Place in the City Page 15

  He stops there, sighing and swinging his club, trying to catch the scent of the buds. Then he sees Meyer walking down the street, slowly, the way Meyer always walks now. Well, sorrow does that. Everyone knows what happened to Meyer, with his children, and while he is only a Jew, it is a great deal, even for a Jew.

  “Good evening,” O’Lacy said.

  Meyer nodded, and passed on. As he approached his store, his steps became slower and shorter. He dreaded coming back to the store. As a matter of fact, he always dreaded that. Aside from other things, it brought him to his wife, and now they were alone it seemed to him that he never had anything to say to her. What was there to say anyway, outside of talking about the weather and the few murder cases that figured in the papers?

  That was because outside of his store there had never been any interest in his life, outside of his children. But what was the use of thinking about his children, when he always ended with the same thought, that they were dead? Not all of them; Jessica remained.

  Sometimes he considered what would happen if Jessica went the way the others had gone, like Alice and Marion. Then his heart would go, and it would be all over. Thinking of Jessica, he smiled. It was almost the only thing that could make him smile, thoughts of Jessica, of his youngest and most beloved, of the apple of his eye and the beloved of his heart…. Outside the store, he saw Shutzey, lounging against the brick with the easy grace of a panther, picking his teeth delicately and deliberately.

  It was the first time in almost a week. Between his teeth, Meyer whispered: “Swine.”

  “Evenin’, Meyer,” Shutzey said graciously.

  One of Meyer’s few pleasures, of late especially, was dreaming dreams about Shutzey. The dreams took many forms. In some of them, Meyer was a great powerful man, seven feet tall—that was to make things certain—who fought with Shutzey every day, and who beat him terribly every day. After the beating, Shutzey would cringe and grovel before Meyer, kiss his feet. In other dreams, Meyer saw Shutzey suffering dreadful diseases, alone and poverty-stricken, dying slowly and with great pain. And again Shutzey would be herded by policemen, herded to arrest that would end in a prison sentence of many years, Meyer looking on while the judge sentenced him. But these dreams always vanished before the reality of Shutzey, who took possession of the front of his store, displaying his girls just as if he, Shutzey, paid the rent.

  Shutzey smiled at him and nodded, but Meyer would have noticed, had he observed keenly, that Shutzey appeared to be worried, that he was waiting for something.

  Meyer went into the store. Jessica was behind the counter, and she too was thrilling with suppressed excitement; but for another reason. Marion was upstairs. After all the months, Marion had come back, and she was waiting for her father upstairs. To Jessica, that was drama—full, rich drama. Meyer would go up and he would see her. Then what would he do?

  She could tell Meyer, but her sense of the nicety of these things prevented her from spoiling the situation. Yet if she told him, she would be in on some of it. She made her choice and kept silent.

  Meyer smiled. “Jessie,” he said. It hurt him to see her behind the counter, but who else did he have? And she could be trusted. She wouldn’t fail him.

  “Hello, pop.”

  “I brought something for you.” He took a case out of his pocket, opened it, and showed her a little wrist-watch. It was full of stones, and it gleamed and sparkled in the light. But she had seen it the week before in Gerber’s pawn-shop window, marked down to four-fifty.

  “It’s awful nice,” she said. She tried to be excited, to make Meyer think that she was excited. She never felt very deeply about Meyer. Sometimes, she thought she hated him. Other times, she was simply apathetic. But she couldn’t break away, not half so easily as the others had. Somehow, where her mother and father were concerned, she lacked the mental courage. There was security here for a person who was walking on ice, and she was.

  Meyer’s smile crinkled all over his face. “Put it on,” he urged.

  She buckled it onto her wrist, considering that it was not so different in appearance from the one Shutzey had given her. She had gone to Tiffany’s to price it, discovering that it had cost six hundred dollars.

  “Thanks, darling.” She leaned over the counter and kissed him.

