Those last months were the worst. It seemed like every day someone else's father or husband or son came home, and there was a party in someone's living room or backyard. When Margie's father came home, she walked around in a glow for weeks. I almost hated her. Your father was only a private, I wanted to say. Phooey.
We didn't talk about it, but I knew what my mom was feeling, because it was just what I was feeling. It was like Joe had been a dream.
And then, suddenly, one April morning, Joe returned, blowing in the front door with his arms full of flowers. I remember the splash of cold spring air on my cheeks, how he kept the door open and even Grandma Glad didn't close it. All the neighbors came over to say hello and stayed until one in the morning. General Eisenhower himself couldn't have gotten me to bed that night. I was wearing a present Joe had brought back, a bracelet that I kept twisting around on my wrist. Real gold, he said.
I never took the bracelet off, even in the bathtub. I never once thought about who'd owned it before. I was too busy pushing up the sleeves of my sweaters so everybody could see it.
Within two months of coming home, Joe had opened his first appliance store in Queens. "How do you like that?" he said. "Everybody wants to loan me money now." Then he opened another in Brooklyn, and he was planning to open two more. Everyone wanted to buy a brand-new Bendix washer from the Spoon.
When they got married down at City Hall, a photographer was there from Life, the magazine that was on every coffee table in America. He was looking for servicemen who were tying the knot. So Joe goes right up and tells him the story, how he'd stolen Beverly Plunkett, the prettiest girl in Queens, how he was called "the Spoon" and she was called "the Dish."
But here's the thing: Mom never had a nickname. Joe made it up. He conjured up the headline he wanted right out of the air, like Mandrake the Magician. He sold it the way he sold appliances.
The picture was on the mantel, in a silver frame. In it they're jumping off the third step of City Hall down to the sidewalk, arm in arm. Her blond waves are bouncing, her mouth dark with lipstick. It is in the very middle of winter, snow on the sidewalks, husbands and brothers and fathers heading off to war. But look at Beverly Spooner. Nothing ahead but blue skies. You can see it in her gleaming teeth, in the gardenia on the lapel of her camel hair coat, in the way one of her gloved hands is bunched into a fist, ready to punch Herr Hitler's lights out if he gets in the way of her happiness. Over their heads, the headline hollers:
AND THE DISH RAN AWAY
WITH JOE SPOON
I was there that day, at City Hall. Mom asked if I could be in the picture, too. I saw the photographer's gaze move over me, a plain-faced nine-year-old in my plaid coat, my legs all goose-bumpy from the cold. He took the picture, but even then I knew it wouldn't be the one they'd pick. I wasn't a part of that glamour, that glow. In the article they didn't even mention me. It was like Mom got married for the first time.
We'd stopped at a bar before we went. I waited outside with the corsage in a box. I felt very important. Grandma Glad had refused to come. I would be their only guest. Good-bye, Evie Plunkett, I kept saying to myself. Evie Spooner. Evie Spooner. The new name tasted like strawberry jam. I would get that, and a dad, too.
Chapter 10
In the end the Graysons came, too, and we all drove down to Delray Beach in their brand-new Cadillac. We sat on a terrace in the shade, where we could feel an ocean breeze. Everyone ordered hamburgers. I sipped on my lemonade, pretending it was a cocktail.
Mom and Peter and the Graysons kept the conversation going. All the things grown-ups talk about smashed together: the weather, would the Commies get the bomb, did you hear Fiorello LaGuardia was in a coma, Peter's home in Oyster Bay, Long Island. You could tell he didn't want to brag about it, because he changed the subject to the Graysons. Peter had heard of the hotel Mr. Grayson owned, the Metropole, and he said it was one of the best in New York. You could see this pleased Mr. Grayson. He was a thin man in horn-rimmed glasses who looked more like a professor than a hotel guy; he didn't look like an easy man to win over, but Peter did it so smoothly.
As the adults talked, I couldn't seem to punch a hole in the conversation. I couldn't capture his attention, not like I had the night before. I felt young and stupid again, with my glass of lemonade and my brown sandals.
Joe chomped on his hamburger moodily. I'd never seen him like this, grumpy and looking old in the bright sun. When he turned to signal the waiter for another beer I could see his scalp through his hair.
"Everybody wants to just jump in a car and go these days," Peter said. "Especially ex-GIs. I enlisted the day after graduation. I drove down to New York from New Haven."
"Ah, a Yale man," Mr. Grayson said.
"Then I had three years of being told what to do and where to go. Enough already. Right, Joe?"
Joe didn't answer. He had a big bite of hamburger in his mouth.
"How about you, Tom?" Peter asked.
"4-F," Mr. Grayson said. "Bum ticker."
No one said anything for a minute. Back home it was the biggest shame, 4-F. Unfit for service.
"What I felt over there was, the fellows that couldn't fight, they held the country together. They gave us something to come back to," Peter said. "My brother John was 4-F, same as you. He did more for the war than I did. Worked as an engineer in a defense plant. All I did was slog through a couple of acres of mud. John was the real hero." He said it seriously, giving Mr. Grayson a look of respect. Mr. Grayson's shoulders relaxed, and Mrs. Grayson looked grateful.
Mom took a sip from her glass. "Mmm, I can't get enough of this orange juice," she said. "Have you ever had anything like it, Arlene?"
"Never," Mrs. Grayson said. "They keep the best oranges for themselves down here, I guess."
"Rats live in orange trees," Joe said. It was the first thing he'd said in a while.
"Don't be morbid, Joe," Mom said.
"Who's being morbid?" Joe asked. "They need their vitamins, just like we do."
Mrs. Grayson laughed.
Mom hadn't touched her hamburger. I pushed mine aside. The meat seemed heavy and ancient, something that would soon be stinking in this heat.
Tom Grayson's forehead was shiny with sweat. "I found out why our hotel is open in the off-season," he said. "It's for sale."
"You thinking of buying it, Tom?" Mrs. Grayson said, smiling.
"You think that's so crazy?"
"Yeah," she said. "I do." gas to get anywhere we want. Lots of folks will be traveling."
"Exactly," Mr. Grayson said. He sat up straighter. "And wait until all the buildings are air-cooled. That will bring the tourists."
"I'm thinking of adding those units to my business, selling to restaurants and hotels," Joe said. "There's a market out there."
"Here's where you should be selling them," Mr. Grayson said. He cleared his throat, as though he was just waking up. "I'm telling you, this place is due for a boom."
"Joe here is a smart businessman," Peter said. "He knows when to grab the big chance. Right, Joe?"
Joe didn't answer Peter. He nodded at Mr. Grayson, as though they were the real businessmen in the group because they were older than Peter.
Peter didn't care. He turned to Mom. "How about you, Beverly? Do you think Florida is going to boom?"