Corky's Brother (24 page)

While they were giving out the medals for the winners of races, Mr. Gleicher was called away by the director of Field Day, and they kept glancing at Elijah. Mr. Gleicher was getting angrier and angrier, and when our rabbi suddenly showed up in his black suit, trying to look important and get into the discussion, Mr. Gleicher became furious. You could tell that he and the rabbi didn't get along well, and as the argument got more and more heated a group of people crowded around them. Then the rabbi pushed his way through the crowd and came in our direction.

“Uh-oh,” Elijah said. “Time to split—”

“But they're gonna give out the trophy in a minute,” Izzie said.

“I knew my brother'd do it. Help me, guys. Help me.” He clutched at my arm. “Do something, Howie. Please. Oh Lord—I got to move, but I can't. Oh Lord—”

Mr. Gleicher had finished arguing with the judge and he caught up to the rabbi and we heard him pleading with him. But the rabbi kept marching toward us. Over the P.A. system we heard the news: Congregation Shaare Torah had been disqualified, and the East Midwood Jewish Center was the winner of the Bar Kochba Trophy.

“No!” I shouted. We groaned and looked at each other helplessly. “No! Nol” I yelled again, and some of the guys joined me.

“If you're up there, Lord, now's the time to show your stuff,” Elijah said. The guys from East Midwood ran by us, laughing and screaming, and I swallowed hard to keep from crying. It didn't help. Some tears came anyway, and the same thing happened to Izzie and Louie and the others. It didn't even matter that the rabbi was standing in front of us. At that moment we couldn't have cared less what he said or did.

“Help me, guys. I been your friend—” Elijah was saying as he crouched behind us.

And then, just as the rabbi was about to lecture us, this Negro man appeared, planting himself between us and the rabbi. He was a short man, about the same height as the rabbi and wearing a black suit just like him. The only difference was in their hats. The rabbi wore a black one, but the Negro man had on a crazy turban thing with capes and scarves flowing from it. Behind me I could hear Elijah muttering. The Negro man looked our way and I'd never seen eyes like his—the way they blazed at you from his jet-black face made the rabbi's eyes seem harmless. There were jewels in his turban, and rings on his fingers. His neck bulged from his white shirt and there were two long scars that crisscrossed his right cheek. We moved back a step.

“You the Goldberg made my son do this?”

“I am not Goldberg, I am—” the rabbi began, but Mr. Gleicher stepped in front of him. “It was my fault,” he said.

“You a rabbi?”

“No, but—”

Then the Negro man shoved Mr. Gleicher aside. “The wrath of the Lord be upon you!” he proclaimed, and let go with an uppercut right to the rabbi's chin. The rabbi fell back and Mr. Gleicher caught him. People were screaming everywhere, crowding around us, calling for the police.

“Now's your chance,” Izzie said to Elijah. “Through the crowd—”

“You see the shot he give the rabbi?” Elijah said, and he was laughing again. “That's my old man. I told you, didn't I—?”

Elijah's father came toward us and we shoved Elijah back, but not in time to keep his father from reaching through and grabbing. He got him by the chain and began pulling and you could see it begin to cut into Elijah's neck, making the flesh show like raw steak.

“Now!” I said, and we all shoved back against Elijah's father. Elijah screamed and then the chain snapped and the Jewish stars and the mezuzahs flew into the air. “Won that race,” I heard Elijah say. I saw some spots of blood on his T-shirt. “Won that race fair and square.”

His father pushed us away, but this time Elijah got his feet moving. He made his way through the crowd and streaked down the track. When he reached the trophy table, he snatched the big gold cup in full stride, then raced for the end of the field, past the handball courts. When he got to the exit, he stopped. He raised the Bar Kochba Trophy over his head, yelling at his father to try to catch him. We all cheered and ran toward the exit, tripping over each other on purpose, getting in his father's way.

“Shalom
, Elijah!” Louie yelled, and we all did the same.
“Shalom
, Elijah!
Shaloml Shalom!”

