Boys & Girls Together (30 page)

“I have never ... been ... so embarrassed in all my life.”

The boy began to laugh.

“Go on. I deserve it.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy said.

“Where ... the hell ... is the Widow Kramer?”

“Perhaps you won’t even need a doctor.”

“That thought has crossed my mind, believe me. ‘Your heart is fine,’ he’ll say. ‘What you’ve got is indigestion. Too many pickles. Five dollars, please.’ ” Turk tried to shake his head. “I’m a fool. When a Jew is dumb, he’s really dumb. There is a saying to that effect. Oh, I’m a fool. A fool.”

“Tell me about your nose.”

“I won it—”

“In a raffle. You’ve told me that one already. Tell me another.”

“All right ... I’ll tell you the truth this time. The final truth. One day, when I was swimming in the desert—”

“
Swimming
in the
desert
?”

“It was the rainy season.”

“Go on.”

“And ... Oh, oh, oh, my God ... I’m wetting in my pants ... just like a baby ...”

The funeral arrangements fell to Sid, and they were one big irk. First of all, the old man was not at the top of Sid’s hit parade. Oh, he was all right, a harmless gas bag, but bosom buddies they had never been.

And besides that, death had never much appealed to Sid. Not that anybody begged to lap it up with a spoon, but there were some, even many, who seemed not to mind the rituals—the keening, the floral decorations, the rabbinical razz-ma-tazz. Sid minded. He minded every stinking (his word, but admittedly an unfortunate choice) detail. More than anything, though, Sid minded Esther’s attitude, for, after a lifetime of ignoring her father, suddenly, with the old man gone, their relationship overnight became the closest thing since God and Gideon. And what was so killing about her attitude was that it cost. Nothing was too good. The best, only, for the dearly departed. The thought of using the funeral parlor around the corner made Esther gag. No; Shapiro’s had to do the stuffing. Shapiro’s, the spiffiest ghoul spa on the entire South Side of Chicago. Young Shapiro himself handled the festivities and every rub of his manicured hands probably meant a fiver, every nod of his handsome greaseball head a ten-spot. The fact that it wasn’t Sid’s money mattered to him not at all. The old
cocker
was footing the bill for his own funeral, but when Sid tried preaching caution Esther only shouted, “It’s his, shut up,” because she was too dense to understand that what they were spending now would not, miracle-like, reappear untouched at the reading of the will. The estate was paltry to begin with, and with Esther digit-happy they were going to be lucky if a sou remained. So, when discussing caskets with his wife and young Shapiro, if Sid risked universal scorn by venturing to ask, Did the lining
have
to be of
quilted satin
, who could blame him?

After nearly three days of preliminaries they finally got around to the main event, which was held in a large room on Shapiro’s second floor. Sid would have preferred something a little smaller, a cubicle maybe, since Shapiro’s seemed to charge by the square foot, but Esther insisted on a big room, to accommodate all the mourners. Sid tried telling her not to expect the
entire
city of Chicago, lest the experience provide embarrassment as well as grief; Esther’s only answer was a fervent “They’ll come, they’ll come,” followed by a semistifled sob.

And they came. As Sid led his family into the second-floor room, he nodded in surprise, for the room was close to full. Customers all, and Sid recognized several of them from the agonizing hours he had spent the past few days minding the goddam store. Mrs. Kramer, Mrs. Feldman, Mrs. Katz, Rosenheim the laundryman. Not a multitude, but certainly a respectable turnout. I hope I do as well, Sid thought as he herded his tribe to the coffin. It was, on Esther’s insistence, open, and neither Sid nor the boy had seen the old man since the demise. Esther, of course, had communed for hours the day before, weeping over the corpse while Sid had tended store. The old
cocker
looked unbelievably well, better than when alive almost, and Sid experienced a moment of something as he gazed down, because he realized then that Turk was indeed, as advertised, dead, really dead, finally and irrevocably dead: dead. Sid glanced at Esther, who stood by the coffin, Bravely Biting Her Lip, and then young Shapiro was gesturing to him. Sid approached the gravedigger, his hand moving protectingly to his wallet.

“Yes?” Sid whispered.

“Perhaps we could do something for the boy.”

“What’s wrong with the boy?”

The manicured fingers gestured toward the coffin. “Well, look at him.”

“It’s his first funeral. He’ll get over it. Besides, he’s not crying.”

“Perhaps we could have him sit down. Generally, one is less affected when not actually viewing the deceased.”

