A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952) (10 page)

I
T
was wrong. Everything was wrong, nothing was right. I knew it the minute I went into the B.M.T. subway station at Church Avenue instead of walking home. When I got up that morning, there was a dull, choked feeling in me as if someone had poked me in the solar
plexus and it had been getting worse all day. Now I could feel its ache spreading all through me. I was going home from school, but I wasn’t going home any more.

There was an express in the station when I got down the steps and automatically I ran for it. I got aboard just as the door was closing. There weren’t any seats, so I leaned against the door on the other side. This door opened only once on the way, at Atlantic Avenue, so at least I could stand there with as little disturbance as possible.

It was cold in the train and I pulled the collar of my sheep-skin jacket up around my neck. It had snowed a few days before, but the streets were pretty well cleaned up by now. Some snow still lay on the tracks as the train pulled into Prospect Park. The tunnel closed around us, choking off the day. I took a deep breath trying to get rid of the sick feeling inside me. It didn’t help. If anything, it only made it worse.

That morning the barrels and boxes around the already strange, empty-looking rooms had reminded me: today was moving day. I had left my room without a backward glance, Rexie close upon my heels. I wanted to forget all about it—forget I was ever kid enough to believe that it was really my house. I was old enough now to know that was the kind of a story you told to children.

Suddenly day swept back into the train. I looked out the window: we were on Manhattan Bridge. The next stop was mine, Canal Street. I had to change there for the Broadway-Brooklyn train. The train went back into the tunnel and in a moment the doors were opening. I had to wait a few minutes for the other train, but it was only a quarter to four when I came up on the street at the corner of Essex and Delancey.

It was like a different world. The streets were crowded with people moving restlessly, talking in many languages. There were
street-pedlars
with pushcarts, hawkers shouting, standing on the corner with their little stands, ready to collapse them and run when the cops told them to move on. It was cold, but many were without overcoats and hats, women with only shawls thrown around their shoulders. And all about me I could hear the low, muted voice of poverty. There was little laughter on the street except from children, and even they were restrained in their joy.

I walked down Delancey Street, past the cheap stores with their gaudy sales, past the movie house with its big sign still advertising the early-bird matinée, admission ten cents. I turned left at Clinton Street and walked the two blocks to Stanton with my head down. I didn’t want to look around me, and all the time the tight feeling in the pit of my stomach seemed to grow larger until I could feel it choking in my throat.

I looked up suddenly. This was it: an old grey house with faded narrow windows reaching five stories into the sky. A small stoop led up to its entrance, and on each side of the stoop was a store. One was a tailor shop, its windows dark and covered with dust; the other was empty.

Slowly, reluctantly, I climbed the steps. At the top I stood and looked down into the street. This was where we were going to live. A woman came out of the house and pushed past me on her way down the steps. I could smell the garlic on her breath. I watched her cross the street to a pushcart, where she stopped and began to haggle with the man
standing
there.

I turned and went into the house. The hall was dark and I stumbled over something on the floor. With a muttered curse I bent to straighten it up. It was a paper bag filled with garbage. I dropped it quickly where I found it and began to climb the stairs.

Three flights up, and at every landing I saw the small paper bags standing in front of the door, waiting for the superintendent to collect them. The heavy odour of cooking hung in the stale cold air of the hallways. I knew which apartment was ours by the barrels standing in the hall beside the door. I knocked.

Mamma opened the door. We stood there for a moment looking at each other and then, not speaking, I walked into the apartment. My father was sitting at the table. I could hear Mimi’s voice coming from somewhere in the front.

I was standing in the kitchen and the walls were covered with a strangely coloured flat white paint that fought unsuccessfully to hide the layers of dirt beneath it. The bright yellow curtains Mamma had already put on the small window beside the table gave the room a forced gaiety. She looked at me anxiously, I didn’t know what to say. Just then Rexie came running to me from another room, wagging her tail, and I knelt to pet her.

“It’s very nice,” I said, not looking up.

