seemed brighter by comparison.
When Richard came back early that evening, I presented him with a decent dinner—roasted chicken, stuffing and peas, the last of our vegetables. I had even baked cookies, and we munched them over coffee for dessert.
I considered telling him about the spirit, but decided it would only add more conflict to the marriage. Richard had been somewhat successful at the welfare office. We were to be issued food stamps next week. It didn’t relieve my long-term worries. I intended to launch my idea, my plan, that weekend. That, too, I kept from Richard.
Our evening passed pleasantly, without argument. Daniel nodded off to sleep at 9:00 PM, and when Richard later reached out to me, I didn’t turn away.
I let Richard make up that night for the previous night’s coitus interruptus. His renewed interest toward me gave me hope that our marriage might repair itself.
I would normally explore a spirit’s warning for potential substance and validity. But I gave no credence to the crass blathering of the dark presence. I ignored his warning.
CHAPTER 2
We drove up to Philadelphia in the little Volkswagen Richard purchased in the last year. It was used and had twice needed repairs. I remember worrying if it would break down on the way, but it didn’t. It rode us smoothly into Northeast Philadelphia, where my parents, sister and brother lived in a tall, single home shaped like a dutch windmill, on a sunny tree-lined street.
The whole area had once been farmland, but after World War I, developers had come in. They laid streets where dirt roads had connected the remaining older houses and stores and created a large residential and commercial section which flourished further after World War II. GIs brought their brides to newly purchased row homes there, and couples raised their children in an atmosphere both countrified and citified.
My father, Bill Elfman, had been among the lucky ones, able to purchase one of the fine old homes built around the beginning of the 20th century for less than $15,000. His GI benefits helped finance it and also helped him pay for vocational school, learning air-conditioning, heating and plumbing. He later concentrated on the latter, becoming a master plumber, and now served customers throughout Philadelphia and southern New Jersey.
My mother, Miriam Elfman, gave birth to me in 1948, two years into their marriage. She didn’t work, as was the fashion then, although raising children, house-cleaning, cooking and laundry could hardly be considered leisure time activities.
Heaven and Earth may have been spinning their celestial plans, but life went on quite mundanely in the mortal world.
Five years later, my sister Ginger was born, named not only for her curly red hair, but because Mother, an incurable movie fan, adored Ginger Rogers. My brother Fred was born five years after Ginnie. My own name was a curious combination of Vivian Leigh and Ann Miller, the former having mesmerized Mother in Gone With The Wind, the latter having thrilled her with her saucy dancing techniques. “Vivian Ann” would not have done, but Mother felt Leigh Ann sounded sophisticated.
Father picked out Ginger’s and Fred’s middle names (Melissa and Allen, respectively), but I was the only one who seemed destined to be called by both names, at least most of the time.
Ginnie, at least, was pleased with her name. Fred, now thirteen, had declared we were to call him Rick, from this point forward. All of his friends called him Rick now, frustrating Mother, who pointed out that Rick was short for Richard, not Frederick. My brother, she said, shrugged and told her that rules were meant to be changed. As we pulled up to the house, I thought of how funny it would seem to call my brother by a name I’d never used for him.
He was to be Bar Mitzvahed this year, and was feeling quite the young man. He had pointed out to Mother that, according to Jewish custom, children should be named after long-lived deceased relatives and not movie stars. But Mother, whose parents had died in the Holocaust, had no stomach for tradition. She herself had only survived the war because she had been a strong healthy teenager, capable of handling the rigors of slave labor in Auschwitz. After the war, she had immigrated to America, sponsored and welcomed by her Aunt Ida in south Philadelphia. She and Dad had met in 1946. Her defiant, inquisitive blue eyes, her fiery short hair curling impishly over her ears, and sturdy hourglass figure had captivated him. She in turn found his deepset brown eyes, dark brown hair, and strong trim build, hardened by his stint with the Marines, equally attractive. They had a whirlwind romance ending in marriage six months later.
Fred knew this, and so did the synagogue to which we belonged. He had already talked with the Rabbi with whom he studied Hebrew and Torah, who okayed the mention of his chosen nickname when he was called to the Torah during the ancient adulthood ceremony.
Father was more inured to tradition and deliberately had given Fred and Ginnie middle names in memory of his uncle and his aunt, who had also been murdered in the Holocaust. The rest of Father’s family had immigrated to America long before the war, escaping such a fate.
I had little idea what Richard, a lapsed Catholic, thought of all this. He commented little when we spoke of our family backgrounds, during the early days of our courtship, except to say that wars based on religion were a mark against a society, showing its spiritual ignorance.
We were both naive in those days.
Fred was coming out the front door as we got out of the car.
“Hey, Leigh!”
“Hi, Fred . . . I mean, Rick. Darn, I’m going to have to get used to this!”
He laughed. “It’s okay. Doesn’t matter. Let’s see the kid . . . will you look at that? He’s got my hair and eyes.” Fred winked at Richard, then bent down to smile at the baby in my arms. “Hey, Daniel! Hey! It’s your Uncle Rick.”
Daniel looked at him blankly, then at me, his expression almost asking for explanation. “That’s Rick, Danny. Rick.” The baby’s face dimpled, mouth widening to a grin, and he gave a little burst of laughter.
Fred made a face, and Daniel laughed again. “Listen, Sis, I’ve got to go. Basketball practice. See you tonight.” He kissed me on the cheek, then turned to Richard. “Good seeing you, Richard.” They shook hands briefly. “I’ll catch you all later.”
He smiled as he left, and I thought how similar his smile was to Daniel’s, a wistful upturning of the lips.
I knocked on the unlocked door as we went in, shouting, “Hello!”
A pause and then, “Leigh Ann?,” as Ginnie’s voice travelled loudly from the kitchen. She came bounding into the living room, a grin of welcome on her face, Mother following her, with her own pleased look. Her eldest had come home, and that look communicated that she knew I had a problem and needed her.
“Baby,” she said, her arms circling both me and Daniel, and kissed me on my cheek. “Oh, look at him!” She reached out and took Daniel’s right hand. He obligingly wrapped his small fingers around her forefinger and held tight.
“Oh, he’s beautiful!” Ginnie said, and to Richard, “You must be really proud.”
Richard nodded. “Of course.”
“Well,” Mother addressed him, “you must be tired and hungry from your drive. Let’s go into the kitchen and relax. I’ll fix us a snack.”
“Sounds good,” he answered.
“Just
