On Isabella Street

Chapter Nineteen Sassy

nineteen SASSY

During Sassy’s first couple of months working at Raskin Real Estate, she heard a lot. Friday lunches in the boardroom—usually a plate of sandwiches and pickles Betty ordered from the deli downstairs—often turned into discussions about the industry. Sassy rarely said anything while they went on, but she was learning, day by day. Her father had a lot to teach. He knew all the ins and outs of sales and the technical aspects of real estate. Tom’s approach was more about how to work with clients on a personal level. He was a smoother, more outgoing man overall. Both styles worked, apparently. She enjoyed being included in the conversations. It made her feel smart, and she wanted to learn more.

The trouble was, she’d never forgotten that her father had called her a hypocrite months before. She’d deserved it then, and she deserved it now. How was she, an advocate for socialism, supposed to admit that she was interested in business?

Sassy finished typing Tom’s latest listing onto a stencil then pulled it carefully off the roller. At her last job, she had gotten used to using carbon paper to make copies of letters. Now she used a mimeograph machine with a hand crank to churn out copies of flyers.

She loaded the paper then set up the machine, turning on the fluid to keep the wick moist inside, engaging all the pressure knobs, then fitting the master copy onto the cylinder. Once she’d checked the first copy to make sure everything was centred, she set the dial for twenty copies and started up the hand crank. As the damp papers shot out onto the tray, she inhaled the weird, chemical freshness emanating from the purple ink. What was it about that smell? She’d noticed Tom surreptitiously sniffing a page after she set it on his desk, so it wasn’t just her.

He hadn’t come into the office yet today, so she imagined he was out at meetings. He’d taken her with him before, and she was sorry she wasn’t with him this time. To her surprise, she had discovered she enjoyed talking with clients, finding out what they needed and wanted. Tom seemed genuinely impressed by how good she had become at the business in such a short time.

Tom was a levelheaded boss, and he read Sassy well. To keep her happy, he kept her busy, trusting her with increasingly challenging tasks. She often found herself drawn into his words, and his gentle, rational thoughts. She liked the way the ends of his phrases seemed to curl a little, like the edges of his smile. Like he couldn’t help being a positive person. He got a kick out of making things happen. She liked that energy.

What she didn’t like was how she had begun to feel around him on a non-work level. His attitude was not the only thing she liked about him. Instead of starting arguments, as she had initially been tempted to do, she often found herself trying to make him laugh. More recently, their conversations at his desk had wandered off topic, and she easily lost herself in those icy-blue eyes. They talked about movies and music, and she chided him for having old-fashioned favourites. He seemed to get a kick out of her little barbs.

“You’re calling Elvis Presley old-fashioned?” he asked one time. “I have trouble with that. You gonna tell me you aren’t one of those girls who sits there with her chin on her fist, sighing when he’s singing on those Hawaiian beaches, moving the way he does?”

“No, I’m not ‘one of those girls.’ You haven’t noticed that about me yet?” She chuckled. “To be honest, I’ve never even been to one of his movies. I like some of his songs, though. He’s got a great blues feel.”

“You’ve never seen any of his movies? That’s unbelievable.” He hesitated just enough that Sassy predicted what he was about to say. “Maybe I should take you to one. See what you say when he’s singing and dancing and wearing some kind of uniform.”

Her face roared with heat that she tried to hide by lifting her chin with a dare. “Maybe you should.”

It had been two weeks since that conversation, and neither of them had broached it since. She was relieved and disappointed all at once. Of course she shouldn’t date her boss. But what if he hadn’t been her boss? What if he was just a regular businessman? What then? Would they drive each other crazy, or might they find common ground? The moral dilemma of dating a capitalist was new to her.

She patted her hair into place with her free hand and secured it with a bobby pin. The bun she’d tied that morning wasn’t as tight as it should be, and it was starting to fall apart. Marion had shown her the technique. They’d agreed that it was up to her to practice, which she hadn’t done. She preferred leaving her hair down, but Marion was right; having it up and out of the way was a smarter way to wear it at work. Marion had also insisted on taking her shopping for work clothes last week, since Sassy was always complaining about that tight tweed suit. At first she had been reluctant to go, since Marion was so different from her and so much older. She didn’t want to say anything about that, but the last thing she wanted to do was change her style and suddenly become all fuddy-duddy. Marion had only smiled and promised she wouldn’t do that to her. Once she was in the changing room, it took Sassy by surprise how much she liked the look of a couple of pastel-coloured skirt suits that fit just right. She’d assumed they would make her look too conservative, but she loved the style.

