SHORT STORY

Fifteen

Story By Roni Fogelman Illustration By Rhiannon Loza

Her name was Marguerite. His was

Joey. It was the Waldorf Astoria.

Her excitement grew as her mother tore open the envelope. A thin sheet of pale blue paper floated to the floor revealing the invitation to her cousin’s engagement party. A thick white brocade card bore the names Marguerite and Joseph scripted in silver. “Please Mom, she begged, “can’t we go?”

The room swallowed her immediately. Huge columns trimmed with gold stood at the entrance to the rented ballroom. The heavy gilded doors propped open, hungry for arriving guests and the buzz of hundreds of voices could be heard far down the hallway. The tables were circles of blue and white. They were huge and draped to the floor in white linen, then blue and then a triangle of white in the center. Glasses glittered and silverware gleamed. Her heart pounded wildly as they passed table after table. In the center of each table was a beautiful blue candle in a transparent glass vase, each candle circled with live forget-menots. Thick lavish tapestry drifted from the ceiling to the floor covering windows as high as she could see. She could hardly breathe as they approached their table. Her father pointed to one of the seats. He was stiff and nervous; she was sure he had never been to the Waldorf Astoria either. Her mother smiled and floated gracefully into the seat beside her. They had both bought new dresses for the affair once Dad had agreed to make the drive from Pennsylvania to New York City.

Just as she touched the miniature gold cherub clutching a white card with her name written in lovely silver letters the music changed. She hadn’t really noticed the threepiece orchestra playing quietly in the corner. Everyone turned toward the doorway and there stood the smiling couple. Marguerite was a vision in pale blue taffeta and Joey was handsome in a dark navy suit. They could have been on the cover of any teen magazine. Her bleached blond hair was teased into the 50’s bouffant style and he was an Italian version of James Dean. She couldn’t breathe. This is what it meant to become engaged!

Waiters dressed in black with long white aprons carried tray after tray of food to each table. She had never seen waiters lift huge

silver trays above their heads and glide through the room with ease. At each table they flicked open a small wooden stand then lowered the tray. It was simply remarkable. First came tiny pies the size of a quarter. Mother whispered that they were filled with crab and mushrooms and cheese. Dad didn’t eat any. Soon, the waiter appeared with small bowls of soup. It was thick and creamy and, as she lifted the first spoon to her lips, it was cold. Dad didn’t eat any. She glanced toward her mother for guidance. She got none. Courses followed, so many she couldn’t remember them all when she relayed the story to her best friend Loie the following week.

Then the music changed again, and the dancing began. A delicious young man held out his hand. The room swirled in blue and white and glistening crystal lights as he held her closer than any of the boys at the Friday night dances. She was amazed at how her feet seemed to follow his steps with ease. At 15, she was already tall and had her mother’s poise. She felt the strength of his arm around her waist guiding their path through the couples. She didn’t dare look up for she had nothing to say. As the music ended, he smiled broadly and whispered, “How old are you anyway?” He held her hand tightly as he escorted her back to her father, flashed a beautiful smile and with twinkling blue eyes said simply “It’s a pity.” In a moment he was gone, melting into the sea of taffeta and lace. She would remember that moment for a long time.

She watched in a dream-like state as Marguerite and Joey moved from table to table laughing and kissing. Friends and relatives were wishing the young couple health and happiness for their future. This would be the last time she would see her cousin so happy.

Trips to New York City were rare and always exciting. Marguerite was her older cousin and her family lived in Queens. Queens, New York. The difference in age, though only three years, was as huge a chasm as their lifestyles. Hers was small town Pennsylvania with football games on Friday nights and Sunday dinners at her grandparents. Her cousin, on the other hand, shopped at Nordstrom’s, shaved her eyebrows and went on dates with Italian boys on Friday nights. So, the unbelievable chance to tag along with Maggie and her friends was like a dream come true.

