Dave at Night (2 page)

Chapter 3

I
SAT AT
the kitchen table. Someone had covered it with the crocheted tablecloth my mama had made, which we only used on the High Holy Days. It was all we had of Mama's. When she died, Papa had given her clothing to Aunt Lily.

Gideon would talk Uncle Jack into taking me. Gideon was smart enough to convince you that turtles could fly, so he'd be able to convince his favorite uncle not to leave me behind. And if he couldn't, then he'd say he wasn't going. He'd say he was sticking with his brother.

There was food on the table, brought by the relatives. I ate a Sephardic egg, which was a hard-boiled egg cooked for hours with coffee grounds and onion skins. Usually they were delicious, but this one had no taste.

The relatives were talking softly in the front room—softly till Ida hollered, “You want me to starve? And him too?”

There was silence, then some murmuring, and then Uncle Milton came into the kitchen to say good-bye. He hugged me and put a dime in my hand. “Who knows?” he said. “It may come in handy.” He left, and Great-Aunt Rae hobbled in. She gave me a nickel. Except for Uncle Jack, they all came to me, one or two at a time, and they all slipped money into my pocket or into my hand—mostly quarters and dimes, a few nickels, and no pennies.

Uncle Jack stayed after everyone left. I went back into the front room. Gideon was packing. I couldn't believe it. He was going without me. Ida was sitting on the bed in her and Papa's bedroom, her skinny shoulders hunched over. I could see her from where I sat on the couch.

Gideon and Uncle Jack were going to sleep at Cousin Melvin's tonight and leave for Chicago tomorrow. Uncle Jack stood at the window, holding more ice to his temple. It was late afternoon, starting to get dark out.

Uncle Jack didn't say anything. He and Gideon were the only quiet ones in the Caros family. Normally Ida hardly ever talked, either, but she wasn't really a Caros.

It wouldn't take Gideon long to pack. Neither of us had much. I sat on the couch, tossing my green rubber ball from one hand to the other. Gideon kept looking at me and not saying anything.

“I can be just as quiet as Gideon,” I told Uncle Jack. “I wouldn't make any noise if I lived with you. I wouldn't give you headaches.”

“Dave is determined,” Gideon said. “If he puts his mind to it, he can do anything.”

Uncle Jack shook his head. “Dave is too much of a handful for me.”

I wouldn't be. I'd be good.

“If the factory weren't so noisy, I'd take him.” Uncle Jack was the bookkeeper in a place that made printing presses. “When I get home, I need peace and quiet.” He moved the ice to the other temple. “Abie always boasted about the two of you—brilliant Gideon and daredevil Dave.”

“Dave's a good boy,” Gideon said.

“I know he is.” Uncle Jack turned to Ida, who had gotten up and was standing in the doorway. “In a year or so when he's older, I'll send for him if I can.”

What a laugh, him making excuses to Ida. What was
her
excuse? But that was that. He wouldn't take me. I bounced my green ball as hard as I could. Let his head hurt.

I bet Gideon was secretly glad to be going without me, the troublemaker. I bet he couldn't wait to get to Chicago and start being quiet with Uncle Jack.

Gideon closed the suitcase and went back to the bureau. He took out his treasure, the best thing he had, the carving of animals marching onto Noah's ark that Papa had made for him. “Here, Dave. You keep it.”

I took it. I didn't say thanks or give him anything to remember me by. Let him leave. I didn't care if I never saw him again.

“You'll be all right,” Gideon said. “You always are.”

Sure I'd be all right. What did that have to do with anything?

“Ready?” Uncle Jack asked.

“Ready.”

Uncle Jack bent over and hugged me. “I'll send for you when you're older.”

I didn't hug him back.

“Good-bye, Dave,” Gideon said. “I'll write.”

“Where will you send the letter?” I muttered.

“What?” he said.

I shook my head. Good riddance.

“Good-bye,” he said again. “Don't make trouble.”

They left, closing the door softly behind them.

I sat on the couch. I thought about asking what Aunt Sarah had meant about giving me up, but I didn't do it. I wouldn't give Ida the satisfaction.

I did ask if I could go play stickball. She said I couldn't. She said we were sitting shiva. Sitting shiva means you stay home for a week after somebody dies. You sit around in torn clothing to show how sad you are, and people visit you to pay their respects.

