Boys & Girls Together (24 page)

Under pressure, the old guy acted like a colt, his hands like rocks. He broke, left Sid nothing, and Sid’s return safety enabled the geezer to run a quick seventeen balls before he played safe again. Again Sid was blanked and this time the old man pounced on Sid’s shot and ran fourteen more, making it thirty-one to goose-egg. When Sid’s turn came, he had no shot except a wild bank the long way that a genius couldn’t make five times out of ten, which, besides, if missed, opened the rack for slaughter. Sid talked to his fingers, inquired after their health, and when they seemed sound he heard his voice saying “Eleven ball the long way,” after which he took a practice cruise with the pool stick, felt the need maybe of a touch more chalk, applied it, bent down low over the table, sighted for just the proper angle, found it, stood up, smiled at the old guy, inhaled, held it and shot.

The ball banked like it had eyes. The rack split open and there he was, the one and only Super Sid, chuckling, smiling, making good swift chatter as his fingers fired ball after ball, the run growing from ten to eighteen, then thirty, forty-five, and with five balls to go the old guy was reaching into a pocket and counting the bills, licking his thumb in obvious pain with the departure of each C note. Sid polished off the last five, making an unnecessary bank on the last ball, taking a big risk but what was life without them?

So there he was, on the streets again, five hundred nestled neatly in his right front pocket with the sun pouring down from all over, the time ten o’clock on a beauty of a morn. Probably some sleep would have been helpful but you can’t order its arrival, and if he was high when he left the hospital, now he was looking down at the stratosphere. With a wave of his finger he materialized a taxi and sat back humming while they journeyed to the Blackstone, a good enough hotel which housed, along with businessmen and rich old ladies, a legendary blonde, supposedly French and definitely expensive, ordinarily far out of his reach but today his arms were infinite. He buzzed her from the lobby, tasting her wrath (he roused her from slumber), but she sweetened when the subject reached
dinero
and falling victim to his appeal, invited him to visit. Supposedly she had (according to Pinky Katz, who had a rich cousin who had once tasted of her charms) great tits, and Sid, ever the connoisseur, licked his chops during the upward ride, anticipating what only money can buy, and when he knocked and she answered he saw (she met him in a negligee) that she was sufficiently top-heavy (slim in the waist though—that was good) to slake any appetite. The blonde was big, much taller than he and probably as heavy, but he was used to that, so unafraid. They got comfortable with a minimum of chatter, which suited Sid, and after a little financial exchange they set up housekeeping. She was practiced but lacking in inspiration, devoid of vision, and Sid rode her deftly into submission without the expected kick. Her body, great from any distance, was lacking on contact; softened by too much wear, no tone to the muscle, just flesh piled decently enough, but flabby, not remotely as satisfying as Esther on her bad days, let alone the good. Still, as Sid dressed he knew it was money well spent—the story should be good for months if he doled it out decently to the droolers across the poker table, so he noted carefully the decor, the perfume, the color of the rug. As he headed for the door, the stack accompanied him, urging him a speedy return (she knew a master when she saw one), and he had not the heart to tell her she was over the hill, so he smiled and whacked her a good one on the fanny and they both laughed loud as he departed, her probably for the sack to rest her weary flesh, he for the Palmer House, where he blew twenty-eight bucks for lunch (which wasn’t easy), such was his hunger. Belching, Sid sauntered across the Loop for a while, stopping into Field’s briefly for a silk; summer jacket, then on again to Florsheim’s, where a pair of black leather wing-tips soothed his feet. He had not slept, not really, in forty hours or more, but he was, if anything, even more chipper than earlier and he danced along the street in his wing-tips until he remembered Esther in the hospital.

That soured him.

It was an unhappy prospect, but a visit did seem required; so, grumbling, he taxied to Michael Reese, stopping outside to buy a bunch of posies for his beloved.

She was sitting up in bed when he got there. He handed her the flowers and received the barest of thanks (gratitude for you!), but, undaunted, he went on with the charade, kissing her dutifully on the cheek, then sitting in a chair beside the bed, holding her hand, throwing her little kisses (what the hell, why not?).

“Well,” Sid said, “how are you?”

“Well,” Esther answered, “we’re fine.”

The room, as hospital rooms go, was better than nice, being light and almost (but not quite) cheerful and possessing two windows overlooking the Illinois Central tracks and, beyond them, Lake Michigan. From where he sat Sid could see the lake, immense and solid blue save for the slits of white foam tumbling from time to time toward shore.

