“It’s Al. But how the hell could he get a job working for Harry?”
“I asked Harry the same question, and he said that last Monday this guy turns up in his showroom, asks to see him, and goes through a whole spiel about you and him and how much alike the two of you are and how he taught you a lot of tricks. Harry didn’t like him much, but he figured that he might be a smart boy, and he needed a good bookkeeper, so he hired him. He figured that if he was your brother, and had one tenth of your ability he’d be getting his money’s worth. Can’t really blame him.”
“Why didn’t he call me about it?” Jay said bitterly.
“Seems your brother told him that he’d rather you didn’t use your influence. That’s why he was doing it on his own. We don’t usually work on Saturdays, but this morning I asked Eva to come in because I had to see a few buyers from Atlanta, and she’s sudden death with Southern idiots. So we grabbed them for a few thousand p.m.’s. They’d buy pinafores for velvets. When they left, Eva and I had a little talk, and she showed me some sketches she’d done. Better-priced stuff, really sensational, but Harry’s kind of stuff, not mine. That girl’s really got a talent, very shy though about her work and unsure of herself. The fact is, I was very grateful for what she did . . . I mean moving dead stock without a fire’s a miracle, and I was in about two thousand on that little sale. Naturally I gave her fifty, but I could see that she was more interested in what I thought of the sketches than the money she was going to make. So I picked up the phone and gave Harry a tinkle, and he told me to come up with Eva and to bring the sketches. He’s got a soft spot for Eva. We went up to the showroom and Harry gave us a few drinks and insisted we stay for lunch. He was pretty busy too with his export stuff - whole load of European buyers in the place. He looked at Eva’s sketches, and he loved them - bought them right then and there - and told her that she could work for him anytime. The thing is, he wouldn’t steal her, because he knows she’s my right hand and he’s got his dough invested in my place, so it’s like stealing from one pocket to put in the other. But he said he’d give her fifty a week for any sketches she did on her own time, and she was singing. As we’re about to leave - twoish - this wormy-looking character comes over. I’m sorry, Jay, even if he is your brother, there’s something about the guy . . . He tells Harry that a few people are waiting to see him, and Harry realizes that he forgot to tell me about how he hired your brother. I almost fell over. It’s peculiar . . . you do business with people for years and except maybe for a wife, you never think of them having families. Silly, isn’t it? Well, this brother of yours starts drooling all over Eva, not suspecting a thing about you and her, but he wants to impress her about how close the two of you are. I shove off with Harry for a minute, and when I come back, I see her standing there like a display dummy, white-faced and ready to faint. So I tell Al that we’ve got to go and in the elevator she doesn’t say a word, but as soon as we hit the street she starts to cry, bitterly. Everyone in the street begins to stare at me like I’m the heavy, and I plead with her to tell me what’s wrong.
“‘It’s hopeless,’ she says. ‘I knew he was married, but he never mentioned that he had a child.’ I give her a handkerchief and she just holds it in her hand so I take it out and wipe her face and I was sick, because she seemed so helpless and I don’t have to tell you how self-possessed she is. So to see her standing there as though the end of the world’s come, upset me.
“‘His name’s Neal,’ Eva says. ‘Marty, why didn’t you tell me?’ I couldn’t answer her, and I couldn’t lie about not knowing.
“‘What am I going to do?’”
“‘Jay probably had his reasons. He loves you. He’ll explain.’
“Then she turns to me with her hands stretched out and says: ‘But Marty, I’m pregnant . . . with Jay’s child.’
“She ran away from me and I watched her duck into the subway. I tried to call her all afternoon, but her mother says she hasn’t heard or seen her all day.”
Jay wobbled on his feet and fell into a bar stool. His hands were limp, and his legs ached. The room began to spin, and he realized that he had had too much to drink in too short a time. He wanted the room to stop moving, and he held out his hand ineffectually.
Marty lifted Jay up under his arms and helped him to the settee.
