whenever you kiss me …

The dancers’ faces light up. Couples snuggle in closer together. And it’s me moving them. I could learn to love this.

When I get to the squeeze me, tease me, please me part, Hal and Brian chime in with harmonies. People in the crowd are singing along too. Only a month ago I was down there, on the outside looking in. I feel really lucky, charmed almost. Could this really be my life?

By the second time through the song, the place is swimming in breathless energy. Some people on the floor have stopped dancing completely and are just standing there necking, right out in public. And there’s a line of single guys in front of the stage staring at me like I’m some kind of sex goddess. It’s very provocative. The tingling spreads.

I step away from the microphone to listen as the guitar and organ trade solos. Colored spotlights play over the crowd, barely disguising how some of them are moving in ways most people save for when they’re alone together. As I come back in for the last verse and the vamp where I improvise at the end, the energy builds and a jolt stronger than I’ve ever felt before tears through my body. Much stronger than the feeble little climax I’ve sometimes had while I’m petting with Stu and he touches me there.

I can’t just stop singing, but my attention is more inside than out as the feeling fades with the song. I’m still vibrating all over when it stops and the applause begins. Can’t wait to do that again.

But no time to dwell on it. The next song’s starting, with Brian singing lead, and I’ve got to remember the words to my harmony part before the chorus comes around.

Betrayal

Ruth \nineteen years old

WHAT A NIGHT. It doesn’t get much better than this. Soft warm breezes coming off the ocean, and more stars than I’ve ever seen. Way out on the pier, the lights from the Boardwalk at my back … And the best part is I’m singing with the band playing at Steel Pier! Since I joined Hal and the guys after the prom, we’ve done a bunch of private parties, but this is the first well-known public place. And out-of-town besides! The only way I got my parents to let me come is to promise to stay with friends of theirs who are watching my every move. But it’s a beginning. A reason to believe that dreams can come true.

I smell phosphorus from a match bursting into flame and turn to see Brian, lighting a cigarette. He holds it out to me. Want one?

I don’t really like cigarettes but I don’t want to look like a goody two-shoes, so I make an excuse, saying, Not good for my vocal cords.

Brian takes a deep drag, then blows smoke at the midnight sky. Hal got a very interesting offer today.

Really? What could be better than playing Steel Pier?

A sly grin lights his freckled face. How about a summer tour of the resorts in the Poconos, the Catskills and the Berkshires?

I wave a hand at him, dismissing the joke. Too good to be true.

Kid, I kid you not.

"Oh, my God, would I love to do that!" I celebrate with a little dance move I learned from Elvis, then freeze. An image of my mother appears before me, and she looks mad. I realize she’ll never let me go.

Hey, what happened? You look like your best friend died.

I run a hand through my hair, too frustrated to care what it’ll do to the fancy style job I spent hours and half a can of hair spray on.

I’ll never be able to go. You know what my parents are like. To do this gig, I have to stay with their friends in Margate, and the husband waits for me on the boardwalk every night when we’re done. I’m not allowed to go anywhere on my own all day, and then he brings me back right before we go onstage. Just getting time for the sound check was a battle.

Man, are you sheltered. Why do you put up with it? How old are you anyway?

Nineteen. But you’re right. I’m stifling. It’s awful!

Are you allowed to date? Brian moves a little closer, drapes his arm around my shoulders. It feels warm and comfortable.

Only Jewish guys.

He takes his arm back. Well, that leaves me out. Why do you put up with it? If it was me, I’d have gotten out long ago.

And gone where? I finished high school but I’ve never had a job. Except if you call helping out in my father’s office now and then a job.

This is a job, he said. With the band and driving a cab, I have my own apartment. I share with two other guys, but I’m independent. You could do something like that with a bunch of girls.

I don’t think so. It’s different for girls.

If you say so. He takes another drag on his cigarette and blows out a stream of smoke. What would you do if Hal took the gig in the mountains?

I’d love to go. I have no idea how to convince my parents, but I’ll sure try.

"Your mother is right. Nice Jewish girls do not go on the road with a bunch of meshugana musicians."

But, Daddy, of all people, I thought you’d understand. You love music, and the theater. I knew Mama would object. She doesn’t get it, but you …

Mama crosses her arms. Her eyes narrow. I feel like I’m up against a teamster instead of a ninety-five-pound woman. What I ‘get’, she says, is that your ridiculous idea is the problem. Single girls don’t travel with groups of men, and that’s all there is to it.

I look at Daddy. He shrugs. You heard her, Ruthie. What can I do? Raising you children is her territory.

In my best Daddy’s-little-princess voice, I say, But it’s show business, Daddy. You said that you’d have tried it yourself if you hadn’t had a family to support. Let me try it, Daddy, please? Some people make it in show business. Maybe I’m one of them.

Nice Jewish girls do not go on the road with bands.

What about Fanny Brice?