There was silence for a moment, and from the corner of my eyes I could see Mamma and Papa looking at each other. Then my mother spoke. “It’s not so bad, Danny. It will do for a little while until your father gets back on his feet. Come, I’ll show you the rest of the
apartment
.”

I followed her through the rooms. There wasn’t much to see, I don’t suppose there ever is in a small four-room apartment. My room was about half the size of my old room, and theirs wasn’t much larger. Mimi was going to sleep on the couch in the parlour.

I didn’t say anything as I looked at them. The rooms were all
covered with the same discouraged-looking white paint. What could I say? The rent was cheap and that was the main thing: twenty-eight dollars a month with steam heat and hot water.

We went back into the kitchen, Rexie still following at my heels. My father hadn’t said a word. He just sat there at the table smoking his cigarette, his eyes watching me.

I scratched the dog’s ear. “Was Rexie any trouble?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “She was no bother,” he said almost formally. His voice sounded different, not like his at all, as if he weren’t sure of himself any more.

“You better take her out, Danny,” my mother said. “She hasn’t gone all day. I think she’s a little upset.”

I was glad to have something to do. I went to the door and called her.

“Take her leash, Danny, it’s a strange neighbourhood and she might get lost,” my father said, holding it toward me.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. Rexie and I went out into the dark hallway and I started down the stairs.

About halfway down the first flight I realized she hadn’t come with me. She was standing at the head of the stairs, looking down at me. I called: “Come on, girl.” She didn’t budge. I called again. She crouched down on the floor and looked at me, wagging her tail nervously. I went back up the stairs and snapped the leash on to her harness. “Come on, now,” I said to her. “Don’t be such a baby.”

When I started down the stairs again, she followed me cautiously. At each landing I had to urge her down the next flight. At last we were out on the stoop, where she stood looking out into the street. Suddenly she tried to dart back into the hallway. The leash pulled her up short and she crouched down. I knelt beside her and took her head in my hands. I could feel her body trembling. I picked her up and carried her down the stoop. In the street she didn’t seem so afraid, but as we started off toward Clinton Street, she kept looking around apprehensively. The noise of the traffic seemed to frighten her.

Down the block there seemed to be less traffic, so I decided to walk her that way. In front of a candy store I waited for the light to change. A big truck came rattling past, and she began to pull anxiously on her leash. I could hear the rasping sounds in her chest as the leash tightened on her throat. Her tail was down between her legs. She was really frightened now. As I knelt down again to comfort her, I heard a raucous laugh behind me and looked back over my shoulder.

Three boys, somewhere around my age, were standing in front of the candy store. One of them was laughing at the dog’s fright. They saw me looking at them.

“What’s a matter, pal?” the boy who was laughing said sneeringly. “Your mutt yella?”

“No more than you, pal,” I replied sarcastically, still trying to soothe her.

The other two boys fell quiet at my answer. They seemed to look at the boy I was talking to expectantly. He looked at them knowingly for a second and then swaggered over to me. I knew the set-up too well. He would have to make good his words. I smiled grimly to myself. He had a surprise coming. I began to feel a little better; the opportunity for violence seemed to ease the pain in my belly.

He stood over me. From beside the dog, I looked up at him, my hands still busy with her. “What’cha say, pal?” he said very slowly.

I smiled thinly. “You heard me the first time, pal,” I replied, mimicking his tone of voice. I started to get to my feet.

I saw his foot coming, but I couldn’t move fast enough. His shoe caught me flush on the mouth and I spilled over backward in the gutter. The leash flew from my grasp. I rolled over desperately to grab it, but it sped out of my reach. I shook my head dizzily, trying to clear it; then I heard the scream.

I scrambled to my feet anxiously, the fight forgotten. Rexie was running out in the middle of the street among the traffic, darting back and forth crazily.

“Rexie!” I screamed at her.