Sid walked back to the boy. “Come on, Rudy. Let’s sit down.” He tried to take his son’s arm but the tiny fingers were tight around the coffin edge and would not move. “Rudy,” Sid whispered. “Come now.” The boy stayed where he was. Sid glanced toward young Shapiro and shrugged. Abruptly, the boy turned, and Sid said, “Come sit by me, Rudy,” but the boy must not have heard, for he moved off by himself to the far end of the front row. Sid escorted Esther to the best seats in the house, front row center on the aisle, and they sat down. Sid looked around. It was all very impressive, but he wasn’t impressed; his roving eye saw only bills. The hushed room cost money, the hard wooden chairs; the flowers cost, the organ music, the casket (mahogany yet), everything. Sid sighed. Then Rabbi Kornbluth was making with the Hebrew and everybody bowed, a few already practicing their sobs. Sid scowled at Rabbi Kornbluth; no wonder he drove a Packard. For what he charged he could have it gold-plated. Maybe I should have been a rabbi, Sid thought. A funeral specialist. Work just the spring and fall, then summer in the Catskills, winter in Miami Beach.

“We are here to honor Joel Turk,” Rabbi Kornbluth said, switching tongues. “In all our lives we will have no more noble purpose.”

Of course it would be tough to play around if you were a rabbi. If a broad shot off her mouth, it could ruin you; who wants a playboy rabbi? But if you wanted to play around, how could you do it? Without risk. A mistress? No; no good. One-shot jobs would be better. But the bitches might blackmail you. Kill the funeral racket. Maybe you could give them a phony name. Tell them you were a cloak-and-suiter. That might work. Or maybe—Sid stiffened in his chair. Because right then he saw it.

Turk’s nose.

Curving up above the casket edge. Sid looked away, then back. It was still there. The nose. In full view of the audience. The nose. Just the nose. Sid almost laughed but managed to bite down on his lip in time. He lowered his head, fighting for control.

“I never had the pleasure of meeting Joel Turk,” Rabbi Kornbluth said in his fine cantorial tone. “So in a sense I am saying hello to him today. But that is what we are all doing, saying hello. This is no time for goodbye. Joel Turk will stay in your hearts, just as he will stay in mine.”

Sid raised his head quickly and peeked at the nose. Then more quickly he dropped his head again, biting down harder on his lip, causing himself mild pain. Couldn’t they all see it? Couldn’t everybody see it? Why weren’t they laughing?

Somebody was.

Sid heard the sound at the same time Rabbi Kornbluth did. The rabbi had just said “In your faces I can see Joel Turk. Your eyes tell me everything. They tell me ...” when he stopped, hearing the laughter. “They tell me that ...” The laughter lingered. “That he was a fine boy,” Rabbi Kornbluth said. “I mean man. A fine man.”

Sid stared at his laughing son.

“The finest of men ...”

The boy’s laughter rang.

“A man who loved his fellows and his God. A man who laughed all ... loved all living things ...”

Sid looked at Esther, who was staring at the boy.

Sid looked away.

“A man who treated all men as equals, a man who felt superior to no one, inferior to nothing. A man ...”

The boy could not stop laughing.

Rabbi Kornbluth took out a large white handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

Esther inhaled sharply, her eyes shut tight, her fingers suddenly digging at her temples.

“A man worthy of the name man. And now he is dead ...”

Louder laughter.

“That is why we are here, because he is dead,” Rabbi Kornbluth said, his voice rising.

Esther was gasping now, her face very pale.

“But he is not dead!” Rabbi Kornbluth raised his right hand high. “In your eyes I can see he lives on and so I say this to you: Joel Turk is alive! The Rim Greaper will not have him!” Rabbi Kornbluth wiped his forehead vigorously. “Grim Reaper. The Grim Reaper will not have him ...” He glared at the boy, who, helpless, could only laugh and shake his head.

Sid put his arm around Esther, listening as the rabbi droned on. She pressed her knuckles against her eyes, her head throbbing relentlessly. Rabbi Kornbluth switched back into Hebrew and Sid sighed with relief, feeling the end approaching. Then the rabbi was done. He walked over to Esther, said something and left the room. The organ music grew louder. Quietly the people filed out. When most of them were gone, Sid leaped up and ran to the boy, grabbing him by the arms, dragging him to his feet. “How could you laugh?” Sid said. “How?”

