“I found this prescription in your pants. Did you want me to fill it at the drugstore?” she asked, acting helpful and feeling hopeful.

  “Oh, that? Years ago, my doctor said that it would help me to deal with my patients. All of the whining and complaining. I took them for a while. Meh—I don’t think I need them. And they made me too tired.”

  Oh yes, you do! Oh, yes, you do! Lilly’s mind screamed in her head as she walked away, unable to defend herself for now.

  When Lilly heard the house keys rattle at the front door at the end of the day, a pang in her chest immediately appeared as she prayed that the family dinner meal would be able to get through without any yelling. While en route to get groceries, she would find herself fantasizing about swerving the car around in another direction to drive away and never come back. Even though Lilly grew up without a father, she knew in her gut that these feelings were not normal in a marriage, and so she consulted with a friend once again, at a nearby drugstore lunch counter, while the children were at school.

  “Don’t get… . You know…,” her friend whispered, under her breath, while looking around.

  “Get … what?” Lilly asked, feeling completely confused. She had no idea what her friend was talking about. Lilly leaned in closer and cupped her hand around her ear to amplify her hearing.

  “You know … divorced!” her friend said it in a whisper, as if that course of action were of the utmost taboo, which it was at the time. Lilly sat with that word for a few moments to think about what that meant for her.

  The notion of leaving her husband filled Lilly up with hope as her shoulders finally dropped a few inches, even though she didn’t even think that was an option, as she didn’t know anyone who got divorced. Ever.

  “What would people think?” Her friend gasped as Lilly imagined, feeling almost giddy, what it would be like if she was finally free from all the yelling. She imagined how peaceful her home would be.

  “You don’t want to do that to the children. And to your mother!” She added as Lilly’s shoulders rose up once again, fearing how her children would cope. Would they hate her? Would they lose their friends? Would her mother’s store be banned?

  Thanking her friend for the advice, Lilly went home and called a lawyer.

  Filing for divorce in the late 1940s was an anomaly, and every human being who lived within a three-mile radius of Lilly and her children let her know it.

  But they didn’t let it get to them. Because they had a mother who took care of that.

  Lilly gathered her children each night after dinner, held their hands, and repeatedly told them how much she loved them and that they needed to stick together like a team. And they did, and with time, the power of resiliency took over.

  * * *

  Several years later, Lilly came home from her mother’s store to find a brand-new shiny red bicycle decorated with a blue satin bow on its handlebars in the driveway.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Corrine’s,” Lilly’s son said.

  “How did she get it?”

  “We bought it for her,” Lilly’s son said as he motioned to his other brother.

  “Why? How?”

  “I made it happen—let’s leave it at that,” Lilly’s son said as she shook her head in disbelief. She couldn’t believe that her eight-year-old son had arranged a brand-new bike for his little sister and prayed the transaction was legal, as she was not prepared for any form of juvenile detention. It almost seemed impossible, but she thought about Mozart and how he was able to read music at five and began to compose at six. As Lilly opened the front door of her house, she thought about how this adversity was building such strength for her children and how proud she was that her sons were a couple of negotiating prodigies.

  Vivian: Does Anyone Have a Bonbon? 1942

  Vivian went to work. It was not easy, and it was not fun. To pass the time, Vivian reassured herself with the healthy, solid advice that her parents had given her after gently and lovingly calming her down from the good old-fashioned temper tantrum she had when she got home on her first day.

  This is just your first week.

  Everyone starts somewhere.

  No job is beneath you.

  That nail polish rack in the department store basement took a full week to clean from top to bottom. When it was done, Vivian stepped back, brushed the hair out of her face with the back of her hands, and admired the gleaming shelves and colorful little glass bottles that now had a shine to them. As she collected the cleaning supplies and danced a celebratory jitterbug dance in the basement washroom, she realized three very important facts about herself, despite her parents’ advice:

  She did not like cleaning.

  She did not like cleaning.

  She did not like cleaning.

  Regardless, what she wanted very much, more than anything, was to work at Sunderland’s, and after some reflection, her parents were right. She was willing to do whatever it took to be there and stay there, and if cleaning an entire rack of nail polish was her official initiation, so be it.

  “Very nice,” Elaine said as she placed her reading glasses on her nose to inspect the nail polish rack. Vivian waited by her side, her arms behind her back, tapping her foot on the cold stone floor. Elaine stopped inspecting and followed the sound of Vivian’s foot tapping, then slowly looked up to meet her eyes, which put a complete stop to her fidgeting.

  “Come with me,” Elaine instructed.

  Vivian felt relieved and joyfully followed Elaine upstairs to the main floor of the department store, where shoppers scattered the floors of Sunderland’s with shopping parcels in their hands and vigor in their step. It was if Vivian was a child who stood at the front gates of an amusement park.

  The bright lights shone on the countertops that held the merchandise that Vivian wanted nothing more than to pick up and play with. An eye pencil that she saw in a recent magazine that she wanted to see up close and draw on the inside of her wrist so she could study the color and feel the texture of the crayon, as Vivian knew better than to test it on her eyes. A sure way to pick up any eye infection—said a recent article.

