Boys & Girls Together (28 page)

“I could. But who would watch the store?”

“Mother?” The boy stood on tiptoe, avoiding the cracks.

“In her present mood your mother would frighten away the few customers we have.”

“Father?”

“That strikes me as vaguely impossible. In his present mood your father would frighten away your mother.”

“We could hire somebody.”

“We could do that.”

“Why don’t we?”

“Because we would starve, because it would cost us more money than we have just to pay his salary.”

“Well, maybe we could both go out on the fire escape except that we would tie a string around the front door and take the string with us so that every time the string moved we would know it was a customer and you could run down the fire escape to the store and fill the order.”

“Now that’s a marvelous notion, except that I am not as young as some people and chances are all that running up and down would kill me.”

“Well, we could do the same thing with the string except
I
would do the running up and down and fill the order.”

“That, I think, is a perfect solution except that, even though you are a first-class label reader, you are not quite so brilliant at adding up numbers and therefore you would probably either overcharge the customers, in which case they would yell at you, or undercharge them, in which case they would cheat you, and after a while they would either be so angry at us they would go to the A&P or they would have cheated us out of everything and we would starve.”

“You know what? This is more fun than ‘Seek the Seltzer.’ ”

“More intellectual,” the old man agreed.

“Could I have a pickle? I mean, you do
want
to sit on the fire escape?”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure.”

“Well, we’ll just have to figure it out.”

“All problems are solvable.”

“And I’m going to stay right here until we do. I mean, I could stay outside, but I’m going to stay right here. Stores are better for thinking.”

“Infinitely.”

“Yes. We’ll get it. But it may take days.”

“Weeks, even.”

“Months.”

“Years.”

“What comes after years?”

“Perhaps we’ll find out, you and I.”

So they pondered the problem of the fire escape, and they slept in the same bed, and they did what they could to cheer Sid and sweeten Esther, and they played “Seek the Seltzer” until the boy was perfect and after that they waited on customers together, the old man saying “Spinach for the Widow Kramer,” the boy running down the vegetable, swooping it up, dashing back to set it on the counter, then waiting for the next labor, “Granulated sugar, monkey, five pounds for the Widow,” and he would retrieve the sugar and whatever followed the sugar and whatever followed that until the list was done. Then he would say “Add,” and the old man would obey, and then the old man would take the money and give it to him and he would gently open the money drawer and tuck it safe inside, and then they would sit until the next customer. And while they sat, they talked. They talked about why there were cracks in the sidewalks and what happened to letters once you dropped them in the mailbox, and prehistoric dinosaurs and railroad trains and sharks and squid and slinky barracuda. They talked about how they were going to spend the reward money they were going to get after they captured the gangsters who might try to rob the store and how they would subdue any frothing mad dog who happened to wander in and what did the Lone Ranger really look like and just
what was
in Fibber McGee’s closet. And men from Mars. And Stanley Hack. And the Italian the evil Yankees had found to run in center field. And the great Bronko Nagurski. And J. Donald Budge. And rain. And they talked about the old country. And Old Turk’s childhood. And the awful boat ride across when he was eight. And how he happened to come to Chicago. And they talked about his father. And they talked about his mother, who died on the trip. And his sister, who died in Cincinnati. And they talked about his brother and they talked about his wife.

But mostly they talked about his nose.

“My nose? You want to know how I got my nose?”

“Yes.”

“You really want to know how I got—”

“Tell me—tell me!”

“You’re absolutely positive you’re interested in hearing how—”

“Yes-yes-yes.”

“God gave it to me personally.”

“No, he didn’t either.”

“Since you obviously already know the story,” Old Turk said, leaning back in his soft wooden chair, “there doesn’t seem to be much point in going on with it.”

“But you’ve got to go on,” the boy said. He was sitting on the floor by the chair and he reached forward and pulled the old man’s trousers like a bell rope.

“You called me a liar. I said God gave it to me personally and you said no he didn’t either. A man likes to be believed.”

“But you always lie when you tell about your nose.”

“I do?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this time I’ll tell the truth.”

“Promise?”

“Of course not. I’m a man of my word. I don’t have to promise. So anyway, one day when I was nine years old, I was plowing the fields and—”

“When you were
nine
? You said you came over on the boat when you were
eight
, so how could you be plowing the fields when you were nine?”

“In the old country we counted differently.”

“Oh,” the boy said. He moved in closer to the chair.

“So, this particular day when I was plowing the fields God came up to me and said—Good morning, Widow Kramer.”

