Jane Smiley - Some Luck

In the summer, with all the windows in the duplex wide open and them sitting in whatever breeze there was, dripping with sweat, the baby seemed to be developing at about a cell per second. Andy declared that she would never have a fall baby again, but what was the proper season? She hated being as big as a house in the hot weather, but did you really want the throwing up all summer and then to have to buy a whole hideous wardrobe for the winter? It was a conundrum. Sometimes she stood in front of her closet and said, “I can see everything going out of style while I am watching it.” On the whole, though, Frank thought she looked good — she was tall, and from behind you didn’t even realize that she was pregnant until the last month. Her ankles didn’t swell, like Lillian’s, and she got around fine. She took walks around the neighborhood. There were pregnant women and new babies everywhere; the discussion of their every need and desire went on day and night. They talked about the investment only once, when Andy said, “It was funny money. I never heard of Uncle Jens. We’ve still got our savings and the GI Bill.” There were houses in Levittown that now came with not only a carport but also a television and the antenna. They went to see the models twice.

When Rubino called him up around the first of October and said he had seven grand for him, Frank couldn’t believe his ears. Rubino was living in Washington Heights for the time being, so Frank met him at a bar not far from the old Sperry plant in Lake Success. As he entered the bar and peered around for Rubino, Frank decided that probably Rubino was in the neighborhood because he had some plan for the Sperry plant, which was now housing the United Nations while that building was under construction. If Rubino could screw a dime out of each of the United Nations, Frank thought, he would consider it his greatest victory.

As soon as Rubino saw Frank, he patted his jacket, over the pocket, but Frank knew anyway that he was going to have to talk the little wop out of his money. Rubino was in a good mood, and deep into his third Scotch and soda. Frank ordered a martini. Frank said, “What’s going on here at Lake Success? This whole neighborhood is wearing little hats. I didn’t think it was your kind of place.”

“Yarmulkes. They’re called yarmulkes, and you’re gonna learn to say that word and a dozen others if you’re going to stop sounding like the rube you are.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘schmuck.’ ”

“I know what a schmuck is. Private.”

They both took another sip of their drinks. Rubino patted his jacket again. Then he said, “I’ve got another idea.”

“I want to see the fruits of the first idea.”

Rubino leaned on the bar and looked up at Frank, then slipped his hand inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. The envelope was fat. He set it on Frank’s knee and said, “You lucked out, Corporal.”

“I should hope so.”

Rubino shrugged, finished his drink, and said, “Not everyone did. The turnpike could have gone another way. We bought some property along that right of way, too.” He lifted a finger; when the bartender came over, he ordered another Scotch. Frank had never seen him drink this much, and guessed that was why he had let it out about the other investment.

“I’m not going to count it right now.”

“Do what you want, Corporal. But I’m telling you, this place around here, you have a look at it. You know what? It’s moving closer to the city, and for that reason, it’s filling right up. Good air. View of the bay. Sid Caesar lives here. You know who that is?”

Frank shook his head.

“Funniest guy now living. You’ve heard of the Marx Brothers, anyway.”

“Maybe.”

“They live here, too. I’m looking at four lots. Big ones. Enough for six houses, anyway, because they’re all contiguous. We hold on to those for a year, and we triple our dough.”

“How much dough are we tripling?”

“You put in your seven, you triple that.”

“How much are you putting in?”

“Ten, more or less.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Frank.

“Well, stop thinking about it tomorrow, because I got to make the offer.”

“One of those Levittown houses is eight grand. Free and clear.”

“You don’t make money on where you live,” said Rubino.

Frank wouldn’t have said that he was actually angry when they walked out of the bar fifteen minutes later. It was another one of those feelings he had that he didn’t understand — he had the envelope safely in his own inside jacket pocket, and because it was cold, he had buttoned his jacket and wrapped his scarf around his neck. They walked along. Down the street, Frank could see the blue Pontiac parked alongside a blank brick wall, the streetlight glaring across it turning it the color of sand, and maybe that was what triggered him. His own Studebaker was around the corner.

Rubino put his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out his keys. A moment after that, Frank had him pinned against the brick wall, with his forearm at his neck, the way Rubino himself had once pinned Lieutenant Martin at Monte Cassino (was that really only six years ago?), and, as Rubino had done then, Frank felt his pockets for a weapon, which he did not find. He said, “I don’t want to be one of those investors who lost their money because you put it into the wrong piece of property, Rubino. Alex.” Rubino struggled. Frank pressed harder; Rubino gagged. Frank was six inches taller, and certainly outweighed the other man by thirty or forty pounds. Frank said, “I’ve learned a lot from you, Private.”

Rubino’s arm flew out, but Frank caught it and pressed it against the wall. He said, “I just want to be clear about my intentions. If everyone loses, I don’t mind losing, too. I understand that. But if you gain, I gain. Got it?”

Rubino gagged again, and Frank let him loose, just a little. Rubino coughed, and then said, in a hoarse voice, “I would never screw you, Corporal. You should know that.”

“I will never forget you said that, Private.”

Rubino put his hand to his neck and stretched his head upward, then nodded. Frank said, “You okay to drive?”

Rubino shrugged, but got into his car. He didn’t seem all that surprised by what had happened, but he did seem a little more sober. Frank watched him pull away. Maybe there were two lessons Rubino was going to take away from this encounter, and one of them was to reduce his liquor consumption. The next day, Frank called to say that he would put six grand into the new project. Rubino sounded normal. He estimated nine to twelve months before they realized their investment, but no more than that. Frank thanked him. That feeling he’d had before falling asleep dissipated, didn’t even kick in when the baby was born. Frank put it out of his mind.

ANDY NAMED her daughter (seven pounds, five ounces) Janet Ann, and Lillian named her son (seven pounds, seven ounces) Dean Henry. For Thanksgiving, Frank, Andy, and Janet, now six weeks old, took the train to Washington. Lillian had gotten a second bassinet for Janet. They would keep the bassinets downstairs during the day, and then carry them upstairs after supper. (Dinner — in Washington it was called dinner, but Lillian kept calling it supper, and Andy did, too. In that one way, Lillian thought, you knew she was from Decorah, Iowa, not Bedford Hills, New York.) They got there late Wednesday night, so Lillian didn’t really have a look at the baby girl until Thanksgiving morning. Dean was two weeks old, but Lillian felt fine. Once she came home from the hospital, Timmy and Debbie had her so on the go, anyway, that she hardly had time to rest. A three-hour labor, from the first pain to the birth, was nothing. She was getting to be like Mama, except that she didn’t get up the day the baby was born and go milk six cows before breakfast.