And what an unexpected bonus to hear Tom’s sweet compliments on how she was looking these days.

Over the past couple of months, her opinion of him had turned around completely. The more she got to know him, the easier it was to admit that she had jumped to conclusions based on the expensive cut of his suit. Behind all those perfect stitches and rich wool, beyond what she still regarded as slick sales techniques, he was a decent man. A good one, even. He worked well with her father, and, considering her father’s demanding character, that was saying something.

In an attempt to push Tom from her mind, Sassy concentrated instead on her work. She had mastered all the forms and filing and whatever else he asked for, but she was a little restless. A couple of days ago, she overheard Tom and her father having a brief discussion about commercial spaces in strip malls. She had never thought about who might own those unremarkable, sometimes dingy clusters of stores. They were everywhere, and yet they were almost invisible most of the time. Of course someone had to own them, she reasoned, feeling stupid. She’d just never thought that through. But now that the buying and selling of properties was right in front of her every day, she wanted to get the facts straight in her head. She decided to do some research on her own.

When they met for lunch that Friday, she had a lot of questions, but Tom asked the first one.

“Where’s that mall you bought?” he asked her father.

“You bought a mall ?” Sassy exclaimed. No wonder they’d been talking about the strip malls. She knew her father was wealthy, but that was beyond what she’d believed.

“Southwest corner of Bayview and York Mills,” her father said, looking pleased as he reached for a tuna sandwich. “Made sense to me.”

“Seems like a good opportunity,” Tom replied. “Fairly affluent family homes around that area. They need access to a mall like that.”

“It’s been around a few years, and it’s been popular, but the owner’s on his way out. I was speaking with him about some of his tenants, and he told me he’d had enough of the business. So I just flat-out asked him.”

“Perfect timing,” Tom said, biting into a roast beef sandwich. Those were his favourite, Sassy had noticed. “You’re going to hang on to it this time? Or sell?”

“I think I’ll keep it. Something different on the side.”

All of a sudden, Sassy felt very smart. She waited until they were both enjoying their lunches and had forgotten all about her, then she spoke up.

“What do the stores there pay for rent?” Sassy asked her father, nonchalant.

Both men glanced up, taken off guard, but it was her father’s gaze she held.

He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, observing her. She knew the stance. He was preparing to defend his position. Sometimes, when she was behaving belligerently, he could get a little nasty, and she knew she was like him in that way. This time was different. She had a surprise for him, and she knew he was going to like it.

“Based on the square footage, two hundred and thirty dollars.”

“Are you planning to raise it?”

“That’s how business works, Susan.” He gave her a guileless smile. “Their rents help pay for your apartment.”

“Of course. I was just wondering, because Sunnybrook Plaza at Bayview and Eglinton has a much higher volume based on similar square footage. Makes me think you might be getting close to outpricing yourself. That one’s a little dated, about fifteen years old, but it was the first strip mall in Toronto, and it has plenty of parking.”

Tom and her father stared at her in shock, then Tom did a poor job of hiding his delight.

“I see,” her father said, expressionless. “Do you happen to know what their rent is right now?”

“Two hundred forty-five dollars. Principal Investments, the landlord, raised it six months ago by two per cent.” She reached for a ham sandwich and sat back with a shrug, relishing the moment of stunned silence. “But what do I know?”

Her father graced her with a wonderful smile, and she felt his pride like a hug. “What do you know, indeed? There’s my girl.”

He had always tried to get her interested in business, but she’d never given him anything to hope for. Why should she worry about a steady career when he gave her everything she needed? Except strangely, she’d found that the more satisfied she became with her job, the more she looked forward to getting up in the morning and doing more. Maybe she’d been too young when he’d tried to persuade her. Maybe she’d had to grow into it. Whatever it was, this new appetite for practical information felt invigorating.

At the same time, it was a little confusing. Considering everything she’d ever believed and protested about, it bothered her that capitalism made so much sense. Done right, it could help everyone, it appeared.

The concept of gentrification stuck in her mind, though. As pleasing as renovations and upgrades appeared, those who could not afford the bettered homes would always need places to live, too. When she’d spoken with her father about it, he’d assured her that improving buildings, and not just aesthetically, helped a lot of people. Purchasing, renovating, then reselling homes brought up the increased value of the houses for families trying to improve their situations. It also paid salaries to tradespeople hired for the construction. And for those still in need of a home, the government was building thousands of homes every year.

Between her father and Tom, and their different approaches to the job, Sassy had figured out a lot of things.

