Chains Around the Grass (12 page)

She nodded, grasping the bill in her hot palm and closing her eyes. She saw him walk out and close the door.

Later, in her dreams, she heard their voices. First her mother’s: “Why did you give it to her?” And then her father’s: “Felt bad. Where could she have put it?”

Half waking, she saw him get down on his hands and knees and search beneath her bed. “A lousy ten bucks,” she heard him say, his voice breaking like a wave. Then she felt her palm pried open, the cool night air kissing the spot where the money had been.

Chapter nine

All that dark, rainy, cold April morning, a morning that seemed to promise winter would last forever, Dave kept slugging away at himself. “Shouldn’t have gotten mad! Shouldn’t have hit the kid! Why’d I hit him?” he asked himself again and again, as if expecting an answer.

Imagine, giving that jerk Dunleavy a lecture on Communist philosophy! With the House Un-American Activities Committee still going full blast, despite having lost a little steam (Sir! Have you no shame?!). Hadn’t they murdered the Rosenbergs in cold blood just last year? Trumped up garbage—why even the Supreme Court had been in on it, allowed it!

Now the kid had screwed himself up in school good…Jeez. He shook his head. Education was the key. Sure it was going to be Markowitz and Sons. But he wasn’t going to be a cabby for goodness sake! (Should’ve explained that to him, didn’t do a good job!) He was going to be an expensive lawyer or a cpa. A money manager. College-spoken, educated. Full of booksmart ideas they’d argue about on the weekends, when he came home in his college-letter sweater. He’d never have to struggle, to wear himself out, to grovel, to prove anything. He’d have respect handed to him on a silver platter. He was American-born. He had it coming.

The harder Dave worked at trying to forgive himself, the more his guts coiled and twisted in an agony of confusion and regret and heartbreaking pride over the image of the kid standing alone in front of the whole class defending Paul Robeson. His mind wandered to those Sundays in Brooklyn when Jesse had been barely two, an only child, a holy terror, carrying seltzer bottles up and back across the kitchen table while Ruth, horrified, had ineffectually begged him to stop. And he, Dave, had sat in the background, laughing until the tears ran down his cheeks, finally grabbing the kid and hoisting him up, upside-down, over his shoulder. And the only thing that had quieted him down, keeping his little feet from kicking like pistons, was that magic word: “record,” which to Jesse, had been synonymous with “Robeson.”

He remembered sitting on the old sofa, Jesse’s head resting against his chest, his little fat feet miraculously motionless along his thighs, listening to all the old Russian work songs, songs of oppressed laborers rising with dignity. Listening to Robeson had been like looking at a centuries-old redwood, its girth immense, its roots as thick as arms reaching down to the center of the world. It was a voice as deep and honest and dependable as country earth. He wondered how the kid remembered. Hadn’t played Robeson in ages…might even have gotten rid of those records (although he knew he hadn’t, and never would).

Then, toward the end of the long day, too weary to defend himself anymore, his mind went back again to the moment when his hand had struck out at the pale, cold face, the young bitter mouth, the disappointed eyes. And then suddenly, too, the image of himself prying open Sara’s hand to take back the money. Ten bucks, he thought. Ten lousy bucks. But without them, there wouldn’t have been money to put gas in the tank.

Shouldn’t have done it, he berated himself. Should have… should have hugged him, about Robeson. Should have told him how proud… His ten fingers ?inched on the steering wheel. Here I am, he thought morosely, driving down the road to hell. Surprise. It really was paved with good intentions. By four he felt drained. He touched his coat pocket for the necklace and bracelet of red glass beads he’d bought Sara, the record player for Jesse, all on credit. He was anxious to see their faces as he gave them the gifts, to erase the day before. He turned on his “o? duty” sign, and headed home.

It was pouring and almost as dark as midnight as he took the cab down Eighth Avenue. This part of Manhattan always looks as if a bomb has just hit it, he thought, depressed by the ugliness, the crumbling brick walls, the decaying garbage-filled lots. He tried to ignore it, already imagining himself standing in front of the kids with his peace offerings so that he almost didn’t see the fare waving him down with all his might. Checking if the o?-duty sign was really on, Dave drove past him. But then, glancing in the rear-view mirror, he saw the guy pull his lapels a little tighter around his neck as the rain pelted his dripping head and soaked jacket. With a sigh, Dave slowed to a stop. The man ran to catch up, throwing himself into the back seat.