Nobody else came that day. For dinner we ate the baked fish and the spinach pie that Aunt Lily and Aunt Sarah had brought. After dinner I drew funny pictures of the kids at school for a while. Then I started bouncing my green ball. After two bounces, Ida told me to stop. So I practiced snapping the fingers of my left hand. I was starting to get it when Ida told me I was driving her crazy. So I just sat, holding Gideon's carving on my lap, tracing the shapes Papa had dug into it.

The carving was on a board of cherry wood about a foot and a half wide and about nine inches high. Papa hardly ever got a piece of fine wood like that, so he'd saved it for something special. Then, ten years ago when Gideon was four years old, he became so sick that everybody thought he'd die. Papa stayed with him, and while he waited for Gideon to get better or to die, he made the carving.

Forty-eight animals marched up the plank or waited in line to get on the boat. You couldn't see the whole ark, just one end of it and the bottom of the sails. You couldn't see every animal entirely either, because some were partly blocked by others. For example, all you could see of the elephants were two trunks, part of a tusk, and one big floppy ear. But you saw a whole leopard, padding fearsomely up the plank. Riding on the leopard's back, knowing he was safe for the moment, was a monkey eating a banana. And playing around the leopard's feet were two fat mice. Behind the animals and the boat was a giant wave with the foaming crest all the way at the top of the board.

Following the animals, at the very end of the line, were the humans—a man holding a small boy by the hand and a woman carrying a baby. The man was Papa. I could tell by his curly beard and the striped scarf around his neck. The boy was Gideon and the baby was me. The woman wasn't Ida, because she and Papa didn't even meet till I was three. Besides, Ida was tall and skinny with frizzy hair. The woman in the carving was shorter than Papa, and she was plump, and she was smiling. The woman was my mother before she died from having me.

When I went to bed I put the carving in my bureau drawer, next to the wooden cigar box that was my treasure box. Inside it were my green rubber ball, my five marbles, the money the relatives had given me, and a scrap of wood I'd tried to whittle into the shape of a leopard like the one in the carving.

I slept for a few hours and then woke up and couldn't fall back asleep. I was used to having Gideon next to me, and I missed—not him, I didn't miss him—I missed his breathing. I hoped he wasn't sleeping either. I hoped he was lying on the floor. I hoped he had a rock for a pillow. I hoped a rat would bite him. He could write a hundred letters. I wouldn't read any of them.

In the bedroom, Ida snored softly. I wondered if Gideon understood what Aunt Sarah had meant about giving me up. I wondered if that was why he wouldn't stay. Maybe it meant sending me to Salonika, where Papa and Mama had come from. Mama's brother still lived there. Ida might write to him and see if he'd take me. She wouldn't get an answer any time soon. By then she'd know that it didn't cost much to feed me, and maybe she'd let me stay here. Not that I wanted to live with her, but I did want to go on playing stickball in the park and drawing pictures and fighting with Izzy and making trouble in school.

The apartment was too empty without Papa and Gideon. I got up and went into the hall to the toilet. I knocked on the door and waited a few seconds before I went in. You never knew, even in the middle of the night. Mr. Engle, who boarded with the Sterns across the hall, had a bad stomach.

When I came out of the toilet, I went downstairs. I was only in my underpants and my undershirt. I stepped out into the street. The sidewalk was cold under my bare feet and the air was chilly. But I didn't want to go back upstairs.

Papa wouldn't want me out here. He'd worry that I'd catch cold. But he'd think it was funny that I wasn't dressed. I spread my arms. I was a ghost. Like Papa. No, Papa wasn't a ghost. He was just dead.

I heard the
clop clop
of a horse and cart on Canal Street. Our street was empty. I couldn't believe anybody lived in the buildings, they were so quiet.

Only the candy store on the corner was open. The light from its window spilled into the street. I walked around it, staying in the shadow. Mr. Goldfarb was alone inside, leaning on the counter and reading a newspaper. I turned the corner onto Grand Street. The appetizing store was closed. The barrels of pickles that sat on the sidewalk during the day were inside for the night. I tried the door, but it was locked. Too bad. I could have gone in and had a feast—some smoked fish, a few pickles, and, for dessert, dried fruit and pistachios. I could have paid Mr. Schwartz later out of the money the relatives gave me.

I found three pear wrappers, not at all muddy, in the street outside the appetizing store. I picked them up and held them carefully. People fight over them because fruit wrappers are softer than anything else for wiping your backside.

I was freezing, so I turned back. Upstairs, Ida was still sleeping. I rolled myself up in the blanket. If Gideon went to Chicago without me, or to Australia, I didn't care. I could have more fun without him. He would never go outside in his underwear.