She loved seeing the pride on Tom’s face when he closed a sale. The way his laugh lines suddenly appeared. Yes, he was handsome, but it was more than that. He genuinely enjoyed what he did, eager from the first step, then plainly satisfied at the end. She could tell it was about more than money with him. What was it about real estate that appealed to him so much? And why did Sassy find it so interesting? A vague, unsettling question started up in the back of her mind. What if maybe, someday, she tried this job herself? Could she do that? Would she be any good at selling? Was it hypocritical even to consider the idea? Because when she saw that satisfied expression on Tom’s face, she realized she wanted to feel the same thing.

On the final Friday before Christmas, Sassy finished her last bit of filing, then she grabbed her coat, hat, and boots and stopped at Tom’s desk. He was working with his head down, marking up a chart.

“All done,” she said. “I need to cut out.”

He glanced up, and she could tell he’d been concentrating awhile. His hair was mussed where he’d dragged his fingers through it, and she was tempted to smooth it down. Except when it was messy, he looked younger, which she liked.

“Already? What time is it?”

“Early. Four o’clock.”

He blinked and faced the window, seeming to recall where he was. “That’s a lot of snow. You okay to get home in this?”

“Sure, but I have to leave now.” She smiled sweetly. “I’m entertaining this evening.”

“Tell me you’re not going on a date in this weather.”

An unexpected blush rose to her cheeks. No matter how hard she tried not to see her boss as attractive, it was a lost cause. More and more, every time she looked at Tom Duncan, Sassy felt butterflies.

“No date tonight,” she said. “Remember I told you about my neighbour friend, Marion? And how we alternate dinners in each other’s apartment every week? The two of us decided to have a dinner party tonight at my place for Christmas, and we invited more neighbours. I need to get home and get ready.” She frowned at her watch. “So if it’s all right with you, I’m leaving early.”

“It’s all right with me. Oh, before you go, I meant to ask. Did you finish that file on the house on Berkshire? Were you able to get all the neighbourhood information? I know some of it was out of the way.”

“I got it all. It’s in that big box on the shelf. I couldn’t lift it, so I left it there for you.”

He got up and headed to the shelf, and Sassy glanced at her watch again, a little annoyed.

“What do you think of the property?” he asked.

“Me?”

“Well, sure.”

As he stretched to reach the top shelf, she couldn’t help but notice the lines of his starched white shirt tightening against his shoulder blades. Usually he wore a jacket, so she didn’t get the same kind of view. She didn’t mind this one at all, and though it was probably wrong, as far as workplaces went, she let herself admire the sight. She figured there was about ten years between them, but gosh, thirty-ish sure didn’t look old on him. Without so much as a grunt, he lifted the heavy box and placed it on the table while she watched.

“You did all the research,” he said. “You know it better than I do.”

She forced her brain back to the file, which she’d completed that morning. She dug through the box and handed it to him, but he didn’t look inside. Instead, he waited for her answer.

“It’s a middle-income area that has seen better days,” she told him, “but the community has been active recently in restoring the adjacent park. It’s about seventy per cent young families, maybe twenty per cent people over sixty.”

“And the other ten per cent?”

“Young married couples. Oh, and there’s a new school going in. Should be ready by the end of next summer, they think.”

“Perfect. Thanks a lot for this. You’re making my life much easier.” He squinted briefly, thinking something through. “Do you want to get out of here sometime and see some of these places? Obviously not when the weather’s like this, but some time when it’s clear? We could drive around together, and I could show you how I figure out where to look.”

She started to say no, then she stopped herself. The truth was, she did want to go.

“I’d like that,” she told him.

“Good. After the holidays, we’ll pick a date.” He froze. “Uh, I didn’t mean date, date. I just meant—”

She laughed, trying not to let on that she wished he did. “I know what you meant.”

“Have a good time tonight,” he said. “And have a good Christmas. I’ll see you next year.”

He was right about the weather. The snow was so deep it was higher than her boots, which she discovered when a cool trickle of snow tumbled inside, soaking her stockings. The bus took an achingly long time to shove through the drifts and the traffic. It took so long that she wondered if she’d have been faster just walking, but that would have been exhausting, and she needed energy for tonight’s party. As soon as the bus reached her stop, she rushed home then dripped melting snow all over the elevator floor. At her apartment, she shrugged out of her coat and stuck her key in the lock, but the door swung open before she could turn it.

“Davey!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? And how did you get in? Do you still have a key?”

She hadn’t seen him in months. Not since Christine had given him the ultimatum.

