Don’t Forget to Write

by Sara Goodman Confino

and my mother. She wasn’t warm and she suffered no fools. But no one had a better heart than this ind...

But I sat at the dressing table chair before I went to shower, opened the ream of paper, and slid a crisp, white sheet onto the roller, feeling like a proper writer, envisioning a day when I would be walking along the beach and seeing people reading my novel. Even if I had no idea where to begin.

flippantly

“And that is your way out of both problems. You said you wanted to write. The only one who is going to make that happen is you. If you lie on a beach flirting with boys all day, the best you can hope for is marriage.”

I avoided the beach—I didn’t want to see Freddy in this mood—and headed toward town instead.

Shirley.

Mari...

“Well, they say people write what they know. You’ve got this big, glamorous New York life. Write about that.”

What if a Freddy-like character met a Marilyn-like character, but away from his family? They have a whirlwind romance and elope, only to meet his parents and—no, that read like a horror novel. I was no Shirley Jackson.

got back to the house, a murmur through the wall telling me she was on the phone, so I went to my room, closed the door, and sat at the typewriter, where I began to write.

Then again, he never asked what I wanted to do with my life other than the assumed marriage and children either.

subjugated

“I’ll give you the moon if you ask for it.” “Rocky road will suffice.”

“Okay. Let’s see if it’s better than Coney Island.” “Nothing is better than Coney Island.”

And remember: no guests, no dates, and no Freddy Goldman.” I felt her eyes piercing me through my sunglasses. “What about a different Beach Patrol boy?”

well. Somewhat scandalous. You probably shouldn’t read this one. But c’est la guerre, my mother had written on the title page. Nothing could make me want to read a book more. Though to be honest, the book was the last thing on my mind.

None of the books were the kind Shirley and I would steal from our mothers, though there was a D. H. Lawrence book I wasn’t familiar with, but a wide variety of genres and authors, from modern to classical.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Freddy said. It was my turn to laugh.

Freddy laughed as I jumped out of bed, then I winced slightly at the soreness in my thighs.

lasciviously.

I called down a hello and went to take a shower, thinking about how it might be smart to have dinner with Freddy’s family again. I could use more material. Though I was now certain there would be plenty of opportunities for that later.

ignoramus.

“It’s fun to tease her. But they practically keep her under lock and key. It’s different for boys. As long as I don’t bring home someone they wouldn’t approve of, they don’t really mind if I go out.”

“I didn’t fall for you because of some status symbol. I fell for you. And the rest just gets in the way.”

“It’s silly, of course. But other than the abomination that they call pizza, it was the most Chicago item I could find to bring back.”

The return to reality wasn’t welcome, exactly, but I had missed her nonetheless.

impertinent

“A lady doesn’t tell stories that don’t belong entirely to her.”

“Smooth your ruffled feathers. If it wasn’t good, I wouldn’t have wanted to keep reading. And I did—enough to bring it in here and finish.”

I sighed. As desperately as I wanted to spend time with Freddy, I didn’t want him talking to my father. I didn’t want to get married and move to Philadelphia and keep house for a year while he finished school. If he wanted to transfer to New York, and we could keep seeing each other, that was one thing, but that didn’t necessitate a conversation with Daddy.

And I didn’t understand how these men could claim to be attracted to the fact that I was free, then try to cage me.

I felt my cheeks coloring, but I said nothing. If I opened my mouth, I was going to tell that police officer exactly what he could do with his opinion of my virtue.

“You haven’t asked me Freddy. And I’m not ready to say yes. You can ask my father until you’re blue in the face, but even if he says yes, I matter. What I want matters.”

Once I no longer felt like my future was spinning like a carnival ride, I was willing to agree to that.

The story I was writing would be set in New York, but I could still pick up mannerisms from the pedestrians here.

They seemed so very much in love, which, with two young children, felt like an accomplishment. I tried to remember the last time I saw my parents show each other affection, and I couldn’t think of anything.

Something so ugly crossed his face. “I don’t even know that she’s telling the truth. That baby could be anyone’s.” I stared at him again, truly seeing him for the first time. You’re not in a fix too, are you? Shirley asked blithely in my head. I could have so easily been this girl. Too easily. Ruination or salvation hanging in the balance of what he—selfish, carefree Freddy—wanted. “You told her you’d marry her.”

“I know heartbreak feels like the end of the world, but you need to eat and keep going.”

“No. It’s never going to be ‘right.’ I see that now. It’s me. I don’t want to be someone’s wife. I want to be myself.”

“Well, find something to entertain yourself. The more you sit around and worry about your cycle, the longer it’s going to take to arrive.”

“Write one of your own, and I’ll think about telling you mine. But take a shower first. Just because some writers choose to be bohemians doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate that kind of behavior in my house.”

“Don’t write your own story,” Ada said. “You haven’t lived enough for that. But use what you’ve learned.” “What have I learned? Other than that I should listen to you?”

In some ways, I would have preferred if she did—it would have alleviated some of the feeling of dread that I hoped was all that was wrong with my stomach. I had some cramping, but Ada warned that could go either way.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ada said, interrupting my thoughts. “I said I was engaged. I never said I was in love with him.” I blinked rapidly. “Excuse me?” “We were friends, yes. And I suppose I loved him. But it wasn’t passion and fireworks—it was a shidduch.”

ornery

“You said you’d been in love though—if not with Abner, then with who?”

And the assumption that I would marry him because of this, with no consideration of my repeatedly saying I didn’t want to get married. And that my parents would support us—he had never even met them.

And Shirley’s delight in the idea of me also being pregnant by her brother

nauseating as well. I would never understand how anyone could enjoy the misfortune of others. Even if she wouldn’t be a constant reminder of my mistake, that wasn’t the kind of person I wanted in my life.

entreaty