Chapter Eight

EIGHT

DECEMBER 1922

Whatever ointment Aunt Esther gave Gertie Feldman, it worked wonders on Gertie’s granddaughter. The child’s itching ceased, the pox dried up, and Esther’s reputation expanded from digestive advisor to skin remedy expert. Because she no longer worked at the store, the customers called on Esther at the apartment, but only after Augusta’s father had left and gone downstairs for the day.

In the evenings, when the family ate dinner together, Augusta’s father didn’t ask about Esther’s side business and she did not ask him about the pharmacy. But although the adults had reached an affable truce, Augusta remained confused.

A few times, when customers asked for Esther, Augusta saw her father point to the ceiling. “She’s right upstairs,” he told them.

“Papa,” Augusta said, “I don’t understand. I thought you were still angry with Aunt Esther.”

But Solomon Stern didn’t seem angry. Instead, he seemed resigned. “Your aunt and I had a long discussion, and I decided to let it go,” he said. “I don’t want her interfering with my customers, but if she sticks to soup and skin rash ointments, I won’t have any problems with her.”

Augusta was almost afraid to ask. “But what if… what if she doesn’t stick to those things?”

Her father’s lips flattened into a frown. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Following her father’s lead, Augusta tried to forget the rift that had occurred. As a show of support for her father, she challenged herself to learn even more about the ingredients on his shelves. She wanted to please him, to bring back his smile, to pierce the screen of his grief so that he might return to her.

Meanwhile, Augusta and Irving got to know each other better. Augusta told herself that the reason she was always at the store was because she wanted to be there for her father. But the truth was that she also wanted to spend as much time as possible with the delivery boy.

Irving never sat still for long. He was constantly in and out of the store, picking up prescriptions and setting off on his bicycle to distribute them all over the neighborhood. When he wasn’t making his rounds, he was dusting the shelves, sweeping the stock room, or helping to unload the trucks that pulled up in the alley behind the pharmacy. Every once in a while, there were afternoon lulls, quiet moments when nothing else needed his attention. These were the moments Augusta savored—when Irving would sit on the stool beside her and wait for her to finish an English essay or one of her geometry problems.

Augusta didn’t mind having an audience for such tasks. Other girls might have preferred to be observed when they were at their most beautiful or beguiling—all dressed up for a weekend dance or performing onstage in the school play.

Not Augusta.

She may have been young, but she knew herself well enough to understand her own particular strengths. She was always most poised with a pencil in her hand, most confident with a book spread beneath her long fingers. She had turned fifteen years old in October and she did not know the first thing about seduction. All she knew was that she had never felt more admired than when Irving Rivkin watched her do her schoolwork.

“You barely have to think,” he would whisper, awestruck, as she sped through the problems in her math book. “How can you possibly keep track of so many numbers all at once?”

The veneration in his voice, the way that he stared—no one had ever looked at her that way before.

A few times, he brought homework to do alongside her, but he did not focus on it for long. After a few minutes of leafing through pages, he would push his books aside. When Augusta offered to help, Irving would shake his head and grin.

“I’d rather watch you study,” he’d say, winking an impish eye. And even though Augusta knew that she should encourage him to review for the science test or history quiz he had the next day, his response stirred something in the center of her chest—an innocent thrill that pumped its way through her heart and made her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.

In December, Augusta noticed that her sister and George had graduated from sneaking glances at each other to smiling openly at each other from across the store. She wasn’t surprised when Bess asked their father if she could invite George for dinner.

Given that they were having company, their father requested that both girls help Aunt Esther after school. Augusta, who was less than accomplished in the kitchen, was put to work polishing the candlesticks and setting the table. Meanwhile, Bess braided the challah, washed the vegetables, and peeled the potatoes. Aunt Esther had made her famous soup that morning and a whole chicken was already in the oven, roasting. The smell of yeast, lemons, and dill filled the overheated kitchen. At six o’clock, Augusta’s father arrived—not only with George, but with Irving as well.

Suddenly Augusta was aware of every defect in her appearance. Why hadn’t she bothered to brush her hair? Or to change out of her wrinkled dress? As she eyed her sister’s immaculately rouged lips, she tried to remember how old Bess was when she was allowed to begin wearing makeup.