His mouth twisted slightly with embarrassment. “Do you want your key back? You never said.”

She hung her coat in the closet, stuffed her mitts in the sleeves, trying to figure out how she felt about seeing him there. “It’s fine.”

“I like your Christmas tree,” he said.

She grinned at the little tabletop shrub, around which she’d strung a length of red beads. “I wanted something a little festive for the season. So what brings you over here? It’s been a long time.”

He held out his arms in invitation, and she happily stepped in for a hug.

“Way too long, man. It bums me out, not seeing you, Sass,” he said, his familiar voice sweet in her ear. They were both smiling when he stepped back. “I had to grab something for the TADP, and it brought me out this way. Then all this snow… and you were right here…” He grimaced. “I know it’s been a while. I hope it’s okay.”

“It’s fine, Davey. I’ve missed you, too. But tonight’s a little crazy for me. I have things to do.”

“I get that. Let me help.”

“Nah, that’s cool. I got it.”

He cleared his throat. “Hey, Sass, can I crash on your couch tonight? The snow is too much, man. If I leave now, I won’t hit Christine’s for hours.”

“Won’t she freak?”

“It’s cool. I’ll just—”

“You’ll tell her you slept somewhere else, right? Anywhere but here.” She shook her head, scolding. “Cool. Whatever. But I can’t hang out with you like usual. I have friends coming over for dinner in about an hour.”

“Outta sight. A party.”

“They’re not your kind of friends. They’re my neighbours.”

“I smelled turkey down the hall when I came in. Don’t worry about the cheese straws. I saw you had everything ready for them in the fridge. I’ll get those. I’m practically a master chef,” he joked.

“Of course you are,” she called from her bedroom.

Sassy loved the end of a day. She loved getting out of serious, uncomfortable fabric and pouring herself into something that felt more like her. The apartment was chilly tonight, so she pulled her favourite white angora sweater over her head and unrolled it over a comfortable pair of flared denims.

She called out to Davey as she ran her brush over her long chestnut hair. “How are you doing out there?”

“Spilled the flour,” he muttered. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”

Smiling, she twisted her hair around hot rollers and left them in while she did her makeup. When that was done, she brushed out the big curls, wrapped a Christmassy-red bow around the top of her head and let her hair cascade over it.

“How are you doing?” she asked again, joining Davey in the kitchen. She pulled an apron from the drawer, tied it on, then grabbed a rolling pin. “That looks good. Now roll it out to a half inch, like this, then cut them into two-inch sticks. Bake them fifteen minutes, and they’re done.”

“If I ever have my own kitchen, I’m going to make those, like, every day.”

She kissed him on the cheek then rubbed off the lipstick she’d left behind. “You left your blue shirt in my closet, if you want to change.”

He headed off, humming to himself, while Sassy set out her recent purchases of six glasses and three bottles: rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, and Angostura bitters, in case anyone wanted a Manhattan. She was developing a taste for those. She poured a few maraschino cherries into a bowl in case her friends wanted them for a garnish, but she held her breath as she did it. As cheerful as they looked, Sassy would rather drink poison than eat one of those cherries. She’d gorged on an entire jar as a child then brought it all up on her grandmother’s white rug. Even now, she could barely stand the smell of them.

“Want me to turn on a record?” Davey asked just as there was a knock on the door.

“Yes, please. Oh, and can you please pour those M&M’s into a bowl and set it out?”

“Got it.”

She walked past him toward the door, hearing the click of the record player being turned on, then a crackling sound as the needle dropped onto the Byrds.

Marion was at the door, holding out two bottles of wine. Her friend was dressed beautifully as always, with a classy elegance that made Sassy feel a bit like a slob. She wore a light blue knitted dress with a short navy jacket over the top, and she’d let her long blond hair down for a change.

“Your hair! You’re a knockout.”

Marion handed Sassy the bottles then touched her brow, self-conscious. “You think so? I wasn’t sure.”

“Oh, it’s fab. You gotta wear it down more often. Come on in. You’ve met Davey, haven’t you?”

“I don’t think so,” Davey said, walking across the room with his hand out. “This is far out. Sassy’s told me all about you.”

Sassy laughed. “You’re, like, my only classy friend,” she explained, then she paused, thinking of Tom. “You and my boss.”

“I’ve heard lots about you, too. Are you joining us for dinner?” Marion asked Davey.

He grinned. “Sassy said I could. The snow’s pretty bad, you know?”