  “Why should you thank me? Is it so much for a daughter like you?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Then he turned around, went up the stairs. He was feeling good, better than he had felt for a long time.

  When he had gone, Shutzey opened the door and came in. Jessica had seen him outside, but she knew he would not come in until Meyer was gone. She had warned him about that. He entered with the graceful ease of a man whose every movement is controlled by a practiced muscle. He draped himself over the counter and pointed to a twenty-five cent cigar.

  “The ten cent size used to do for you,” Jessica said, bringing out the box.

  “I’m learnin’, honey.”

  “Well, don’t throw your money away.”

  “Say listen—can’t I smoke, what’s that?”

  “A watch. The old man got it.”

  “Yeah? Where’s mine?”

  “I can’t wear it here. Ain’t you got no sense, Charley? I know what I’m doing.”

  “Awright. But I don’t see no sense in me spending a roll to buy things fur you, when you don’t show ’em.”

  “It’s a good investment, ain’t it?”

  “Awright.”

  “Now—how about tonight?”

  Shutzey lit the cigar, then spread his hands wide on the counter, shaking his head. He puffed deeply, blowing clouds of smoke over her.

  “I dunno.”

  “You losing your nerve?”

  “No—that ain’t it. But Timy won’t come in. He’s losing his nerve. Anyway, he’s mixed up in some political deal now, an’ he’s scared tu budge. I’m meeting Snookie at the house tonight. Timy won’t come in, but he won’t let us down if we get in a pinch. An’ if we get that truck tonight—but it ain’t no cinch.”

  “Sure it ain’t,” Jessica said. “But if it works, it’ll mean a million dollars before the year’s out, won’t it?”

  “Yeah—”

  “You scared?”

  “I don’t work with a rod. It’s a tough racket.”

  “Snookie does.”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. You’d better get out of here before the old man comes down.” She looked at him for a moment; then she took his hand and quickly pressed it to her lips. “See, Charley. Geesus Christ, take care of yourself. It’s you and me together. I’ll wait for you at your apartment tonight. Come back quick—I’ll be worried sick about you.”

  “It’s awright.”

  “Yeah—but now I’m afraid.”

  “You just wait fur me. It’s awright.”

  Then, when he had gone, she stood at the counter, staring straight in front of her. He had walked out like the big, certain animal he was, and she was afraid. But she shouldn’t have let him know.

  “He’s nothing to me,” she thought. “He doesn’t mean a thing. He’s just a step. There’ll be a whole lot more steps before I’m through. A million dollars—”

  WHEN Meyer came into the living-room and saw Marion, he stopped short, stared, and then put a hand to his head. He dropped it, fumbled with both his hands; then he took a deep breath.

  “So you’re back,” he said. It was the first time he had seen her since she had married the priest.

  “Yes, I came back,” she nodded.

  He took several more deep breaths. At first, he was too surprised to feel anger, and then he hardly knew whether he should be angry or not. But the breathing helped him. Each time he filled his lungs, he had more control over himself and less control over his temper.

  “You back,” he said. “You come back—after him. What did he do? Maybe he threw you out like a dog? Then you come back to me—”

  “Meyer!”

  His w
ife was there behind him, and he whirled to face her, glad for someone to share part of his rage with. But Bessie went past him to Marion, bent over her, and put an arm around her shoulders. “Meyer,” she said, “Meyer—can’t you see it’s your daughter?”

  “You too,” Meyer roared, “you too!”

  “Meyer—it don’t do no good to get excited like that. You’re frightening the child. Let her talk.”

  “It’s all right, mother,” Marion assured her.

  “It’s not all right!” Meyer yelled.

  “Meyer, stop yelling.”

  “I should stop yelling! That’s all that matters, that I should stop yelling. Nothing else matters. That my heart is bleeding—that don’t matter.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marion said. “I’m sorry.”

  Several times, Meyer gulped air. Then he dropped into a chair and stared at them. He shook his head, wiped his face with his hands, and then felt curiously empty and lost. As suddenly as his anger had appeared, it had left him.

