Letting Go (73 page)

The next morning Asher had to empty an entire closet to get to an ironing board and an iron. He set up the board by the windows and pressed away at his suit; then he unearthed a clean white shirt and tied his black tie while looking in a mirror over the kitchen sink. Paul slid the breakfast dishes into a pan of water. Asher’s reflection showed a grave turn to the mouth, but Paul made no comment; he had been able to induce in himself something that resembled serenity, which would carry him the rest of the way. Perhaps it was a good thing that the turmoil of the day before had worn him down. He had made his decisions in bed with his last ounce of energy; now, so long as he kept his mouth shut and accepted the decisions without airing them to Asher, he could coast on through.

But Asher asked, “What do you have on the agenda?”

Now that his uncle had spoken, Paul realized all the irritation he had been feeling toward the man ever since he had opened his
eyes that morning and looked across the room to see Asher sleeping in his bed. He felt the emotion, however, without fully understanding it. “I’ll read,” he said.

“Maybe you ought to take in a movie. Keep your mind occupied.”

“Reading occupies me.”

“Go to the museums.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You don’t like museums?”

“Asher, you don’t have to be nervous about me.”

Asher was back by the closet; he tugged and pulled and finally dove all the way in. Some tubes of paint rolled out across the floor, and Asher emerged beneath a dark hat, an honest-to-God mourner. Old man Herz was dead.

“You feel all right?” he asked, snapping the brim.

“I feel fine.”

“You want to walk me to the subway? Get some fresh air? Why don’t you put on a jacket and stroll over?”

“Asher, I’m not going to jump out any windows.”

“That,” said Asher, all dressed up and looking sinister and pathetic, “that would be a gross misunderstanding of what I’ve been saying.”

“You didn’t influence me. You don’t have to worry.”

“I got the feeling I talked you into something. You walk around here like a young fellow up to no good. Look, it all comes out of the nineteenth century, Paul. It starts in the eighteenth, in fact, way back when. Reason, social progress, reform, right up to the New Deal and Point Four—it all boils down to inordinate guilt about the other fellow—”

“Please.”

Asher gave up and started for the door. When he turned to face Paul again, he looked a hundred years old. “Do me a favor, will you? Stroll over with me to Astor Place, that’s all. Walk me to the subway. I don’t really feel all my strength this morning.” It did not seem like a ploy either.

They walked north on Third Avenue toward the subway. There was a City Welfare Shelter on one of the cross streets, a brick building with barred windows; just as they passed, all the bums and cripples who had breakfasted there began to make their way out into the
sunshine. It was such a brilliant day that some of the unfortunates seemed a little cowed by all the light. But the merciless sun also gave off merciful heat, and after squinting at it, they limped, shuffled, staggered, or trudged out the doorway; one way or another, they all headed uptown, where the money was, and the wine.

In his dark hat and creased trousers Asher must have resembled a wage-earner, for two small men approached. While one assumed a variety of postures which he must have felt to be the attitudes of humility, the other, in a soft voice, made the pitch. “Sir, Mr. Burns and me have just got out of jail, and we’re a little nervous.” He smiled at Paul but bore down on Asher. “Could you give us a little something, sir, for a starter?”

“Fuck off,” Asher told him.

“Thank you, sir, thank you very much, sir.”

“Let’s cross over,” Asher told Paul. Before they could reach the curb, they were accosted twice more. Mr. Burns himself, sagging in the knees, watering in the eyes, stepped forward and made a short speech dealing with his needs. Asher was filled with neither patience nor brotherly love. “Go jerk off. Get out of here you, before I get a cop.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir.”

But as Asher stepped off the curb, Mr. Burns followed and—accidentally or on purpose—caught the heel of Asher’s shoe under the toe of his own. Asher turned on the bum, and pointed him wickedly down with one hand. “Where’s your self-respect, you dog? You’re a disgrace to the poor.” He tried to jam his foot back into his shoe. “Why don’t you take a bath? Why don’t you hide your face?”

“Up your Jewish ass,” said Mr. Burns.

Paul was instantly beside Asher, but his uncle pulled away before he could be reached or reasoned with. He had the bum by the collar, shaking him. And then there was a cop and a crowd. Asher’s fingers had to be pried loose from the bum by the policeman. The cop stepped on the bum’s foot, while Asher straightened his tie. Paul saw tears in his uncle’s eyes, as though he were already at the funeral.

“It’s nothing, officer,” Paul said, forcing his way forward. “It’s all right, thank you. Come on, Asher.”

“I ought to press charges,” said Asher, breathing like a work horse.

“No, no—come on—”

Paul, Asher, the bum, and the cop were all standing inside a
circle of rheumy eyes and miserable mouths. Mr. Burns’ colleagues seemed torn between staying to see what would happen and getting away before they all wound up in the police wagon. It was as it had been in Paul’s dream: he was surrounded by eyes. But he had to get out of this; he had to get started in doing what he was going to do, and in not doing what he wasn’t going to do.

“Let’s go, Asher. It doesn’t matter—”

“What happened?” the cop asked.

“He was panhandling,” Asher said. “Begging in the streets without a license.”

The bum took issue. “Since when can’t you ask for a light?”

“He called me a dirty Jew,” Asher said. “The little son of a bitch. The filthy bastard.”

“Sir,” the bum said, pleading for a little dignity out here under the broad blue sky. It got a rise from the crowd, and even the cop’s face relaxed.

“Why don’t you apologize to the man?” the cop said.

“I apologize, sir.”

