1913. New York, The Lower East Side.
Herschl. He’d disappeared. Now every morning, just before nine-thirty, Sadie posted herself at the corner of Ludlow and Greene, corseted, rouged, hair curled, an eager sentry in a freshly laundered cotton shirtwaist and skirt.
Ten. Ten-thirty. No Herschl. Throat parched, bunions on fire, Sadie sought the solace of cold lemon tea and a chair pulled up to a bowl of ice chips set in front of her small fan. He would come back. She had her magic spirits; she had her tenant, Mitzi. He’d come riding by like a king on the seat of his ice wagon with his metal tongs and lovely muscles and black peppered-with-white curls, the ice stacked behind like small pieces of Eskimos’ houses. His sweet smile, that polka-dotted bandana around his neck — an adorable Russian gypsy. Wait.
Sadie hated waiting. She’d found three books of Yiddish poetry at the public library and knew what she’d say: “I just read a lovely poem written by the poet H. Leivick,” or, “Do you by any chance know of Celia Dropkin?” And then add — not winking until she was sure he’d appreciate a wink — “Dropkin brings up to my mind Margolin, two gorgeous . . .” — a good word, gorgeous, when speaking about poets, as well as for practicing clean s’s — “. . . two gorgeous poets; different, but nevertheless . . .” — rolling all four syllables of that word over her tongue, taking care to sound breathy — “. . . the same. Do you agree?”
Herschl always did.
On Saturday, sitting on the front steps to catch up with any cooling-off breeze blowing past, Sadie...
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