“I’m sorry, Jay, I hated to be the one. But I’m your friend . . . I care.” He shook Jay anxiously, “Say something. You’re not sore, are you?” Marty waited for a response, but Jay stared at the ceiling. He helped him to his feet. “You need some fresh air and something to eat.”
The humidity still hung over New York and the air in the street tasted stagnant and dirty even on Central Park West. A major-general got them a taxi, and Marty told him to take them to Lindy’s. The taxi swung around the park at Columbus Circle and the numbness in Jay’s brain wore off.
“I think I better drive into Brooklyn to see her,” Jay said. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will.” Marty patted him on the shoulder affectionately.
“Nothing ever seems to work out. Nothing ever means anything. It’s all a big joke because you’re always trying to fight something that gets bigger all the time. What the hell am I struggling for?”
“I don’t get you. Sure, you’ve got yourself into an unpleasant situation, but what do you want out of life?”
“I want not to want . . .”
Jay gave the driver his own address and the taxi shot down Fifth Avenue in order to avoid the Broadway traffic. Jay felt a bit more secure in his own car, but his hands were shaking and he gripped the wheel tightly. He drove carefully and slowly under the Broadway Brooklyn El and turned off at Reid Avenue, then cut into Utica and finally headed down Remsen Avenue. He had never driven to Eva’s place using this long, circuitous route and he dimly wondered why he had chosen it, but when he passed his King’s Highway store it became apparent to him that he needed some physical reminder of his existence, and the largish lateral sign, striking out luminously in the dark street, assured him that he existed - perhaps not as a living, breathing man, but as a name, an identity.
They were both surprised to find that most of the lights in Eva’s apartment house were on, and the road was alive with activity. Three police cars were parked at the curb, and an ambulance drove off past them. The whine of the siren faded as it passed a red light. They got out of the car and walked over to a candy store that was open late. A man in a filthy white apron was sorting out the Sunday papers. Jay asked him for some change and then handed it to Marty.
“Just in case her . . . you better call and tell her that she’s got to come in tomorrow. An emergency . . .”
Marty took the coin reluctantly and dialed her number. He emerged a minute later.
“Busy.”
“This time of night?”
They sat down on the two rickety counter stools and waited. Flies had established a colony on a box of sweating chocolate jellies, and the counter was wet with the white foam of an ice cream soda that had spilled over. The man in the dirty apron drifted behind the counter. He ran some water and washed the black newsprint stains off his hands; they were still dirty when he dried them on the apron.
“You gentlemen thinking of buying the store or are you reporters?”
“Gimme a two-cents plain,” Jay said.
“And your friend?”
“The same.”
“I won’t become a millionaire at this rate.”
“What’s all the excitement across the street?” Jay asked.
“Do I look like the news bureau? You want news, then you buy a paper.”
“Okay, let’s have a News and Mirror.”
The man handed them the newspapers, and he became more expansive.
“Shamed you into it? Well, it don’t matter. Won’t be in this paper what happened.”
“So, get to the point,” Marty said, irritably.
“Somebody got murdered or something. Somebody’s always getting murdered.�
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Marty tried the number again, but it was still busy, and Jay suggested that they go across and see if they could get the janitor to give her a message.
The lobby was ablaze with lights, and two cameramen were popping off flashbulbs and looking extremely bored. A police sergeant stood scratching his nose. Jay recognized the janitor with him. He was a man with a craggy face, a sharp pointed nose, freckled arms, and an air of seedy dissipation. He wore a blue striped pajama top over a pair of green corduroy trousers and he appeared to be in a highly agitated state. Jay approached him, and the man forced a smile to his face.
“Lo, Mr. Blackman.”
“Hello, George . . . What’s happened?”
“It’s terrible . . . and in my building.”
The sergeant stopped scratching his nose and clumped over to them.
“You live here?” he said sharply.
“No, I want to see a friend.”
“Well, you better make it another night, buddy.”
“I’ve worked in six buildings in twenty years, and this is the first time anything like this ever happened,” George said sorrowfully as though it reflected on his character and would damage his prospects.