Elijah waved the trophy over his head once more, then kissed it.
“Shalom
, Jewboys!” he yelled. “I see you around—” Then he took off out the exit, swinging the trophy at his side, running fast as lightning, and I think we all knew that that was the last time we would ever see him.

The Pass

A
LL
MORNING
he had been sitting on the porch of his cottage, trying to decide whether or not he should kiss her when she came for him. The minute Dr. Klein had told him that he was giving him a pass to go out with his parents Saturday afternoon, the question had been in his mind. He had meant to ask the doctor, had almost done it, in fact, but then had reconsidered. “What do you want to do, Billy?” That would have been Dr. Klein's reaction. Billy knew he would have thought it was a silly problem—and he knew too that if Dr. Klein had thought it was more than silly, the pass might have been taken away.

Still, he wished now that he had brought it up. He didn't want to do the wrong thing again—the way he had last summer when they'd taken him to his Aunt Harriet's. And only three months age, on his first pass since the previous summer, he had embarrassed them again. Nothing as bad as at Aunt Harriet's, when he'd been the center of a big scene, because this time he hadn't been allowed to visit anyone. Instead, they'd gone to a movie together, near the hospital. Afterwards, when they were at a Howard Johnson's having sodas, his mother had met a friend, and although nothing was said, Billy knew they had been ashamed of him, of the way he looked. He had been on heavy medication at that time, and the longer his mother's friend had stared at him, the harder it had been for him to keep his eyes open. He had tried, but after a while, he remembered, they had become too heavy.

“Wanna play ping-pong?”

It was Ira Gordon, a new boy at the hospital. Billy shook his head sideways.

“Boy, you're all dressed up. Got a pass?”

Billy nodded. He did feel dressed up. Joan had ironed a shirt for him; Arthur—the boy who slept next to him—had loaned him a tie, and he had even used shampoo in the shower that morning. He wanted to look nice this time. Not like the last time, when his mother had said that she didn't have to ask him what he'd been eating because his pants could serve as the menu. She had meant the criticism good-naturedly—as she had when she'd commented on the length of his hair; still, her remarks disturbed him.

“I wish I had a pass,” Ira said. “Where are you going?”

“To the beach. My parents belong to a beach club. On Long Island.”

Ira whistled. “Wow—I'd give anything to go swimming. I love to swim. I really do. I made junior lifesaver at camp two years ago. Don't you love to swim?” Billy nodded. He wanted Ira to go away. “Sure you don't wanna play ping-pong?” Billy was sure. Ira sat down in a chair opposite Billy. He kept rubbing his hands together. Billy tried not to look; he wanted to stay calm. “There's never anything to do around here,” Ira said. “I can't even leave this lousy cottage. Not unless an aide comes with me. Everybody's watching the ball game. I don't like ball games, do you?” Billy said he didn't like ball games either, but he hardly heard what Ira said after this because he had already spotted his parents down the road, coming from the Administration Building.

His mother reached him first, his father a step or two behind, toting a big shopping bag. “My Billy! Dear—” Before he could do anything, before he had a chance to reply, she had leaned down toward him and her cheek had touched his own. He sniffed her perfume, started to rise, and his hps turned swiftly toward her cheek and pressed in on the skin. His eyes, wide open, looked at her ear, hidden behind wisps of grayish-gold hair, and as his lips stayed on her cheek he realized that her hps weren't on his. Her arm was on his shoulder, though, and as he rose to a full standing position—he was about four inches taller than his mother—he touched his hand to her right shoulder. She broke away and took a step backwards. “How
are
you? It's so good to see you, Billy. It's been so long! Isn't it wonderful? A whole afternoon at the beach, away from here—”

She noticed Ira, standing, staring at them.

“This is Ira Gordon, Mother,” Billy said. “He lives in my unit.”

Mrs. Fisher shook Ira's hand. “Well, I'm always glad to meet Billy's friends. How are you, Ira?”

“Are you really taking Billy to a beach club?” Ira asked. Mrs. Fisher nodded. “Well, I gotta see somebody,” Ira said. He turned and went into the cottage.

“Put it down, Oscar,” Mrs. Fisher said, glancing to her left. “There's no need to carry it all the time—and come say hello to your son.”

