The Choice

before Marianne turns ĕve, Magda does move to Baltimore. She stays
with us for a few months until she can ĕnd a job. We set up a bed for
her in the dining area, near the front door. Our apartment is always
stuffy in the summer, even at night, and Magda cracks the door a little
before she goes to bed. “Careful,” Béla warns. “I don’t know what kind
of palace you were living in in the Bronx, but this isn’t a safe
neighborhood. If you leave that door open, someone might walk right
in.”
“Don’t I wish,” Magda purrs, batting her eyelashes. My sister. Her
pain visible only in the humor she uses to transcend it.
We host a small party to welcome her—George and Duci come
(George shakes his head at the small expense), and some of our
neighbors in the apartment building, including our landlords, who
bring their friend Nat Shillman, a retired Navy engineer. Magda tells a
funny story about her ĕrst week in America, when Aunt Matilda
bought her a hot dog on the street. “In Europe, when you buy a hot
dog from a vendor like that, you always get two hot dogs, and they’re
covered in kraut and onions. Matilda goes to pay for my hot dog, and
she comes back and there’s just one puny hot dog on a Ęimsy little
bun. I thought she was too cheap to pay full price for two, or that she
was making a point about my weight. I held a grudge for months, till
the day I bought my own hot dog and learned that’s how it is here.”
All eyes are on Magda, on her expressive face, waiting for the next
funny thing she’ll say. And she has more; she always does. Nat is
clearly fascinated by her. When the guests leave and Marianne is
asleep, I sit with Magda on her bed, gossiping the way we did when
we were girls. She asks what I know of Nat Shillman. “I know, I know,
he’s Daddy’s age,” she says, “but I have a good feeling about him.”
We talk until I am half asleep on her bed. I don’t want to stop.
ere is something I need to ask Magda, something that has to do
with the cavity in me, but if I ask her about the fear, the emptiness,