Coney (32 page)

“You don't live here, do you, buddy?

“No.”

“Visiting?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Mr. …”

“Mr. who?”

“I forgot.”

“Your breath stinks.”

“I was sick.”

“On the street?”

“Yes.”

“Get in.”

The cop in the passenger seat got out, held open the back door for Catzker and followed him in. He looked down at his billy club, directing Catzker's eyes to his masturbatory movements over the gleaming brown wood.

“This can do a lotta damage,” he said.

Catzker nodded.

“You just a bum, or you do something else when you're not puking on good people's streets?”

“Writer.”

“Bullshit!”

He's right, Catzker thought.

“OK, get the fuck out. If I catch you in Sea Gate again, you better give your soul to God because your ass belongs to me.”

He reached across, opened the door, grabbed Catzker's shirt and shoved him out. He was opposite the Sea Gate fence on 36th Street. Almost immediately, Vince forced him into a car. He kicked a soiled handkerchief, dirty enough to be one of his own. They drove to the Half-Moon Hotel.

Menter snapped his fingers, dealing with something inconsequential:

“Your friend Stolz has gone on a long vacation. Chances are he'll never come back.”

Catzker's cried for Aba, and because he could not kill Menter.

“Did you have to kill him?” he sobbed.

“It was business, reputation. How would I look to Shay if he saw Stolz again? It makes me small-time.”

“And now me.”

“I wouldn't mind, but no. You do the job the two of you were supposed to.”

“And my son?”

“Fuck you, your son and your whole whoring family.” Menter pounded his fist into his palm.

“Hear me, you kike piece of shit! This is personal. You do the fire alone or there will be no more Catzkers!”

C
ATZKER, FACE AWASH, ZIGZAGGED LIKE A DRUNK, WAILING, “
OY, OY, OY
.”
He was relieved to find no one home. He needed time to think, to explain. Explain what? That Aba Stolz, a man with a soul of sugar, had been murdered by a monster who could not be named. It sounded like one of his implausible
romanen.

To think more clearly, he chose his son's room. After all, his son was the cause of Aba's death. What a thing to think! Yet it was true. But true had nothing to do with truth. Abraham Lincoln was responsible for the death of the actor who shot him. That was true, but not the truth.
Split more hairs
, he told himself in disgust,
then you can scuttle away to land of theory where consequence hurts only the ego
.

A
framed picture of the Negro boxing champion hung over Harry's bed. His brown fists were wrapped in white tape as if burned in an accident. Heshele had explained that the tape cushioned the fist's impact when it struck a chin or another bone. Unprotected, a precious finger or knuckle might break, causing the loss of a match or even ending a career of mayhem. At the bottom of the photograph a child's labored penmanship read:
To Heshele, Best Wishes, Joe Louis. Heshele
was written differently from the rest. The letters were separated, unconnected to each other. Catzker saw Aba dictating the letters to an annoyed Louis whose fist was being asked to do other than that for which it had been constructed. How excited Heshele had been, devouring all Aba had said about Louis, staring at the hand that had actually felt Louis's biceps.

Catzker fell on the unmade bed, squashing his face into the spearmint gum smell of his son's pillow. He began to choke and turned over. The ceiling resembled the bottom of a flatboat. He remembered his passage to America as a frightened teenager. He never before had been on a ship. During the rough crossing, he had befriended an equally frightened boy. Together, they had detected dangerous noises that heralded the vessel breaking apart. The boy had reassured him:
I was born in a cowl, Moishe. I have a charmed life. Stay with me and all will be well.

Freud also was born in a cowl. He was dying of cancer. There was no one alive left to talk to.

He lectured himself:
A man is dead who cannot be pronounced dead because there is no body and questions should not be asked. Yet, a man with many friends will disappear. How long before questions are asked? How can I not mourn Aba and not allow his friends to do so?

If life imitates art
, he thought,
can life imitate trash? Why not? Most lives are trashy. In his
romanen
when a character's situation was untenable, even by the accepting standards of his readership, he either died or disappeared. Disappearance was never questioned. It struck a wish-fulfillment button in the problem-plagued readers. It also had the advantage of possible future reappearance as a changed, rich, philanthropic, happy, observant Jew. He had made it a staple.