On a hot summer evening, during a rare visit, the girls were meeting at Pops. In the late 50’s, there were places like Pops in every neighborhood, a local pharmacy with hardwood floors that creaked as they went through the noisy screen door; it banged shut after them. It was like a whirlwind of laughter, perfume, lipstick sharing and highpitched voices all talking at once. It was heaven. As the younger cousin, she was squished into the high-backed booth with Maggie, Ginger and Gretchen pressed into one side. It was an old booth with scratches and gashes deep in the mahogany. The air smelled like sweet licorice gum and hairspray all mixed together. There were such delightful discussions that she simply sat scrunched in the corner sipping her cherry coke and nibbling on a giant pretzel stick. Every few minutes Ginger would jump up and run to the phone booth in the opposite corner. It was a bizarre phone booth plucked right out of an old movie. You could hear the rotary dial and the busy signal even over the noisy fan that circled above. Ginger held the black phone out for all to hear; then a flutter of giggles and she’d race back to the table.

And then they were there. The screen door banged; the only sound was the fan above. Joey just appeared, grabbed Marguerite’s hand gently tugging until Gretchen tumbled out of the booth followed by Maggie. Three look-alikes in tight jeans and white shirts with open collars and rolled up sleeves. The protruding square on each arm indicated a pack of Lucky Strikes tucked neatly in the sleeve. As Joey leaned over the table, his dark black hair and smoky black eyes made her catch her breath. He and Maggie disappeared, and his look-a-likes slid into the booth across from them. She strained to catch a glimpse of her cousin, to no avail. The twosome stood behind the magazine rack stacked with Mad and Life in vivid color. All that was visible was Maggie’s foot propped against the wall as she leaned against it and Joey’s hand on her waist. With a snap of Joey’s fingers, the boys were gone. Maggie grabbed her hand so hard her coke spilled. It was time to go home. They were already late and well past Uncle Jerry’s 10 pm curfew.

Uncle Jerry had been a fire fighter for twelve years with the New York City Fire Department, until his accident. He was off duty when he heard screams and ran into the burning apartment building. On his second attempt, the third floor fell through trapping him under flaming beams. He survived but could never work again. There was a huge public display of sentiment and gratitude. His commendations for saving three lives that day and a substantial retirement package were not enough to ease his constant pain. Mother said that he was born to be a fireman like my grandfather. The men at Station 106 were like family and he never got over losing them.

Her family didn’t make it to the wedding and it was a few years until she saw her cousin again. They had married the next summer and moved out to Long Island to a beautiful suburban neighborhood. Their first home was much like most young couples. It was a two-bedroom one story with a modest dining room. Furnishings were a mixture of both parents’ hand-me-downs, several gifts and a few pieces purchased on time. The blond bouffant had morphed into a natural blond flip but Joey looked the same, a young handsome husband. She left for college the next fall and heard hushed rumors that something had happened. But college life was all encompassing, and she quickly dismissed the rumors as family gossip.

By the time the leaves were green, and the days were warm, Joey had disappeared.

Aunt Eleanor and her daughter Marguerite sat across the table from her mom and spoke of the tortured young man crippled with a terminal illness. She had never heard of the disease and years later could not recall exactly how to pronounce it. She would only remember vividly the face of her cousin that day at her mom’s kitchen table.

Maggie’s face was twisted, and tear streaked. Her body, much thinner now, shook as she told of the visits to physician after physician, test after test and his ultimate diagnosis. Flashbacks of swirling blue taffeta came rushing into her brain as Aunt Eleanor held her daughter’s arm, her own hands shaking from the beginning stages of Parkinson’s. He had requested to die alone. He had not wanted those he loved to watch his decline. He had begged them to let him go and not attempt to find him. They complied.

Her head was throbbing now; her mind was racing. It flooded with images of Joey’s bright smile and dark eyes; she couldn’t erase pictures of a hot summer evening with youthful laughter, licorice air and hairspray. Memories of a privileged couple floating through the magical Waldorf Astoria toward a promised future lingered. She murmured under her breathe, “It’s a pity.” 7

Since 2009, Veronica (Roni) Fogelman has led Ledgerock Consulting, a consulting company in York, PA, that specializes in healthcare and currently assists clients in 13 states. She is an accomplished speaker and a published author. Her podcast, “The ABCs of Healthcare Sales,” can be found at Apple Podcasts.