Coney (19 page)

Five minutes into his vigil, his mother and the man walked out. He looked like George Raft. Maybe he
was
George Raft. Everyone said his mother looked like a movie star. The man put her in a taxi.

When Harry pressed the bell at his front door, he braced himself for his mother's tirade for not having his keys, which would be delivered with an initial passion that would deflect his explanation.

“You mean,” his mother said, “she put you in his bed!”

“Yes.”

“A savage.”

In the kitchen his mother resumed drinking her tea strained through a sugar cube, which she removed to drag on a cigarette. Harry poured himself a glass of milk and sat across from her.

“So what have you been doing? Walking the streets and catching pneumonia?”

“No, Mom, I sneaked into the Mermaid Theater.”

She would not question the theater as refuge. When a thunderstorm threatened she ran there to escape the claps, which unnerved her. In Warsaw, a man walking in front of her had been shot and killed.

“What did you see?”

Luckily, he had noticed the marquee.

“ Test Pilot.”

“Any good?”

“I like Spencer Tracy.”

“His face is too fat.”

Her eyes wandered off. She looked sad, lost, helpless. He felt remorse for the displeasure she often stirred in him. She was an interloper, a barrier between him and his father. He stared at her face—his face—and thought: She is my mother, what does that mean?

He remembered his earliest memory. He lay in a straw basket watching her iron clothes. Suddenly he knew she would not always be with him. He had cried. The memory ended there. Too soon. It did not reveal what he meant to her. As that mysterious being known as mother, had she instinctively known what he was thinking? Had she picked him up to calm him?

He knew himself to be an embarrassment to her as a measure of her age. She told people: “He is my husband's child by his first marriage,” which she triumphantly defended as the absolute truth.

He could not remember her praising him. Yet he had heard her boast to others that he brought home a straight A report card. And she worried about his health, demanding that he bundle up against pneumonia and barring him from swimming in Coney's polluted waters. These dictums were ignored, unenforceable because of her habitual absence. Perhaps, he concluded, motherhood is to be forced to care about someone you do not care about. And being a son, did that impose the same task?

Is that why, he wondered, when I read sadness in her face, as now, I pity her, wish to help her, and want to cry for my helplessness?

“Did you love Zadeh a lot?” he asked.

She sighed.

“No. Yes. I don't know. Love is a tricky word.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a word without meaning. Everyone supplies their own meaning—if they can.”

“Will you miss him a lot?

She smiled at his persistence.

“Again, no, yes, I don't know. Will you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he took my hand.”

She put her chin in her palm and turned away from him.

“Do I take your hand?”

“You used too.”

“When?”

“A long time ago. To cross the street.”

“That's not exactly the same.”

“I guess not.”

“Would you like me to take your hand?

He shrugged.

“You answer like your father.”

“Is that bad?

“No. It just doesn't fit. Like that coat Lazar sent to you.” She laughed. “That was my fault. I insisted you wear a coat for the funeral.”

“Why?”

“Because it seemed right. Death makes more of a man than Bar Mitzvah does.”

“I've had enough of death to last me.”

“I suppose you have. When my sister died in Warsaw, I wondered why it wasn't me. I knew why: I was stronger. Esther was a mouse. But I still wondered. Maybe I still do.”

Their eyes met.

Pity, Harry thought. We pity each other. Is that something that ties us together? Is that love?

A
T SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING,
H
ARRY ANGRILY THREW OFF HIS
blankets and groped his way to the phone. It was Saturday. An Orthodox Jew who read
The Morning Journal
was desecrating the Sabbath. Harry vowed to put a stop to this abomination, which threatened to rob him of his day of rest.

“He doesn't answer the phone on
Shabbos
,” he growled into the speaker.

“Who doesn't?”

“The man you're calling.”

“How do you know who I'm calling?” The pleasant voice seemed genuinely interested in an answer.

“Moshe Catzker, of course.”

“Sorry,
I
don't know him. Do
I
? You know my memory is not what it used to be.”

