30 Pieces of a Novel (28 page)

Now, out of the whole camp it's just him and this very young boy who's left, and then the boy's picked up and he says to Uncle Sol, “Where do you think my mother is? She's always on time, even a little before. Should we call her?” and Uncle Sol says, “Good idea, kid,” and gives him a dime and points to a booth nearby and he goes to it, puts the dime in and thinks, What's my number again? It's been so long, I forgot, and knows he can dial Information for it but then he might lose the dime and he's not sure he'd know what to say to the phone company to get it back and also what to say to the Information lady to get his number and then to Uncle Sol if he really lost the dime, so he goes back to him and says, “You don't have my phone number on your clipboard there, do you?” and Uncle Sol says, “It's been a long time, hasn't it?” and he says yes, thinking Uncle Sol either means long time away from New York or since he's used his phone number or called home or maybe since he's asked anyone for it. Anyway, he gets the number, says, “That's it; now I won't probably forget it till the end of next summer,” and calls and nobody answers. He offers to give back the dime but Uncle Sol says, “Nah, hold it; better than asking me for it again,” and he says, “What'll happen if no one comes?” and Uncle Sol says, “Then I take you to my house and throw you into the basement pit with all the other campers from previous years whose parents didn't pick them up and work you twelve hours a day only on bread and water and at less than slave wages, digging a tunnel to China so I can open up a fast new lucrative rice route. Only kidding; don't look so scared,” and he says, “I wasn't; I could tell you were fooling,” though he did think while Uncle Sol was saying all that that he might do something mean to him—raise his voice, pull him by the arm to the phone to call again or something—not by the story, which was silly, but by his sharp voice and face, which seem a bit angry. “And listen, don't even say your mother might not come. It's never happened in ten years where a camper's been stranded, knock wood,” and looks around, then taps Gould's head. “It'd be the worst thing in the world for me, hunting down a parent. After two months of camp without a day off and another six weeks straight preparing to open it, not to mention going to everyone and his uncle's home for three months to show them pictures of the camp and stuff to come there and in between that hiring a staff and setting up the camp reunion, you don't think I need a few hours to myself with no campers around before I go back tomorrow to help close the place? You've any idea what that closing entails?” and he says no, though he didn't understand all of what that last part meant since he doesn't know what “entails” means, and Uncle Sol says, “You don't want to know, believe me, but if you're smart never become head counselor of a camp you're also part owner of. I thought it'd be easier than school-teaching, but like every time I plan my life for something better, I was wrong. But if your folks aren't here in half an hour—and God help me I hope it doesn't take that long, my feet won't stand it—then I contact one of your relatives or someone like that close. I have a sheet with the names of three people to reach in case of emergency for all my campers,” and Gould says, “What kind of emergency could it be?” and Uncle Sol says, “I said, in case of,
in case of
. You gotta listen better, Gould, it'll help you later in life and possibly even a little today. But there won't be an emergency, so relax and enjoy the station and don't make me even more nervous than I am.” Now I'm worried, Gould thinks. Did his mother take a cab and it crashed? Maybe she forgot about today and was at home when he called and for some reason didn't pick up the phone, but then why wouldn't his dad have reminded her he was coming back from camp today? Something really bad happen to her at home? He should have called his father at work after nobody answered at home, but Uncle Sol only gave him the dime to call home and he didn't think of it then besides, and if he got Dad at work he might get mad Gould took him away from important business or customers. Maybe there was some catastrophe at home: a fire, something in the electricity or with the stove. It could be happening right now and the phone when he called kept ringing through all of it. That could be why the camp wasn't told why his folks couldn't pick him up. He's sure something bad's happened, though maybe not as bad as he just imagined. He's going to ask Uncle Sol if he can use the dime to call his father at work, and if he gets him he thinks his father won't be too upset with him when he learns how worried he is about his mother and that he's the last camper here and Uncle Sol's ready to bust a gut over it.