The boy jumped to his feet and ran toward the woman. “What do you need? Tell me and I’ll get it.” And she gave him the order and almost before she was done telling it was filled.

“Add,” the boy said.

“The service is certainly improved,” the Widow allowed. “I’m sorry I can’t say the same about the food.”

“Always a pleasure, Widow Kramer,” Turk said, and he gave the money to the boy, who threw it into the money drawer, then pulled the old man back to the chair.

“God came—I hate those interruptions—God—”

“You never interrupt?”

“Never. God came—”

“Yes, he came up to me one day when I was plow—”

“How did you know it was God?”

“What you just did, that wasn’t an interruption?”

“A question. I asked a question. Go on.”

“How did I know? Well—”

“I mean, he could have just been somebody
pretending
he was God. A practical joker. Or a movie actor maybe.”

“I doubt that He was a movie actor, since when this happened no one had yet invented movies. And although what you say is possible, I think He was legitimate.”

“Why?”

“There was this
blinding light
around Him,” Old Turk said. “And it was a
cloudy day
.”

“Oh.” The boy nodded. “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“I should have. I’m a poor storyteller. My apologies.”

“That’s all right. Goon.”

“So I’m in the fields plowing and all of a sudden God came up to me and He said, ‘Hello there, Joel Turk,’ and I said, ‘Hello there, God,’ and He said, ‘How are things?’ and I said, ‘You mean,
You
don’t know?’ and He said, ‘Of course I know. I know everything. I was just making conversation, that’s all. Let me tell you something, Joel Turk. This business of knowing everything, it doesn’t leave much room for surprises. If I didn’t make a little conversation every now and then, I think I’d go
meshugah
’.”

“Means?”

“
Meshugah?
”

The boy nodded.

Old Turk whirled his index finger around his temple.

The boy nodded again. “And what did you say?”

“ ‘Well,’ I told him, ‘God,’ I said, ‘we could all of us do with a little more strudel, even You.’ And He said, ‘Joel, you are so right. Being God, it’s like being the family doctor, except the whole universe is your family.’ And I said, ‘Have You ever thought of delegating the authority?’ and He said, ‘I tried that once, only it didn’t work out so good. No; if you want to get something done, you’ve got to do it yourself, and I’ve got a lot to do. So, much as I’d like to stand and
schmoose
with you—’ ”

“
Schmoose?
”

“Chat. Talk. Pass the time.”

“Thank you.”

“ ‘Much as I am enjoying our conversation,’ God said, ‘it’s time we got down to business. I’m worried about your village, Joel. I am genuinely concerned.’ ‘Our village?’ I said, and He said, ‘Yes. Have you noticed that in your village no one smiles, no one laughs?’ ‘Since I’ve lived here all my life,’ I said, ‘it has come to my attention.’ And God said, ‘Do you know why?’ and I answered, ‘Well, God, no one has any clothes, and no one has any money to buy any clothes, and the weather is stern, and in the winter everyone freezes, and the fields are solid rock, and nothing grows, and everyone is dying of starvation; I think that might have something to do with it.’ And God said, ‘Well, I’m going to change all that,’ and I said, ‘You mean You’re going to make things grow, so we can have food, and money for clothes; You’re going to change the solid rock into topsoil, yes?’ and He said, ‘I could. I could do all that and more. But I don’t want to spoil you.’ ‘You know best, God,’ I said, ‘but it sure sounded nice while I was saying it.’ ‘If I did it for them,’ God said, ‘then they would become lazy; they would become fat. But if only their hearts would buoy, then their spirits would swell, and their strength would be as the strength of ten, and the rock would crumble, and there would be nothing but rich black topsoil for as far as the eye could see and instead of being fat they would be youthful and instead of being lazy they would be proud.’ ‘Oh, that’s beautiful, God,’ I said, and there were tears in my eyes, ‘but why would that happen? Why do their hearts buoy?’ ‘Joel Turk,’ God said, ‘what do you think of yourself?’ Well, I thought a minute, and you must realize, monkey, that when I was young I was pretty special, not ugly like you, but I didn’t want to sound cocky to God, so I just said, ‘I guess I’m not so bad.’ ‘You’re nothing!’ God said. ‘A shadow. A lump. A cipher, Joel Turk, is what you are, and as you age you’ll disappear and when you die no one will care because no one will know you were around.’ ‘I’m that bad?’ I said. I wish you hadn’t told me. Getting the word from you, God—that banishes hope. I can’t even dream anymore; not now. What have I got to look forward to?’ ‘Misery,’ God said. ‘Misery, loneliness and grief, coupled with gradual decay.’ ‘Please, God, stop!’ I said and I couldn’t help crying. ‘No more. I beg you.’ And then God came right up next to me, blinding He was, and He said, ‘Would you like a different fate, Joel Turk?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Anything.’ And God said, ‘Would you like to be much admired? Would you like to be much adored?’ ‘Yes. Yes. Much admired, much adored, yes.’ ‘And would you like to help your village, Joel Turk? Would you like to make them strong and proud?’ ‘Yes, but what can I give them? What do they need?’ ‘They need only one thing. One thing alone.’ ‘What, God? What?’ ‘They need something to smile at, Joel Turk; they need something to make them laugh.’ ”

