Authors: Bernard Malamud
The Assistant (12 page)
“I went to high school in three different states and finally got finished up at nightâin a night school. I planned on going to college but this job came along that I couldn't turn down, so I changed my mind, but it was a mistake.”
“I had to help my mother and father out,” Helen said, “so I couldn't go either. I've taken courses in NYU at nightâmostly lit coursesâand I've added up about a year's credit, but it's very hard at night. My work doesn't satisfy me. I would still like to go full time in the day.”
He flipped his butt away. “I've been thinking about starting in college lately, even if I am this age. I know a guy who did it.”
“Would you go at night?” she asked.
“Maybe, maybe in the day if I could get the right kind of a jobâin an all-night cafeteria or something like that, for instance. This guy I just mentioned did thatâassistant manager or something. After five or six years he graduated an engineer. Now he's making his pile, working all over the country.”
“It's hard doing it that wayâvery hard.”
“The hours are rough but you get used to it. When you got something good to do, sleep is a waste of time.”
“It takes years at night.”
“Time don't mean anything to me.”
“It does to me.”
“The way I figure, anything is possible. I always think about the different kinds of chances I have. This has stuck in my mindâdon't get yourself trapped in one thing, because maybe you can do something else a whole lot better. That's why I guess I never settled down so far. I've been exploring conditions. I still have some very good ambitions which I would like to see come true. The first step to that, I know for sure now, is to get a good education. I didn't use to think like that, but the more I live the more I do. Now it's always on my mind.”
“I've always felt that way,” Helen said.
He lit another cigarette, throwing the burnt match away. “What kind of work do you do?”
“I'm a secretary.”
“You like it?” He smoked with half-closed eyes. She sensed he knew she didn't care for her job and suspected he had heard her father or mother say so.
After a while, she answered, “No, I don't. The job never changes. And I could live happily without seeing some of those characters I have to deal with all day long, the salesmen, I mean.”
“They get fresh?”
“They talk a lot. I'd like to be doing something that feels usefulâsome kind of social work or maybe teaching. I have no sense of accomplishment in what I'm doing now. Five o'clock comes and at last I go home. That's about all I live for, I guess.”
She spoke of her daily routine, but after a minute saw he was only half-listening. He was staring at the moon-drenched trees in the distance, his face drawn, his lit eyes elsewhere.
Helen sneezed, unwound her scarf and wrapped it tightly around her head.
“Shall we go now?”
“Just till I finish my cigarette.”
Some fat nerve, she thought.
Yet his face, even with the broken nose, was sensitive in the dark light. What makes me so irritable? She had had the wrong idea of him but it was her own fault, the result of staying so long apart from people.
He drew a long jagged breath.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
Frank cleared his throat but his voice was hoarse. “No, just something popped into my mind when I was looking at the moon. You know how your thoughts are.”
“Nature sets you thinking?”
“I like scenery.”
“I walk a lot for that reason.”
“I like the sky at night, but you see more of it in the West. Out here the sky is too high, there are too many big buildings.”
He squashed his cigarette with his heel and wearily rose, looking now like someone who had parted with his youth.
She got up and walked with him, curious about him. The moon moved above them in the homeless sky.
After a long silence, he said as they were walking, “I like to tell you what I was thinking about.”
“Please, you don't have to.”
“I feel like talking,” he said. “I got to thinking about this
carnie outfit I worked for one time when I was about twenty-one. Right after I got the job I fell for a girl in an acrobatic act. She was built something like youâon the slim side, I would say. At first I don't think I rated with her. I think she thought I wasn't a serious type of guy. She was kind of a complicated girl, you know, moody, with lots of problems in her mind that she kept to herself. Well, one day we got to talking and she told me she wanted to be a nun. I said, âI don't think it will suit you.' âWhat do you know about me?' she said. I didn't tell her, although I know people pretty well, don't ask me why, I guess you are born with certain things. Anyway, the whole summer long I was nuts about her but she wouldn't give me another look though there was nobody else around that I saw she went with. âIs it my age?' I asked her. âNo, but you haven't lived,' she answered me. âIf you only could see in my heart all I have lived through,' I said, but I have my doubts if she believed me. All we ever did was talk like that. Once in a while I would ask her for a date, not thinking I would ever get one, and I never did. âGive up,' I said to myself, âall she is interested in is herself.'