  Vivian’s eyes melted as she saw an array of skirts of various lengths, patterns, and material that she so desperately wanted to hold up to her waist to see how they looked on her. Directly in front of her stood a middle-aged woman who was eyeing a rose-colored mid-length pleated number. Oh, how she desperately wanted to yell out, “Put that pleated skirt down and reach for the pencil skirt! The pencil skiiiiirrrrt!” She knew it would suit her better as it would elongate her legs. But she didn’t, and she bit her lip instead. It was amazing how all this stimulation wouldn’t make her trip on her own two feet, but walking and critically analyzing all that was in front of Vivian was second nature. Studying who was wearing what, where, and how was like breathing, but now it seemed as if Sunderland’s was administering extra oxygen, giving more life to Vivian’s purpose.

  “Are you all right?” Elaine asked, as she noticed that her brand-new employee’s eyes looked as if they were going to pop right out of her eye sockets.

  “Swell!” Vivian gleefully said.

  The two women walked to the Revlon counter to greet another lady with blonde hair, which was pulled back into a Gibson roll at the nape of her head.

  As usual, Vivian quickly analyzed the outfit that was presented in front of her. First, she decided that this woman was her mother’s age and was smartly dressed. She wore a pink chiffon dress that had built-in shoulder pads. Very Joan Crawford, Vivian thought to herself. However, a button on her blouse was missing; she reserved this observation and restrained herself with all her might from commenting on this fact. Her parents would have been pleased, she thought to herself.

  “Vivian, this is Madame Tremblay. She is the manager at the Revlon counter.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mme. Tremblay.”

  “Enchanté, Vivian,” Mme. Tremblay said with a warm smile. “Although I should also say pleased to meet you, too,” Mme. Tremblay added, because English was often the preferred language in Montreal during that time.

  “Elaine?” Vivian asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Is there any chance I could one day move to the women’s clothing department?”

  Elaine stood at arm’s length from Vivian, where she was able to witness her lightning speed transformation. Her pleasant disposition flipped to a furious rage that she desperately tried to tamper with. It looked as if she had become a pot of boiling water that was ready to spill over its rim. Vivian sensed what was coming wasn’t going to be good as Elaine fluttered her eyelids, breathed deeply, and placed her hand on the base of her neck, which gave the impression that her question shouldn’t have been asked, but it was too late.

  “Even though you seem to know fashion, there are a lot of women twice your age who have worked here for a very long time. These women have earned their position, and right now, times are tough. We need you here at this counter. Please cooperate and do your best.”

  It was as if Vivian landed on Mars, with aliens who were not in the least bit friendly to their visitor. What was this place? Why was she getting into trouble? Why were people looking at her like she had a run in her stocking? What did she have to do to receive praise? From the minute Vivian walked into Sunderland’s Department Store, there was no doubt in her mind that she was paying attention, and in no way was she misbehaving.

  Vivian’s stomach twisted and turned. So many questions without answers. Life was growing more confusing by the minute, which was driving her as mad as the conversation that she had with her mother that morning. She knew one thing. She didn’t get fired, and that was a relief. “Yes, madame,” was all Vivian managed to reply to Elaine.

  “Oh, and please refrain from saying any of those … I don’t know … those things your people say.”

  “Excuse me?” Vivian asked.

  “You know … words like ‘oy.’”

  “You already mentioned that last week, on my first day. Remember?” Vivian’s eyes widened as this conversation clearly stated that she was officially having her second anti-Semitic moment. What kind of harm would it cause to say oy? The only reaction she could manage at that moment was sheer panic and fear. Would she be fired for being Jewish? How could Mr.Sand not mention anything during their interview? All this was way too much for Vivian’s sixteen-year-old mind to handle. Keeping quiet was the only way she knew how to handle the situation, and Vivian did just that.

  “Oh, yes, right. Well, it’s just a reminder that I wouldn’t advertise who you are,” Elaine said quietly.

  “Alright,” Vivian said again, as her heart made its way up to her throat as one thing was clear. Most people don’t like Jews.

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” Elaine left, and Mme. Tremblay’s warm face quickly turned sour like an old milk bottle as she slowly waltzed up to her new opponent.

  “Listen to me, young lady. I don’t know how old you are, but I’m in charge here. This is my Revlon counter. Understand?”

  “I-I want to do my best,” Vivian stuttered.

  “Ah . .,” Mme. Tremblay said with her finger up in the air.

  Vivian took a few steps back and leaned against the back counter that stored the department store bags.

  “I’ve been here for twenty years, and I’ll be damned if some little young thing like you takes over my place.”

  Vivian bit her lip, then wondered if she just ruined the perfect pout she created moments before Elaine came downstairs to inspect the nail polish shelves.

  “See these lipsticks ici?” Mme. Tremblay pointed to the sample tray full of used lipsticks. “I want you to clean this tray when you arrive each and every day.”

  Oh no, more cleaning, Vivian thought.

  “Then, for the next two weeks, I don’t want you to say a word. You must watch me work with the customers. Pay close attention to what I say. And don’t stand too close. I need the space to use the arms,” Mme. Tremblay said as if she were beginning a calisthenics class.

