Pictures of the Past Read Online Free PDF Page B

long history. My God, we’ve got three generations living in my house. Kenilworth is different from Rogers Park— I never even heard of Rogers Park until I met you.” He continued in an almost incoherent rambling pattern. “It’s just that I’m really attached to my parents—and my mother—she freaks at anything Jewish—sorry, something about the wartime, something from when my dad went to Europe right before WWII. It just won’t work you and me—you being Jewish—you know.”
    Of course, she hadn’t expected him to be thrilled. But she had never dreamt he would be so cold and dismissive.
    “I can’t believe those words are coming from you,” she finally said when she could breathe. “You can’t be the same boy I met two months ago, the one who romanced me in the coffeehouse, and made love to me by the beach. I don’t even know you.”
    She struggled to regain her composure, to give him time, as well, to digest what she had said and reconsider his response. She waited for a quick apology, for arms to embrace her, for his hand to brush through her hair and wipe away her tears. But there was no such contrition; he stood very separate from her. Now she wasn’t just hurt, she was angry. “Wasn’t I Jewish the first night when you came on to me? And how about sitting on the floor of the Folk Lounge on Sheridan Road, and wasn’t I Jewish that night at Evanston Beach on the sand and in the car at Gilson Park? Wasn’t I your dark-haired beauty then?”
    He was smart enough to say nothing.
    And then his eyes took on a narrowed look of loathing. And in that instant, her dream became a nightmare. The glorious, passionate heat that had consumed her body day and night froze. And on this dreary evening, her body became one more cloud. She was a rainstorm of tears, a thunderstorm of anger and hurt, a cyclone of torment. She wanted to forget her “summer to always remember.” But that was not possible—she had a baby growing inside her.
    They met only once after she broke the news to him. Though her college term had started, she came back to Chicago to work for a few more weekends. The money was great enough that it would pay for books and some necessities for the term. But she was still keeping her situation private. Contrary to her usual pattern, she was not attacking the problem head on. She was like any young girl in trouble—confused, in denial, postponing decisions.
    It was a week before he contacted her again, appearing at Last Chance at the beginning of her shift, before any of the young crowd gathered. Leaving his car parked in the loading zone at the front of the restaurant, he walked in slowly, without his usual self-assured jaunt, a literal embodiment of the image of “dragging one’s feet.” He scanned the room with the sparsely filled booths and tables of the early hour, expecting to see her standing and writing an order.
    “Rachel,” he called, but his voice, too, was without his usual force. And though he was sure that it was her by the kitchen pass-through, donning a black apron with her back toward the tables, sharing a joke with a white-capped cook, she made no move to respond.
    “Rachel,” he repeated, this time with a volume and urgency in his voice.
    Finally, she turned, and he was drawn to the beautiful rose bloom of her cheeks. Excusing herself from the counter area, she began to slowly approach him. As she walked closer, he saw again the innocence of her huge brown eyes, how she unconsciously fluttered her lashes disbelievingly. It almost made him lose his nerve and determination. He stretched his arm in her direction, holding it out as if he could take her hand, although a good thirty feet separated the pair.
    Only in the few moments that it took her to walk to him did she believe he had returned regretful and loving. She was too easily recaptured by the familiarity of his thick auburn hair, not close enough yet to see that his smile was partial and insincere. But when her hand was