Just then a woman says, “Excuse me, but Gould?” She's holding a photo and looks back and forth at him and it. “Gould Bookbinder, this is you”—showing him a photo of him last summer—“Bea's son, right?” and he says, “Yeah, who are you?” “Can I help you, miss? I'm the head counselor at Gould's camp,” and she says, “Mr. Birmbaum. I was supposed to look for you too. I'm a friend of Gould's mother and I've a letter from her giving me permission to collect her son and deliver him home,” and Uncle Sol says, “May I see it?” and takes the letter and reads it. “Gould, this your mom's writing?” and he looks at it, and it starts off with, after the
To Sol Birmbaum or Whomever Else It May Concern: I hereby give permission to Lynn Jacobo, a trusted co-worker of mine at Lord & Taylor's and a friend
… “and he says, “I think so; it looks it, the way she makes circles over the i's and the nice handwriting,” and Uncle Sol says, “But you didn't seem to recognize the lady,” and she says, “He couldn't have. We knew there'd be this problem, because you should be extra cautious with your charges, so that's why this letter. I only met his mother this summer at the store we work at,” and Gould says, “That's another thing that sounds a bit fishy to me, Uncle Sol. My mother never worked at a store,” and she says, “Excuse me, he's right, though she works at one now forty-four hours a week. And two days ago she gave me this note, in case she couldn't pick him up, much as she wanted to, and then called late last night for me to do her this favor and fetch him. She said she'd call you before your buses left for the train station, but she didn't?” and Uncle Sol says no and she says, “Well, what can I say? But I still got the arrival time wrong by an hour, it seems, if all the kids are gone, because if you can believe it I thought I was getting here ten minutes early, just to have a doughnut and coffee and a quick peep around. I really apologize for coming late, Gould; you must've been worried,” and Uncle Sol says, “I'm sorry, Miss Jacobi—” and she says, “Jacobo, and missus, and we didn't properly say hello, did we?” and shakes his hand and then shakes Gould's and says, “It's so nice meeting you after hearing such wonderful things about you from your mother. My, does she talk of you!” and he says, “Thanks.” “Still, Mrs. Jacobo, you're not one of the names on the list of people allowed to get him. I have Louise and Max Rand down here, her sister and brother-in-law it says, and a Florence Hoff,” and she says, “The last is her neighbor—I've met her, and Gould certainly knows her—and she's at a psychotherapists' convention. That's what she does, psychotherapy, out of her apartment,” and Uncle Sol says, “That so, Gould?” and he says, “I know Flo; I don't know what that psychosomething is, but she does work in a big room that she has.” “As for the Rands,” she says, “all I know is what I heard from Bea, and that's that they're at a resort in New Hampshire till Labor Day, so that left little me,” and Uncle Sol says, “You do know a lot about the family. But you'll still have to give more proof, because I can't release a child to just some family knowledge and a letter. And when we called his home before, no one answered, so is Mrs. Bookbinder at work?” and she says, “She's home—didn't I say?—waiting for me to bring him. I'm on my lunch hour, which is really just forty-five minutes to the dot, so I have to be quick. Even if I cab back and forth I won't make it; so what are they going to do, dock me for fifteen minutes? And she's okay, Gould, nothing to worry about; your mom must've simply not heard the phone ring, because otherwise I'm sure she would've answered. But may I speak to you, Sol, out of earshot, if we can?” and Uncle Sol looks at her peculiarly. She gives an expression, the way her forehead's folded and eyes are half closed, that seems to mean what she has to say is very important and will explain what she can't explain here, and Uncle Sol says, “Sure. Don't go away, Gould, we'll be back in a flash,” and they go off about twenty feet and talk. Uncle Sol nods that he understands. She takes some papers out of her pocketbook and shows him them. He nods some more, then looks over to Gould and back to her with the expression Think-he-knows-what-we're-talking-about? and she shakes her head no. They come back. “Gould, this Mrs. Jacobo's legit. She'll take you home to your mother,” and he says, “How come she's taking me and not my mom?” and she says, “I'll tell you everything in the cab,” and she and Uncle Sol look at each other and she nods, and Gould says, “How come you can't tell me now?” and she says, “Because in the cab we'll be on our way and I gotta get back to work soon. These your bags?” and he says, “Just two,” and she says, “Gosh, I didn't know what I was getting myself into. They look heavy. You'll help me with them?” and he says, “I grew four inches this summer; I can carry them both,” and puts the big bag on his shoulder and the smaller one under his arm. “We can stop at a stand here for a hot dog and you can eat it on the way,” and he says, “No, I want to get home, and my mom always has something good waiting for me.” “See you at the camp reunion,” Uncle Sol says, “and I hope everything at home turns out okay,” and he says, “Why wouldn't it? She tell you something?” and Uncle Sol says, “Nothing; what'd I say? Just an expression, kid, like ‘good luck' and ‘stay well' and all that. So, you had a great summer, Gould, hope to see you as a camper next year, and now I'll also be on my way,” and salutes them and goes.

