When Abe saw Davy go down, he pulled Alex away from Delia and rushed toward his table.
Years later, the arguments continued as to whether or not what happened that day was within the rules of the tournament, or whether John had the right to make them up as he went along. No one who was actually there, however, disputed the basic facts of what occurred after the fall of Davy.
In the hundred seconds or so that it took Abe to push his way through the crowd, with Alex at his side, Davy had taken another shot of whiskey and another turn for the worse, which may have been an even sharper turn had it not been for the whiskey. He slumped on his chair, and his face was clown-like—red nose, chalky white cheeks. His right hand vibrated independent of the rest of his body, as if it were trying to write a message in the air.
“Davy,” Alex said.
The sound of his voice lifted Davy’s head off his chest.
“Davy.” It was Peck now. “Look my friend, if you can’t go on, just say so. No shame in it, no shame at all. You’ve had a good run, but a forfeit now, there’s no shame. You want someone to fetch an ambulance?”
“Ambulance my ass,” Davy croaked. He tried to get to his feet but only rose six inches before he fell back.
“John?” Peck said.
The crowd parted as John came out from behind the bar. “Give us some air, back away,” he said. He leaned over Davy, who whispered something and closed his eyes. John nodded.
“All right, you bums, listen up. Davy is in no shape to continue here. But, under the rules of The Squeaky Wheel Tournament de Darts, he’s allowed to choose someone else to finish out his throws.”
Immediately the room broke out into an uproar, and much blood may have been spilled had John not stood on a chair and pulled his revolver from his apron. The noise settled quickly until James Downey, who’d bet half of his weekly salary on Peck, said, “Hold on there, John, I never heard of no rule like that.” Other men that had Peck growled in agreement.
“I make the damn rules,” John said. “My tavern, my rules.” He waved the pistol. “Any further interpretations needed? What say you, Mr. Peck?”
With twenty-four points to go to Davy’s fifty-one, Peck acted as if he were in the catbird’s seat, and since no one in the bar beside Davy could beat him, with a wave to the men he said, “Go ahead, I got no fight with this. Let the poor man choose.”
Davy glanced around the room, but the men looked away.
“Choose.” It was James Downey. “Choose, Davy, or finish it yourself, damn it.”
Choose, choose, the crowd echoed.
Alex broke free from Abe’s grip. He climbed a chair and then onto the table and into Davy’s lap. He whispered in his ear,
Davy, I can throw the darts good and straight because Grandma says I am special and I have my long arms from Jesus as a blessing.
Davy wasn’t a religious man per se, but after he heard Alex’s words he sat straight up, eyes wide.
Alex repeated
from Jesus
.
“Choose!”
“Come on, Davy,” John pleaded.
Davy waved his hand for quiet. He smiled at Alex. “I choose the boy.”
Beer sprayed from James Downey’s mouth, and soon the rest of the bar joined in the laughter. Even the stoic Peck couldn’t conceal a smile. “Thanks for the laugh, Davy, but you can do better than the squirt here.”
“I said Alex. Now pull my chair over where I can see.”
There was so much shouting that John had to fire a round into the ceiling to get some quiet. Someone yelled for the police. Edgar Timmons, a police sergeant with twenty years on the force and a dollar on Davy, shouted, “Calm down, you bastards, before I arrest every mother’s son of you.” He turned to Davy. “What in blue blazes are you doing, son? The runt ain’t out of diapers yet.”
Alex mouthed the word
Jesus
.
Davy said, “Let the boy throw.”
Now Alex stood on top of the table, left shoulder facing the dartboard, a dart in his right hand, and if the table were a pitcher’s mound, it could be said he was in the stretch position. His Teddy Roosevelt Rough Rider cowboy hat sat low on his forehead. He held the dart loosely, it’s size dwarfing his hand. He dipped his right shoulder back toward the floor, and, with his elongated arm, his right hand brushed the tabletop as he rocked into his motion. As he tilted down to his right, balancing on his right leg, his left index finger pointed straight up to Heaven. He twirled it three times. Then he rocked upright, the core of his body a fulcrum, his right arm stretching over his head, gaining speed and momentum as he finally released the dart, which blurred through the air and stuck to the hilt, a double ring “18.” Before the men could react he repeated the motion and the next throw netted him a “13,” and now his score was down to two, and the men howled. Alex said, “Watch me, Davy,” and with that he went into his motion again, and hit a double ring “1,” ending the game, winning the trophy.