Billy and his father shook hands.

“So, how's my boy? All ready to go to the beach?”

Billy nodded. He turned to his mother. “Your hair looks very beautiful.”

“Why, thank you, Billy. Thank you.” She turned around so that he could see the back. “Do you really think so? The man at the beauty parlor who does my hair—he said he thought this little bit of gold in the gray would lend just the right touch. Do you really like it?”

“It's very beautiful.”

“Isn't he sweet, Oscar?”

Billy's father shrugged.

“Your father—if I had my head shaved, he wouldn't notice.” Mrs. Fisher laughed. “Oh well, come, Billy—let's see what's in the bag. All right? I do hope you like the things I've put together for you.”

He thanked her for the underwear, the new pair of Bermuda shorts, the Ban-Lon shirt, the hair tonic, the magazines, but he told her he wasn't allowed to keep the fruit.

“Well, then, we can just take it along to the club.”

“Let me sign out—I'll put this stuff in my room.”

As soon as he was a few steps away he heard them whispering to each other. Something about his posture being better, but still too “slouchy,” his mother said—she wished he wouldn't always be looking at the ground. Billy smiled for the first time that day. That was one good thing about the drugs; they sharpened your sense of hearing. His father said he thought Billy looked perfectly normal, that maybe he'd be out soon.

He didn't hear what his mother said to that, but when they were in the car, on the highway headed toward the North Shore, she kept telling him what a good time they were going to have.

“You do look a little pale, Billy—don't you get much sun?”

“The drugs make me dizzy if I'm in the sun—I'm still on thorazine.”

“Don't you remember?” his father said. “Last summer, when he came to Aunt Harriet's with us for the picnic, how he broke out in a rash—”

“I forgot.” She put her arm around Billy's shoulder and shook her head sideways. “My poor baby.”

“You're no baby, are you, Billy?” Mr. Fisher said.

“Oscar! Watch out—you almost hit that car—you should see the way that man gave you a look.”

“I don't think I feel good,” Billy said.

“You want to sleep, son?”

Her arm went further around his shoulder and his head rested on her, low, near her bosom. He remembered how she had comforted him at Aunt Harriet's when all his aunts and uncles were standing in that circle around him, watching, waiting, muttering—were some of them crying? He didn't understand why anyone would cry. Maybe it had been what he had said to his father. He couldn't be sure, because he couldn't really remember what it was that he had said; only that as the sun had made him dizzier, just before his stomach had given way, his mother had argued with his father, and Billy had joined her, yelling and screaming when his father wouldn't listen to him. “Poor thing—maybe you'd like to stop for a Coke? That always settles your stomach—remember how I used to keep a bottle of Coke syrup with us whenever—”

“I'm okay now.” He sat up. “It was the sun shining on me.”

“Of course, dear. You know I was saying to your father, when you were in your room before we left, that to look at you, there's not a thing wrong with you, Billy. You're a little confused, mixed up. Of course. Who isn't these days? And I'll tell you something else—if you ask me, you never would have even gotten mixed up if—” She looked toward her husband and sighed. “Well, there's no sense going into that story, is there? We re here to have a good time…”

Billy looked out the window at all the other cars and wondered if he'd ever be able to drive; there was so much to think about when you drove: the other cars, the brakes, the speed limit, people, turns, signs, the gas level, the oil—his father was a good driver. Billy just wished that they could speak to each other about things sometimes. But they rarely did, even on days like this when they hadn't been together for weeks. His mother was still talking, her hand lightly touching him now and then as she used it to punctuate her sentences.

“One thing, though, Billy—and I'm not sure how to approach this. I certainly hope you won't take it in the wrong way—but I see no need to tell people where you are now. Do you—?”

He looked at his hands.

“Now don't be upset—if anybody asks you where you've been, just say you're living with our cousins, Martha and Sam, in Maine for the summer. All right—?”

He nodded.

“Well,” she continued, “I just see no need for people to know now—when
you
want them to know, then it's time enough. Even the doctors said there's never any need for people to know until
you
want them to—”

“I won't tell anybody.”