  Vivian felt her stomach turn, again. Can this day get any worse?

  * * *

  The next two weeks were an eye-opener for Vivian.

  The good news was that cleaning the sample lipstick tray in the middle of a bright, happy, and delightful department store like Sunderland’s was a hundred times better than cleaning nail polish bottles in a dark, cold, and lonely basement. The department store was busy, with people coming and going, and it was fun to watch all the action and listen in on the conversations while she cleaned.

  As she spritzed the cleaner on the tray and removed all the lipstick smears, dirt, and fingerprints, Vivian had a great time studying each color up close. She also wondered which lipstick shade would look best on certain skin tones, and which color would make an outfit look simply smashing. So many ideas were spinning around in Vivian’s head; she began to write them down in a notebook. She also observed how Mme. Tremblay interacted with the customers.

  There were a few times when Mme. Tremblay flat out lied to a customer, and Vivian found that to be odd and reacted accordingly.

  “Beautiful blouse,” Mme. Tremblay said to a woman looking at face powder.

  “It was a gift from my husband. He gave it to me before he left for the war.”

  “It’s gorgeous on you. Really brings out your eyes. God bless him,” Mme. Tremblay said dearly.

  “Excuse me? That blouse is dreadful. Two sizes too big and the color—awful,” Vivian whispered to Mme. Tremblay, who quickly whipped her head to face Vivian.

  She responded with clenched teeth and piercing eyes. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

  “It’s the truth!”

  “I don’t care if her blouse was the color of vomit. You must engage with the customers. Make them feel good so that they will buy something! We would not be standing here, taking home paychecks if it weren’t for them. My God, her husband is fighting in the war. Calisse, I hope he makes it home.”

  “I didn’t see it that way,” Vivian said in a shameful tone, not realizing this possible backstory that the woman could have.

  “It’s time you do.”

  Although Mme. Tremblay could have softened the blow, she did teach Vivian a thing or two while making sure that her dues were properly paid.

  “What are you writing down in there?” Mme. Tremblay asked one morning as she witnessed Vivian writing in her notebook.

  “Ideas about pairing lipstick shades to wardrobe ensembles.”

  “I see,” Mme. Tremblay nodded suspiciously and then added, “You missed a spot here.”

  Vivian took to the spot immediately and began to clean it.

  * * *

  One afternoon, a breathtaking fuchsia Christian Dior dress zoomed by on a rolling rack, and Vivian’s eyes blew up like balloons.

  “Calm down, Vivian. Only the elite salespeople get to handle that merchandise. Not someone like you,” Mme. Tremblay said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “No, what do you mean? Who is someone like me?”

  Madame Tremblay paused. “You are nothing but a spoiled young Jewish girl. In a few years, you’re going to get married, have children, and be a housewife. You’re going to sit on that sofa of yours, eat your Bonbons, and listen to the radio all day long while the hired help raises your children.

  Vivian’s mouth dropped open.

  “Don’t keep doing that, chèrie—it will ruin your complexion,” Madame Tremblay said as she waved her hand around Vivian’s face. “Right now, you’re just working for pocket change so you can buy yourself a new dress, maybe get your hair done—which, by the way, I suggest you do as soon as possible as it looks like a rat’s nest. Anyway, before you know it, this place will be nothing but a faint memory,” Mme. Tremblay fiddled with her hair bun.

  “That is so not true,” she said with an annoyed tone, as she very well knew that contrary to what the rest of the young female population and what her parents wanted for her, a husband and babies were not on her radar. And what was wrong with her hair?

  “Ah, oui, it is. I’ve been here a long time,” Mme. Tremblay said matter-of-factly. “It’s just how it is. Oh, and don’t be surprised if people don’t want your help here. They much prefer to work with an elegant Catholic madame like myself than a Jewish girl.” Mme. Tremblay smiled as she reapplied her lipstick. “It’s just how it is.”

  When she smiled, her two front teeth revealed a smear of lipstick. Vivian was dying to tell Mme. Tremblay about it, but held back, as she was too angry to make that kind gesture.

  Vivian was completely distraught. She didn’t want to jeopardize her job, yet she didn’t want Mme. Tremblay to get away with her uncalled for and downright cruel lecture. Vivian stood in front of the gleaming lipstick sample tray, nostrils flared, each hand in a tight fist.

  “I’m going to get a coffee. Be back soon,” Mme. Tremblay said, and walked away.

  Vivian felt relieved that she was gone, though she still stood in the department store floor as angry as ever but determined to not let her stop her from becoming the best salesgirl she wanted to be.

  “Don’t let her get to you,” a familiar man’s voice said. The rolling rack and the Christian Dior dress came by again. This time, it stopped right in front of Vivian, and a warm and friendly Mr. Sand popped his head out from behind the side of the dress.

  “Hello again! I had to check on you to see how you were doing. And I was right. Am I terrific or what? I hire with such great instincts! I knew you would be a winner,” Mr. Sand said, as if he had picked a winning horse. Vivian smiled as best as she could while she was filled to the brim with a cup of freshly poured anger; the Dior dress was an outstanding distraction.