  “A drink of water, maybe?” Bessie inquired.

  “No—no.” He shook his head.

  “I wrote to you twice,” Marion said. “I guess I was afraid to come. And after I wrote to you, I knew you didn’t want me to come.”

  Bessie shook her head, clutching her daughter’s shoulder tighter.

  “And now you come to us—after he’s through with you.”

  “No.”

  “Let the child speak,” Bessie pleaded.

  “Let her? Am I stopping her?”

  “I came to say good-by,” Marion told them.

  Bessie looked at her. Meyer sat still, still as if he had suddenly become paralyzed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re going away.”

  “Yes—then what? With me you are dead. I say you are dead already.”

  “Meyer!”

  Marion shook her head. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d hate me. I wanted to see you and say good-by.”

  “You see us,” Meyer told her.

  “That’s all?”

  “All.”

  Bessie shook her head, like a person in a dream. She stood up, went to the couch, sat down, shook her head again.

  Marion rose. “I’ll be going,” she said. She started to explain. “We’ll be going west—but I could come and visit you. Only there’s not much money now—”

  “So that’s it!”

  “No—I don’t want anything.”

  Meyer stared at her sternly; he knew that he was staring at her sternly, and he attempted to make his gaze sterner than it was. So when Bessie looked at him, it wasn’t Marion she pitied then, but Meyer—her Meyer, her poor small Meyer who was the smallest man in the world. How could he be stern, and why was he making himself be that way, when he wasn’t? He wasn’t; he was the little fearful man who curled up against her at night, who would wake her up and say, “Bessie, I’m afraid.” But why? “Bessie, I wake up and I begin to wonder. Now I can’t sleep. Bessie—”

  Bessie said: “You’ll come and see us.”

  Meyer glanced at her. “Oh—if I had a son,” he moaned.

  Marion went over to him, but he said:

  “Leave me alone.”

  Then she went out. She went through the store, stopping a moment, and turning to Jessica who stood behind the counter reading a movie magazine.

  “Jessie,” she said.

  Jessica glanced up, looked Marion over carefully, and then turned back to her magazine. But her eyes were quick, and in the single glance she saw that Marion’s shoes were run down at heel and toe, that her stockings had long open seams in them, and that the black suit she was wearing was the same one she had bought a year before she married. It was very shiny at the elbows now.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she murmured.

  Marion said: “Jessie, I don’t know why you should hate me. We’ve always been good pals, haven’t we?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Listen—don’t hate me. I’m going away, but I’ll write to you. You must write me, and tell me what happens, how they are. If I get money, I’ll send him things, you too. I love him, Jessie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jessie—Jessie, don’t look at me like that!”

  “Oh, you little sap. Get out of here!”

  “Yes.”

  But after Marion had gone, Jessie wondered about it, because she didn’t hate her; only Marion was such an entire damn fool, smaller and smaller: the priest with holes in his shoes. Just the priest, always the priest.

  “Geesus,” Jessica said.

  Meyer sat upstairs looking at Bessie. Always, of late, there had been pictures, for instance an open picture of the store with the rooms over it. He would see it as a cross section, and in that way he was seeing it now. His life was like a squirrel-cage. Up from the store, down to the store, up to the room; Bessie was fat and old, he was lean and old.

  “Bessie,” he said, and she looked at him.

  He said: “Bessie, you remember how beautiful the rooms were. Why are you looking at me?”

  “I’m not looking at you, Meyer.”

  “I’m ugly, am I? Ugly and old—”

  “No, Meyer.”

  “Bessie—she went away.”

  “Yeah—”

  “She went away.”

  Bessie said to him: “I’ll put some water up, and we’ll have tea. Tea with a piece of strudle—will that be nice, Meyer? Or do you want I should make you toast and butter?”

  “It don’t matter.”

  He heard her draw the water, and he heard the gas hiss as she made a light on the stove. Everything was the same; everything would always be the same.

