Boys & Girls Together (29 page)

The boy shook his head.

“You’ve been here all this time?”

The boy nodded.

“Well, Rudolph, what is it?”

“I don’t think I should carry the flag.”

“I’m sorry, Rudolph, I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I don’t think I should carry the flag.”

“Well, I guess I did hear you. I don’t understand, Rudolph.”

“The flag.” The boy pointed to the corner. “I don’t think I should carry it.”

“I understand
that
, Rudolph. But don’t you see, you haven’t been elected yet.”

“I will be,” the boy said.

“Well, confidence is a wonderful thing, Rudolph, and I’m not trying to destroy yours, but there are, after all, thirty students in this class, and that makes your chances one in thirty, so I don’t think we need get excited.” Mrs. Witty opened her purse, making sure her cigarettes were inside.

“Please.”

Mrs. Witty stood. “I’d like to help, Rudolph, but there’s really nothing I can do.” She started for the door.

“Please.”

Turning, Mrs. Witty looked at the boy. “Are you all right, Rudolph? I mean, do you feel well?”

“Yes. Yes. But I don’t think I should carry the flag.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Witty said. “This is just too premature,” and she hurried from the room toward the Teachers’ Lounge.

After a moment the boy moved to the window and stared out at the playground. Hidden, he watched the others as they talked, their lips moving, heads nodding, arms waving in the air. He stared until he heard Mrs. Witty ringing the recess bell and then he hurried to his desk and sat down, his hands in his lap, his eyes on his hands.

“All right now,” he heard Mrs. Witty say when it was quiet. “I hope you’ve all thought carefully. Nominations are open. Yes?”

“Petey Steinem.”

“Peter Steinem. Yes, Naomi?”

“Rudy Miller,” and she reached forward from the desk behind Rudy, pulling at his shirt.

“Rudolph Miller. Yes?”

“Naomi Finkel.”

“But I’m a
girl
,” Naomi said.

“As I explained to you earlier, Naomi, this is a free country. Anyone else?”

“Dopey Sternemann.”

“
Daniel
Sternemann,” Mrs. Witty said over the giggling. “All right now, anyone else? No? Then nominations are hereby closed. All right, everybody, shut your eyes. No peeking. As I say each candidate’s name, raise your hand when I come to your choice. Ready? Peter Steinem Rudolph Miller

Naomi Finkel. ... Daniel Sternemann. ... All right, you may open your eyes. Now we none of us like being kept in suspense—”

“Rudy, Rudy,” Naomi whispered. “I peeked. You won. It was practically
unanimous
.”

“—that Rudolph Miller has been elected. Now if you will all stand and form two rows we—”

“I don’t think I should carry the flag.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Witty said, “but we don’t answer people who don’t raise their hands. Now we haven’t much time so ... Yes, Naomi, what is it?”

“Rudy’s got his hand up now,” Naomi said.

“
Thank
you, Naomi. All right, Rudolph.”

“I might do it wrong.”

“There is nothing to
do
except carry the flag.”

“But I might drop it.”

“The
flag
is
not that
heavy.”

“But I might trip. On the steps. The steps up to the stage. I might trip and drop the flag. Let it touch the ground.”

“Stand up!”

The boy stood.

“Are you
ashamed
to carry the flag of your own country? Is that what I’m to understand? That you’re
ashamed
. Is that it? All right, class, there’s no reason for any whispering—I’m really out of patience with you, Rudolph. You’re making us late for our very first assembly and in all my twenty-seven years of teaching I have
never never
had a student who was
ashamed
to carry the flag of his own country. Class! For the last time stop that whispering! Class! Oh, now I’m upset—you’ve got me upset. And we’re late. If I didn’t believe in doing everything democratically—Rudolph, get the flag! Everybody up—two lines—all right. Right. Let’s go.” And they straggled out of the classroom and down the hall, the boy leading them, Mrs. Witty ranging down the line, “No talking, no talking,” and when they reached the auditorium most of the seats were filled but she guided them to an empty area and then pointed to the stage. “Down the aisle, Rudolph. Get up there now. Hurry. Hurry.” The boy carried the flag down the long aisle. Ahead lay the steps. Five of them. He glanced around. His was the last flag. Everyone was watching. Five steps. The boy took a deep breath and started up, but the steps were very slippery and before he was halfway there his sense of balance started to go, the flag and his body tilting ...”