He stops, cocks his head.

Jack, don’t you dare! Mama snaps. I forbid it. You’ll tear this family apart.

Daddy, please. Tell her to let me go.

He looks at me, then at her. She’s quivering like a volcano getting ready to erupt.

If you go, she says, don’t ever come back. You will no longer be a daughter of mine. Her words burn through me. "You’ll go, and you’ll try, and you’ll fail, and then you’ll fall. You’ll have sex with men, you’ll take drugs … No mensch will ever want you again."

She takes in a deep breath, then sighs, shaking her head sadly like someone has died. Then you’ll hit bottom. You’ll have nowhere to go. Maybe you’ll go crazy like your father’s Aunt Esther. You’ll want to come home and have us take care of you. I will not have it. You go, we’re through. That’s my final word.

Daddy puts his hands out, palms up. What can I say?

I fling myself out of the living room and up the stairs, nearly tripping over my bratty little brother who’s been listening to the whole thing from the landing. He snickers as I storm by. I want to kill him. He gets everything and I get nothing. What am I, chopped liver?

I slam my bedroom door and throw myself across the bed. My life stinks. Why bother having a dream when it just gets crushed?

I pick up a pillow and twist it like it’s my mother’s neck. I hear growling and realize it must be me.

Downstairs, it’s stony silent.

I picture myself on the road with the guys in the band’s van, driving through the mountains. It looks like heaven. We could even be discovered by some big producer and get famous! I’d be rich and never have to answer to my parents again.

Maybe I should sneak out in the dead of night and go anyway. Defy them, be banished from home, abandon myself to the fates. But Hal would never let me. When I joined the band, he swore up and down to my parents that he’d make sure I never did anything they wouldn’t like and made them believe he knew what that was. He really is a nice Jewish boy, damn him.

Should I look for another band?

Who am I kidding? There are fifty girl singers for every band that needs one. It’s a miracle I ever got the chance at all.

And even if I could talk Hal into taking me with them, it would only last a couple months and then what? The guys all have day jobs to go back to when the tour is over. But if I disobey my parents and they really won’t take me in when I get back, what would happen to me? Maybe I’m not really good enough to make a living singing. I could end up on the streets, in the dead of winter, hungry and alone.

Suddenly I feel very cold. My teeth start chattering. It’s disgusting that my dream is being offered to me on a silver platter and I’m not allowed to take it.

I slither off the bed, plop down at my vanity table and stare into the mirror. My eyes are dull, my skin pasty. I put on the bright red lipstick I wear for performing, but it just makes me look like a ghoul. I wipe it off with a tissue, leaving smudges all around my mouth. I cover my face with my hands. I can’t stand to look at myself any more.

Is this all there is to life? Am I just a piece of furniture my parents own and there’s nothing I can do about it? The only way out is as the wife of a nice Jewish doctor? Don’t I get to have any fun?

There’s a knock at my door. Ruth, it’s Daddy. I’m coming in.

I refuse to answer. In the mirror, I see the door open. I look away, but hear him coming closer, feel the warmth of his body as he stands behind me.

Slowly, I turn to look at him.

Mama and I only want what’s best for you, he says.

What about what I want?

You don’t know what’s good for you. You’re too young. When you settle down, you’ll thank us for not letting you ruin your life. Who would want you after you go traipsing around with a bunch of musicians? Who would believe you could be a good wife and mother, that you would be dedicated to your family after all that?

I give him my most withering look. That sounds stupid coming from you. You’re just parroting what Mama says.

I say it because it’s true. It’s the way we do things. People like us have to be careful. If you expose yourself too much, you could get in big trouble.

Yeah, yeah and the Nazis killed your parents and uncles and cousins. But that was ages ago.

Not so long. Remember, when you were born, the war was still happening. Millions of people were being gassed in the camps simply because they were Jewish. Hatred passes down from generation to generation. Our people have been persecuted for thousands of years.

Daddy, this is America. The melting pot. Let’s melt.

I’m sorry, honey. We’re doing what we think is best for you. We want you to quit the band and stay home. Find a nice husband.

Don’t I get to live a life of my own? I cry. To be someone?

It’s not the way of things, he says sadly, and walks away.

Revenge

Ruth

nineteen years old

HAL DECIDES TO take the road gig. He says he hates to leave me behind, but all the guys want to go and it turns out the drummer has a new girlfriend who sings and she’s going with them. A shiksa, of course.

After they leave, time passes with nothing to show for itself. My life seems dusted with a layer of soot. Summer slides by in a grey blur. For the past two weeks, I’ve been working as the receptionist in Daddy’s office so his real girl can spend some extra time with her kids while they’re out of school. What a thrill. If I died, would anyone notice?

I’m bored to tears, thumbing through Daddy’s ancient Look magazines for the third time, when a boy pokes his head in the door.

Delivery.

