The Street (13 page)

Absently, my father handed her the magazine. “You mean to say,” he said, “you made all that up out of your own head?”

Mervyn nodded. He grinned. But he could see that my mother was displeased.

“It’s a top-notch story,” my father said. Smiling, he turned to my mother. “All the time I thought he was a sponger. A
poet. He’s a writer. Can you beat that?” He laughed, delighted. “Excuse me,” he said, and he went to wash his hands.

“Here’s your story, Mervyn,” my mother said. “I’d rather not read it.”

Mervyn lowered his head.

“But you don’t understand, Maw. Mervyn has to do that sort of stuff. For the money. He’s got to eat too, you know.”

My mother reflected briefly. “A little tip, then,” she said to Mervyn. “Better he doesn’t know why … well, you understand.”

“Sure I do.”

At supper my father said, “Hey, what’s your novel called, Mr. Kane?”

“The
DIRTY JEWS.”

“Are you crazy?”

“It’s an ironic title,” my mother said.

“Wow! It sure is.”

“I want to throw the lie back in their ugly faces,” Mervyn said.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” My father invited Mervyn to Tansky’s to meet the boys. “In one night there,” he said, “you can pick up enough material for a book.”

“I don’t think Mervyn is interested.”

Mervyn, I could see, looked dejected. But he didn’t dare antagonize my mother. Remembering something he had once told me, I said, “To a creative writer every experience is welcome.”

“Yes, that’s true,” my mother said. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

So my father, Mervyn and I set off together. My father showed
Liberty
to all of Tansky’s regulars. While Mervyn lit one cigarette off another, coughed, smiled foolishly and coughed again, my father introduced him as the up-and-coming writer.

“If he’s such a big writer what’s he doing on St. Urbain Street?”

My father explained that Mervyn had just finished his first novel. “When that comes out,” he said, “this boy will be batting in the major leagues.”

The regulars looked Mervyn up and down. His suit was shiny.

“You must understand,” Mervyn said, “that, at the best of times, it’s difficult for an artist to earn a living. Society is naturally hostile to us.”

“So what’s so special? I’m a plumber. Society isn’t hostile to me, but I’ve got the same problem. Listen here, it’s hard for anybody to earn a living.”

“You don’t get it,” Mervyn said, retreating a step.
“I’m
in rebellion against society.”

Tansky moved away, disgusted. “Gorki, there was a writer. This boy.…”

Molly’s father thrust himself into the group surrounding Mervyn. “You wrote a novel,” he asked, “it’s true?”

“It’s with a big publisher in New York right now,” my father said.

“You should remember,” Takifman said menacingly, “only to write good things about the Jews.”

Shapiro winked at Mervyn. The regulars smiled, some shyly, others hopeful, believing. Mervyn looked back at them solemnly. “It is my profound hope,” he said, “that in the years to come our people will have every reason to be proud of me.”

Segal stood Mervyn for a Pepsi and a sandwich. “Six months from now,” he said, “I’ll be saying I knew you when.…”

Mervyn whirled around on his counter stool. “I’m going to out-Emile Zola,” he said. He shook with laughter.

“Do you think there’s going to be another war?” Perlman asked.

“Oh, lay off,” my father said. “Give the man air. No wisdom outside of office hours, eh, Mervyn?”

Mervyn slapped his knees and laughed some more. Molly’s father pulled him aside. “You wrote this story,” he said,
holding up
Liberty
, “and don’t lie because I’ll find you out.”

“Yeah,” Mervyn said, “I’m the grub-streeter who knocked that one off. But it’s my novel that I really care about.”

“You know who I am? I’m Molly’s father. Rosen. Put it there, Mervyn. There’s nothing to worry. You leave everything to me.”

My mother was still awake when we got home. Alone at the kitchen table. “You were certainly gone a long time,” she said to Mervyn.

“Nobody forced him to stay.”

“He’s too polite,” my mother said, slipping her tooled leather bookmark between the pages of
Wuthering Heights
. “He wouldn’t tell you when he was bored by such common types.”

“Hey,” my father said, remembering. “Hey, Mervyn. Can you beat that Takifman for a character?”

Mervyn started to smile, but my mother sighed and he looked away. “It’s time I hit the hay,” he said.