“So,” Old Turk said. “After you dropped the flag, what happened?”

“I didn’t drop it,” the boy said. “I started to, but I didn’t.”

“Were you trying to drop it?”

“I don’t know.”

“So they wouldn’t ask you anymore?”

“I don’t know.”

“In other words, all that happened that needn’t have happened is that you upset your teacher and acted a fool in front of your fellows.”

“Yes.”

“Why was the role of the fool so alluring?”

“Who am I to carry the flag?”

“Who is anybody to ... You’re not listening to me.”

The boy moved across the floor, avoiding the cracks. “No.”

“If I were a man of action, you would listen, because when a man of action speaks, that in itself is unusual. But since I am a man of speech, you pay no attention. Consequently, in order that you will remember what I say, I am going to hit you. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then come here.” The old man waited until the boy stood close in front of him. “It will be a soft hit. A mere touch. But I think you will remember what I say. Now, I could answer your questions any number of ways—philosophically, historically, et cetera. But I will be brief instead and you will never again ask such a question. Who are you to carry the flag? You are you to carry the flag. Now for the slap. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Old Turk raised his arm, hesitated, then sent it on its way. For a moment his fingers rested against the boy’s cheek. As his old hand fell away, a tiny hand rose, covering the spot. The boy spun toward the wall, the hand still to his cheek. The slap could not have been gentler.

But the boy’s hand did not move.

One warm October evening they lay side by side in bed, Old Turk and the boy, eyes shut tight, while in the next room Esther shouted “Failure!” for at least the fifth time.

“Sticks and stones can break your bones, so watch it, Tootsie,” Sid said.

“It’s a good thing we’re sleeping,” Old Turk said. “Else we would be overhearing their conversation.”

“Yes.” The boy nodded.

“Does it bother you that your looks are going?” Sid wondered.

“Guess how sick you make me,” Esther answered.

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered, and he slipped from the bed to the window, then out, disappearing up the fire escape.

The old man slowly rose, clutching at his nightgown, and crossed the living room to the open window, looking up. Then he turned and made his way to the bedroom. Knocking, he opened the door and said, “You could never dream what things I wish for you.” Then he closed the door, ignoring what they called after him, and crossed the living room again. Sticking his head out the window, he said, “Assuming you wanted company and assuming there was room, is it your opinion I would be warm enough?”

“Oh yes. Come. Come.”

The old man began working his body through the window.

“I’ll help you,” the boy said.

“Next, women will be giving me their seats on the bus, thank you no,” and he waved the boy away. When he was outside, he paused a moment, then walked up to the top where the boy sat, his feet dangling in space. The old man looked around.

“Do you like it?” the boy asked.

“Beautiful view of the alley,” the old man said. “No wonder you’re partial.”

“Sit. Sit.”

“And dangle my feet like you?”

“It’s the best way.”

“I always accept the word of the connoisseur,” Old Turk said. He sat down and dangled his feet. “To my knowledge, no one is so fine as you at fire-escape sitting. And not yet eight years old. My God, think what you’ll be at fifteen. And by the time you reach twenty—”

“Why do they do that?”

“Why does who do what?”

“Please.”

Old Turk sighed. “Since I did not rear your father, it would be unscientific of me to speak of him.”

“Mother?”

“Why is my daughter the way she is? Why is any child? Today, the fashion is to blame the parents. I myself remain unconvinced. Personally I think—you are my greatest audience, do you know that?” Go on.

“Heaven to me is enough dill pickles, no indigestion, and you beside me listening.”

“Go on, go on. You said ‘Personally I think ... ’ ”

“I think we are all given infinite choices. My father is cruel, so I am cruel. Or sweet. Or any stop along the way. My mother is rich, so I hate money. Or love it. I don’t think we can blame our parents. That’s too easy. We are the way we are. It’s God’s world; He gets the credit, let’s give Him a little of the blame too, do Him good. God’s human, just like the rest of us.”

“And Mother?”

“Well ...” Old Turk kicked his feet. The boy did the same. “There are those who would say my daughter is the way she is because of heredity, or environment—you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

“No; go on.”