“Hi, Augusta,” Irving said, raising his hand in an awkward wave. She returned the gesture, just as clumsily, and immediately wished that she hadn’t. Downstairs, it was easy to talk to Irving. But he had never come up the stairs before, and seeing him now in her family home left her tongue-tied and uneasy.

For the first few minutes of the meal there was almost no conversation—only the steady scrape of spoons on bowls. George had a healthy appetite, but Augusta had never seen anyone eat like Irving. Three bowls of soup, thick with kreplach, disappeared as if they were bowls of air.

“Slow down, boychik, ” Aunt Esther advised. “There’s plenty more. No one should choke at my table, please.”

Irving looked up from his bowl. “Sorry,” he said. “But I’ve never tasted anything so delicious in my life.” After the soup, at least half a challah found its way into his bottomless stomach. Chicken, potatoes, piles of green beans. It was as if he had never eaten before. As if he might never eat again.

Meanwhile, George was less focused on the food than he was on Augusta’s sister. For her part, Bess seemed equally smitten. Augusta watched as the two of them stared at each other from across the wooden table. Bess, already a senior in high school, told her father that George was finishing his degree at Brooklyn College in between his shifts at the store.

“Tell us about your classes, George,” Augusta’s father said. “Any plans for the future?”

“I’ll be starting law school next year. My uncle wants me to join his firm.”

Augusta wondered whether she was imagining the twinge of disappointment in her father’s features. “No interest in pharmacy school, then?”

George shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir. I only got through chemistry by the skin of my teeth.”

“I suppose a career in pharmacy isn’t for everyone,” Augusta’s father admitted.

Irving put down his fork. “Augusta’s gonna make a great pharmacist one day.”

Augusta felt her cheeks grow warm. It wasn’t that her family didn’t know of her interest. She’d been watching her father compound prescriptions for months—asking him questions, poring over his books. But hearing Irving declare her intentions so plainly in front of everyone at the table made Augusta feel strangely exposed.

Her father smiled and wiped his lips with the corner of his napkin. “You think so, do you? You seem to have a lot of confidence in my daughter.”

“’Course I do,” Irving said. “Augusta’s smarter than anyone I know.” He helped himself to another serving of potatoes before sheepishly adding, “No offense to you, sir.”

Augusta’s father chuckled softly while Bess kicked Augusta under the table. Aunt Esther, meanwhile, looked at Irving with newfound appreciation. “He isn’t wrong,” Esther said. “There’s nothing our brilliant Goldie can’t learn if she puts her mind to it.”

Irving put down his fork again. “Goldie?” he said, sounding confused.

Augusta glared at her aunt from across the table. She’d already told Esther countless times that she had no interest in the nickname. “My aunt calls me that sometimes,” she admitted. “But I prefer to go by Augusta.”

Irving failed to notice the embarrassment that had crept into Augusta’s voice. “Goldie is a pretty name,” he said. “I think it’s perfect for you.”

For the rest of the meal, Augusta’s heart thumped so loudly that it threatened to burst. The compliment was painfully oblique, but Augusta followed it to its logical conclusion. If the name was pretty and it suited her, that could only mean one thing.

Irving Rivkin thought she was pretty.

A few weeks after their dinner, Brooklyn had its first snowfall of the season. It buried the streets in soft, hopeful white, concealing the grimy rubbish beneath before the inevitable thaw. Days later, the cycle started anew: snow slowly replaced with sludge; anticipation replaced with desolation.

At the pharmacy, customers requested deliveries, but given the condition of the roads, they took more time for Irving to complete. Late one afternoon, he returned to the store, still shivering in his thin wool coat. No amount of pedaling on his bike was enough to keep him warm. Augusta went to get him a cup of coffee poured hastily by George at the soda counter, but by the time she reached him with the mug, he’d turned whiter than the freshly fallen layer outside. She touched his forehead with the back of her hand and felt the heat radiate off his skin. “You have a fever,” Augusta told him. “You need to go home and get some rest.”

He shook his head. “Your pop has a few more deliveries for me. I gotta get out and finish those first.”

