An Orphan's Tale (15 page)

“Don't do that,” Murray said. “I don't like it.”

Charlie punched him on his arm, below the shoulder. “Then I'll get you here.” He punched him again and again, short rapid-fire jabs.

Murray drew his right hand back and tried to slam Charlie with the back of it, but Charlie had his wrist in his hand, and then he had his other hand next to it. “Indian rope burn!” he said, and he twisted his hands in opposite directions, tightly, rubbing Murray's skin so that Murray hissed.

“I mean it,” Murray said. “Cut it out!”

Charlie dropped Murray's arm. “You're too serious,” he said. “Have to hang loose before a game. Have to concentrate on relaxing—”

A car honked and some of the others waved from the window. “I can take it when I'm ready for you,” Murray said. “I stay in shape.” He lifted his sweatshirt and pressed a fold of skin on his pale stomach. Charlie saw the loaves of unbaked bread, rising, and he laughed. “No fat, I drink no whole milk, eat no eggs, no cheese, no pastries, no animal fats, no—”

“Who cares?” Charlie said, and he broke away, running toward the field and calling to Morty to throw him a ball. He ran hard, planted his left foot, cut right and took the ball—a soft spiral—above his right shoulder. He motioned to Irving to move, and when Irving waddled along, Charlie fired a strike into his stomach. Irving went down, in mock agony.

Hesh, Slats, and Louie appeared. They hugged each other, punched each other, teased one another about their potbellies, bopped one another on the heads, gave one another the old Manchurian torture, with knuckles on the tops of skulls. Others arrived—Stan, Jerry, Herman. They tossed the ball to one another, made phantom blocks, recalled the heroes of their childhood, imitated Dr. Fogel's admonitions, went over famous plays of games they'd been in, lined up in old school formations, asked about one another's families, talked business, stocks, and current sports, and chose up sides. Charlie felt, as always, elated. He ran without becoming tired, he drank in their memories of him, he relished the way they kidded him and Danny.

“I dub you our new mascot,” Morty said, and he dropped a football on Danny's head. Danny's eyes looked into Charlie's, happy.

“The Maimonides Mascot!” Irving announced.

Danny was on Charlie's side, and on the first play Charlie handed him the ball and told him to follow him around right end. Charlie cracked into Murray, knocking him back flat, then rolled over Irving. Danny gained eight yards before being tagged.

Charlie heard Murray talking to Irving about Biafra. Irving taught at Queens College. “It's a racket,” he always said. “College teaching is a bigger racket than the numbers game.”

On the second play Morty suggested a reverse to Charlie—since he was so slow, nobody would suspect—but, going around the right side, Murray tagged him immediately, for a loss. Murray clapped his hands, then shouted, fist in air, “Way to go, Mendelsohn!”

“Let's make our parents proud on this one,” Charlie said in the huddle, and the guys laughed, remembering the old joke.

He heard Murray and Irving, between plays, discussing the probable number of Jews, of the fourteen million left in the world, who still observed ritual. Irving was president of the Men's Club at his synagogue. Murray said that if ritual ceased, then children would have no living memory of the past. He said that the absence of ritual in Jewish homes was like the destruction of Biafran villages. Both meant the end of cultures that had endured for centuries.

Charlie went out for a pass, a simple flare to the right side, and gained ten yards. They were past the midfield mark—Charlie saw the sweatshirts and jackets lined up for a goal line—and when the other side told them it was fourth down, Charlie replied that they weren't kicking.

“Is Dr. Fogel really still at the Home?” Herman asked Danny. “I still can't believe it.”

“He was there when I left,” Danny said.

“They're expecting a pass so we'll run straight up the middle,” Charlie said. “I'll drop back, fake the pass, receivers go wide, and then Danny will take it from me and follow me up the middle. Keep your men blocked to the sidelines, right?”

“Hey—” Morty yelled to Murray and Irving. “I was wondering. From the way you guys are talking—are you Jewish by any chance?”

Charlie slapped his hands together. “Let's go!” he said, and, standing behind Stan and waiting for the hike, seeing the waiting smiles and imagining Danny breaking through for a touchdown and being lifted on his shoulders for a victory ride, he realized that what he really wanted from life was simple: for his friends to love his friends.

Money would give him the time to see them more often. He didn't want to stop the game, but he wished he could get Murray outside them all for a second, looking in, so that he would see that they looked like any group of men enjoying themselves on a Sunday morning. Why would anyone think there was, in Murray's words, something
wrong
with them? How would anyone guess where they had all been raised?…

The ball was in his hands and he raised it over his shoulder, with both hands, as Dr. Fogel had taught him, and yelled to his receivers to keep going. He saw one man coming at him, hands high, and he faked a pass and slipped under the flailing arms easily. “Let's go—!” he whispered, and handed the ball to Danny. The middle of the field was wide open and he had to force himself to keep from sprinting. Danny kept up with him, two steps behind. All the way, all the way, Charlie said to himself, and then he saw Murray angling toward them, running faster than he had ever seen the man move.

“Cut!”
he called to Danny, meaning that Danny should move left as Charlie blocked Murray to the right. He had to give Murray credit—there was no one who played harder, and that had been true twenty years before. In games he had been a maniac, and, despite his lack of coordination, a starter on the Home's good teams, before Charlie had been old enough to play.

Charlie's elbows were set wide, his fists side by side, clenched against his breastbone. He ran low, then shot up fast just as Murray lunged; he popped him with a solid crack block, his forearms square into Murray's chest. Murray dropped and Charlie veered left, but too late. Irving had Danny and was swinging him around in a bear hug, yelling that he had stopped the touchdown and saved the day.

Charlie smiled, seeing the fury in Danny's eyes. The kid had almost made it. The feel of the block against Murray had been wonderful.

He saw Morty standing over Murray, offering his hand for Murray to get up, but Murray didn't move.

Charlie saw it all in an instant, and he felt gooseflesh spread wildly over his body. “No!” he cried silently.
“No!”

“Give me a hand!” Morty cried. “Get some water—you cold-conked him.”

Irving was down on his knees, listening to Murray's chest. “Something's wrong,” he said. “It's not beating the right way.”

Stan wandered over. “Stop being so melodramatic, Mendelsohn—” he called.

Charlie pushed Irving away, so that he fell over backward on his rear end, feet into the air. Stan and the others, coming closer, laughed. Charlie pressed his ear to Murray's chest and heard a thump, a pause, a thump, a longer pause. He looked up and around, helplessly, opened his mouth, but heard only a gurgling sound, like air and water from a dentist's drill.

Danny was next to Murray and his head was bobbing up and down as if, Charlie thought, he was saying yes, again and again. His cheeks seemed especially pink.

“I'll get the car,” Irving called. “I have a wagon—we can lay him flat.”

“Where's the closest hospital?” Morty asked. “I don't know Brooklyn anymore—maybe they changed it.”

Irving dictated commands: “Call the police—run into somebody's house and call. Get an escort. Give him artificial respiration. Somebody—”

Danny didn't move. Irving rolled jackets together and put them under Murray's shoulders, so that his head dropped back gently. Then Charlie reached down and wrenched Murray's mouth open, hooked his thumb in behind the lower teeth, inhaled, pressed his lips down against Murray's mouth and realized that he had, a moment before, blanked out and that Irving had taken over. Had anyone noticed? His mouth was sideways against Murray's and he did the breathing that he taught his own team at the start of each season. He tasted pipe tobacco. He blew long and slow, his head to the side, his four fingers keeping Murray's mouth open, the jaw jutted forward. With his other hand he pinched Murray's nostrils shut. He could hear the thumps, but they remained uneven. When he took his mouth away, he did not get a return rush of air.

Charlie was surprised at how quickly he could concentrate on the proper rhythm. Twelve to a minute, he told himself. Take your time, take your time. “I'll work his chest,” Irving said, and Charlie moved aside so that Irving could go up and down on Murray's chest with the heel of his hand. Charlie saw the tears streaming down Danny's face and he saw that Danny was holding Murray's head in place between the palms of his hands. He heard the car approach them across the grass and he followed Irving's commands. He turned Murray over and hit him hard between the shoulder blades, and Murray's eyes flipped open and he took in a sudden enormous gulp of air. Charlie turned Murray onto his back. “Talk to me!” he yelled. “Come on.
Talk to me!
Talk to me!”