“Well,” my father pulled down his suspenders. “If anyone wants to use the library let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

“Please, Sam
. You only say things like that to disgust me. I know that.”

My father went into Mervyn’s room. He smiled a little. Mervyn waited, puzzled. My father rubbed his forehead. He pulled his ear. “Well, I’m not a fool. You should know that. Life does things to you, but …”

“It certainly does, Mr. Hersh.”

“You won’t end up a zero like me. So I’m glad for you. Well, good night.”

But my father did not go to bed immediately. Instead, he got out his collection of pipes, neglected all these years, and sat down at the kitchen table to clean and restore them. And, starting the next morning, he began to search out and clip items in the newspapers, human interest stories with a twist, that might be exploited by Mervyn. When he came home
from work – early, he had not stopped off at Tansky’s – my father did not demand his supper right off but, instead, went directly to Mervyn’s room. I could hear the two men talking in low voices. Finally, my mother had to disturb them. Molly was on the phone.

“Mr. Kaplansky. Mervyn. Would you like to take me out on Friday night? I’m free.”

Mervyn didn’t answer.

“We could watch the people go by. Anything you say, Mervyn.”

“Did your father put you up to this?”

“What’s the diff? You wanted to go out with me. Well, on Friday, I’m free.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

“Don’t you like me any more?”

“I sure do. And the attraction is more than merely sexual. But if we go out together it will have to be because you so desire it.”

“Mervyn, if you don’t take me out on Friday he won’t let me out to the dance Saturday night with Solly. Please, Mervyn.”

“Sorry. But I must answer in the negative.”

Mervyn told my mother about the telephone conversation and immediately she said, “You did right.” But a few days later, she became tremendously concerned about Mervyn. He no longer slept in each morning. Instead, he was the first one up in the house, to wait by the window for the postman. After he had passed, however, Mervyn did not settle down to work. He’d wander sluggishly about the house or go out for a walk. Usually, Mervyn ended up at Tansky’s. My father would be waiting there.

“You know,” Sugarman said, “many amusing things have happened to me in my life. It would make
some
book.”

The men wanted to know Mervyn’s opinion of Sholem Asch, the red menace, and ungrateful children. They teased
him about my father. “To hear him tell it you’re a guaranteed genius.”

“Well,” Mervyn said, winking, blowing on his fingernails and rubbing them against his jacket lapel, “who knows?”

But Molly’s father said, “I read in the
Gazette
this morning where Hemingway was paid a hundred thousand dollars to make a movie from
one
story. A complete book must be worth at least five short stories. Wouldn’t you say?”

And Mervyn, coughing, clearing his throat, didn’t answer, but walked off quickly. His shirt collar, too highly starched, cut into the back of his hairless, reddening neck. When I caught up with him, he told me, “No wonder so many artists have been driven to suicide. Nobody understands us. We’re not in the rat-race.”

Molly came by at seven-thirty on Friday night.

“Is there something I can do for you?” my mother asked.

“I’m here to see Mr. Kaplansky. I believe he rents a room here.”

“Better to rent out a room than give fourteen ounces to the pound.”

“If you are referring to my father’s establishment then I’m sorry he can’t give credit to everybody.”

“We pay cash everywhere. Knock wood.”

“I’m sure. Now, may I see Mr. Kaplansky,
if you don’t mind?”

“He’s still dining. But I’ll inquire.”

Molly didn’t wait. She pushed past my mother into the kitchen. Her eyes were a little puffy. It looked to me like she had been crying. “Hi,” she said. Molly wore her soft black hair in an upsweep. Her mouth was painted very red.

“Siddown,” my father said. “Make yourself homely.” Nobody laughed. “It’s a joke,” he said.

“Are you ready, Mervyn?”

Mervyn fiddled with his fork. “I’ve got work to do tonight,” he said.

“I’ll put up a pot of coffee for you right away.”

Smiling thinly, Molly pulled back her coat, took a deep breath, and sat down. She had to perch on the edge of the chair either because of her skirt or that it hurt her to sit. “About the novel,” she said, smiling at Mervyn, “congrats.”

“But it hasn’t even been accepted by a publisher yet.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s good,” my mother said.

“Then what’s there to worry? Come on,” Molly said, rising. “Let’s skidaddle.”

We all went to the window to watch them go down the street together.