“Pretty
fancy
, dumpling,” Sid said, smiling at the spouse. She looked good, almost all right again, though her face was stern. “Just like the Blackstone,” and he allowed himself a solid laugh. A train bumped by outside on the I.C. tracks and Sid followed its progress awhile before returning to the calm blue of the lake. “You get my phone message? I called you to tell you I might be a little late. Business appointment at the Palmer House. Otherwise I would have been here a lot—”

“We’re fine.”

“I’m sure glad of that, Tootsie. I didn’t go to sleep last night for worrying.” He flashed her a smile but it died when he realized her meaning and he sat gaping, suddenly a fool, the last to get the joke, the wearer of the dunce cap, the ass. “We are?”

“We are.”

“How come?”

“You got me here in time. Those things Dr. Lautmann did to me, they didn’t have a chance to work.”

Why was he so tired? Where had it come from?

“A day or two rest here and I can go.”

“Ah,” Sid said. “Ah.” He got up and moved to the window, staring at the blue, his head resting against the cool pane. He closed his eyes, intending a blink, but it felt so good he kept them shut a while. How long had he been without sleep? Too long. Too long. From somewhere far behind his eyes, a red ache started, complete with its own little throb. Sid pressed harder against the pane.

“The baby is fine.”

“The baby is fine,” Sid repeated.

“You O.K.?”

“The baby is fine,” Sid said again.

“Come away from the window.”

“Sure thing.” He groped back to the chair, fighting the pain in his head. All for nothing. Everything for nothing.

Another train went by.

Sid stared.

“Sid, I got to talk to you—”

“Maybe we’ll take a trip—”

“I didn’t sleep either—”

“A nice trip on a train—”

“Sid, I’ve been doing some thinking—”

“A long trip while you recover. We’ll sit back and relax—”

“Are you
listening
?”

“My head. It hurts so.”

“Sid, this is important.”

“I can’t hear so good, my head hurts so, go on, go on.”

“All those things I had in the beginning that went wrong with me? You remember how I screamed and threw up and everything?”

“Sit over the wheels. Sure, we’ll sit over the wheels. Take a long trip and sit over the wheels. Have a lot of fun, nice scenery, sit over the wheels, watch the nice scenery ...” Something in her face, some look, made him trail off, waiting, trying to concentrate on the red pain creeping up behind his eyes and then the hush of the hospital was ended and Esther was shouting:

“
Are we animals?
”

“No,” Sid said, “no-no,” and then the dunce was crying, weeping unaccustomed tears as he fell across her body, clutching at her hands.

“I faked, Sid! All those pains, the throwing up, I faked so you’d get a doctor!”

“Butcher!” Sid cried. “He was no doctor. I led you to the slaughterhouse and you’ll never forgive me!”

“I forgive!”

“I forgive!”

“Do you love me, Sid?”

“I dunno, I dunno.”

“Me either. But we can’t do anymore. We can’t.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Sid, we’re not animals,” and she was crying too.

“Not us,” he managed as he crawled blindly up on her bed beside her and they wrapped their arms tight around, joining their private griefs, rocking, keening, seeking forgiveness from their ancient gods, twin sinners, Sid and Esther, for a moment together, all bullshit gone.

So they had this kid.

From the first he was different.

Not that he didn’t soak his diapers twice an hour; not that he didn’t cry; not that he didn’t smile when bounced or laugh when poked or shriek when tossed or wail when startled or hungry or wet or sleepy or afraid or alone; not that he preferred Pablum to his mother’s milk; not that he liked beets or turnips or spinach or lima beans; not that he didn’t like sounds, rattles or music boxes or voices that went “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” during the day or “Rockabye, Baby” at dark; not that he didn’t lift his head to stare fascinated at the blank sides of his cradle or, when he could roll over, at the sunny particles of dust floating softly in the air; not that he didn’t give endless inspection to the soft pink skin on his hands or, later, suck his sweet thumb; not that he didn’t cry out in the night with the pain of teething or, when he was able to crawl, gnaw passionately on table legs; not that he was able neatly to master the spoon or guide the cup on its two-handed journey from table to lip to table without occasional mishap; not that he didn’t like to bounce and catch a red rubber ball or run or kick or jump up high or open a door or close a door or snip newspapers with tiny scissors or skip or hop or balance on one foot with one eye closed or climb unaided up long flights of stairs. What made him different was simply this:

The child was impossibly beautiful.