“The nose,” the boy managed. “The nose.”

“How could you laugh? I should beat you.”

“The nose ...”

“What nose? Oh, I should beat you. Look what you’ve done.”

“It’s for laughing. I couldn’t stop, I just—”

Esther cried out then, lunging to her feet. Young Shapiro reached for her, but she shook loose and started toward the boy. One of her eyes was closed and the other could not stop blinking and the veins in her forehead throbbed. The boy retreated toward the casket but she followed him, closing the gap.

The boy reached out for the old man.

Then Esther was on him, forcing him to his knees, screaming “You killed me! You killed me!” until her voice was gone.

A
ARON DESPISED PRINCETON UNIVERSITY
.

He had not wanted to go there at all, but none of the other colleges he applied to offered nearly so generous a scholarship, so Princeton it was. Aaron immediately opened hostilities. The other students had their hair cut short; he let his hair grow long and he kept it that way, dark and unruly, brushing it back only with his hands. They all dressed in dark gray or navy blue; Aaron bought a yellow corduroy jacket and wore it incessantly, until it became his trademark. In classes he was completely competitive, never caring what grade he received just so it was the highest in the course. Sometimes straight “A” was required, sometimes “A–” sufficed. The first semester of his sophomore year, Klein, a stubby scholar from Denver, was doing straight “A” work in Modern European History.

Aaron braced for the challenge, driving himself into the night, grinding, grinding. After the final examination the professor called him into his office.

“I could find nothing wrong with your paper,” the professor said.

Aaron nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t believe in giving the grade of A plus ...”

“But you’re making an exception in my case.”

“Yes.”

“I deserved it,” Aaron said and, abruptly, left the room.

For the first two years, he suffered no friends. Several made overtures, Klein among them, but he rebuffed them all, without thinking. “No, I’m busy. No, I’m busy then too. That’s right. I’m busy.” Aaron alone.

But that was before the coming of White.

He needed money. Always. For books. Books were his passion and he bought them a dozen at a time. His room at home was flooded with them. They spilled across the top of his desk, overflowed his shelves. He had stacks of books balanced on his windowsill, piles of books lining the floor by the edge of his bed. “Where are you ever going to get the time to read them all?” Charlotte would ask as he lugged home another armload. “Honestly, Aaron. Haven’t you got enough books by now?”

“I’m paying for them,” he would answer when he cared to answer at all. “It’s my money.”

Alone in his room, he would touch the clean jackets with the tips of his fingers, gently run the palm of his hand along the spine. Then he would read. He read them all, as fast as he could, carefully turning the pages, keeping them fresh and clean. He never felt as if he really owned a book until after he had read it through. Then it was his.

To get money, he typed. Themes, term papers, anything. He tacked little postcards up all around the campus with the words
FIRESTONE TYPING SERVICE
on the back. Beneath he put his phone number. He was a marvelous typist, and he would sit for hours hunched over his desk, head tilted to one side, a cigarette glued to a corner of his mouth. For a time he got enough money that way, but then, as his taste in books grew more expensive, he began seeking other work.

At the start of his senior year he took a job at the Nassau Food Shoppe. The fancy spelling was the idea of the owner, Mr. Akron, who had taken over when the old Nassau Food Shop had gone bankrupt seven years before. Mr. Akron added the two extra letters the day he took over, on the theory that it added, as he put it, “a toucha class.” He was a dark, harried man and his real name was Akronopolos. The only distinguishing feature of the Nassau Food Shoppe, aside from the fact that its hamburgers were cooked in olive oil—Mr. Akron was a great believer in olive oil—was that it stayed open until two in the morning, much later than any of its competitors. Aaron worked from eleven till closing, which gave him time to catch the late movie at the Playhouse before reporting for duty. Aaron’s domain was the soda fountain, at the front of the store, Mr. Akron himself handling the hot-foods department along the rear wall. “Not so much ice cream,” he would shout at Aaron nightly, his voice booming across the booths and square tables that separated them. “Easy with that dipper.” The customers during Aaron’s working hours were almost all university students up late cramming for tests or finishing papers. Occasionally he would know one of them but mostly they were just faces. Sometimes the faces would whisper to him, “How about a little extra on the sundae?” and he would always reply, “A little extra for you, a little extra for me.” They would either nod or shrug. If they nodded, he would pocket the nickel or dime they gave him; if they shrugged, he shortchanged them on syrup. Either way, Aaron emerged victorious.