carnie outfit I worked for one time when I was about twenty-one. Right after I got the job I fell for a girl in an acrobatic act. She was built something like youâon the slim side, I would say. At first I don't think I rated with her. I think she thought I wasn't a serious type of guy. She was kind of a complicated girl, you know, moody, with lots of problems in her mind that she kept to herself. Well, one day we got to talking and she told me she wanted to be a nun. I said, âI don't think it will suit you.' âWhat do you know about me?' she said. I didn't tell her, although I know people pretty well, don't ask me why, I guess you are born with certain things. Anyway, the whole summer long I was nuts about her but she wouldn't give me another look though there was nobody else around that I saw she went with. âIs it my age?' I asked her. âNo, but you haven't lived,' she answered me. âIf you only could see in my heart all I have lived through,' I said, but I have my doubts if she believed me. All we ever did was talk like that. Once in a while I would ask her for a date, not thinking I would ever get one, and I never did. âGive up,' I said to myself, âall she is interested in is herself.'
“Then one morning, when it was getting to be around fall and you could smell the season changing, I said to her I was taking off when the show closed. âWhere are you going?' she asked me. I said I was going to look for a better life. She didn't answer anything to that. I said, âDo you still want to be a nun?' She got red and looked away, then she answered she wasn't sure about that any more. I could see she had changed but I wasn't fool enough to think it was account of me. But I guess it really was, because by accident our hands sort of touched, and when I saw the way she looked at me, it was hard to breathe. My God, I thought, we are both in love. I said to her, âHoney, meet me here after the show tonight and let's go where we will be alone.' She said yes. Before she left she gave me a quick kiss.
“Anyway, that same afternoon she took off in her old man's jalopy to buy a blouse she had seen in some store window
in the last town, but on the way back it started to rain. Exactly what happened I don't know. I guess she misjudged a curve or something and went flying off the road. The jalopy bounced down the hill, and her neck was broken ⦠. That's how it ended.”
in the last town, but on the way back it started to rain. Exactly what happened I don't know. I guess she misjudged a curve or something and went flying off the road. The jalopy bounced down the hill, and her neck was broken ⦠. That's how it ended.”
They walked in silence. Helen was moved. But why, she thought, all the sad music?
“I'm awfully sorry.”
“It was years ago.”
“It was a tragic thing to happen.”
“I couldn't expect better,” he said.
“Life renews itself.”
“My luck stays the same.”
“Go on with your plans for an education.”
“That's about it,” Frank said. “That's what I got to do.” Their eyes met, she felt her scalp prickle.
Then they left the park and went home.
Outside the dark grocery store she quickly said good night.
“I'll stay out a little longer,” Frank said. “I like to see the moon.”
She went upstairs.
In bed she thought of their walk, wondering how much to believe of what he had told her about his ambitions and plans for college. He could not have said anything to make a better impression on her. And what was the purpose of the sad tale of the carnival girl “built something like you”? Who was he mixing up with his carnival girls? Yet he had told the story simply, without any visible attempt to work on her sympathy. Probably it was a true memory, recalled because he happened to be feeling lonely. She had had her own moonlit memories to contend with. Thinking about Frank, she tried to see him straight but came up with a confusing image: the grocery clerk with the greedy eyes, on top of the ex-carnival hand and future serious college student, a man of possibilities.
On the verge of sleep she sensed a desire on his part to
involve her in his life. The aversion she felt for him before returned but she succeeded without too much effort in dispelling it. Thoroughly awake now, she regretted she could not see the sky from her window in the wall, or look down into the street. Who was he making into a wife out of snowy moonlight?
involve her in his life. The aversion she felt for him before returned but she succeeded without too much effort in dispelling it. Thoroughly awake now, she regretted she could not see the sky from her window in the wall, or look down into the street. Who was he making into a wife out of snowy moonlight?
