About the B'nai Bagels (11 page)

I
asked Hersch over the next Saturday. It had been a long time since we had spent an afternoon together. Baseball and Bar Mitzvahs and practicing at the Projects had used up a lot of my time and Hersch’s Crescent Hill friend had used up a lot of his.

We walked to my house after services. There were long pauses along the way. In the talking, not the walking. I half-hoped he’d bring up the subject of Barry, but I other half-hoped he wouldn’t. When you don’t like a guy, and you tell another guy about it, it’s hard to be natural with either one afterwards. I wondered if that were true for Hersch; I wondered if he felt peculiar when I was with him and Barry because I knew all the things he used to say about Barry during the sarcastic game. The funny thing is that you can not like someone and still be curious
about him. Be especially curious about him. Barry was like that awful gasoline commercial on television. I hated that commercial worse than anything, yet I would walk from the bedroom to the living room to see it. To see if it was really that bad. I couldn’t understand that about myself.

Well, the conversation didn’t get around to Barry. As I said, it hardly got around. Friendship should be daily. Like how my mother and father didn’t run out of things to say to each other. And how my mother could talk on the telephone for twenty-five minutes at a time with Aunt Thelma, who she talks to almost every day, but she never got beyond, “Fine, how are you? Fine. The boys are fine. Yes, we’re all fine,” when she called long distance to her brother in Wisconsin. You’d think they’d have a lot to say to each other, having stored things up between calls.

Now Hersch and I were on long distance, and it didn’t used to be that way.

After we got to my house I asked him if he would like a game of Monopoly.

“Oh, all right,” he answered.

I wondered why he said the
oh
. I was probably boring him, but I got the game out of the closet anyway, being that I couldn’t come up with a better idea. We began playing, but it turned out to be the worst kind of game: slow and silent.

Mother came upstairs to my room and interrupted with, “Well, Herschie, how nice that you should come play with my Moshe.” Now, she could have gone all the rest of her life without saying that. Why should a guy’s mother thank someone for playing with the guy?

Hersch answered his shoes, “I’ve been busy.”

“Your baseball, Herschie, has improved one hundred eighty-five per cent. Quite a little catcher, you’ve become. I just may put you in as a tournament player.”

Hersch smiled. “That would be great. What about Barry? Will Barry make it, too?”

“About Barry, I’m not too sure. The twins are better.”

“But, Mrs. Setzer, they’re only eleven years old. They can have a chance next year. This would be Barry’s last chance; he feels that he would be champion hitter on another team.”

“That may be true,” Mother said, “because for batting, Botts beats Barry. Maybe on some other team, he wouldn’t have such a competition, and he would be best. But I say that if the tournament needs batting, I’ll give them the best we have, and that would be Botts. Barry for bunting; Botts for batting.”

Hersch said, “If you didn’t make Barry a bunting specialist, he would beat Botts at batting.”

Mother looked hurt. “Who told you that?”

Hersch answered, “No one told me; Mrs. Jacobs told my mother.”

Mother quietly shook her head back and forth and said, “Oh, my. We’ll see. We’ll see.”

It occurred to me that I could have put a quick end to Botts’ chances as a tournament player, and it’s probably true that one of the reasons that I kept quiet was because closing the door on Botts would have opened it for Barry. But I didn’t create even a hint about Botts. And it wasn’t easy. The words sat in my throat like a huge marshmallow, but I said nothing except ask Hersch if he wanted to finish Monopoly.

“Oh, I don’t care. What else is there?”

That
oh
again. I was sure that I was boring him. Then I remembered. “Just a minute,” I said.

I got up from the floor and closed my bedroom door very quietly. I smiled at Hersch as I stepped over the Monopoly board as well as his legs, and I lifted the skirt of my bedspread. From between the mattress and the box spring I pulled out my copy of
Playboy
.

“How about that?” I couldn’t keep from smiling.

Hersch looked over at me and back and said, “I’ve seen it.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” he repeated.