  Then he thought of the watch he had gotten for Jessica, and how her face lit up; his own face matched the expression, and he almost smiled. Then it fell, literally. The muscles sagged, and very suddenly his age appeared.

  “Why did I send her away?” he whispered.

  And from the kitchen, Bessie called: “Meyer, the water’s boiling.”

  AFTER Claus ate his supper, they shaved him and slit the legs of his trousers. He sat very still and straight while the barber clipped his hair short, then shaved it carefully with a razor. And while he was being shaved, he realized that he was still hungry. He had eaten everything they brought him, and now he was hungry. Now that was strange, because he had expected to vomit up the food as soon as it touched his lips.

  When the barber finished, Claus asked for his mirror. Then he adjusted his glasses carefully, looked at himself. If Anna had seen him that way, his long naked head spreading just at the top, as if it were inflated.

  He smiled at the barber. “An ugly man, yes?”

  The barber went out silently, and the guard, who had been standing by the door, gave him a pack of cigarettes.

  “I got plenty,” Claus said. “But thanks.”

  “Sure—you’ll need these too.”

  Then the guard locked the door carefully behind him. “Seven-thirty,” he told Claus.

  “Three hours,” Claus thought. “I want to be afraid, and I can’t.” He remembered a boy, who had been shot during the war for deserting. He cried and cried like a baby, and Claus, who had been one of the firing squad, began to vomit just as he pulled the trigger. All men are afraid; so now he considered that he didn’t realize yet what was going to happen. Soon he would break; and he reasoned this way:

  “I don’t want to die. I am even beginning to forget Anna. If they take me out of here, I know I will be great. I will take my music and go all over.”

  Then he said: “No—I’m fooling myself. Nobody would look at the music.”

  “Tomorrow,” he thought, “I’ll ask for paper and write out that thing with the chords—”

  “No tomorrow,” he said.

  “Hey, Dutch!” from the next cell.

  “Yeah?”

  “What time’s it?”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  A sudden silence had fallen in the d
eath house. Claus went to the door and looked at the guard, who was biting his fingernails and staring at the floor. Then the lights dimmed. Claus gripped the bars of the door, feeling drops of cold sweat appear on his brow.

  “Not afraid,” he muttered. But his legs were weak, and he went back to sit on his bed, swallowing to keep down his surging stomach. It revolted him to imagine that he would spend his last three hours in a wet and stinking cell.

  “My Anna,” he whispered, “I’m going to die.” Anna wasn’t dead; she had gone away from him, and he was all alone.

  “Dutch,” softly, from the next cell, “Dutch.”

  He rose, wiped away the sweat, took a step toward the door. “Yeah, O’Mally?”

  “I’m sick—Geesus, I don’ wanna die this way, Dutch.”

  “Maybe they’ll come—and pardon?”

  “It’s seven-thirty. I got until ten. I tell yu I only got until ten!”

  “Yeah—” Claus went back to his bed.

  “—What time’s it, Dutch?”

  “I told you.”

  “Awright—awright, don’t get sore. Sometimes I don’t figger you out, Dutch, like a school-teacher, wid all that fancy phony English of yours. Don’t get sore at me now, Dutch. I got my skin crawlin’.”

  “I’m not—angry.”

  “Dutch!”

  “For God’s sake,” Claus moaned, “what do you want?”

  “Dutch—”

  “Shut up!” from the corridor.

  “Yu yeller bastard, shut up!”

  “Tu hell widyu!”

  “Dutch—”

  In the next cell, he began to laugh. The guard had thrown in a pail of water, and Claus, sitting there with his hands clenched, could hear the water swirling, the man laughing—or crying. Claus didn’t know. He threw himself on the bed, buried his face in the pillow, and tried to drown out the noise.

  AND AS the night fell, that night, the wind shifted; clouds ruffled the sky. It began to rain, very softly, and then harder. It rained until the plane tree was soaked and heavy with water, loaded with water, until the buds bent and dripped.