“Okay,” Paul said. “That’s fine, officer. That’s okay. Isn’t that all right, Asher?”

“Oh yeah.” Asher slid his hat down so that Paul couldn’t see his face; he turned and the crowd made room. Just then a young bum with a bowl haircut came rushing up and asked, “What are they making, a movie?”

“Some old bastard—” a shaky voice started to explain, but Paul, yanking his uncle’s arm, finally maneuvered him across the street. Neither spoke for a few minutes.

“Nobody,” said Asher, “usually bothers me.”

“Sure.”

“Usually”—there was no keeping the depression out of his voice; were the hat to be pulled down over his ears, it couldn’t hide the truth—“usually I’m not so dolled up.” They were passing a little concrete stoop in front of a church; Asher stopped. “I’m not used to that kind of excitement. Wait a minute.” He still breathed heavily and noisily, as though he were sucking up liquid through a straw. “How about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, I got to sit down,” Asher said, holding his side.

Paul remained standing, waiting for his uncle to regain strength. Asher looked up from where he had dropped on the church steps. “You want to hear a long story?”

“Aren’t you going to be late?”

“I never told this to a soul. You want to hear it or not?”

Traffic had slowed on the street; across the way the bums they had left a block behind were passing before them. Asher dismissed them with a dirty gesture. Then he said, “This is all about how I got married and had my only child. Sit down a minute. I have to catch my wind.”

Why had he not camped with his Uncle Jerry? His sympathy for Asher, worn to a frazzle, now disappeared completely. “What is this, Asher, another fairy tale?”

“What happened. Exactly
as
it happened. Fact.”

“Well, I didn’t know you’d been married.”

“In Chicago, your wonderful Chicago. Long ago, Paulie.” Asher tilted his hat so that he could see his nephew. “Sit down. This is when I was a student—”

“Asher, I’ve got business today.”

But he got such a curious look for that remark that he did sit down. What right, Asher’s eyes said, do you have to give
me
the rush act? “When I was a student, Paulie, at the Art Institute, remember? And there was a dark bushy-haired woman taking a course there. She hadn’t a grain of talent in her, this babe, and she was one of the dumbest persons I have ever met, before or since. But you know the way certain vulgar women are very stirring? Do you appreciate this?”

“I suppose so.”

“So I got interested in her, and got her nice and pregnant—and I forgot to mention she was already a married lady. And to a full-scale Chicago gangster, wanted all over, and carrying dangerous weapons, and the works, believe me. This is 1926. Every afternoon outside the Institute, hiding behind the lions, he placed killers, honest to God, to wipe me out. In those days it was nothing to wipe somebody out, of course. Just wipe them right out and nobody raised a peep. I used to walk out with Annette in front of me for protection. What else could I do? This is a fact, Paul. Let’s see how brave somebody else would have been in those circumstances. I changed my place of residence six different times, till finally she tells her husband that she wants to marry me. That’s the only way I could figure to save my life—I proposed. And what happens then is that he agrees, but with a couple of nice conditions thrown in. It turns out he didn’t like her any more than he liked me, so for him it was perfect. I forgot to say, Annette, whose large foibles I was rapidly becoming
more and more aware of—this happens in a crisis—was already the mother of four children, all under six years of age. One of the conditions was that we take up residence in Cicero, quite a place as you know, so he can come visit with his kiddies there every Sunday. For him it was ideal. One day a week he fills up the tank, slaps on a couple handfuls of after-shave lotion, and takes them for a nice ride in the country. I took over the running of all the errands. He gave a check for his kids, and I did the shopping, the sizing, the wiping up after, and so on. I moved to Cicero—”

“Asher, you’re making this up. I’m not in the mood. Please,” he said, standing up, “not today.”

“Fact!” Asher reprimanded him. “Hard fact.
My
life for a change!” He slammed his foot on the concrete. “
Please
yourself! I gave up my schooling, Paulie, and I moved into this brute’s bed—you listening? He even left me an old frayed dressing gown, all gold and shoulder pads, to slip into at bedtime. And soon we had a little son of our own. Annette gave up her painting, but not much of a loss to the arts, my friend, not like me giving it up, believe me. So this brought the grand total in the house to seven, four of us with stool in our diaper regular. And Annette always in her nightie, with ashes dribbling down, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Under a lamppost outside was posted a fellow with a sour expression to keep me strictly in line, just like in the movies. Every time I spend a penny he records it in his little notebook. How do you like that? Jot, jot, with his tongue between his teeth—he could hardly write, the dumb ox. The idea was that I shouldn’t have any pocket change for myself at the end of the week. This hoodlum used to drive alongside me in his car to the A&P, Paul. He used to wait outside the shoemaker and the candy store, till we got to nod hello, how do you do, to each other. But one night I sneaked out, Paul—you want to stand there, you stand there, I’m telling
you
the facts of
my
life. One night out I sneaked, under cover of darkness, and I went to live awhile in various Western towns, and then finally I moved a little bit east at a time, by way of the south, and finally New York. A harrowing experience. But
tout passe
, you follow me? Even if we have to help it along. Out of such experiences I welded a vision of life, I came to understand the highest law of them all, that even the little animals in the forest don’t even have to be told. Self-preservation!”

He stood up, shaking out his legs. “The son-of-a-bitch little bum,” he mumbled, and then he and his nephew exchanged a glance. Afterwards their gaze dropped to the pavement. Any embarrassment
they felt had not to do with the truth or falsity of Asher’s story, but with some plot that the two of them seemed to share.