Free Mrs. Everything by Jennifer Weiner Page A

father had worked on the line at the River Rouge plant, taking accounting classes at night, while his brother had finished high school and college, before going on to medical school. By the time Bethie had been born, Uncle Mel was an ophthalmologist. He lived with his wife and threechildren and his mother in Southfield, in a split-level ranch house with a vast master bathroom, with two sinks with golden taps shaped like swans and a sunken tiled tub that looked as big as a swimming pool. Bethie could remember her mother telling her that she mustn’t use the fancy, plush-looking pale-green towels laid out beside the powder room sink, even though Bethie, who had just learned to read, could see the word GUESTS embroidered at the bottom. Sarah showed her how to dry her hands on a piece of tissue instead.
    Jo and Bethie and their parents visited the big house twice a year, once for the Passover Seder, where they joined their grandmother, their cousins, and relatives from Aunt Shirley’s side of the family for the traditional meal, and again for the first night of Chanukah, when they’d eat brisket and fried latkes, and the children all received gifts.
    At dinnertime at Uncle Mel’s, a silent Negro girl, short and slim, wearing a black dress with a white apron on top, would carry the roast or the turkey to the table, holding the heavy platter in both hands, bringing it first to Uncle Mel, who’d inspect it and nod his approval before starting to carve. Aunt Shirley had a little silver bell beside her plate, and she rang it to summon the girl, whose name Bethie had never heard. “Where does she eat dinner?” Bethie had asked, as they drove home. “In the kitchen, I imagine,” Sarah had said, and Jo had said that she wished she could eat in the kitchen, too, and listen to the radio and not have to sit still and worry about using the right fork, but Bethie had adored her aunt and uncle’s dining room. She would smooth her hands over her starched napkin, brush her fingertips against the heavy half-moon-shaped glass paperweight that sat on a side table in the living room, gazing at the branched piece of coral it contained, letting her breath mist its surface, and dream about living in a house like this, with servants to bring her the food and take away the dirty dishes when she was done.
    That morning, Mel’s eyes were watery and red, and his face was scratchy. Close relatives of the deceased didn’t shave duringthe mourning period. “Bethie,” Uncle Mel said when he found her in the kitchen, gathering her into a hug. Bethie had worn the nicest clothes she had to her father’s funeral, the navy-blue dress her mother had bought her for eighth-grade graduation, and it had gotten short, and tight under the arms, but, of course, she hadn’t wanted to bother her mother to say so. She could feel it straining against her bust as her uncle hugged her. “I’m so sorry.”
    Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill him , Bethie thought. Uncle Mel held her, and she felt his hand drift down her side until it rested on a part of her body that was no longer technically her hip. Bethie froze, almost too startled to breathe. Uncle Mel had never touched her like that before. No one ever had.
    Before Bethie could figure out what to do, Uncle Mel removed his hand, kissed her cheek again, and retreated to the living room, where whiskey and schnapps had been set up on a card table. Bethie went to the backyard with Barbara and her other friends, Laura Ochs and Darlene Conti and Patti Jamison, who’d all stayed home from school for the day. She wondered what had just happened and if she’d imagined his hand on her bottom, hoping that if her friends noticed her pale face and her silence, they’d ascribe it to grief.
    Barbara asked how she was doing. Laura and Darlene said how sorry they were. Patti said, “If there’s anything you need, just tell me.” Bethie thought about how nice it would be if, instead of saying What can we do , or I’m