A Matter of Love in da Bronx Page 5

  --What's good? What's not good? Words in the deli. I suggest big, bulky roll, three pounds on it nice, fresh, Kosher ham--that'll be the day!--pound and half imported Swiss--girls like the nutsy flavor; half-gallon mustard, four-five hard Jewish pickles. The excavation began for the secretly secreted twenty. Found, it opened from fourths to one in brittle expansion. One Kosher dog, like it came from the factory! Yes. Mounds saukraut, marshmallow soft roll; warm boiled smell, waterdrooling waves in the hungrymouth! Yum!

  And a Pepsi. Large bottle.

  Respect! That's what one gets handing over a twenty, and appearing one gloomy, middle-of-the-week Wednesday past the rush of the mid-day hour when usually the meek-mannered payment in nickels and dimes inherits the usual lemon stuffed donut and Pepsi, bottle, regular. Respect, he could see it on the wise ass's face. So! What you do to be here at this time of day, Slave Labor, wear out a link in the chain and break out? Big smile handing back big change, secretly secreting the once four-folded twenty in a slot to a metal box under the counter to hold it out from a hold up person, this from a counter-wait person. Non-persons have no answer, they mumble as they pick up lemon donut and Pepsi, and retreat to the street. Seventeen years rehearsal prepared Sam for this moment. --Boss says just to appreciate living, go down to the deli to see how assholes must make their living. How are you doing, Asshole, making a living? Don't go away, perhaps another wiener for a winner. Big morsely, meaty, mustardy, juicy, spicy, sourey, satisfying big bite. Yumyumyum!

  --Fuck you! Handspins in the air, bird flying--middle finger poking upwards.

  --Bragging about your I.Q., are you? Big cud in the cheek. Ta-ta, Freehole--a non-invitational, non-secret Brotherhood.

  Almost back at the shop, the last of the dog going down. So good. He thought of going back for another. More reasonable to wait for it for supper. Rainsmell all over the place, but rainfall gone for the while.

  Strange. Shop door open. He knew he locked it when he left. What's the story?

  Sol. Standing tall, solemn faced, nose in the air, hands clasped behind his back, blue eyes now sighting from behind a coat of freezing rain--as a verglas--watching him walk in, feeling a peculiar pressure for out-of-the ordinary performance.

  Sol, I...

  Head shaking ever so slightly. Shutoff. No explanations wanted, or needed.

  --Sol, I... But you have to know why I wasn't here, Sol, don't turn me off again. I want you to know--if not understand--I just had to do it. Not for just the wet clothes, or hunger, but to keep what thread of me there is intact. I want you to know how important it was that I perform for myself. I would've done it even if you were here, with or without your approval. Who excuses, accuses.

  The closed eyes, the shaking head, were reinforced with an unhitched hand that waved before him; index rose slightly above the other partly closed digits as if in benediction, if you can believe.

  --You vere vair you vere. Sam, ve close shop for some few veeks. I not not vish to transact business until I return. Here is sign for door. I vill come get you at your home ven I come back. I vill now go.

  The transformation was all too obvious.

  Sam saw the neat lettering on the white paper on the cutting table atop the damask he was working. He read it. Another step and another step closer to be sure. It said what it said: "Closed few weeks. Death in Family."

  --Who?

  --Bela. My Belaya. The flowing source of sustenance that made life sacred must provide now only in spirit and memory. It wasn't what Sol said, but that's what he meant. She was in the hospital by early in the morning, out dead by afternoon.

  --Your wife?

  --Wife, a word to mean all worlds. Yes.

  --Oh! Sol! I'm so sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences.

  Nodding. --Yes. Thank you. Long, long spinning seconds of silence.

  --Ah...weeks? Two weeks, Sol?

  --Maybe more.

  --More? I really don't know about such things, I thought the period of mourning was ten days, or so, something like that. I would come to see you at your home, as is the custom, no?

  --No. I mean, yes, it is custom, and thank you, but no, do not come. I vill not there be.

  --Sol...?