Could Aba disappear? How? He could say that Aba told him that he needed a few years of solitude to write. But if Aba's murdered body were found, he would be implicated. No. In the
romanen
, a villain paid. Here the villain was immune.

He realized he had stopped crying and immediately began to sob again for his callousness. Already Aba was a fictional character, an abstraction, a scrawl of disappearing ink. Shouldn't he go to the police and tell the whole story? Menter was the police. The cripple's words throbbed in his ears:
No more Catzkers!
He was as helpless as the little boy who watched his father drown.

Poland! He had his villain. Aba had told his friends that an official investigation of his immigrant status had resulted in permission
for him to apply for permanent residence in the U.S. Only Catzker and Menter knew the truth. The explanation of Aba's disappearance would be custom-tailored to the audience:

The anti-Semitic Poles had reopened the case, claiming Aba was an escaped murderer—in fact, had murdered his own mother. The United States Government, shown trumped-up documentation agreed to deport Aba. The plot was carried out by anti-Semites on both sides. Last night a U.S. Immigration agent and an FBI man had arrested Aba and whisked him away to a Polish ship that sailed two hours later. They had allowed Aba one phone call, like a common criminal.

Now, if the body were discovered, he could swear to Aba's last words. It was Polish rough justice. A ruse to kill a Jew.

Concentrated on rehearsing the story, he did not hear Harry enter the room.

“Someone is sleeping in my bed,” Harry chirped in child's voice.

“Heshele,” he said, rising “come take a walk with me.”

“Where?”

“Just a walk. We will see.”

As they walked up Neptune Avenue, Catzker held his son's hand and occasionally squeezed it. Harry saw wet and pain on his father's face. He knew not to talk. His father was elsewhere.

They stopped in front of the Beth Emunah synagogue.

“Heshele,” Catzker said, “it is the anniversary of my father's death. I wish to say Kaddish. Come in with me.”

A bearded man wearing a black wool suit despite the heat ran up to them. He spoke in Yiddish:

“Blessed are the arrivals. Now we have ten for a minyan.”

“I wish to say the Kaddish,” Catzker said.

“Exactly, the rest are Kaddish sayers. Now we have the requisite ten.”

It was a false minyan. Harry had never been Bar Mitzvah, the prerequisite for being counted in a minyan. His father had made it
clear that he was being sent to Hebrew school to learn the tradition and culture of his people. God need not be worshipped. When Harry approached thirteen, he was given a choice as to whether to have a Bar Mitvah. He had refused, thankful to escape the terror of reciting before an audience.

Eight men stood in a semicircle, rocking toward each other. The man in the black suit handed Catzker and Harry yarmulkes and draped them in prayer shawls. All began to recite the Kaddish.

“Yiskadall ve yis kaddash schmay rabbah …”

Catzker's words broke through sobs. He rocked and pounded a closed fist into the left side of his chest. It seemed to Harry that he was trying to hurt himself.

“Heshele,” his father croaked, “say the Kaddish.”

“But you are alive.”

“Say it for your grandfather. My father. He loved you.”

“But he died before I was born.”

“He loved you. Say it!”

Harry began. His father's arms encircled his neck, pulling Harry's cheek against his. His father let out a fearful wail. His head fell on Harry's shoulder. They rocked, praising God.

H
ARRY SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE SWIGGING MILK FROM THE BOTTLE
, enjoying the smooth, thick glass rim on his lips heralding the rush of cold milk. Closer to the cow.

It was Saturday. His father and mother had not yet awakened. It was a time when Aba, having spent another sleepless hot August night wrestling with a poem, would have charged out of his room and announced a call to the cherry tree.

What would he have asked Harry today? That was easy.
What do think, American boy, about the treaty between Russia and Germany not to fight each other?

Harry climbed into the cherry tree to talk to Aba. Harry missed him so much that yesterday he had seen a mirage: Aba on the front steps turning his pockets inside out in search of his key.