All three gazed out the balcony door at the thickening blizzard. “I hope everyone has a place to stay tonight,” Sassy said, then she saw Marion’s stricken expression and immediately felt bad. Right away she realized her friend was thinking of her patients, out there in the cold when they should have been safe at the hospital. She curled her arm around Marion’s waist and drew her close for a gentle hug.

“I’m sure Daniel’s warm somewhere,” she said softly. “He knows how to take care of himself.”

Marion’s smile battled back onto her face. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“I’m glad I’m here,” Davey put in, having no clue about what was going on around him, as usual. “Thanks for letting me stay, Sass.”

“No flying your freak flag,” she warned. “We’re eating at the grown-up table tonight.”

“I’ll even do dishes after. Thanks, ladies. This’ll be cool.”

Having Davey around would add a different dimension to the gathering, Sassy thought, pouring Marion a Manhattan. She poured one for herself at the same time.

“Cherry?” she asked.

“Please.”

She had never thrown a dinner party before, and she hadn’t been sure how her guests would get along, but she needn’t have worried. Once the other two couples arrived, each with food and a bouquet of flowers, everyone started up their own conversations. She had invited Mr. and Mrs. Moore as well, but they had graciously declined, saying they weren’t up to it.

“I brought music,” Marion said, producing Ella Fitzgerald’s Christmas album, and suddenly, everything felt festive.

Halfway through the Romanos’ big, stuffed turkey and Mr. Levin’s debate with Mr. Romano about hockey, Marion excused herself. Both bottles of wine were empty, so she headed off to grab more from her cupboard.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised.

“I’m telling you, that Punch Imlach is bad for the team,” Mr. Levin was saying. “Nobsody likes him. Mahovlich can’t stand him. Mark my word sixty-seven will be the Leafs’ last Stanley Cup.”

Mr. Romano nodded sagely. “The players are too old. What is it, eight of them over thirty-six already?”

“Giovanni,” his wife scolded. “That’s not old. Thirty-six is nothing.”

“Yeah, they’re old. What do you know about hockey?”

Mrs. Romano threw her hands up. “You think I don’t hear you talking all the time about Leafs this, Leafs that, Stanley Cup, penalties, whatever? I know way more than I wanna know.”

Mrs. Levin chuckled. “We should have our own ladies’ nights when they’re playing. I hear hockey talk all the time. What about you, Davey? You a Leafs fan?”

“No way, man. Hockey’s, like, an aggressive expression of masculinity, you know? Women are just as strong, and—”

“What are you talking about?” both older men exclaimed, making Sassy laugh. Marion returned just in time with more wine, and a subdued Davey refilled all the glasses as everything devolved into loud talk about how ridiculous the world was today.

Somewhere in there, Mrs. Levin retrieved her dessert from Sassy’s refrigerator then set it down on the table. The plate held a number of delicate pancakes rolled over something sweet, Sassy guessed, then fried to a golden brown.

“This smells wonderful, Mrs. Levin,” Marion said, inhaling. “What are we having?”

“Cheese blintzes,” Mrs. Levin replied, serving them one by one.

Her husband lifted an eyebrow. “My wife thinks these are good for dessert, but me, I prefer them at breakfast.”

“Pah,” she replied, waving a hand at him. “I like them anytime, so there. I didn’t see you stepping in to cook. You got complaints? You make dessert next time.”

Her husband looked contrite. “You’re right, dear. I love your blintzes. They’re good anytime.”

“Wise man,” Mrs. Romano teased, making everyone laugh.

“These are outta sight, Mrs. Levin,” Davey said, licking his lip. “Can I have the recipe?”

“You like to cook?” she asked.

“I do. I’m hoping someday—”

“When do you got time to cook if you’re out on the streets, protesting?”

Everyone stopped midchew and blinked at Mr. Levin.

“Harold,” his wife cautioned under her breath.

“Well? You go to protests, yes? You carry signs and march around, so maybe you got no job so you got time for cooking, yeah?” Mr. Levin shrank a little under his wife’s scowl. “What? I can ask, no? I just wonder about kids these days.”

Davey gave him a wry grin. “I wouldn’t argue with you, Mr. Levin, except I do have a job. I’m a cook at Chez Monique.”

“And he runs the Toronto Anti-Draft Programme,” Sassy put in.

Mr. Levin sat back as his wife served him a second plate of dessert. “Anti-Draft. What is this? In my day, we all went to war. Our fathers went to war. Men went to war without question. There was no anti anything.”

Davey opened his mouth to respond, but to Sassy’s relief, Mrs. Romano jumped in.