Instead of rushing toward the table, the men backed away, as if some alien with powers superior to anything they’d ever know had landed in their midst.
Abe reached for Alex, intending to hoist him up on his shoulders and take a victory lap around the bar, but Alex slipped out of his grip. He picked up a six-inch, wood-handled steak knife from Davy’s plate. Men ducked under the tables and hid in corners, not knowing where Alex intended the knife to go. He repeated his motion and hurled the knife. It stuck in the center bull’s-eye, its handle vibrating.
Chapter 11
Ida was putting away the few leftovers from lunch when she heard a loud rap on the door. She cracked it open halfway.
“Hello, missus, Dr. Sergei Malkin at your service.”
“I know who you are.”
“Ah, yes, we have met before at the birth of little Miller. You are Mrs. Ida, the mother of the missus, correct?” The door didn’t move. “Perhaps may I come in? I have come by as doctor and friend of the family. I am told Mrs. Miller, she is very ill.”
Ida’s face soured. “Wipe your feet.”
“Yes, of course. I am knowing your son-in-law Abe Miller and the older boys, them I have treated, and the little one Alex. I don’t suppose he is at home, I always am enjoying it to see him and to give it to him a quick look-over of his growth progress. He is a very interesting case, with his long arms and the great intelligence of his head.” He glanced past her shoulder. “Perhaps the little fellow is around somewhere?”
“He’s out with his father. Are you sure you didn’t come here to drum up some business? Because as sure as I know Judgment Day is coming, I didn’t call for you.”
“Please, my presence is, how you would say it, I am making it the courtesy call to the family I am in the service of.” He sniffed the air. “But I can see it you are having it your meal.”
Ida crossed her arms in front of her chest. “It’s soup for dinner.”
“Yes, of course, I am simply to mean. I am sorry for it if I am being it an interruption to you. It smells very delicious, by the way, what you are making. It is reminding me of my Grandmother Latushka, may she rest in peace, a wonderful mother to her children, she used to make it a large pot of soup like this for the family every Friday with the remaining parts of the chicken she killed for the dinner. The poor woman, a kinder soul that lived there never was, but sad to say, she was raped and killed by Cossacks at the age of 43. We think. She had it not the official certificate of birth. Such a pity, she died too young, too young.” He dabbed at his eyes with a plaid handkerchief. “Often it is said among my family members that I have inherited it some Cossack blood from her, the poor woman.” He sighed and bowed his head.
Ida put her hands on her hips. “You want some soup?”
“Oh no, thank you, I shouldn’t, after all, it is for your family you have made it.”
“You don’t want any?”
“Well, of course if it is just for to taste it, then I would have it, since you have offered it to me most generously, then I would not want it to be an insult or make it an offense to you not to take it.” He sat down at the table. “Perhaps you have it a napkin?”
“Doctor.”
“Yes?”
“My daughter?”
“What? Oh yes, of course, forgive me.” He got to his feet. “I was thinking the serving of the soup, it would come now, but I shall go and check in on her condition, certainly, she is upstairs I take it, no?”
“The bedroom on the right.”
He bowed. “Yes, thank you, I shall be down in a few moments, but if you wouldn’t mind I should like to wash them first my hands before I look in on her, for the sanitation purposes of course with all the sickness going around. May I use it here this dishwater in your sink?”
*
She heard three quick knocks on the door. A watery figure with a dark goatee and close-set eyes entered the room. For a moment Irene thought it was the Devil come to claim her and she began to sob softly, and to apologize to God for her sins and ask for forgiveness, until she recognized from the pince-nez and his black bag it was Malkin.
“Mrs. Miller? Hello, you are awake?”
Irene coughed dryly into the sleeve of her nightgown. “What day is it?”
“So we are awake after all, this, it is a good sign. It is today Saturday. And how are we feeling, Mrs. Miller?”
“Awful.”
“Yes, well, that is a symptom of The Dip, no doubt. Would you mind it, I am going to take it your temperature. Open wide, please.” He inserted a thermometer under her tongue and felt her forehead, which was hot and wet.