His fingers trembled as he raised the cup of steaming liquid to his lips. His eyes had dulled to a stormy blue—the color of icy, churning waves instead of a sunny cobalt sea.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “Papa! Come take a look at Irving!”

A moment later her father was beside them, pressing his hand to Irving’s cheeks. “Go home, son,” Mr. Stern insisted. “Augusta, I want you to go with him. He looks like he’s about to fall over.”

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Stern. I can go by myself—”

“Augusta, get your coat on, please. Irving, this isn’t up for debate.”

Irving’s building was only two blocks from the store, but he had to keep stopping to catch his breath. Eventually, Augusta looped her arm through his to help propel him toward home. When they were only a few feet away, Irving pulled his arm away and vomited loudly into the snow. He didn’t want her to come inside, but she insisted on accompanying him up the three flights of stairs. When he opened the door to his tiny apartment, his mother leapt up from her chair, took one look at his face, and helped him inside. Both of them thanked Augusta repeatedly, but it was clear that they didn’t want her to stay.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow,” Augusta promised, but her father insisted on going instead. He brought aspirin, Vicks VapoRub, and Dr. Birnbaum—his longtime friend—to the Rivkin home. It didn’t take long for Dr. Birnbaum to diagnose Irving with the flu. Warm liquids and plenty of rest were prescribed. Irving was young and healthy, the doctor said, and certain to make a full recovery.

But as the days passed, nothing seemed “certain” at all. Irving’s fever refused to break, and his cough clung stubbornly to his lungs. His mother, after leaving him in the care of a neighbor, appeared at the pharmacy, distraught. Dr. Birnbaum was consulted again, and Augusta’s father made up some capsules.

On the sixth day, when Augusta insisted on visiting, Irving’s mother stopped her at the door. “I’m not sure you should come in,” she said. “I don’t want you getting sick, too.”

Augusta didn’t even try to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Please let me see him, Mrs. Rivkin. I promise I won’t get too close.” In the few days since Irving had been absent, a terrible emptiness had filled her. Augusta hadn’t known how much Irving’s presence meant to her until he was no longer there. She did not know what she would say next if Mrs. Rivkin refused her entreaty. But dark circles bloomed beneath the woman’s brown eyes, and Augusta could see that she was too worn out to put up much of a fight for long.

Augusta asked again, begging this time. “Please?”

Mrs. Rivkin stepped aside, waving the young girl into the apartment. “Irving is in the bedroom,” she said. “Usually, he sleeps out here, but I wanted to make him comfortable.”

Augusta was wholly unprepared for how ill Irving had become. He looked so much smaller than she remembered, and she’d seen him only a few days ago. His eyes were closed, but his skin was flushed, and his damp hair was plastered to his head. Even his cowlick drooped.

“Irving?” his mother said. “Your friend is here.”

“It’s me,” Augusta said brightly, forcing a smile into her voice.

For a moment, Irving’s eyelids fluttered, but he could not manage to open them. When he lifted one arm, as if reaching for her, she forgot the promise to keep her distance. She perched herself on the edge of his bed and took his clammy hand in hers. “Everyone misses you at the store,” she said. “So you have to try and get better soon. George said that when you get back, he’ll give you all the ice cream you want.”

Augusta squeezed Irving’s fingers, but when he didn’t respond, she kept on talking. “As soon as you’re out of bed, you’ll come over for dinner again. I’ll ask Aunt Esther to make her brisket next time. It’s the best I’ve ever had—better even than my mother’s. Bess thinks so, too, but we made a pact to never let Esther know. It’s a little mean of us, I guess. Maybe one day we’ll tell Esther the truth.”

Augusta turned to Irving’s mother. “Has he been awake at all?”

“No—last night he was tossing and turning like he was having some kind of nightmare. I gave him some of your father’s capsules. And the other medicine, too. But his fever keeps getting higher…”

Augusta did her best to hold back her tears. It was one thing to cry in front of Mrs. Rivkin, but she didn’t want to cry in front of Irving. It didn’t matter that his eyes were closed or that he might not be listening. She didn’t want him to know how worried she was. She didn’t want him to know how much she missed him. Not the way she missed her mother, but still. She remembered the question Irving had asked: What’s your favorite memory of her?