“Brooklyn Jewish Hospital.”

Something about the way his body stretched taut against the back seat, a certain quiver in his voice, made Dave uneasy. “Somebody sick?”

“Look, just shut up and drive, okay?”

A conversation stopper, that. Dave swallowed. But there was nothing to do about it now. There he was in the back seat, after all. He pressed on the gas.

“Look, my off-duty sign was on. I’m doing you a favor, Mac.” “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I’ll take you as far as the bridge.”

“Yeah. That far, huh? And how much you gonna charge me?” “Twenty cents. Okay?”

“It’s gonna cost a lot more. You, that is.”

It was then Dave felt the cold metal tremble at the side of his head. He thought of grabbing the gun away, bashing the guy’s head against the window. Forty-two years of trying, working, loving, dreaming—flashed through his head. Was it all about to be extinguished by a stranger looking for a little easy cash, probably not even enough to buy a better jacket? He looked down at the record player, the red beaded jewelry. “OK, OK. Don’t do anything stupid. Here it is.”

A cold metal chill moved along the back of his neck, sending chills down his spine, of anger even more than fear; a fury that the world harbored such indecency. And when the creep said: “Thanks, sucker. Guess you should’ve kept driving,” he couldn’t say he was surprised at how bad it made him feel. But what did surprise him was the heaviness of the metal as it smashed into his temple just after he gave him the day’s take and just before he could tell him to go to hell.

Chapter ten

I’ll be loving you, always, always. With a love that’s true, always.
When the things you’ve planned need a helping hand, I will understand always, always,

Dave sang softly, pressing her small dark head into his strong broad shoulder.

It was birthdays and Chanukahs and anniversaries and graduation days and holidays; it was a month of Sundays rolled into one glorious afternoon. Everything shone (even years later they’d remember it, that glow, in their father’s and husband’s face), Dave beaming royally as he dispensed, the largesse of a rich and happy man.

That was the way it was, the day he sold the taxi and invested half the money with a new, mysterious friend, a sort of fairy godfather who had popped up from nowhere to save them, like the good angels in black and white Thirties ?lms with Bing Crosby. And every month, like clockwork, a fat dividend check would arrive. And in bed at night, Dave’s arms would meet around Ruth’s back as he caressed her hotly  through her worn nightgown, his heart thudding with happiness, smothering her own measured beats.

It was the old Dave, the Dave she knew; not the man who had come home from the hospital with stitches in his head, who had lain in bed for weeks staring at the wall.

He had bounced back from the mugging with all the resiliency of a crushed paper fan. She had never seen him that way. He’d been a stranger who’d burrowed close in the night like a terrified, comfort-seeking child, who’d admitted with shame: “I just can’t do it anymore.”

Then, out of nowhere, Hesse had appeared: a man who remembered their birthdays and anniversaries, who took cabs from his home in Manhattan to visit them in the projects, who had made things all right again. Better than all right.

She blessed him for redeeming her husband.

With the second check, Dave had bought an old Buick and taken them all to the country, to the old farm hotel which really did still exist, although the scales were gone. They’d sat in the sun in old, handmade Adirondack chairs and watched the moon rise, pale gold amidst a million silver stars. They’d held hands like teenagers, Ruth speaking softly about buying a house or opening up a dry cleaning store with the rest of the money, and Dave listening quietly, patting her little hand, his face indulgent and happy in the moonlight. And under the silver glow, a million crickets had rubbed their legs together, rioting in song.

And the children in their old sand-dusted suits had wound their way down to the lake, barefoot in the cool, morning dew. Amid the encircling green willows that guarded their perfect peace like sentinels, Jesse showed off his dives, while Dave taught Sara how to swim and held the baby on his shoulders, gently crouching until the tips of Louis’s toes touched the calm surface and the child squealed with joy.

What Dave enjoyed most, though, was telling Ruth the details of his investment, the company stock that had not yet gone public, the chemical plant with the million-dollar patents, and (again!) about how much Hesse thought of him, what a great, regular guy he was, and how smart, and how many plans he had…until Ruth (always too soon!) grew sleepy or disinterested or somehow uncomfortable and he was forced to stop.