Earnings in the grocery, especially around Christmas and New Year's, continued to rise. For the last two weeks in December Morris averaged an unusual one hundred and ninety. Ida had a new theory to explain the spurt of business: an apartment house had opened for rentals a few blocks away; furthermore, she had heard that Schmitz was not so attentive to his store as he was before. An unmarried storekeeper was sometimes erratic. Morris didn't deny these things but he still attributed their good fortune mostly to his clerk. For reasons that were clear to him the customers liked Frank, so they brought in their friends. As a result, the grocer could once more meet his running expenses, and with pinching and scrimping, even pay off some outstanding bills. Grateful to Frankâwho seemed to take for granted the upswing of businessâhe planned to pay him more than the measly five dollars they shamefacedly gave him, but cautiously decided to see if the added income would continue in January, when business usually slackened off. Even if he regularly took in two hundred a week, with the slight profit he made he could hardly afford a clerk. Before things were easier they had to take in a minimum of two-fifty or three hundred, an impossibility.
Since, though, the situation was better, Morris told Helen
that he wanted her to keep more of her hard-earned twenty-five dollars; he said she must now keep fifteen, and if business stayed as it was maybe he would not need her assistance any more. He hoped so. Helen was overwhelmed at having fifteen a week to spend on herself. She needed shoes badly and could use a new coatâhers was little better than a ragâand a dress or two. And she wanted to put away a few dollars for future tuition at NYU. She felt like her father about Frankâhe had changed their luck. Remembering what he had said in the park that night about his ambitions and desire for education, she felt he someday would get what he wanted because he was obviously more than just an ordinary person.
that he wanted her to keep more of her hard-earned twenty-five dollars; he said she must now keep fifteen, and if business stayed as it was maybe he would not need her assistance any more. He hoped so. Helen was overwhelmed at having fifteen a week to spend on herself. She needed shoes badly and could use a new coatâhers was little better than a ragâand a dress or two. And she wanted to put away a few dollars for future tuition at NYU. She felt like her father about Frankâhe had changed their luck. Remembering what he had said in the park that night about his ambitions and desire for education, she felt he someday would get what he wanted because he was obviously more than just an ordinary person.
He was often at the library. Almost every time Helen went there she saw him sitting over an open book at one of the tables; she wondered if all he did in his spare time was come here and read. She respected him for it. She herself averaged two weekly visits, each time checking out only a book or two, because it was one of her few pleasures to return for another. Even at her loneliest she liked being among books, although she was sometimes depressed to see how much there was to read that she hadn't. Meeting Frank so often, she was at first uneasy: he haunted the place, for what? But, a library was a library; he came here, as she did, to satisfy certain needs. Like her he read a lot because he was lonely, Helen thought. She thought this after he had told her about the carnival girl. Gradually her uneasiness left her.
Although he left, as a rule, when she did, if she wanted to walk home alone, he did not intrude. Sometimes he rode back on the trolley while she walked. Sometimes she was on the trolley and saw him walking. But generally, so long as the weather was not too bad, they went home together, a couple of times turning off into the park. He told her more about himself. He had lived a different life from most people she had known, and she envied him all the places he had been to. Her own life, she thought, was much like her father's, restricted by his store, his habits, hers. Morris hardly
ever journeyed past the corner, except on rare occasions, usually to return something a customer had left on the counter. When Ephraim was alive, when they were kids, her father liked to go bathing Sunday afternoons at Coney Island; and on Jewish holidays they would sometimes see a Yiddish play, or ride on the subway to the Bronx to call on landsleit. But after Ephraim died Morris had for years gone nowhere. Neither had she, for other reasons. Where could she go without a cent? She read with eagerness of far-off places but spent her life close to home. She would have given much to visit Charleston, New Orleans, San Francisco, cities she had heard so much about, but she hardly ever got beyond the borough of Manhattan. Hearing Frank talk of Mexico, Texas, California, other such places, she realized anew the meagerness of her movements: every day but Sunday on the BMT to Thirty-fourth Street and back. Add to that a twice-weekly visit to the library at night. In summer, the same as before, except a few timesâusually during her vacationâto Manhattan Beach; also, if she were lucky, to a concert or two at Lewisohn Stadium. Once when she was twenty and worn out, her mother had insisted she go for a week to an inexpensive adult camp in New Jersey. Before that, while in high school, she had traveled to Washington, D. C., with her American history class for a week end of visiting government buildings. So far and no further in the open world. To stick so close to where she had lived her whole life was a crime. His stories made her impatientâshe wanted to travel, experience, live.