  --I must go... Preparations be vaiting.

  --Sol, please let me ask, forgive me, I don't know. Flowers? Are they appropriate?

  --Anything from the heart is appropriate, but ve do not use flowers.

  --I want to do something for you, for your family... As a friend.

  --Sam, you are a mensch, othervise, I could not say this to you. I must leave. I am in pain so terrible alone I must be.

  There you go, shutting me out. I'm only a near-twenty-year employee, you and I working together in this crummy crumbling room, together all those years, our sweat stinking the air! doesn't qualify me to be a two-second friend! --Family? Yes. There is family vaiting. Friend? For Belaya and me all these years ve have just one friend. You, Sam. Only friend ve ever have. Belaya knows what you have done for us, every day I tell her how you vork.

  What? I wasn't even sure you were married! I never met your wife! I had no idea bout your family. It was your secret, and you kept it. It never troubled me because that was as I kept my world, and I assumed you shut me out because we were not two people, but one a boss, the other an employee! Lord Jesus! You kept me at such a distance! You never confided in me! Never asked about me, or my life. You don't even know the day I was born. Today, Sol! Today's my birthday. I'm 30! On a day such as this can I ask you to wish me a happy birthday? Never offered nor sought advice! Now I find I'm the only friend you and your wife have ever had! Didn't you FEEL how badly I needed some small personal relationship to infulgurate my tenebrous world? Why was I separated from such a treasure for so long? Something I was exactly in search of all these years! Why didn't I know? Oh! Scalding, thoracic-torquing irony! May I fill your silence with my scream of mourning!

  --I vant tell you, then, something. Yes. For me, I tell you.

  The two men, their eyes crossing an Eolithic bridge, standing only a few feet apart, both wearing hats, both wearing coats, both wearing the air of a mortal wound.

  Sol spoke with the do of the March of Time:

  Sol and Belaya came to the Bronx in 1945, right after the war. From just before that day, she was confined to a wheelchair to this very day. An emotional guillotine had severed the cables to her legs. Sol took care of her every need. She took care of only one of his, his need to be needed. Every day he lifted her into the tub in the morning, bathed her; sat her on the toilet, helped dress her, prepared her breakfast, then left for work. He would go home at three-hour intervals to tend her. She took only tea or soup during the day, otherwise ate very little. Frail. Fragile. She smoked cigarettes. Luckies. Unfiltered. Four packs a day. Once a week he went to the library for books. She read, listened to the radio, then television when it came along. It was on Friday nights they had their own holy day. They lit the candles to make Temple, had a simple supper, then Sol would read to her for hours, as he did other nights, the longest of the time on sad Russian poetry, but on this night, accompanying himself on the balalaika he would sing songs they'd known when they were sweethearts in a disappeared time, a disappeared world. Except for the worst weather, on Sunday afternoons, Sol took her for long hours of trips pushing her on paths around Bronx Park, sometimes through fallen leaves, sometimes through snow. They saw no one socially, though they were a recognized pair in the neighborhood. The phone she wouldn't answer never rang. Now, Belaya was gone, and she would be cremated, at last! and God! That’s the way it would be.

  Sol would take her to Germany, to Hamburg. To Aviva and Nina.

  Relatives?

  Yes. Daughters. Two little girls. Belaya's wish. She would be with them. He would find a way to put her ashes there with their two little ones, aged 5 and 7. About fifteen miles out of town. Where numbered Belaya accused Sol of abandoning them, which was not true at all at all. In a place called Bergen-Belsen.

&nb
sp; From the shop, Sol was long gone.