Mrs. Rivkin excused herself for a few minutes, and Augusta gripped Irving’s hand even tighter. “You know what my favorite thing about you is? You say you’re not smart, but that isn’t true. You’re smart about people. You know how to ask the right questions and say the right things to make people feel good.”

When his mother returned, Augusta could sense that she’d begun to overstay her welcome. Reluctantly she let go of Irving’s hand and promised to return soon. Irving’s eyes did not open, but his lips moved slightly to release one word.

“Goldie…” he muttered, in a voice so soft that Augusta questioned whether he had actually spoken.

For the first time since she’d heard her aunt say it, Augusta didn’t mind the name at all.

As soon as they gathered for dinner that night, Augusta began quizzing her father. “Did you talk to Dr. Birnbaum? What does he say about Irving?”

Aunt Esther set a heavy platter of stuffed cabbage on the table. “The delivery boy is sick?” she asked. “Such a nice boy, such a good appetite.” She raised her eyebrows at Augusta’s father. “Now that I’m not in the store anymore, you must remember to tell me these things.”

“Forgive me,” Augusta’s father said, sighing. “Yes, Irving Rivkin has the flu. Dr. Birnbaum saw him again today. Unfortunately, the boy’s condition has taken a serious turn.”

“But there’s something you can give him, isn’t there, Papa? Another medicine you can try?”

Solomon Stern did not answer. He busied himself with his napkin in order to avoid his daughter’s gaze. During the Spanish flu outbreak, he’d lost over a dozen customers, some even younger than Irving. There was no cure for influenza, and no one could predict the twists and turns that the illness might take. “I have nothing left to try,” he finally admitted. “We will have to pray that his fever breaks.”

Augusta could not believe what she was hearing. “But you have a whole room full of medicine downstairs. You have over a hundred bottles and jars. And all of your books—there must be something in one of those books that can give you the answer.” Augusta’s voice rose in both pitch and ferocity until she finally broke down in a torrent of tears. “There has to be something to make Irving better!”

Bess rose up from her chair and knelt down beside her sister. “Shh,” Bess whispered. “It will be all right.”

Their father was accustomed to emotional displays, but they usually came from Bess, not Augusta. “I’m sorry, Augusta,” he said, “but I don’t want to lie to you. I was honest with you about your mother, and I want to be honest with you now. Irving is very, very ill.”

But Augusta didn’t need to hear him say it—she had already seen the fear in his eyes, had already heard the doubt in his voice. Solomon Stern was a brilliant druggist, as educated and capable as a pharmacist could be. But there were limits to his skill and limits to the drugs at his disposal.

This should not have been surprising to her. She had been through it before, with her mother. But now, more than anything else, Augusta wanted to believe that medicine had the power to heal. She wanted to believe that scientists and doctors and pharmacists could consult their books, study their formulas, measure their ingredients, and make things right for anyone in need. She wanted to believe in this so much that she’d been planning to make it her whole life’s work.

But this time, she could see that it wasn’t so simple. There were no guarantees. The books she had relied on were deficient, the formulas inchoate, the explanations incomplete. Neither science nor scholarship offered the assurances Augusta so urgently desired. She could not depend on them.

As Augusta sat in worried silence, Aunt Esther went about filling their plates. Her stuffed cabbage was a study in contrasts—both delicate and filling, savory and sweet. Like all of her specialties, it was delicious. And yet no one at the table could manage to eat. They were all too concerned about Irving Rivkin, too worried and heartsick to take even one bite.

Aunt Esther glanced wordlessly at Augusta, absorbing the full measure of her grand-niece’s sorrow. She murmured something the others could not hear before patting her lap with a palpable thud as if to signal that some sort of decision had been made.

“Did you say something?” Augusta’s father asked.

Aunt Esther ignored the pharmacist’s question and pointed her fork in Augusta’s direction. “Tomorrow,” she said, “we will go see the delivery boy.”

Augusta stared back at her aunt, trying to make sense of the announcement. “You want to come with me to see Irving?”

“Yes,” Esther said, “we will visit him together.” She shrugged and tilted her head to one side as if there was nothing surprising about what she had said.

“We will bring the boy some of my soup.”