“You are such a fine listener that if I ever become King of England, I’ll knight you. Heredity. Heredity is the answer. Except for one thing: for generations, we Turks were known as the cocker spaniels of our village—gentle, loyal, bland. So environment is the answer. Except for one thing: my wife—and you have only my word for this—but my wife ... Let me put it this way: I was the savage in the family. And we raised our daughter with love. So out of this, how does your mother appear?”

“Yes. How?”

“Your mother is a bad miracle,” Old Turk said.

Late on a winter afternoon, Old Turk suddenly jackknifed up from his chair, made a sound and pitched forward into the pickle barrel. The boy, watching, also made a sound, a louder sound, and ran to the body, pulling the old head from the brine, grappling with the limp flesh, trying to get it first into the chair and, failing that, lowering it finally to the cold wooden floor.

“A doctor,” Turk whispered, and the boy raced toward the stairs and was halfway to the apartment before he remembered it was empty, his parents having decided earlier to douse their differences in ninety minutes of Gary Cooper. The boy whirled on the stairway, took two steps and leaped into space, landing gracefully, bolting for the street without breaking stride. On the street he paused, saw the familiar back of the Widow Kramer and was on her in an instant. Her mouth dropped open at his vehement shaking, but she nodded in understanding after he had said “Doctor—get a doctor” a sufficient number of times. The errand done, the boy whirled again and raced into the store, dropping to his knees beside the old body, lifting the old head, stroking the gray strands which were still wet from their dousing in the pickle barrel.

“To die smelling of garlic,” Old Turk whispered. “For a delicatessen man, what could be more fitting?”

“You won’t die,” the boy said. “The Widow Kramer is getting you a doctor.”

“The Widow Kramer? How fitting. Everything suddenly is fitting.”

“Stop talking.”

“Stop talking? Me stop talking? Are you trying to kill me?”

“Please.”

“I believe,” the old man whispered. “I believe I just said something funny.”

“Yes. Very funny. So I don’t have to laugh.” He raised his head, trying to stare at the ceiling.

“Of course. Not when it’s funny. You remem—Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare cry.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered.

“Have we cared for each other?”

“Yes.”

“Have we loved?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Then don’t you dare cry. I will not have my death sullied. Not by you.”

“The Widow Kramer is coming. With a fine doctor. This I know.”

“Hearts wear. Mine is worn. A fault with the human mechanism. I’m seventy-two years old. Already I have bested the insurance companies. Not many can boast of besting the ins—” For a moment Turk could only gasp, his body suddenly tense, stiff, his eyes opening and closing in rhythm with the painful sounds. When he could speak again, his voice was half of what it was. “I’m dying, Rudy, I’m ... dying and I want to ... say something ... wise but ... nothing comes to mind. Smile on me ... Rudy ... beautiful Rudy, let me ... see you smile ...” The old eyes closed, and this time they did not open.

The boy waited for something, some sign. He held the body tightly in his arms. Then, when nothing happened, he riveted his eyes on the pickle barrel and began to rock silently, clutching the body and rocking, back and forth, back and forth, back—

“That is most uncomfortable,” Old Turk said.

The boy looked down. “You didn’t die.”

“To my chagrin.”

“You didn’t die!”

“I swear I thought I was. I knew. In the movies they always know. Ronald Colman, he can always tell when he is dying. Spencer Tracy too. Leslie Howard. I wonder how they know in the movies? Edward G. Robinson, I like Edward G. Robinson, I have seen him die so many times, more than anybody. ‘Mother of God, is this the end of Rico?’ He said that and he died. How did he know? What a marvelous thing to say. I would also like to think of something marvelous. Say it and then die. Something memorable. Help me think of something memorable. Perhaps with a Biblical ring; that always lends authority. Perhaps ... And suddenly the gasping was back again, louder than before. “Rudy ... Rudy ... I’ve got to say ... something ...”

The gasping stopped. Nothing remained. The boy cradled the tired head. “Joel? Joel?” Nothing. “Please. For me. Joel? Don’t die. I promise you the Widow Kramer comes. With the finest doctor in all the world. So please, Joel. Don’t die. Please. Speak. A word. For me.”