Irene tried to say, “What time is it?” but her voice was a soft croak.
“Please, if you would be so kind as to shush while the thermometer it does it its work for just a few moments.” He waited to get a reading, even though the thermometer was normally off by one or two degrees. He took her pulse, although he couldn’t rely on the accuracy of his pocket watch, which he had taken in trade for stitching a four-inch slash in flesh between the thumb and index finger of Bernstein the jeweler. With a slight flick of the wrist, he removed the thermometer and gazed at it intently, as if by staring long and hard enough he would be able to ascertain both Irene’s body temperature and the progression of her malady.
Even though her forehead had been hot to the touch, the thermometer read 97.8. “Well, it is certain you have it the fever, no doubt from The Dip. I am going to give it to you something to bring that temperature down, which will also give it to you some relief from the symptoms, but you must understand it, The Dip, it has to run its course.” He reached in his bag for a bottle of the tonic he concocted for Davy for hip pain. If nothing else, the alcohol would make her sleep.
“Doctor, my throat is on fire.”
“A classic symptom, as we in the medical profession have studied it, that is what you have. I should like it to take it a look at your esophagus, if you would be so kind as to open wide again and say ‘Ah.’”
Her rank breath hit him full on. He suppressed a gag. Peering over his glasses, he clucked his tongue. “Very red and irritated, like a piece of meat that was dragged on the street, but as I say, the tonic it will give it you some relief from the pain, no? Take two tablespoons every two hours or so until the pain and fever go down.” He closed his bag. “God willing.”
Irene coughed again. “Am I going to die?”
“We all must die some time, Mrs. Miller. No, please, I am only making it the joke. But you must rest now and you will feel better, all right?”
“All I do is rest. It doesn’t help. I want my little boy.”
“Yes, I would like it to see him as well. I would like to run certain scientific tests on him to determine it what is the cause of his slow growth. But your mother, as we talked over the soup, she said he is out with his father.”
“His father’s probably with his whore Delia Novak.”
“Such language, it must be it the fever—wait, you said Delia Novak? A curse on the woman, may she get The Dip herself. She is owing it to me two dollars ten cents. You are knowing her as well?”
Irene fought her dizziness and sat up. She grabbed Malkin’s wrist. “What do you know of Delia Novak?”
“Please, Mrs. Miller, your fingernails, they are putting their marks in my flesh.”
“Momma!” Alex ran into the room. “I have a present. I threw darts.”
Malkin halted him by the shoulder. “Not too close, my little one. Your mother, she is very sick.”
“But I want to show her.”
Irene said, “Alex. Wait.”
Malkin unscrewed the bottle of tonic. “Here, you must take it a swallow.”
Irene drank, gagged slightly, but almost immediately the burn in her throat began to subside. She took another swallow and felt it all the way down to her stomach. She closed her eyes. She felt as if she were sinking into the mattress.
“You must leave it now the room, little Alex, and let your mother rest.”
Alex began to yammer, and Irene thought she heard him say something about a gingerbread man and Delia and a pin and Davy and darts and a knife and John the bartender’s gun, but the fever and Malkin’s tonic overwhelmed her. She began to snore.
Malkin motioned to Alex. “You see, your mother she is now asleep. We must be very quiet so as not to disturb her. Come come come.”
Alex wanted to snuggle in with her, to tell her all about his adventure that morning, to see her smile, to feel her arms around him. He wondered why all she did was sleep. He touched her hand as Malkin pulled him away, “Bye bye, Momma.”
Malkin kneeled down next to him. “But now let us have it the quick exam to see how you have grown since I last saw you, my boy. Let us remove your shirt, please.”
Alex bared his teeth and growled. He moved away from Malkin and pounded on the door to his brothers’ room.
Rather than pursue him, Malkin remembered how hard he could bite. “Perhaps next time, when you are not so upset.” He went to the stairs and paused, listening to the shouting coming from the living room. “Oh, the soup.”
*
“Your wife is sick to death upstairs and you have me over here so you can go and drink with your pals at that saloon. Which was bad enough, but you took my grandson, too. What kind of a father are you? A saloon is no place for a little boy. You’d know that if you had half the sense you were born with.”