  Darkness had come on. The returned rain drumrolled in sudden loud then soft beats against the deadgray skylight to cause Sam to stop work as he closed up the back of the easy chair and stare upwards, mouth agape, at the ratattattat. Just look! Past the fixtures! The cascade made him feel like he was in the bottom of a pool under a waterfall. Mesmerized by the idea, unconsciously he held his breath. Is this what it's like to be trapped in a car underwater? There was something to do with the windows. Open them? Leave them closed? No matter that. If he could blast that drumhead he'd stand a good chance of being drowned. But not drowned dead. He just didn't have that kind of good luck. Probably just get washed right out the front door down to Bronx Park. If he really wanted to break out of this world he'd have to do some stupid thing that would damn his eternal soul to Hell. Doesn't count when you do it the hard way--go it a little bit every day--as he was. With that thought, he exhaled in one long, thin breath like the soft sough of an expiring aged beast resigned. He shook his head, which acknowledged the problem: Is this day yesterday? Or tomorrow? Today has that kind of similarity. Timespans were a samneness just as the ending neverending timpanic waterdrops of the passing storm. And April showers! Yes! Where are your flowers so late are they to come in the frost of my years? So fast goes the season? With good reason, mind you, especially for weedbarren soil. Like mine., Timecompression is a blessing to have done with it to save others the embarrassment of needing to note a markedly unremarkable long, drawn-out passing through this existence.

  Now he had trouble filling his lungs. They were working on diminished capacity, insufficient to cause his collapse, enough to warn him of what he was missing. He lived as he breathed. Sol was very much on his mind. He thought now of Sol's parting words to him a few hours ago. It made him aware of just how serious the world could be. How the real world should be correctly viewed. It gave him perspective. More than anything else, like a laser beam going its hole through armor plate, or scorching a pin-head tumor in a brain, there was focus. Focus on his past. Focus on his present. Focus on his future. Sol's sad face, hands on the open door, leaving to go tend his Belaya, saying: --Sam! Dress yourself. Your zipper's open.

  Swing low, Sweet Chariot. Coming for to carry me home...

  Swing low, Sweet Chariot, coming for to carry me home.

  Time. There was time. He would have to borrow a page from the playwright. Even the most novice knows in the third act comes the turning point, where the barricades he has erected for his characters are converted to bridges speeding the action from face-to-face conflict to the climax. Only Sam would have to switch his turning point to the second act of his life. There was time. He would make time, on this birth day. Numero three and zero! How to do it? He would change the usual, for one thing. By this time every day he had hunger pangs which would cause his hands to shake. Today, he wasn't hungry. He wasn't shaking. That was a start. Whatever caused it would be a momentary thing? Would he go on the rest of his life never feeling hungry again? Impossible, crazy impossible. Was he talking about change, or what?

  Tat. He drove a Number Six Blue in the bottom of the chair, took two turns and a half-hitch with the nylon. Tat-n-tat drove the tack home, locking the thread. He cut free the curved needle, ending the job for the night. He'd put the cambric on the bottom in the morning.

  So? Maybe he couldn't do anything about his appetite, but he could make a start to do things differently. Like what?

  Like he could get laid for once in his life, and allow himself to concentrate on something else. He could go on out and lose his virginity. It couldn't be that difficult. Whores. Women who accommodate men for money don't care about physical attributes. It's strictly Ah business, short term rental instead of long-term leasing. It would cost, that's all. Whatever it cost, he'd get the money. Give it a shot. Certainly the cost had to be more than he was carrying with him now, even if on impulse he went out looking to buy himself such a birthday present. One or two problems. How does one get in touch with a prostitute? One just didn't walk up to some chick and say, --Pardon me, but do you sell what I want? He'd have to do some investigating to find out. Lincoln Jackson would know. What if he sent her to a black girl? So? Lincoln Jackson said with your eyes closed all saddles were the same, --ceptin' the roughin' and rockin' they gib you...

  All of which reminded him he had a chance once, some years ago. Walking home down past Unionport Road, at night, dimlamplit street. She was a hag, he could see that all right. Puffy face, heavy on the rouge, gray hair, face-hiding hat.

  --Say, Handsome!

  Oh! Bullshit, lady, like the crow with the cheese shoulda asked the fox with the flattery, what do you want of me? But she threw him off guard because she asked if he could be of help to her. That, a believable plea, especially with so sincere a voice. He stopped. She approached. She moved her hips in a waggling, arthritic fashion, which he decided later was supposed to be a sexy come-on.