She turned in her tracks and started back for me. I heard her
high-pitched
yip as she disappeared beneath the wheels of a small delivery truck, turning the corner, racing to make the light. I ran toward her. She cried once more, but more weakly. She was lying on her side in the gutter, her chest heaving, her beautiful brown fur covered with blood and dirt. I fell to my knees in the gutter beside her.

“Rexie!” I cried, my voice choked. As I picked her up, a soft moan escaped her, almost a sigh. Her eyes were soft and filled with pain. Her tongue crept out from between her lips and licked at my hands gently, leaving a smear of blood.

I was holding her against me now, her body trembling violently. Suddenly she gasped and was still. Her paws fell limply against my jacket. The light had gone from her eyes.

A man pushed his way through the crowd of people that had gathered around. His face was pale. “Sorry, kid, I didn’t even see her.”

I stared at him for a moment without seeing him. All I could
remember
about him was that his face was pale. I started toward the house still carrying Rexie. People moved away from in front of me silently. My eyes were burning, but I couldn’t cry. I was in the dark
hallway now on the strange stairway with the heavy odours. I kicked open our door.

Mamma rose from her chair with a half-scream. “Danny! What happened?”

I looked at her dumbly. For a moment I couldn’t speak. Papa and Mimi had come running into the room when they heard her. Now they were all facing me, staring at me.

“She’s dead,” I said at last. I didn’t recognize my own voice. It was hoarse and gruff. “She got run over.”

On the floor in front of me was an empty cardboard carton. I knelt and placed her in it gently. Slowly I closed the flaps down over her and stood up.

Mimi’s eyes were filled with tears. “H-how did it happen?”

I envied her tears. I wished that I could cry; maybe I would feel better. The bitterness rose in my throat. “It happened,” I said flatly. “What difference does it make now how?”

I washed the blood from my hands at the sink and dried them on a dish towel. Then I picked up the carton and started to open the door.

My father’s voice stopped me. “Where are you going?”

“To bury her,” I answered dully. “I can’t keep her here.”

His hand was on my shoulder, his eyes looking into mine. “I’m sorry, Danny,” he said, his voice filled with sympathy. His eyes were dark with understanding, but it didn’t matter—nothing mattered any more.

I wearily brushed his hand from my shoulder. “You should be,” I said bitterly. “It’s all your fault. If we hadn’t lost the house and had to move, this would never have happened.”

I saw the flash of pain in his eyes as his hands fell to his side.

I boarded the Utica-Reid trolley in the plaza beneath the bridge and held the carton on my lap all through the long ride over the bridge, through Williamsburg, and at last into Flatbush. I got off the trolley at Clarendon Road, and the box was heavy in my hands as I walked through the familiar streets. In my mind I could see her running after me, her tail wagging. I could hear her barks when she saw me. I could see the beautiful reddish-brown fur and feel its soft silkiness as I scratched behind her ears. I could feel her cool, moist tongue licking my ears when I knelt to greet her.

It was dark when I reached the house. I stood in the street looking into it. Its windows were wide and gaping and empty. We had only moved out that morning, but already it had assumed a forlorn, deserted look. I looked up and down the street to see if anyone had seen me. The street was empty.

Some lights were on in the Conlons’ house as I quietly walked up the driveway, but no one heard me. I went into the back-yard and put the carton down. It was only right. This was where she had lived, this was where she should rest. Where she had been happy.

I looked around me. I would need a shovel to scoop out the earth. I wondered if there was still one in the cellar, the one we used for the furnace. I started for the house. Then I stopped and went back for her. She never liked being left alone.

I still had my key in my pocket and I opened the door. I carried the box inside and put it on the kitchen steps. The house was dark, but I didn’t need any light. I knew every inch of it

I went down into the cellar. The shovel was up against the coalbin just where it had always been. I picked it up and went back up the stairs. I was going to take her outside with me while I dug her grave, but I changed my mind and left her on the kitchen steps. She had always been shy of the shovel.

I dug as silently as I could. The cold night air began to beat against my face, but I didn’t care. When the hole was big enough for her, I went back into the house, picked up the box, and carried it outside. There I placed it gently in the ground.