A
few days ago his father had said that Harry must learn to live with the probability that Aba might never return. Even if the Polish authorities released him, which was unlikely, he would be trapped in the European war that was not far off. What chance did a Jew have in a war in which all participants were anti-Semites? Those were the first mean words Harry had ever heard from his father. Hope meant something. The other person could feel it. Harry would continue sitting with Aba in the cherry tree.

Aba grabbed a handful of cherries, stuffed them into his mouth and spit out the pits.

“
Nu
, American boy, who will the Russians and Nazis fight now that they cannot fight each other?”

“The Poles?”

“It should only be that wonderful. But first they will kill the Jews, who are always good for a snack before the main dish.”

“Why is it, Aba, that people who have no feelings always get their way? Sometimes I think I have no feelings. Does that make me a Nazi? Or is it better not to have feelings? Does it make me stronger not to cry? I think I must stop crying right now.”

It was not working. Aba had no answers. Besides, he now thought of Bama, trapped, prey for Hitler. He needed to dive into the ocean. Bucking the waves, going under, simulating drowning, flailing his arms while the salt stung his eyes and cuts, cleared his mind of everything but the tip of danger.

He walked onto the beach and was about to begin the run into the waves when his name was called. On the boardwalk, Soldier waved his arms frantically, as if performing semaphore.

“What's up, Soldier?,” he said, looking up at Soldier's legs and noting but one sock.

“Damn, I got a message for you, from Fifi, Harry. She wants to see you.”

“What about?”

“Damn, I don't know.”

“OK, Soldier, I'll swim awhile and then go see her.”

“Damn, go now.”

“What's the rush?”

“Damn, I don't know. But I got a feeling. It's not like when Woody says:
Make it snappy.
She needs to see you. I just know.”

“OK, Soldier.”

He wriggled into his white polo shirt and carried his pants and sneakers. Soldier met him at the ramp.

“You coming with me, Soldier?”

“Damn, no, but I'll walk a ways with you, if you don't mind.”

“You know I don't mind.”

It was nine o'clock. The boardwalk below the amusement area was a winter anachronism of old men and women tilting faces and silver sun reflectors toward the guarantor of life. Beyond them, a
few early arrivals for a day at Coney chewed on hot dogs and gulped soda pop. A cooling sea breeze reminded Harry of the dwindling days of summer. Soon he would be dismissed by Morey and incarcerated behind a school desk. Aba spoke to him:
Heshele, always begin, even if it is an ending.

Soldier, whose head usually swiveled like a frightened bird as he spluttered to drown out the noises in his brain, was silent. He walked stiff-legged, knees locked, his eyes vacant, unblinking. Harry thought he must be back in the war. Not a good idea.

“Soldier,” he said, tapping him on the shoulder, “soon we'll have Coney all to ourselves. I'll bet you'll like that.”

Soldier mumbled: “Damn, fire.”

Harry laughed. Soldier knew the routine: end of season, then fires.

“Yeah, Soldier. That's the way it always is.”

“Damn, people will be killed.”

“Nah, Soldier. Nobody ever dies.”

“Damn, this time …”

His voice tailed off. He stopped abruptly.

“Damn, got to go now, Harry. Don't forget Fifi.”

Before Harry could say good-bye, Soldier had turned and stumbled away. He was getting worse. He would ask Fifi about a doctor for him.

“Sank you for coming,” Fifi said, as he kissed her cheeks.

“I always like to see you.”

“You are nice
gosse
, 'Arry.”

“You are a nice Fifi, Fifi. Did you want to give
un leçon
in French?”

“Une
leçon!
No, not today.”

She smiled, then sighed.

“'Arry, I lose much pounds.”

Her fat affliction was passing. He wanted to congratulate her, but her expression did not invite happiness. Perhaps she was worried about losing her job.

“I go doctor 'Arry. He say I lose twenty pound of weight. Next time more pounds. Like
contraire
when I
petite
. Inside, I hurt. Zen he
tell me I have ze cancer. Zat inside me ze cancer eat everyzing. Soon it eat what I need to live. Zen I
morte.
”