“Where did you see it?” I challenged.

“At Barry’s.”

“Barry Jacobs?”

“Yeah, Barry Jacobs. Which other Barry is there?”

“Where does he keep his?”

“On his desk.”

“On his desk?” I asked. “You must mean
in
his desk.”

“No. I said on his desk. That’s where he keeps it.
On
his desk.”

“In his bedroom?”

“That’s where his desk is. You’ve been to his house. You know that’s where his desk is.”

I couldn’t believe it yet. “Right on his desk? Right in his bedroom? He might as well keep it on the coffee table in the living room.”

“Why should he? The family can buy its own copy.”

“Well, keeping it out, practically in public like that! Doesn’t his mother clean or anything? How come she didn’t notice?”

“Who said she didn’t notice? Of course she noticed. She bought him the subscription.”

“Subscription?” I yelled. “You mean he gets
Playboy
every month?”

“Sure. The mailman brings it right to the house. Same as he does
Life
or
The Saturday Evening Post
.”

“How come his mother bought him a subscription?”

“He wanted one for his birthday.”

“Which birthday? His forty-second going on Bar Mitzvah?”

“Mrs. Jacobs doesn’t want Barry to hide things from her. She wants to know what he is doing all the time.”

“She’s nosey,” I suggested.

“That’s not it at all. Mrs. Jacobs is very intelligent. She used to be…”

“Be a schoolteacher,” I finished.

“What’s wrong with that? I think she’s right. About hiding things.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It just seems wrong. I don’t want my mother looking at my
Playboy
.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mine, that’s why.”

And I put
my
magazine back between
my
mattress and
my
box spring of
my
bed. Never before was I that glad to have a corner that was all mine. Barry could have a subscription for twenty consecutive years. For fifty consecutive years until he needed bifocals to see the center fold, and I would rather have my one copy that is mine and that I didn’t have to share with anyone unless I invited them.

I asked Hersch if he would like some lunch.

We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on toast. When you have braces, it’s easier to eat peanut butter sandwiches if the bread is toasted. As we ate, Hersch told me some things about his school. There was nothing the country mouse could tell that the Crescent Hill mouse didn’t already know. I didn’t feel too bad when his mother came for him.

Mrs. Miller said, “We’ll have to arrange for Mark to spend an evening at our house.”

Mother answered, “That will be lovely.”

Mrs. Miller always said we’ll have to arrange for Mark to spend an evening at our house, and Mother always said that will be lovely, and it never happened.

You can’t cart friendship from place to place and lend it out like Hertz. Hersch rent-a-friend.

S
pencer came down with the flu. Mother was convinced he did it on purpose because he had midterm exams at summer school and he had been complaining about not having enough time to study. When the flu bug hit, we were one game out of first place with two games to go to finish the season. We had to beat the Elks; they had lost three games all season. We had lost four; three of the games we lost, we had lost to them. We would meet them again the last game. To become league champions, then, we had to win our next two games. The Elks were almost certain to win their next. Their opponent was as bad as the B’nai B’rith had been the year before. Our next game would be a tough one. Against the Chicken Delights team. We had lost to them once already.

Mother scolded the kitchen light fixture, “Fever, you had to invent!” She was baking cookies for my Bar Mitzvah party. Baking and freezing. The kitchen was steaming with the odor of chocolate and jelly and nuts. I think my mother bakes because it occupies her hands and not her head; other mothers knit.

Mother yelled as I came in the door, “Don’t touch. It’s for the Bar Mitzvah!”

“Whose Bar Mitzvah?” I asked.

“You whose. That’s whose,” she answered.

“What I want to know is this: if it’s my Bar Mitzvah, why can’t I enjoy it now?”

“Because it’s for the company. You want I shouldn’t have enough and be embarrassed in front of the whole congregation?”

“Enough? You’d have enough if you stopped baking right now, and I ate half of what you already have.”