“Your nose!” the boy cried. “Your nose!”

“Yes.” The old man nodded. “God’s words exactly. But I didn’t understand. ‘I’ve got a nice nose,’ I said. ‘It’s small and cute.’ ‘Agreed,’ God said, ‘but if you like, I could change that. I could give you such a nose. Such a nose! And when the people of the village see it they will smile and then laugh and then their hearts will buoy and the rock will turn into topsoil and you will be much admired, much adored.’ ‘You mean You’re going to make me funny-looking, a buffoon?’ ‘Something like that,’ God said. ‘Along those lines, anyway.’ ‘But, God,’ I said, ‘why the nose? I mean, the nose, it’s so ... visible. Couldn’t you maybe do something clever with my ears instead?’ ‘Has to be the nose,’ God said. ‘Don’t you know that famous Shakespeare poem, perhaps the greatest poem he ever wrote?

‘The ears are for hearing,

The lips are to smile
,

The nose is for laughing
,

The tongue is for guile.

“ ‘Now do you see, Joel Turk? The nose is for laughing. Has to be the nose.’ I see, God,’ I said. ‘And that certainly is a
great
,
great
poem but—’ And God said, ‘Make your choice, Joel. A free choice. A life of unbelievable, incredible agony against a life of being much admired, much adored. Choose!’ ‘God,’ I said, ‘You are indeed a true God, a fine God, fair and in all ways sublime ... ’ ” Old Turk quieted. Go on.

“No more. My choice, I believe, is obvious to this day.”

“You mean all of a sudden you had a nose? Just like that?”

“As I remember, there was an accompanying flash of light.”

“The people in the village, did they laugh at you?”

“They laughed at me.”

“And did the rock turn into topsoil?”

“Well, the next morning there was a little dust.”

“Have you been much admired, much adored?”

“Sometimes God is given to exaggeration,” the old man said.

The flag stood in the corner of the first-grade classroom. Mrs. Witty gestured toward it. Rudy stared down at his desk, listening as Mrs. Witty said, “Now, this morning is our first assembly, so we’ll need someone to carry the flag. I could pick that someone if I wanted to, but I don’t do that in my classes.
You
will pick that someone. Right after recess, we’ll have our own election; we will make nominations and then we will vote. And whoever we select will carry the flag into assembly at the head of the class. Yes, Naomi?”

“Can a girl do it?”

“I won’t say absolutely
no
,” Mrs. Witty replied, “but I will say that
generally
boys carry the flag. I have never, in all my years here, had a girl carry the flag, but that doesn’t mean a girl
can’t
carry the flag. Whoever you select, he or she, will have my wholehearted approval. Does that answer your question, Naomi?”

Naomi indicated that it did.

“Well then,” Mrs. Witty went on. “Once we get into the auditorium our flag-bearer will carry the flag up the steps onto the auditorium stage, and he—or she”—a smile toward Naomi—“will remain there along with the other flag-bearers while the principal addresses the school. So, although this is our first election, it is a very important one. And I know we’ve only known each other for less than a week, and that isn’t much time, but it will have to do. Now go to recess and think about your vote. Dismissed.” Mrs. Witty sat down at her desk as the class fled toward the door. “Gently, gently,” Mrs. Witty cautioned, not looking up. “Nobody likes a pusher.” And she continued filling out the daily attendance report. She had been filling out daily attendance reports for twenty-seven years, and she loathed the chore, especially in the early fall, before names had attached themselves to faces and faces had attached themselves to desks. So although she wrote with undue speed, it still took time, and her finishing sigh would have been louder than usual had it not suddenly changed into a start of surprise. “Oh,” Mrs. Witty said. “Oh.” Then: “Rudolph, you didn’t go to recess.”