“Look at her how she’s grabbing his arm,” my mother said. “Isn’t it disgusting?”

“You lost by a
TKO
,” my father said.

“Thanks,”
my mother said, and she left the room.

My father blew on his fingers. “Whew,” he said. We continued to watch by the window. “I’ll bet you she sharpens them on a grindstone every morning to get them so pointy, and he’s such a shortie he wouldn’t even have to bend over to …” My father sat down, lit his pipe, and opened
Liberty
at Mervyn’s story. “You know, Mervyn’s not
that
special a guy. Maybe it’s not as hard as it seems to write a story.”

“Digging ditches would be easier,” I said.

My father took me to Tansky’s for a Coke. Drumming his fingers on the counter, he answered questions about Mervyn. “Well, it has to do with this thing … The Muse. On some days, with the Muse, he works better. But on other days …” My father addressed the regulars with a daring touch of condescension; I had never seen him so assured before. “Well, that depends. But he says Hollywood is very corrupt.”

Mervyn came home shortly after midnight.

“I want to give you a word of advice,” my mother said. “That girl comes from very common people. You can do better, you know.”

My father cracked his knuckles. He didn’t look at Mervyn.

“You’ve got your future career to think of. You must choose a mate who won’t be an embarrassment in the better circles.”

“Or still better stay a bachelor,” my father said.

“Nothing more dreadful can happen to a person,” my mother said, “than to marry somebody who doesn’t share his interests.”

“Play the field a little,” my father said, drawing on his pipe.

My mother looked into my father’s face and laughed. My father’s voice fell to a whisper. “You get married too young,” he said, “and you live to regret it.”

My mother laughed again. Her eyes were wet.

“I’m not the kind to stand by idly,” Mervyn said, “while you insult Miss Rosen’s good name.”

My father, my mother, looked at Mervyn as if surprised by his presence. Mervyn retreated, startled. “I
mean that,” he
said.

“Just who do you think you’re talking to?” my mother said. She looked sharply at my father.

“Hey, there,” my father said.

“I hope,” my mother said, “success isn’t giving you a swelled head.”

“Success won’t change me. I’m steadfast. But you are intruding into my personal affairs. Good night.”

My father seemed both dismayed and a little pleased that someone had spoken up to my mother.

“And just what’s ailing you?” my mother asked.

“Me? Nothing.”

“If you could only see yourself. At your age. A pipe.”

“According to the
Digest
it’s safer than cigarettes.”

“You know absolutely nothing about people. Mervyn would never be rude to me. It’s only his artistic temperament coming out.”

My father waited until my mother had gone to bed and then he slipped into Mervyn’s room. “Hi.” He sat down on the edge of Mervyn’s bed. “Tell me to mind my own business if
you want me to, but … well, have you had bad news from New York? The publisher?”

“I’m still waiting to hear from New York.”

“Sure,” my father said, jumping up. “Sorry. Good night.” But he paused briefly at the door. “I’ve gone out on a limb for you. Please don’t let me down.”

Molly’s father phoned the next morning. “You had a good time, Mervyn?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

“Atta boy. That girl she’s crazy about you. Like they say she’s walking on air.”

Molly, they said, had told the other girls in the office at Susy’s Smart-Wear that she would probably soon be leaving for, as she put it, tropical climes. Gitel Shalinsky saw her shopping for beach wear on Park Avenue – in November, this – and the rumour was that Mervyn had already accepted a Hollywood offer for his book, a guaranteed best-seller. A couple of days later a package came for Mervyn. It was his novel. There was a printed form enclosed with it. The publishers felt the book was not for them.

“Tough luck,” my father said.

“It’s nothing,” Mervyn said breezily. “Some of the best wordsmiths going have had their novels turned down six-seven times before a publisher takes it. Besides, this outfit wasn’t for me in the first place. It’s a homosexual company. They only print the pretty-pretty prose boys.” Mervyn laughed, he slapped his knees. “I’ll send the book off to another publisher today.”

My mother made Mervyn his favourite dishes for dinner. “You have real talent,” she said to him, “and everything will come to you.” Afterwards, Molly came by. Mervyn came home very late this time, but my mother waited up for him all the same.

“I’m invited to eat at the Rosens on Saturday night. Isn’t that nice?”