“Then why did you call his home?”

“Did
I
? Wait let me put on my glasses … Is this Esplanade two-six-seven-five-four?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm. Are you a boardinghouse?”

“No.”

“Do you know a man called Aba Stolz?”

“Yes.”

“Could you give me his phone number?”

“He lives here.”

“Why didn't you say so in the first place?”

“You didn't ask me.”

“Can I speak to Stolz?”

“He's asleep.”

“How do you know?”

“He's always asleep at seven in the morning.”

“Well, he'll want to get up and talk to me.”

“Who is me?”

“I don't understand.”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, didn't I tell you? You know, my memory is not what it used to be. Ben Druckman. Tell him Ben Druckman.”

Harry knocked on Aba's door. Coughing signaled consciousness.

“Aba, there's a madman on the phone who wants to talk to you. His name is Ben Druckman. Should I hang up?”

“No!”

Aba flung open the door and ran past him. Ah, Harry figured, Druckman was a poetry lover, a patron. Aba hopped around his room, wriggling into the first piece of clothing that came to hand. Unwashed and disheveled, he disappeared into the street. Harry yawned. Maybe it was a dream. Yes or no, some sleep might bring clarity.

Aba moved in a combination fast walk and trot toward the entrance to Sea Gate. He was composing a poem: a paean to Druckman. He could not trot and think, therefore he alternated speeds.

Ancient warrior full of mercy
, was that banal enough?
Jew, descendent from the house of David.
Good, good, he complimented himself, before recalling a newspaper article about a team of baseball players with beards who called themselves
The House of David.
Druckman would deny being a baseball player. Then a thought sent him into a full trot:
I'll do it in Yiddish. He won't understand. I'll recite one of my favorite poems and he'll listen. Compare it to Nick Kenney. If he asks for an explanation, I'll tell him story of Bar Kockva or some other heroic nonsense.

At the gate, he was delayed. The guard asked for confirmation from the Druckman household, then, about to allow pass him, noted that Aba was wearing one black and one brown shoe, and called for reconfirmation.

The Negro opened the door.

“Thank you, Jerome,” Aba said, testing his luck on a fifty-fifty proposition.

The man's puzzled expression signaled defeat.

“Sorry, James.”

The man's eyes widened.

“Sorry, my memory is not what it used to be. What is your name?”

“Jesse, sir.”

“Ah, the father of David.”

“No, sir. I have a daughter named Franklina.”

All hail Roosevelt, Aba thought, Moses to the black tribe.

“I'll remember, Jesse.”

“Please follow me, sir.”

Druckman, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, blended into the white couch. He looked troubled. Why? On the phone he had intimated good news. Perhaps troubled to me is happy to him? Perhaps he can't remember how to look happy but remembers that he needs an expression?

“Hello Ben, I wrote a poem for you.”

Druckman's eyes darted around the room.

“Want to hear it.”

The eyes again. God, Aba thought, let him have destroyed the file already. He's going gaga fast.

“Yes, let's hear it?”

It was not Druckman's voice. Through a side door the chauffeur wheeled in a smiling Menter.

“Well, what the fuck are you waiting for? Give out with the monkey talk.”

Aba recited the Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the dead.

“Now tell us what the fuck it means.”

“It sings the praises of Ben Druckman. A fine man. A noble man. A friend to those in need.”

Menter threw an Italian short-arm at Druckman.

“That ain't the kike I know. The sheeny I know has left the tracks. He jumps in where he shouldn't and if he doesn't stop, maybe gets himself killed.”

Aba's demons danced. Each a Nijinsky.

H
ARRY, HAVING TRIED UNSUCCESSFULLY TO SLEEP AFTER ABA'S BIZARRE
exit, was on his way to the bathroom when his father lurched through the front door. In one motion he extracted Dr. Freud from the bookshelf and fell forward onto the couch. Harry applauded the balletic movement, but his father, nose already flattened against the spine of the book, was elsewhere, sniffing up wisdom. His father closed the book, smiled, drew his lips down at the corners, and slowly shook his head up and down. The usual tribute to Dr. Freud. Harry suspected that the purpose of the morning driving expeditions was to inject himself with a disease so that Freud could offer a cure, the way Paul Muni did as Louis Pasteur.