 

When nobody was sitting shiva with us, Ida sewed blouses. I hated staying in the house, but she wouldn't let me go out and play. Most of the time I drew in my school notebook. I copied the animals from Papa's carving, or I drew faces. Once, I accidentally drew Gideon's face. I turned him into a girl with long hair and smoochy lips.

Sometimes I couldn't sit still. Then I tried to teach myself to walk on my hands, till Ida told me to stop. I did somersaults across the front room, till Ida told me to stop. I hopped on one foot, till Ida told me to stop.

On Monday my friend Ben Weiss came with his mother.

“What's going on at school?” I asked him.

“Nothing.”

“Did we win any stickball games?”

He shook his head. “Sammy's been playing first.”

Sammy! He ducked if a ball looked at him cross-eyed.

Ben fished in his pocket and pulled out a marble. “I found it in the gutter outside of school. You can have it.”

It was a beauty, a cloudy yellow-white with a swirl of purple. “Thanks.” Papa dies and people keep giving me things—money, marbles, the carving.

“Izzy beat Sammy up.”

“We have to go.” Mrs. Weiss stood up. “I have to start cooking.”

“He gave him a shiner and a nosebleed,” Ben whispered. Then he said out loud, “See you in school.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

Aunt Lily and Aunt Sarah came on Tuesday. I didn't ask Aunt Sarah what she had meant about giving me up. I didn't want to in front of Ida. Aunt Sarah didn't say anything about it either. Probably she thought Ida had forgotten and she didn't want to bring it up. But I knew Ida hadn't forgotten. She didn't forget anything that had to do with money. She remembered the exact number of blouses she couldn't make each time she had to go to school because of me. She remembered every penny Papa ever lost at pinochle. So she wouldn't forget giving me up. If she could have sold me, I'd have been gone before Papa was dead an hour.

Chapter 4

W
HEN
I
WOKE
up on Wednesday morning, Ida was packing my clothes into a suitcase. Papa was dead a week, shiva was over, and she was giving me up.

I pretended I was still asleep and watched her. There wasn't much to pack, only the suit I wore to Papa's funeral, a change of underwear, Gideon's cast-off knickers that didn't fit me yet, and my winter coat, which was too short in the arms and which barely buttoned across my chest. She didn't pack Papa's carving or my treasure box, so I got up and put them on top of my clothes. I didn't ask where I was going. Wherever it was, it would be an improvement.

The suitcase was Papa's banged-up big one, which he'd brought with him to this country. If I'd owned anything heavy, it would have gone right through the worn fiberboard covering.

Ida snapped the suitcase shut. “I'm sorry, Dave,” she said, straightening up, “but I can't buy food and pay the rent by myself. If I don't have you, I can be a boarder somewhere.”

I nodded.

“Abe would understand.”

He would never understand. But I did. She was a louse. And Gideon was a louse. And Uncle Jack and my other relatives were lice.

“You'll have enough to eat at the Home.”

Home?
The
Home? She meant—

“Let's go. The orphanage is . . .”

I was a fool never to have thought of it before. I never even thought of myself as an orphan, but what else was I?

An orphanage. Papa would die all over again if he knew.

But maybe it would be better to be an orphan in an orphanage than an orphan living with Ida.

Maybe not.

The orphanage was way uptown. We had to take the subway, thirteen blocks away on Lafayette Street. As we walked, I said good-bye to the neighborhood. In my mind, not out loud, I said good-bye to Ike, the produce peddler who was hollering about his juicy lemons. Good-bye to the Turkish candy peddler and his delicious halvah. Good-bye to the horse, stamping its feet in front of the dry-goods cart. Good-bye to the laundry hanging out a million windows. To the roasted-corn man, and the sweet smell of his corn. To the cobblestones I was walking on. To the street cleaner's wooden wagon. To the train roaring above us on Allen Street. To the peddler who tugged at Ida's sleeve, trying to get her to buy a scrub brush. Good-bye to the pickle store, to the sour pickles my friend Ben had taught me to love. Good-bye to Ben too.

We came to the Bowery, the end of our neighborhood. On the other side of the avenue, things were the same but different, and I stopped saying good-bye. The streets were just as crowded and noisy, but lots of the signs were in Italian, and most of the shouting was too. We passed a peddler selling clams and one selling roasted chickpeas, which you never saw near us.