The boy’s appearance certainly pleased Sid, but it by no means surprised him. One of those things was all it was, one of those remarkable father-son resemblances that crop up from time to time, knotting two generations. Oh, maybe the kid’s hair was a little darker, maybe his eyes a little bigger and brighter, maybe the limb formation a spec improved here and there. But these were trivia, nothing more—minor impediments in a major thesis, that thesis being that the kid was a carbon of his old man, a mint replica, detail for perfect detail. And when he took the kid out for walks, something he did continually—and
without
Esther tagging along if you don’t mind, gumming things up—when he took the kid out, Sid beamed. Not just because of the compliments the kid received (compliments which, he knew, were as much for him as for the offspring); no, it was the kind of compliment, that was what did it. With most kids, all you got from the gassing grandmas in the park was “Oh, isn’t he cute?” or “My, how adorable,” or “That’s a handsome young man”—junk like that. But when Sid strolled by with Rudy, the old ladies always started to speak, but then they stopped, looking closer at the kid, up to the papa, back to the kid again, staring hard now, and after that they either nodded or shook their gray heads. Whichever they did, Sid beamed.

Esther, for her part, was also pleased by the boy’s appearance. But by no means surprised. Astonished, yes; she was that, for in all her short life she had never seen a boy who so resembled his mother.

When you push encyclopedias door to door, either you have good days or bad, no so-so’s. On the eleventh of July, Sid met and charmed an overfed, education-starved Polish lady from Cottage Grove Avenue, leaving her house at two in the afternoon with the preliminary papers signed and sealed in his briefcase, thereby making the eleventh of July one of the good ones. On the street, Sid wiped his brow and pondered further charm-spreading, but it was hot and if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a greedy pig, and one encyclopedia set per day was enough for any man. So he decided to quit early and go home and take his almost five-year-old for a jaunt through the neighborhood.

On his way to the apartment he passed Solomon’s Delicatessen. Now he passed Solomon’s more than occasionally and usually it wasn’t so painful, especially in wintertime when the door was closed. But this was July, the door was open and as Sid ambled by he was ambushed by the aroma of Solomon’s corned beef. Sid paused, took a step, stopped and approached the store window. Inside it was busy as usual, stuffed with stuffed
hausfraus
buying goodies. Sid peered through the army of salamis hanging at rigid attention, guarding the shop window, his bright eyes wandering from pastrami to tongue to good garlic pickle. Sid sighed. He had long ago sworn that when he finally struck
gelt
he was going to plug a movie star all night and eat at Solomon’s all day—a double orgy.”

The aroma of corned beef was stronger now and Sid was terribly tempted to fight the mob inside. But it was so expensive. A rapist, old man Solomon was, a pastrami peddler who drove a Cadillac, who lived like a merchant prince on Lake Shore Drive. The prices he charged! Sid scowled. Ridiculous. Unfair. Illegal. The one and only reason he got away with it was that somehow, through some miracle of curing, he produced the absolutely finest corned beef the world had ever tasted. Someday, Sid told himself, someday I’ll be bored with it. “What?” I’ll say. “Solomon’s corned beef again? Pitch it. Get rid of it and bring me some
food
.” But that, alas, was for the future, and Sid, very much, alas, in the present, stood riveted before the salami sentries, his stomach rumbling. What he wanted was corned beef for supper. What he needed was a reason to buy. He noted that the flow of fatsos was primarily out of the store, leaving it momentarily less than crammed, which meant he stood a good chance of dashing to and away from the counter without getting ground to death between the expansive corsets of the regular customers. But that was no reason. He did have in his hot pocket, however, sufficient money for a moderate purchase. But simple possession was no reason either. Hold it, Sid thought. Hadn’t it been a good day? Hadn’t the sweet Pole from Cottage Grove fallen victim to his charms? So wasn’t that reason enough for a little celebration? Who could object to that? Sid took a step forward. Esther could object to that. Sid took a step backward, hearing her unbell-like voice belting away—“Celebration? For what a celebration? Just because you did your job for once in your lazy life which every other man in the world does every day, that’s why we should go crazy in Solomon’s, just because
you did your job
? Fool. Fool!” Sid shook his head. There was no reason for supper to come from Solomon’s, so he started to walk away, head down, feet scuffing the sidewalk for six steps before he whirled and entered Valhalla, buying not only too much corned beef but also cole slaw and a whole loaf of thick dark rye and a boatload of Russian dressing and half a dozen scented dills and three slabs of pineapple cheesecake. He spent every penny, Sid did, his conscience so clear you could see your face in it. Because he had his reason.