“Don’t underestimate your mother, Moshe. My cookies are so superb that everyone will help themselves. Three times and four times they’ll take.”

“So make them less good and share them with me now.”

“You want me to offer up something less than the best? You talk like Cain. Now, go. Change your clothes. Mother is thinking.”

I came back downstairs after I had changed my clothes. Mother offered me a plate of edges and broken pieces. I looked down at them, up at her, and said, “You sure don’t hesitate offering me second best.”

“God, you’re not,” she answered. “Now eat. Quietly. Mother is worrying.”

“What are you worrying about?”

“Your brother’s forehead. He’s got fever.”

“He’ll get over it,” I said as I munched. Even the edges and crumbs were good. “He’s strong headed.”

“It’s not fair about viruses living inside men. Do men live inside animals? Tell me.” Mother was ceiling gazing again.

“How about Jonah living in that big fish for three days and three nights?” It was me answering, not the Deity.

“You call that living?” Mother asked.

“You asked, I answered.”

“All right then, answer me this one. Who is going to help me manage our next game? Our next game is very important, I might add.”

“I know, Mom. I know. Remember me? I’m on the team, too.”

“Your brother has been very helpful to me. He knows the opponents better than I do. A memory he’s got. Like an elephant.”

“I’ll bet Dad will give you a hand.”

“He doesn’t know the players. Besides, he’s busy.”

“What about Barry’s mother? Or Sidney’s? They come to all the games anyway.”

Mother stopped scrubbing the cookie sheets, turned around, looked hard at me and didn’t answer.

“Well, what about them?” I asked again.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

I swallowed. “Why don’t you ask them? Mrs. Jacobs or Mrs. Polsky?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mother answered.

“Why not?” I insisted.

Mother turned toward me very quickly, and in that very brief minute I caught a look of worry on her face. Worry and puzzle. It was the same look she used to have when she was discussing Spencer with Dad before we all got involved with baseball. And it was also the same look that she had when she finished a telephone call with Mrs. Polsky or Mrs. Jacobs. “Because,” Mother said, turning back toward the sink and scrubbing at the cookie sheets again, “because I’m not sure they’re on my side.”

Aunt Thelma chose just that minute to walk in. Mother wiped her hands on a paper towel, gave the top of the stove a good rub with it before throwing it in the garbage, looked up at the kitchen ceiling, and said, “So,
Casey Stengel she isn’t, but she’ll do.” She sent a kiss to the Deity by closing her eyes and smacking her lips to the air between the light fixture and her upraised face.

“I was just on my way to the shopping center, and I thought I’d stop in to see if you needed anything. I don’t know what made me come so far out of my way.”

Mother looked at me and smiled. “We know, don’t we, Moshe?” With that Mother grabbed her sister around the shoulder and said, “Thelma, about this game that’s coming up.”

The game was Tuesday evening. Aunt Thelma had come for supper. Mother carried a tray up to Spencer. He asked to see Aunt Thelma, too. The two of them sat at the foot of his bed and listened to him as if he were spreading wisdom instead of germs.

“Remember,” he said, “start Burser pitching. If it’s necessary to pull him out, use Simon. We have to keep Sylvester eligible for Friday’s game. If he pitches today, he won’t be eligible for four days. That would be Saturday. And our game against the Elks is Friday, and we need Sylvester then. Really need him then. The Elks’ powerhouse, Stevens, Kunzciski, and Holden, are all left handers. We need our left hander against them. Use Simon if you get in a pinch, but save Sylvester.” He
closed his eyes and collapsed against his pillow. “Save Sylvester,” he repeated.

Mother and Aunt Thelma tiptoed out of the room as if they had just been given a message by Moses, via satellite from Mount Sinai. Spencer played his part. He kept his eyes closed as he lay against the pillow. I half expected a great billow of smoke and a voice from an echo chamber saying, “I have spoken.” Only the fact that he was holding his fork in one fist and his knife in the other spoiled the picture.