It took us three trains to get uptown. During the ride I had only one thought: I wouldn't stay at the Home if I didn't like it.

We got off the subway at 137th Street, and Ida clamped her hand on my arm. We climbed up the subway stairs and the Home was the first thing I saw, the biggest thing around, made of red bricks that went on forever.

Broadway was quieter than the streets in my old neighborhood. There were stores, but only one peddler's wagon, and a tenth as many people.

There was no entrance to the orphanage on Broadway. We walked next to it along 136th Street. The building, surrounded by a high iron fence, stretched all the way to the next avenue, which was Amsterdam. The handle of my suitcase was loose, and the suitcase banged into my knee whenever I took a step. Ida offered to carry it, but I didn't want any favors from her.

It was chilly, and I wished I'd worn my coat. We turned the corner, and I saw the front of the asylum. My eyes traveled up to where a pointy tower rose, like a witch's hat, three stories above the entrance. Below the tower was a clock, and on each side of the clock was a smaller pointy tower. The whole building was only four stories high in the highest part, the middle section. The rest was just three, but each story was very tall. The building wasn't made for people. It was made for witches, with plenty of room for their hats.

If I didn't know better, it would have been the last place I'd have guessed was a Home, the last place for kids to live.

We reached the gate. A sign, black letters on white metal, was attached to it. The Hebrew Home for Boys. Ida pushed the gate open just as the clock struck ten. We trudged along a brick path to steps leading to a heavy wooden door.

Still holding me tight, Ida opened the door and a draft of cold air swooshed out, even colder than the air outside. We went in. The door thudded closed behind us and clicked shut. As soon as I heard the click I wanted to leave.

The lobby was bigger than in a movie theater. Next to the door were two long windows. Across from them a marble staircase led up to a balcony. To my left and right were long corridors lined with doors. The floor was black-and-white tiles, and the walls were stone up to my shoulders. Above that they were painted gray-green, all the way up to a faraway gray-green ceiling.

Somewhere someone sneezed, and the sneeze echoed off the stone walls. I shivered.

The lobby was empty. No orphans except me.

“Where do I go?” Ida said.

“You can leave,” I said. “I don't need you.” I'd wait a minute or two and then leave too.

She ignored me. I heard footsteps and the echo of footsteps. A man entered the far end of the right-hand corridor. Ida walked me toward him.

“Pardon me,” she called. She whispered, “If you get in trouble here, I can't take you back.”

Fine with me. Excellent with me.

The man walked toward us. He was tall and thin, but when he got close enough I saw that his face was pudgy. His smile looked out of place, like it wasn't used to being on his face.

“I telephoned,” Ida said. “His father died, and I can't keep him, but he's a—”

“That's all right. We'll take good care of him.” He turned the smile on me. “How old are you?”

“Eleven,” Ida said before I could figure out what I wanted to tell him. “He's a good—”

“Ah. I have the elevens. I'm your prefect, young man. You'll see a lot of me. I'll tuck you in at night.”

And I'll yank your nose off.

He said his name was Mr. Meltzer. He said he'd take us to an office where Ida could sign the papers to give me away. But he didn't take us anywhere. He just stood there, smiling.

“I don't have any money to give you,” Ida said.

The smile disappeared. “Follow me,” he barked.

The office was a short way into the left-hand corridor. Inside, three men sat at wooden desks. It was as cold in here as it was in the hall. Each man wore a woolen vest under his suit jacket. The room stank from cigar smoke.

Mr. Meltzer explained to the man at the first desk that Ida was here to give me up. The man opened his desk and pulled out three sets of papers.

“You'll have to sign these,” he said.

Ida let go of my arm, but Mr. Meltzer was between me and the door. She leaned down to sign and then straightened up. “Good-bye, Dave. If I were Rockefeller, I'd keep you and Gideon.”

If I were Babe Ruth, I'd play for the Yankees.

At least she didn't try to kiss me. She turned to the man at the desk and started signing.

“Come with me,” Mr. Meltzer barked at me.

This was my chance. Ida thought she could give me away. Well, she couldn't. I picked up the suitcase and held it in my arms, although I could barely reach around it. If it was in my arms he couldn't hold my hand. “The handle's loose,” I said.

He held the door open for me, then started down the corridor, away from the lobby. I tried to walk silently, so he wouldn't notice if I wasn't next to him anymore. But my shoes clicked on the tile floor. As I walked, I stepped out of them. My socks were silent, beautifully silent. I took a few more steps forward. Then I turned and ran.