In the cab she stares out the window at the city and he says, “You said you'd tell me why my mother didn't pick me up,” and she says, “Did I? I forget. Well, on second thought, better she tell you when you see her,” and he says, “Is she all right? My father? Either one sick with something? That what happened? Because that's what I'm starting to think,” and she says, “She's fine, in the pink, and as far as I know about your father, he's healthy too, or at least she didn't say anything that he wasn't,” and he says, “You're holding back something; I can tell by your voice,” and she says, “Okay. She told me if you were really smart and persistent and getting more worried by not knowing than knowing, and I was an absolute moron in being cagey and sly, that I could tell you this, so don't think I'm overstepping my boundaries,” and he says, “What's that you mean?” and she says, “What I mean is I'm not saying anything here your mother told me I couldn't.” “And my father?” and she says, “He I never once spoke to. Maybe because he's not been around lately, which is my point, so do you get what I'm saying or do I gotta spell it out further?” and he thinks, Oh, no, they've split up, his worst fear, maybe even got divorced, because they wouldn't need him there with them for that—had a fight, lots of fights, they used to yell a lot at each other, but this time they used their fists and hit one another hard, so hard his mother got knocked out cold and had to call the doctors and cops, or someone had to for her, and when she woke up in the hospital she told him to leave, because by then he was sorry for what he did and wanted to apologize and take care of her, but she screamed at him to go and he left, and with another wife he might already somewhere be starting another child by this time with no thought in the world for him and his mother, even if by now she could be willing to take him back. “You don't look good, Gould, did what I say disturb you? I told you I didn't want to say anything,” and he says, “No, you can tell me; I always knew something was wrong,” and she says, “Good, you're mature, just like this Sol guy was intimating, and you're a good little fella too, because you're making it easier for me than I thought. Okay: your father's moved out and your mom's terribly distressed over it. I don't see why she should be, if you'll take my two cents. From what I know, they've been fighting like cats for years, so this could be a good thing,” and he says, “No, they didn't. They just argued sometimes, but I've seen them in plenty of happy moods together. Did he get married again?” and she says, “It's too soon, how could he? It's only been a month, and it's not some other woman with her claws in him who's making him do it, so don't think that,” and he says, “Then I want him to move back. The place is better with him in it—funnier—no matter how much they fight. They can make up and only argue now and then and not so loudly,” and she says, “Maybe you're right. You're a smart kid, as I said, so maybe you know what you're talking about. Anyway, that's all I'm permitted to tell you—what I just did. To prepare you, if I thought I had to, for having no daddy at home right now but that he'll probably call you tonight or in a day or so. And that your mother's depressed over it, not so much because of him but that it finally came to this and the family's broken up, so mostly depressed by the effect it'll have on you. It could be, between you and me, she's thinking she held on to your father this long just for your sake—I don't know, I'm only speculating.” “What's that?” and she says, “Raising the possibility of, I think. But my authority stops where I said, as I don't have the go-ahead from your mom to go any further than I did, and as it is I think I went too far.” She looks out her window. “Catch the traffic,” and he says, “Why? There hardly is any,” and she says, “That's what I mean. New York, in this area, is like a—well, maybe almost all over except in front of Bloomingdale's and down on Times Square and the square where Macy's and Gimbel's are: Herald. I'm talking of summer weekends, but like a little town, quiet and empty like one, when all the people are in church.” “We don't go to church; not even to a synagogue except maybe the very holy days in September,” and she says, “I didn't mean literally. I meant it's as if New York's just a small town today, it's so deserted around here, though where everybody is I don't know. Vacationing, probably, the last big week before Labor Day, and the ones working on Saturday, instead of walking around on their lunch hours, are inside their buildings because of the sun and heat. You all right, Gould, not too upset from what I said? If you want I can still stop a block from your building and buy you a hot dog or ice cream. I don't mind getting back to work late, if it'll help you. So they dock me. So sue me too,” and he says, “No, I just want to get home. I'm kind of tired.”