“Who’d you want to see?” the cop asked.
“Mrs. Eva Meyers.”
The cop stared at him, and his face lit up as though Jay had set off a whole network of ideas in his thick skull.
“Inter-resting . . .”
“Mr. Meyers in 6A . . .” George started to say.
“I’m a friend of hers” - he pointed to Marty – “and this man is her employer.”
“Nice, quiet man,” George said. “Didn’t see much of him . . . he used to do a lot of traveling. Gave me a baseball glove for my kid last Christmas.”
“Christ, what’s happened?” Jay said, stunned. He tried to get past the fat cop, but he had his sleeve grabbed.
“Just a minute. If you’re a friend of the family, you’ll have to give me your name and then I’ll see if they want you to come up.”
Marty and Jay gave their names, and the cop squiggled them in a little notebook.
“Stay right here till I get back,” the cop said.
“I didn’t hear a thing. What with the traffic all night and I had a few drinks at my sister’s, so I was sleeping.” He rubbed his eyes sleepily and looked from Jay to Marty in puzzlement.
“George, for God’s sake, tell me what happened?”
“I thought you knew and that’s why you come over.” He waited for a reaction and received none, save incredulity. “Oh, me oh my, you haven’t heard . . . Mr. Meyers shot hisself with a forty gauge. He used to sell sporting goods on the road . . . and rifles was one of the things . . .”
Jay and Marty tore through the lobby and rushed up the six flights of stairs. The door of Eva’s apartment was open, and they entered past a throng of neighbors who were in bathrobes and “tch-tching” through their teeth. A tall studious man was writing something down. He picked at his mustache as though it were a sore. Two other men were roaming around the apartment like exterminators.
“Who the hell are you?” the man with the mustache asked.
“I’m a friend of Mrs. Meyers,” Jay said; his words hung on the air like frost, and he couldn’t believe he had spoken them.
“I don’t think she wants any visitors at the moment. You should’ve called up first - saved yourself a trip.”
“Where is she?”
“In the bedroom. The doctor’s giving her something.”
A thin red-eyed woman of about fifty came out of the room. Her hands shook uncontrollably. She puffed at a cigarette with an inch-long ash that finally fell on her black dress. She wandered around the room for a full minute before anyone said anything, then she sat on the edge of the sofa, and started to cry, noiselessly. The cigarette burned her fingers, and she let it fall on the carpet. Jay stooped to pick it up, and there was a flicker of recognition in the woman’s eyes.
“You’re Jay, aren’t you?” she said.
He nodded and held out another cigarette. She slapped hard at the pack and knocked it out of his hand.
“It’s your fault. This wouldn’t have happened if . . .”
There was a loud wailing call from the bedroom and a voice, ghostlike and cracking cut her off.
“Jaaaay . . .”
He went into the bedroom, past the mustached cop who did not try to restrain him. Eva was lying, fully dressed on top of the bed, and a man with a hypodermic needle was squirting it into the air. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling when she saw him, and he moved to the edge of the bed so that she would not have to strain herself to look at him.
“She’s lost a lot of blood,” the man said, matter-of-factly.
“Did he shoot her?” Jay asked, panic-stricken.
“No, but she’s pregnant and we’re going to have to get her to the hospital. Would you please wait outside!”
Jay started for the door, and her eyes followed him out of a white, bloodless face. Her hair lay like blood-red swabs on the pillow, and her eyes turned back to the ceiling.
“Oh, would you ask Lieutenant Collaro to get King’s County to send an ambulance over. I’ll stay with her till the ambulance comes.”