He’s tall and dark, kind of handsome, and he looks familiar. You’re Warren Krazny, aren’t you? I say. I remember seeing you around high school last year.

One and the same. But today I’m Medical and Dental Services, Incorporated. Dr. Markowitz ordered these. He humps a cardboard box up onto my counter. And you are… ?

Ruth. Dr. Markowitz’s daughter. I’m disappointed that he didn’t recognize me from school. If he’d have seen me up on stage at Steel Pier, instead of in my pleated skirt and knee socks, he’d remember me.

Warren smiles. My pleasure. It’s always a treat to meet such a lovely lady. How did I miss you at Fairmount?

Well, I was a year behind you—we didn’t have any friends in common. And you’ve been gone for a year now … I don’t mention the girlfriend who was always hanging around his neck, taking up his attention. Anyway, it’s nice to meet you now.

I stick out my hand. He takes it like it’s a precious gift.

It would be nice to get to know you better, he says. His eyes are brown and deep, with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a boy. How about dinner someday?

I don’t know. My parents usually … I think about the rules on who I can go out with, and how they insist on meeting the boy before I can accept a date. Warren’s grasp on my hand loosens and I feel my chest tighten. I’m so sick of my awful parents and angry about not being allowed to go on the road with Hal’s band that I decide not to let them steal any more chances from me.

… never mind. I’d love to have dinner with you. Where and when should we meet?

I don’t want him coming to my house to pick me up.

How about Saturday? We could meet at the restaurant, I guess. You like sea food?

Sure do. It would be especially appropriate since Mama won’t allow shellfish in the house.

Great. How about Fisher’s? Seven PM?

On Saturday evening, I tell Mama and Daddy that I’m going to walk over to Gloria’s and then to the movies. I wear a scooped-neck dress that I can spruce up with jewelry in the restaurant. I get there early and put on my makeup in the ladies’ room.

Warren looks very mature in a white shirt, black jacket and tie, his hair a slick pompadour. He pulls out the chair for me and his hand whispers across my shoulder as he seats me. The maitre d’ lights the candle on our table. I feel sophisticated.

What would you like to drink? There’s an eagerness in his invitation that makes me think he means the hard stuff. I don’t have a lot of experience with alcohol except for Passover wine but Warren’s enthusiasm is contagious.

They wouldn’t serve me, would they? I mean, I’m not twenty-one yet.

His penetrating eyes light up. Let’s try it anyway. What’ll you have? He raises a finger to summon the waiter.

What will I be able to swallow without embarrassing myself? Um, a screwdriver, I guess.

I have one with the shrimp cocktail, another with the sauteed scallops. Each bite feels like a glorious rebellion. The first drink helps me stop feeling so self-conscious. With the second, Warren starts looking pretty darn cute. I think he likes me too. He touches my hand sometimes while he making a point, then pulls away to draw pictures in the air. The next time his hands come to rest, I cover one with mine. He stops talking to look at me.

It’s a fantastic moment. My private place is vibrating. The look of wonder on Warren’s face tells me his is too.

Ruth, I …

Don’t talk, I say. Let’s just enjoy it.

Can I kiss you?

Not now. Let’s go somewhere else. This is better than dessert.

Warren signals for the check. I’ve got my Dad’s car. Where would you like to go?

Twenty minutes later we’re in a parking lot in Fairmount Park, steaming up the windows. Warren moves his hand to my breast.

I push it away. It’s only our first date.

I’m sorry. But I want to touch you so much I can’t help myself.

Warren kisses me again, no hands. I imagine letting him touch me wherever he wants. His hands, his mouth on my breasts, between my legs. My parents would be appalled if they found out, saw me like that. What a great way to pay them back. I can feel my secret parts swelling, getting warm. There’s bulge in Warren’s pants. I take his hand, kiss the fingers one by one and place it on my breast.

Oh, Ruth, he moans. You’re so beautiful. He kneads my breast like dough. Mmm. I close my eyes and see my father watching us. The heat in my crotch goes up a hundred degrees. I open my mouth to Warren’s probing tongue.

He slides a hand down over my belly, and between my legs. I spread them to make it easier. Now I picture Mama, looking furious, which excites me more. I press myself against Warren.

Oh, baby, he says. Nobody’s ever gotten me this hot and bothered this fast. Are you feeling what I’m feeling?

Absolutely. I lay my hand on the bulge.

Is it a good time?

I cool down a little when I realize he means to go all the way until I imagine my father’s fury, my mother’s outrage, and it spurs me on. They deserve this for ruining my life.

I try to remember the last time I had my period. It was down the shore with Gloria and Francie after I quit the band. I started crying when we walked by Steel Pier. That was around the eighth and now it’s almost Labor Day. Home free!

I tickle Warren’s ear with my tongue as I whisper an invitation to the back seat. In the light of half a moon, his face radiates the pure joy of a guy who can’t believe