Chapter 1

                                    

                                              
Copyright (c) 2014 Phyllis Zimbler Miller
                          
 All rights reserved.
                          

                          
Gemini 4 astronaut Edward White floats in space for 20 minutes. -- June 3, 1965
                          

                          
Jennifer's Story
                          
Chicago 1965
                          

                          
          The "something blue" garter slipped down my leg as I hooked the t-strap of my white satin pump onto the mother-of-pearl button.
                          
          "Mother," I said. "The garter won't stay up. I'll look ridiculous walking down the aisle with this silly thing riding my ankle."
                          
          My mother stared at the reflection in the full-length mirror of the hotel's bridal party suite.
                          
          "Jennifer Rubin, you look lovely.”
                          
       I checked the mirror. The white satin dress was short-sleeved as befitted a June bride. Chantilly lace covered the bodice and edged the full skirt that swept into a train. After the ceremony my maid-of-honor would snap the train up under the bustle of the dress.
                          
         My mother sighed. "You make a beautiful bride; I always knew you would. And Steve Silberman is such a catch!"
                          
          "Mother! You're not listening to a word I'm saying."
                          
        My mother looked at me now. "Yes, dear. What is it?"
                          
         "Never mind." I latched the other shoe and, still bent over, slipped the garter all the way off. No one would ever know.
                          
      "Are you ready?" Laura asked, sticking her bouffant-hairdo through the door. Laura Silas, maid-of-honor, best friend since Miss Weinstein's nursery school class. “The rabbi is asking how much longer.”
                          
        "I'm almost ready. Tell him I'm hurrying."
                          
       My mother's hands fluffed at the white tulle headpiece. "I hope your hair doesn't get mussed when the veil is pulled down."
                          
       "Relax, Mom, everything will be all right." I hugged her. She pulled away, probably afraid of wrinkling my dress. "Why don't you go wait with Laura and the other bridesmaids,” I said.  “I promise I'll be out in five minutes. I just want to check my make-up."
                          
        My mother eyed me once more. "Okay, dear. But I think you look just fine the way you are."
                          
       "You would. You're my mother. Now go on out and wait with the others."
                          
       The instant she left the room I peered at my face in the mirror. Green eyes stared out from long dark lashes framed by a straight nose and set-in-cement dark hair styled in a French knot. My make-up was fine.
                          
      The mirror also reflected the room – chairs draped with discarded clothes, abandoned with the hairspray, rollers and other paraphernalia. Earlier my four bridesmaids squeezed and smoothed themselves into pink taffeta dresses whose skirts swooped to the tips of dyed-to-match pink satin slippers.
                          
      Laura as maid-of-honor would walk down the aisle separate from the other bridesmaids. I had wanted only two others, Jeanne Cutler and Susan Schwartz, sorority sisters from college.  My mother insisted on including my first cousin Marjorie Brandstein, an auburn-haired albatross.
                          
      My bridal reflection smiled back. It was, after all, thanks to Marjorie that I had met Steve in the fall of 1961, my first semester at the University of Michigan.
                          
       I'd been walking across the Quad wearing my new forest green suede jacket and matching forest green leather open-backed gloves listening to Marjorie chatter about sorority rush. The throat-sticking smell of burning leaves drifted towards us as we crunched unraked leaves beneath our feet.
                          
      "I have just the right dress to wear for the formal dress event," Marjorie said. "It's a Lanz – black with little gold stars woven into the material. And it's sleeveless with a low neckline! I got it at Saks with Mother. She wasn't going to let me have it, but I begged and pleaded."
                          
       Marjorie's mother, my mother's older sister, had always been a pushover. Especially when it came to Marjorie, the only girl after a run of three boys.
                          
       I'm an only child; a position in which I could reasonably be expected to get everything. Instead my mother had always tried not to spoil me. My father was another story. His love for me was unconditional.
                          
      "You're not paying attention to a word I'm saying," Marjorie said as we passed ivy-covered red brick buildings on our way to the dorms.
                          
      I said nothing.
                          
      "Oh, Jennifer, look, there's the boy I was telling you about in my freshman literature class. Isn't he cute?"
                          
      The boy wore jeans and a brown leather jacket. A strong nose said Jewish to me. Brown hair covered one eye but didn't hide the good looks.
                          
      Marjorie's books smashed to the sidewalk in front of the boy's scuffed penny loafers. "Oh, look what I've done!" she said. "How careless."
                          
      The boy bent down. "Here you are," he said, handing Marjorie all three books with the freshman lit book on top.
                          
      The book must have rung a bell because he added, "We have lit class together, don't we?"
                          
     "Yes, yes, we do. I'm Marjorie Brandstein."
                          
     "Steve Silberman."
                          
     Marjorie batted her eyelashes.
                          
     "And who are you with?" he asked.
                          
     "Oh," Marjorie said.  “My cousin, Jennifer Rubin.”
                          
     "How do you do, girls? It's nice to make your acquaintance."
                          
     Marjorie stared at his retreat. "Isn't he just heavenly?"
                          
     I shrugged. I'd been through this with Marjorie before. Marjorie was what was known as man hungry. My friends said she liked anything in pants.
                          
     Now I tugged on Marjorie's pea jacket sleeve. "Let's go. I'm hungry and the dining room will stop serving soon."
                          
     Marjorie shifted her books from one arm to the other. "How can you think of food at a time like this?"
                          
    "Like what?" An attractive Jewish male could become the focus of Marjorie's thoughts for hours, if not days. That was, until the next prospect.
                          
     Prospect. I looked down at my wedding dress.  My life after today – I could picture the Harvard graduate student apartment Steve and I would rent. It would be small and dismal and we'd be stuck there for several years. But we would be together and doing what we loved. Surely that was all that mattered.
                          
     "Come on," Marjorie said, rushing into the room. "Mother says it's rude to operate on Jewish standard time. We should start at the time printed on the invitation."
                          
     I nodded that I was ready.
                          
     "Your pearl necklace is beautiful," Marjorie said, stroking the center pearl with her forefinger.
                          
     This was my “something new” from Steve. And my mother's cameo brooch was both my “something old” and my “something borrowed."
                          
     Marjorie smiled – an expression that reminded me of a viper about to sting.
                          
      "I hope you and Steve have as good luck as your parents,” she said.  “How many years have they been married?"
                          
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