But Jesse listened. Sitting at his father’s feet, he would drink in every word, asking a million questions. How do you go public? How many shares? What kind of patents, exactly, were they? What kind of chemicals? And Dave, beginning with enthusiasm, explained it all with patient pride until he found he didn’t know the answers. And then he would lean back, exhausted and a bit annoyed and confused, blustering good-naturedly about slowing down, and wasn’t that something about the Brooklyn Bums actually winning the series? And against the Yankees, no less!

And then, at the beginning of November, the check failed to arrive. Instead, the phone rang.

“Shabbes. Don’t pick it up,” Ruth warned, not sure it wasn’t a dream.

Giving her head a conciliatory pat, he jumped out of bed to get the call. And when he returned, she saw through a fog of sleep that he was getting dressed.

“Where are you going?” She sat up, alarmed.

I don’t need a fight now, he shrugged. Let her understand: Shabbes or no Shabbes. “It’s Hesse and it’s important. He says he’s sorry to get me up, to bother us. I have to meet him in Brooklyn in an hour.”

She sti?ened. Unless someone was dying or having a baby in the back seat, driving on Saturday had no earthly justi?cation in Ruth’s book, he knew. He didn’t waste his breath begging for absolution. Urgent, Hesse had said. And the money was late. He tucked his good shirt into his good pants then leaned over and planted a small kiss on her creased forehead.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Traffic was light and as he sped through the quiet streets and over the bridge, he tried to calm his nerves by spending his money once again. When his shares went public, the first thing he’d do was buy the house. Near Reuben. That was ?nal. Let the kids grow up near family. And Ruth would get used to it, even though it was quieter than Pitkin Avenue. He chuckled, then grew sober with remorse at his disparaging thought: And where did you grow up, friend? On Park and Fifth?

One question lingered irritatingly in his mind along with his discomfort at the awkward leave-taking, and, to a lesser extent, having to drive into the city on Saturday. As he hunted for the address Hesse had given him, he felt his body grow heavy with apprehension. Why today? Why here? Why not in the regular place on a weekday? Or at least at Hesse’s house in Manhattan?

He hated this part of Brooklyn on weekdays, let alone when it was half-deserted on the weekends. There was something horri?c about crowded streets suddenly fallen silent, emptied of all life. There. Building 1019. He looked uneasily down the dark, deserted hallway. Office 209b. There was no sign on the opaque glass door, no indication of who or what was behind it. He knocked, feeling small chills run up his arms and chest. From behind an old, scratched metal desk, Hesse smiled at him. Relieved beyond words to find him there, Dave smiled back.

“At least you’re back early,” Ruth called out, hearing the door open. She was bent over Louis, fastening his diaper pin and pulling up his rubber pants. Only when she ?nished did she look up and see her husband.

“Dave?” she said a little too loudly, questioning not his presence but the reality of the change in him. The car! A smash-up! She could think of no other explanation. “Com’ere, com’ere,” she said to him, instinctively lowering her voice to the kind of whisper that one uses around the victim of a sudden, harsh accident. “Come sit down. Are you hurt?” she led him to a chair.

“Daddy!” Sara jumped into his lap, but she too pulled back, looking at his pale face, appalled.

He kissed the top of her head, and gently pushed her o?. “Go play now. Mommy and Daddy have to talk,” he said kindly. She crept off his lap and looked at her parents, afraid.

“Dave, what is it already!?” her tone had risen, becoming slightly hysterical.

“I’m all right…just…” He got up and weaved toward the bedrooms. He knocked on Jesse’s door, then hearing the music from the record player, knocked again, almost desperate.

“Jesse,” he put his hand on his son’s shoulder, resting the burden of his weight against him for a moment until he regained his balance, “I want you to take Sara down to the beach. Pick shells with her for a little while. Do me a favor.”

Jesse was just about to say “Damn!” when he noticed something in his father’s face that made him think better of it.

It was only when the children had gone that he finally raised his eyes to face her. For one panicked moment he thought wildly of escaping, of running away and never coming back. But if he was going to do that, he’d have to do it right now, because in a few moments it would be too late; he’d have to carry that look in her eyes around with him forever, no matter where he went.