Gently, Irving getting in first, they lifted Murray into the car. Murray's chest moved up and down, in spasms, and Charlie crawled quickly into the back seat after him, grazing his head on metal. He turned back, looked out and around, grabbed Danny and pulled him in, then bent over Murray and began the artificial respiration again. The car roared off, swerved on the grass, and Charlie saw, where they had been, teenagers in a circle. He had the crazy notion to make them stop the car so he could see if Max were nearby somewhere, with his camera going. The car crossed the sidewalk and Charlie's teeth cracked against Murray's as they bumped over curbstone. He tasted blood.

Irving was on the other side, out of breath. “It's nothing,” he said. “Keep working. You're doing fine. It means everything. Keep working.”

Danny was hunched against the back door, knees to chest.

They slowed down and Slats yelled through the window that they'd gotten into somebody's house and telephoned and that a police car would try to meet them at the corner of Caton and Flatbush, picking them up for King's County Hospital. “The people were very nice,” he said. “They said they'd call the hospital and…”

Herman was driving, with Morty next to him. Murray's skin seemed almost metallic to Charlie. He was too close to be able to see the entire face.

“Any signs?” Morty asked.

“Shut up,” Irving said, and he bore down on Murray's chest with the heel of his palm.

When Charlie heard the siren he realized that some time had passed—perhaps a minute and a half—and that he was relaxed: his breathing technique was perfect—if he had to, he could go on forever. It was really happening and he was in the middle of it and he could see himself, not as if he were on film, but as if he could actually reach out and touch his own face.

The experience, if Murray survived it, would serve to bind them even closer to one another, he knew, and Charlie wondered if that was, really, what he himself wanted. What Murray would feel about what happened, and about what Charlie had done, would all be, Charlie saw, after the fact. What then would they have to talk about? What would they have actually shared? He felt Murray's chest heave, catch, lie still. He heard Murray grunt, and he lifted his own head. He wondered about the second half of his own life—if Murray's family life were gone, would he be obliged to replace it?

“Don't stop,” Irving said. “Don't stop unless he's choking.”

“This is terrible,” Morty was saying. “It's terrible.”

Charlie enjoyed the sound of the siren rising and falling around them. He laughed silently at the silliness of it all—at the ordinary way his mind worked at such a moment, because one of the things he had been doing, he realized, in one section of his mind, was making a list—things to do if Murray didn't make it. And if, later, he revealed this to Murray, he knew that Murray would speak to him about one of his favorite topics—the way people confused their fears with their wishes. Charlie didn't, he felt, really need to go through a conversation like that.

But the question was there and it was real enough. Who else would handle all the arrangements? Murray had been a full orphan, without any living relatives Charlie had ever heard of. Ephraim was too young to take charge; Anita would be in a state. They would depend on him. He knew what others might make of it, but he didn't find it anything but ordinary that he composed a list: contact the funeral home, a rabbi, people at the school; go over insurance and finances with Anita; get money and securities out of bank accounts and safe deposit boxes; cancel appointments for next week to sit
shiva
with them.…

Danny would be a help. There would be groceries to be bought, the children to be kept busy, Anita to be consoled, medical bills—and, what he would find hardest, telephone calls to be made. At least, with most of the old crowd at the field, he would be spared part of the list.

If Anita had a doctor, he should call her doctor first.

But how would he get in touch with Sol?

What would Sol feel?

Should he call Dr. Fogel? And would Fogel think Charlie had some ulterior purpose in informing him?

There was no rabbi or synagogue or Jewish cemetery near them in New Jersey, as far as he knew. It was curious, he realized, how things were upside down: Sol—and not Fogel—was the one who was running out of money… Sol was the one who believed in Israel.… He was aware of Danny's eyes on him, and he had the feeling that Danny sensed his calmness, and that Danny approved. Even the thought of Dr. Fogel did not upset Charlie now.