Bridge of Sighs

Diner or the Thomaston Grill for a hamburger or a chili dog, over conversation with men who’d been laid off. The tannery was down to one shift now, but so far it hadn’t closed its doors completely.
    Having overcome her reluctance to enter Ikey Lubin’s for any purpose, my mother now worked almost as many hours as my father. In addition to handling inventory, she took Uncle Dec’s advice and started making salads—just potato and macaroni and three bean at first—to fill out the meat case, and she was pleased when Borough housewives preferred hers to the vinegary offerings at the A&P. She kept her bookkeeping clients as well, and when my father came home around midnight after closing the store, she often would be staring at a ledger, her fingers rattling over the keys of the adding machine, a pencil clenched so hard between her teeth that the bite marks pierced right down to the lead. He’d urge her to call it a day, and she’d say yes, she’d join him in a minute, though it was often another hour or more before I’d awake to the whisper of her slippered feet on the stairs. Most days she left the adding machine set up on the kitchen table, so we cleared space around it when we ate, usually just one or two of us at a time, family dinners long since a thing of the past.
    Uncle Dec continued to be more of an asset than I ever would’ve predicted. He had an easy, flirtatious way with the Borough women, who stepped into the store as if determined to spend as little time there as possible, often leaving their cars running outside at the curb, but they couldn’t hurry Uncle Dec. “Janice,” he’d say, “I know you think I should cut my thumb off just because you’ve got your knickers in a twist, but I’m not going to.” To which this Janice would say, “What do you know about my knickers?” “Just what I hear,” he’d reply, “I could tell you, if you’re interested.” Well, I’m not, the woman would insist, but you could tell she enjoyed the exchange. “Slow down, Bev,” he’d tell the next impatient customer. “I know the stiff you’re married to, and there’s no reason for you to be rushing home all the while.” “You are the slowest butcher in all creation,” Bev would inform him, and then she’d be told that people in hell wanted ice water. When he finally handed these women their crown roasts, he’d say, “Thanks, beautiful,” whether she was or wasn’t, thought she was or knew damn well she wasn’t. “I live right above the store, you know. In case you want to visit me some night.” My father, overhearing such banter, wasn’t sure his brother’s behavior was appropriate here in the East End, but my mother disagreed. “He’s just making those vain, foolish women feel good. I know, because he treats me the same way, and it makes
me
feel good. I’d have him give you lessons if I thought you’d be any good at it.”
    “If they tell their husbands—” he began.
    “They’re not
going
to tell their husbands,” my mother said with the sort of conviction I knew he found disconcerting.
    Once school let out for the summer, I worked long hours, too. My mother’s, father’s and uncle’s duties were well defined, whereas I was used as needed, according to the time of day. Late morning and early afternoon were when my uncle got busy, and sometimes he needed me to clean the slicer or tidy the meat case or replace a roll of butcher paper or the spool of string. I could handle the basics at the meat counter, a pound of ground beef or half a dozen precut pork chops, while he took care of complicated orders and difficult customers. Early mornings, it was my father who needed help, so I manned the register while he took deliveries, then, after he returned, broke down the cardboard boxes in the back room and stocked the shelves and cooler cases, pushing the dated items up front, placing the ones just delivered in back, though this didn’t prevent Borough women from reaching in up to their armpits for the half gallon of milk farthest back. Late in the afternoon, I made small neighborhood deliveries on my bike, and in the evenings I’d help my mother prepare salads. By the end of the summer I was better at these than she was, because her attention was frequently divided between her bookkeeping chores and whatever was on the stove. One evening I came in and saw our largest sauce pot glowing bright red and dancing on the stove over high heat. My mother had filled it with water and