In the kitchen, Harry watched his father eye suspiciously the flame heating a kettle. His father trusted nothing in this room. It was stocked with spiteful instruments of doubtful purpose: cans that resisted opening, milk bottles bent on suicide leaps from the table, unwatched kettles boiling themselves dry, whose charred metal odor lingered long after the object had been dumped in the garbage.

A
wisp of steam curled upward from the kettle's spigot. His father thrust his hand quickly to turn off the gas. He smiled in victory. On the table a tall glass holding a tea bag awaited the hot water. His father grabbed the kettle handle and quickly relinquished it, blowing on his palm. He covered the handle with a
paper napkin, brought the kettle to the glass and began to tilt it forward. His forehead creased, searching for a memory.

“Hah,” he said, leveling the kettle and holding it at his side while moving around the kitchen and opening drawers. In the third drawer he found a teaspoon which he put into the glass. He poured the water, watching the malevolent glass for signs of cracking despite his precaution. His concentration on disaster was complete. The glass overflowed. He leapt at the puddle, plunging the napkin down to wipe it up. The liberated kettle hit the floor. The water and steam reminded Harry of newsreels of Old Faithful geyser at Yellowstone Park. His father looked up from his wet shoes and spread his arms in helplessness. Harry got a mop. His father wrinkled his forehead and stared with blank eyes.

In consultation, Harry thought, as he made the tea and poured himself a glass of milk.

“Heshele, where did you learn to be so handy?”

“From you.”

They laughed.

“What does Dr. Freud think?” Harry asked.

“Oh, he's very intolerant. He was a very neat man. He would have not allowed me to touch anything in his kitchen, like your mother.”

Again they laughed. Harry loved to see his father laugh. His face was a combination of joy and wonder, as if in awe of the gift. Even his mother could not long resist the infectious invitation.

The front door banged open. Aba stumbled into the kitchen bringing with him the cold draft from the unclosed door.

“Goodness,” his father said, “have I slept for three months and awakened at Purim? Aba, that is a most imaginative costume. Are you Haman or Madame Defarge?”

Aba stared at his father.

“Moishe, can I speak to you alone?”

“Sounds serious. I don't have five dollars to lend you. Three I might manage …”

“Please, Moishe …”

His father rose, saying:

“Lay on, MacStolz.”

In his room, Aba laid his palm on the tan, fat eiderdown. The fluff rose between his fingers.

“It feels nice,” he said. “I do that often to remember how good you have been to me.”

“Aba, what's this all about? You know such compliments are not necessary.”

“Maybe they should be?”

Aba was having trouble swallowing.

“Moishe, dear friend, I have something I must tell you …” His voice tailed off. “Moishe,” he resumed, “why are we in Coney Island?”

“
Oy
, I feel a Stolz theory coming on. All right, I'll play semi-straight man. We are in Coney because it is cheap and the sea air reminds us of our beloved landlocked Ukraine.”

“It is no accident that we are in Coney Island.”

“True. I remember following a pillar of smoke from Ellis Island to Thirty-fifth Street.”

“First, Moishe, think of the amusement rides.”

“So, I'm dizzy.”

“Where do they go?”

“Up, down, forward, backward, in, out. Who knows? Who cares?”

“Take the Cyclone, Moishe. It goes at great speed, but nowhere.”

“Is it a metaphor for the human race? Aba, have you deteriorated to such banalities?”

Stolz assumed a classic John L. Sullivan boxing stance, left foot pointed toward the opponent, elbows bent, forearms extended fully, fists turned upward.

“Watch out, Moishe, I have been known to give punches.”

“If you knocked me out now, it would be a mitzvah.”