“Did you serve, Harold?”

“Sure, sure.” There was a slight flare of Mr. Levin’s nostrils. “How could I not? The Nazis were killing our people. Does a man stay home when his family’s getting slaughtered?” He glanced at Davey. “Thousands of us left Palestine to volunteer with the British Army. We never asked no questions.”

Sassy stayed quiet, interested in the conversation and a little sorry for Davey, but she didn’t interrupt. He was a big boy, as he’d told her before.

“Cool, but that’s not Vietnam,” Davey said quietly. “The Vietnamese don’t need us down there. It’s their war. It’s not our families they’re killing.”

Mr. Levin nodded reluctantly, accepting Davey’s point, but Sassy shuddered, recalling Joey’s latest letter.

Mrs. Levin laid a warm hand on Sassy’s, noticing her reaction. “Let’s not talk about all this killing,” she suggested, but the others weren’t paying attention.

Mr. Romano took over where his friend had left off. “You don’t know communists,” he told Davey, his face darkening. “They’re insid… insti…”

“Insidious,” his wife murmured when he couldn’t find the word.

“Yes. This.” He pinched his thumb against two fingers and jabbed the air, emphasizing his point. “They take control of everything. They kill people you love. Communists don’t care who you are.” His voice was cold. “From communism there is only one small step to fascism. Nothing is worse than fascists.”

“At least Mussolini didn’t kill Jews,” Mr. Levin muttered.

“No. Mussolini wasn’t specific in who he killed. Just anyone who wasn’t him,” agreed Mr. Romano. “Sassy’s brother is doing the right thing over there. We gotta defend ourselves against communists and fascists, Davey, wherever they are. You kids think you will change the world with your free love, but so did those people. And now they’re dead and buried. I saw the bodies myself.”

Davey lowered his gaze to the table, and Sassy could see he was debating whether or not to speak up, or at least how best to do it. She knew he couldn’t resist, but she appreciated the fact that he was respecting her guests. If he said his piece the right way, she would support him.

“I understand what you’re saying. I do. But I believe the war in Vietnam is a war in Vietnam. It is not in America. I believe America should not be sending men down there to fight.”

There it was. Plain and simple. Sassy approved. “They shouldn’t be sending weapons, either.” She quoted her father from so long before. “But war is good for business.”

“We’re making things worse by being involved,” Davey agreed, nodding. “And we’re losing, no matter what the television says. It’s been over ten years and the war’s still on. We should have either won it right away or gotten the hell out years ago.”

Silence stretched across the table.

“I tell you what,” Mr. Romano said, his dark eyes boring into Davey’s, “if those communists in Vietnam win the war because there weren’t enough brave American men to defeat them, you will remember this conversation.”

“Enough,” his wife said tightly. “Stop all this talk right now. You and your talking. All the time about the war. That was years ago. We’re safe here. No Vietnamese communists are coming—”

Mr. Romano’s shoulders lifted, and he held his hands out. “How do we know this? How is anyone safe?”

She slapped her palm on the table. “I said stop. This is Christmas, for crying out loud. Enough. This is a delicious dinner, and Davey’s a good boy.”

Davey gave a weak smile, and Sassy recalled her responsibilities as a hostess.

“Mrs. Levin, Davey’s right. These blintzes are absolutely delicious. You have to give him the recipe.”

Mrs. Levin beamed, and Sassy saw relief in all the women’s expressions. And in Davey’s.

“I’d like your recipe for the turkey dressing,” Marion said to Mrs. Romano, picking up her cue. “It was the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“My mama, may she rest in peace, she taught me this.”

“You all spoil us,” Sassy said. She turned in her seat, toward the living room. “Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mr. Levin. Have you seen your spider plant? It’s doing so well in the window, just like you said.”

“Oh yes,” Marion added, getting up to clear plates. “I wanted to ask about that, too. What should I do with all the tiny little plants growing out of it?”

“Sassy, you got paper and pen?” Mrs. Levin asked. “Come here, Davey. I’ll write that recipe down.”

Everyone moved to the living room and settled comfortably in Sassy’s limited furniture. The older men lit cigarettes, and Sassy was gratified to see Mr. Levin offer one to Davey. She plugged in the kettle for coffee, then she joined Marion in the kitchen entryway, her arms folded as she regarded the scene.

“I love that we’re able to do this,” she said. “We’re so fortunate to live here.”

“We have great neighbours,” Sassy agreed.

Marion held up her glass, and they clinked them together.

“Merry Christmas, Sassy. May 1968 be a year to remember.”