ever journeyed past the corner, except on rare occasions, usually to return something a customer had left on the counter. When Ephraim was alive, when they were kids, her father liked to go bathing Sunday afternoons at Coney Island; and on Jewish holidays they would sometimes see a Yiddish play, or ride on the subway to the Bronx to call on landsleit. But after Ephraim died Morris had for years gone nowhere. Neither had she, for other reasons. Where could she go without a cent? She read with eagerness of far-off places but spent her life close to home. She would have given much to visit Charleston, New Orleans, San Francisco, cities she had heard so much about, but she hardly ever got beyond the borough of Manhattan. Hearing Frank talk of Mexico, Texas, California, other such places, she realized anew the meagerness of her movements: every day but Sunday on the BMT to Thirty-fourth Street and back. Add to that a twice-weekly visit to the library at night. In summer, the same as before, except a few timesâusually during her vacationâto Manhattan Beach; also, if she were lucky, to a concert or two at Lewisohn Stadium. Once when she was twenty and worn out, her mother had insisted she go for a week to an inexpensive adult camp in New Jersey. Before that, while in high school, she had traveled to Washington, D. C., with her American history class for a week end of visiting government buildings. So far and no further in the open world. To stick so close to where she had lived her whole life was a crime. His stories made her impatientâshe wanted to travel, experience, live.
One night as they were sitting on a bench in an enclosed part of the park beyond the tree-lined plaza, Frank said he had definitely made up his mind to start college in the fall. This excited her, and for hours afterward Helen couldn't stop thinking about it. She imagined all the interesting courses he could take, envied him the worthwhile people he'd meet in his classes, the fun he'd have studying. She pictured him in nice clothes, his hair cut shorter, maybe his nose straightened, speaking a more careful English, inter.
ested in music and literature, learning about politics, psychology, philosophy; wanting to know more the more he knew, in this way growing in value to himself and others. She imagined herself invited by him to a campus concert or play, where she would meet his college friends, people of promise. Afterward as they crossed the campus in the dark, Frank would point out the buildings his classes met in, classes taught by distinguished professors. And maybe if she closed her eyes she could see a timeâmiracle of miraclesâwhen Helen Bober was enrolled here, not just a stranger on the run, pecking at a course or two at night, and tomorrow morning back at Levenspiel's Louisville Panties and Bras. At least he made her dream.
ested in music and literature, learning about politics, psychology, philosophy; wanting to know more the more he knew, in this way growing in value to himself and others. She imagined herself invited by him to a campus concert or play, where she would meet his college friends, people of promise. Afterward as they crossed the campus in the dark, Frank would point out the buildings his classes met in, classes taught by distinguished professors. And maybe if she closed her eyes she could see a timeâmiracle of miraclesâwhen Helen Bober was enrolled here, not just a stranger on the run, pecking at a course or two at night, and tomorrow morning back at Levenspiel's Louisville Panties and Bras. At least he made her dream.
To help him prepare for college Helen said he ought to read some good novels, some of the great ones. She wanted Frank to like novels, to enjoy in them what she did. So she checked out
Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina
and
Crime
all by writers he had barely heard of, but they were very satisfying books, she said. He noticed she handled each yellow-paged volume as though she were holding in her respectful hands the works of God Almighty. As ifâaccording to herâyou could read in them everything you couldn't afford not to knowâthe Truth about Life. Frank carried the three books up to his room, and huddled in a blanket to escape the cold that seeped in through the loose window frames, had rough going. The stories were hard to get into because the people and places were strange to him, their crazy names difficult to hold in his mind and some of the sentences were so godawful complicated he forgot the beginning before he got to the end. The opening pages irritated him as he pushed through forests of odd facts and actions. Though he stared for hours at the words, starting one book, then another, then the thirdâin the end, in exasperation, he flung them aside.
Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina
and
Crime
all by writers he had barely heard of, but they were very satisfying books, she said. He noticed she handled each yellow-paged volume as though she were holding in her respectful hands the works of God Almighty. As ifâaccording to herâyou could read in them everything you couldn't afford not to knowâthe Truth about Life. Frank carried the three books up to his room, and huddled in a blanket to escape the cold that seeped in through the loose window frames, had rough going. The stories were hard to get into because the people and places were strange to him, their crazy names difficult to hold in his mind and some of the sentences were so godawful complicated he forgot the beginning before he got to the end. The opening pages irritated him as he pushed through forests of odd facts and actions. Though he stared for hours at the words, starting one book, then another, then the thirdâin the end, in exasperation, he flung them aside.
But because Helen had read and respected these books, it shamed him that he hadn't, so he picked one up from the floor and went back to it. As he dragged himself through the
first chapters, gradually the reading became easier and he got interested in the peopleâtheir lives in one way or another woundedâsome to death. Frank read, at the start, in snatches, then in bursts of strange hunger, and before too long he had managed to finish the books. He had started
Madame Bovary
with some curiosity, but in the end he felt disgusted, wearied, left cold, He did not know why people would want to write about that kind of a dame. Yet he felt a little sorry for her and the way things had happened, till there was no way out of it but her death.
Anna Karenina
was better; she was more interesting and better in bed. He didn't want her to kill herself under the train in the end. Still, although Frank felt he could also take the book of leave it, he was moved at the deep change that came over Levin in the woods just after he had thought of hanging himself. At least he wanted to live.
Crime and Punishment
repelled yet fascinated him, with everybody in the joint confessing to something every time he opened his yapâto some weakness, or sickness, or crime. Raskolnikov, the student, gave him a pain, with all his miseries. Frank first had the idea he must be a Jew and was surprised when he found he wasn't. He felt, in places in the book, even when it excited him, as if his face had been shoved into dirty water in the gutter; in other places, as if he had been on a drunk for a month. He was glad when he was finished with the book, although he liked Sonia, the prostitute, and thought of her for days after he had read it.
first chapters, gradually the reading became easier and he got interested in the peopleâtheir lives in one way or another woundedâsome to death. Frank read, at the start, in snatches, then in bursts of strange hunger, and before too long he had managed to finish the books. He had started
Madame Bovary
with some curiosity, but in the end he felt disgusted, wearied, left cold, He did not know why people would want to write about that kind of a dame. Yet he felt a little sorry for her and the way things had happened, till there was no way out of it but her death.
Anna Karenina
was better; she was more interesting and better in bed. He didn't want her to kill herself under the train in the end. Still, although Frank felt he could also take the book of leave it, he was moved at the deep change that came over Levin in the woods just after he had thought of hanging himself. At least he wanted to live.
Crime and Punishment
repelled yet fascinated him, with everybody in the joint confessing to something every time he opened his yapâto some weakness, or sickness, or crime. Raskolnikov, the student, gave him a pain, with all his miseries. Frank first had the idea he must be a Jew and was surprised when he found he wasn't. He felt, in places in the book, even when it excited him, as if his face had been shoved into dirty water in the gutter; in other places, as if he had been on a drunk for a month. He was glad when he was finished with the book, although he liked Sonia, the prostitute, and thought of her for days after he had read it.