  --What?

  --Bet you and I can have a real good time.

  Starbursts in the brain. The unexpected. Shooting thoughts. Panic. Unanswered questions. Stuttering response.

  --Sure I can, Honey. I can give you a good time, one you'll remember and enjoy for a long time. What a rotten imitation of Mae West! But, God! She's propositioning me! She's offering me her body to fuck into her! The full registration of what her bawdy offer meant sent erectile blood surging into his sex organ. What do you think about getting laid, of being a hagrider? Too sudden a come-on. No time to think. Some sort of mumbled refusal.

  Response ignored.

  --My place is right down the street, Sweetheart. She moved closer bringing with her fakescented currents. Now, come on, don't walk away, Honey. I know you'll love it. You look like you've been without it for a long time. It'll feel so good... A part step backwards was all. Her paphian hand flashed forward clamping tight over his pants onto his throbbing downpointing erection for the blatant seduction. Firestorm in his brain as her hot paw milked it enticingly, urgently. Oh! Sweet Jesus! Why wasn't I ready for this? So unexpected! If I was given some warning, I'd know exactly what to do, how to respond to so compelling a desire. Madonna mia! Sweet sensations blasting from the boiling oil out of his erethismic boy-thing. To him, it was lost in the fireworks in his body. She knew what happened before he did when the muscle in her hand snap-tensed hard as steel.

  --Ya fuckin cheap son-of-a-bitch stealing a lousy handjob from a hardworking girl!

  All out of her mouth as the first spasm shot the warm glob of semen inside his pants down his leg. Warm, sticky emissions. Chicken skin ankles to crotch. He'd never come so fast in his whole life.

  He'd grab her arm, whoever she was, and go home with her next time. That's for sure. He was still waiting like a forelorn puppy dog to be taken home and treated kindly by some understanding lady of the evening.

  Okay. Next?

  Get out of the upholstery business. So? Been saying that for ten years. Couldn't do it before, just quit on Sol; let him down, let down Mom and Pop. Suppose I couldn't find another job. Come on! I could be a chef! All right, a cook. Like I do on Friday nights. One night there I get what it takes me to make here in two days.

  Okay, you're a big chef. Now what?

  A car. No more walking in the rain. Then what? Box of fine cigars. Terrific. Now what?

  Now I'm sick and tired of these years of listening to your hopeless dreams! How about one for the cucumberhead! Brrrraaaacccchhhhtttt! A native-born cheer. We speak Bronx.

  Rap! Rap! Bam! That would be Lou Harness. Somewhat early. Clearly in a hurry. He brought a warmth to Sam's chest. A good friend. An only friend. Better than a brother. He rushed to respond to his call, to greet him; to welcome his illumination. --Ayyyy! Effusively, waving him in.

  Smiling face, horn rimmed glasses, black hair, oval face, man's nose, cleanshaven, spumy salesman's personality. --Ayyyy! Yourself! He made no move to enter the shop, instead effectively signaling his intention by putting the attache case
which held a six-pack of Moosehead and a square of Permanent Ice considered as much a part of him as his name on the doorsill. --Ayyyyy! Cumbah! You don't mind I cancel for the movie tonight? No, huh? I got a real Mamma Mia waiting, and I'm late. You don't mind, huh? Sam shrugging his shoulders feigning acceptance of a difficult disappointment. --You want a Moosehead, yuh? No? 'Kay. Catch you tomorrow? Yuh? 'Kay. Give you a blow by blow tomorrow, you know what I mean? Ayyy! See ya.

  Sam smiled, waved him off. --See ya. he said after the door closed.

  He thought hard but briefly on his situation. Shrugged.

  Struggled into his raincoat.

  Sam left the shop, ignoring the light rain, going past the deli without a sideward glance, going for the broad expanse at Eden Farms. There, he'd head for the Palace Art Film, tops eighty seats, which was a low profile, no marquee, no gaudy advertising, no glarish lights theatre. Almost hidden as a doubleglass doors storefront. One small handprinted bill: