Her aunt Leticia crossed her plump arms over her ample bosom. Her heavily made-up eyes blinked frantically beneath her mane of flame-orange hair. Don’t henna your hair once it’s turned grey, Susana thought, trying to take her mind off her predicament.“No woman in my family will work for the gadje.” Her husband, Anton, buttoned the jacket of his suit, getting ready to leave the house for a meeting. Their three daughters played noisily about them in the big untidy living room of the Brooklyn house.“But, Uncle, I’ll need to make more money to pay the rent on my apartment. I’ll lose Granna’s rent control if I put my own name on the lease. The storefront too. I’ve been writing checks on Granna’s old account for six months—forging her signature, for crying out loud. It’s not legal.”“Gadjo laws, pah! You’re paying their rent. It’s all fair and square.”Susana let out a snort of dismay. “I’m paying a hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. The market rate is well over a thousand these days, even on my place.