Afterward Helen suggested other novels by the same writers, so he would know them better, but Frank balked, saying he wasn't sure that he had understood those he had read. “I'm sure you have,” she answered, “if you got to know the people.” “I know them,” he muttered. But to please her he worked through two more thick books, sometimes tasting nausea on his tongue, his face strained as he read, eyes bright black, frowning, although he usually felt some relief at the end of the book. He wondered what Helen found so satisfying in all this goddamned human misery, and suspected
her of knowing he had spied on her in the bathroom and was using the books to punish him for it. But then he thought it was an unlikely idea. Anyway, he could not get out of his thoughts how quick some people's lives went to pot when they couldn't make up their minds what to do when they had to do it; and he was troubled by the thought of how easy it was for a man to wreck his whole life in a single wrong act. After that the guy suffered forever, no matter what he did to make up for the wrong. At times, as the clerk had sat in his room late at night, a book held stiffly in his reddened hands, his head numb although he wore a hat, he felt a strange falling away from the printed page and had this crazy sensation that he was reading about himself. At first this picked him up but then it deeply depressed him.
her of knowing he had spied on her in the bathroom and was using the books to punish him for it. But then he thought it was an unlikely idea. Anyway, he could not get out of his thoughts how quick some people's lives went to pot when they couldn't make up their minds what to do when they had to do it; and he was troubled by the thought of how easy it was for a man to wreck his whole life in a single wrong act. After that the guy suffered forever, no matter what he did to make up for the wrong. At times, as the clerk had sat in his room late at night, a book held stiffly in his reddened hands, his head numb although he wore a hat, he felt a strange falling away from the printed page and had this crazy sensation that he was reading about himself. At first this picked him up but then it deeply depressed him.
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One rainy night, as Helen was about to go up to Frank's room to ask him to take back something he had given her that she didn't want, before she could go the phone rang, and Ida hastened out into the hall to call her. Frank, lying on his bed in his room, watching the rainy window, heard her go downstairs. Morris was in the store waiting on someone as Helen came in, but her mother sat in the back over a cup of tea.
“It's Nat,” Ida whispered, not moving.
She'll tell herself she isn't listening, thought Helen.
Her first feeling was that she didn't want to talk to the law student, but his voice was warm, which for him meant extended effort, and a warm voice on a wet night was a warm voice. She could easily picture what he looked like as he spoke into the phone. Yet she wished he had called her in December, when she had so desperately wanted him, for now she was again aware of a detachment in herself that she couldn't account for.
“Nobody sees you any more, Helen,” Nat began. “Where've you disappeared to?”
“Oh, I've been around,” she said, trying to hide a slight tremble in her voice. “And you?”
“Is somebody there where you're talking that you sound so restrained?”
“That's right.”
“I thought so. So let me make it quick and clean. Helen, it's been a long time. I want to see you. What do you say if we take in a play this Saturday night? I can stop off for tickets on my way uptown tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Nat. I don't think so.” She heard her mother sigh.
Nat cleared his throat. “Helen, I honestly want to know how somebody's supposed to defend himself when he hasn't any idea what's in the indictment against him? What kind of a crime have I committed? Yield the details.”
“I'm not a lawyerâI don't make indictments.”
“So call it a causeâwhat's the cause? One day we're close to each other, the next I'm alone on an island, holding my hat. What did I do, please tell me?”
“Let's drop this subject.”
Here Ida rose and went into the store, softly closing the door behind her. Thanks, thought Helen. She kept her voice low so they wouldn't hear her through the window in the wall.
“You're a funny kid,” Nat was saying. “You've got some old-fashioned values about some things. I always told you you punish yourself too much. Why should anybody have such a hot and heavy conscience in these times? People are freer in the twentieth century. Pardon me for saying it but it's true.”
She blushed. His insight was to his credit. “My values are my values,” she replied.
“What,” Nat argued, “would people's lives be like if everybody regretted every beautiful minute of all that happened? Where's the poetry of living?”
“I hope you're alone,” she said angrily, “where you're so blithely discussing this subject.”
He sounded weary, hurt. “Of course I'm alone. My God, Helen, how low have I fallen in your opinion?”
“I told you what was going on at this end. Up to a minute ago my mother was still in the room.”
“I'm sorry, I forgot.”
“It's all right now.”
“Look, girl,” he said affectionately, “the telephone is no place to hash out our personal relations. What do you say if I run upstairs and see you right away? We got to come to some kind of a sensible understanding. I'm not exactly a pig, Helen. What you don't want is your privilege, if I may be so frank. So you don't want, but at least let's be friends and go out once in a while. Let me come up and talk to you.”
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