The next two weeks were among the most agonizing of Jay’s life. He walked around and went through his daily routine of checking the stores, buying, in a daze, like a somnambulist. No one remarked about the sudden change in his manner. The harshness, the vitriolic gibe, were absent, and a new, softer man emerged. The fire in him had died, and when he went up to Lieberman’s farm for the weekend, Rhoda was filled with new hope for their future. Something freakish had happened to change Jay - he had received a severe buffeting, of that she was certain, but she did not want to verify her surmise. It wasn’t that the balance of power had shifted, and she had gained a new and meteoric ascendancy, for she knew him too well to deceive herself. His attitude towards her had become more passive. The old arrogant manner had disappeared; the megalomania was not quite so pronounced. She wondered what had happened to alter the center of his universe, and she tried to confirm this impression by questioning Celia, after he had returned to the city.
They were walking along the road to Ferndale. It was still light, and the air was heavy with the fragrance of roses. The diffuse light lit a small section of firs on top of the mountain as though with a halo, and Rhoda had a sense of contentment that seemed to wipe away all the bitterness and agony of her life with Jay.
“He looks very tired,” Celia said. “I esk him to stay over, but he won’t. He works too hard.”
“I tell him the same thing, Momma. But he doesn’t listen to anything I say.”
“Rhoda, you think Neal’ll be all right?”
“Mrs. Lieberman’s sitting right outside the room on the porch.”
“I shouldn’t worry, but I do. I worry all the time about Jakie. He looks so old all of a sudden . . . so much responsibility on a young man’s shoulders. I told him to take some time off, but he said he couldn’t.” She stopped in her tracks and looked out over a field of daisies and breathed deeply. “You know what he esked me the other night?”
Rhoda shrugged her shoulders.
“He wanted to know what would make me happy, and I said to have his father here with me. He hasn’t had a vacation in thirty years, and he’s sitting in that hot apartment all by himself even though he wouldn’t be mad on me or Jakie for not coming. I know a few days here would mean a lot to him. Jake said he would send him up on Monday if that’s what I wanted. It’s time we was a family and . . .” she faltered and resumed walking.
“Momma, tell me the truth. What happened to Jay to make him the way he is?”
The question surprised Celia, but she managed to conceal it.
“What should heve heppened? He had a hard time when he was young. Never any money, never enough to eat.”
The answer did not satisfy Rhoda.
“Is that all?”
“What else?
” She had avoided Rhoda’s question, and none too skillfully.
Rhoda did not press her, for she knew that Celia, who did have the answer, would never reveal it, and she was aware of Celia’s desire to help secure her marriage.
“Then what’s bothering him? Did he tell you?”
Celia’s steel-blue eyes flickered as she cupped her hand to ward off a shaft of light that cut into her line of vision just after a clump of serried maples. She also had witnessed the abrupt and inexplicable metamorphosis Jay had undergone, and with sphinxlike wisdom, or at least the semblance of omniscience, she had turned her back on him, refusing to be drawn into a crosscurrent of conflict that she sensed was at the bottom of his change of heart. She had localized his affliction almost at once - something had stretched out to hurt him, but not in any normal, manageable way, the type of experience that assails all men every day of their lives. This was an event so devastating, so unnameable and terrifying in its impact that she dared not even allude to the possibility of its existence, for she had seen it once before on his face, a variation admittedly, but the essence, the quiddity, of the experience was substantially the same, and she had turned her back on it then - to survive.
“It’s overwork, thet’s all,” Celia said, forcing herself to accept her own account at face value. The walk was tiring her now, and she felt the first chill of evening break through the buzzing air and she placed a black shawl on her shoulders, a present Jay had given her that weekend. He had said:”Momma, pray for me.” His face had been tense and strained, an ivory mask of lined skin, and pale blue protuberant veins, stretching the skin of his forehead, but he had forced himself to smile, as though aware of some subtle paradox in the request, and the effort had almost broken him into small bits. There was always Jay, Celia reflected, at the back of every meaningful event of her life - the angst and the awful febrile joy that he brought with him like a mule in a desert, riderless, with its panniers of pure gold . . . She remembered how he had come home that day, on that long-forgotten day in Lvov, drunk, and his clothes reeking of the sweat that accompanies the sick vomit of drunkenness, all control lost, with frantic gorgon eyes, his trousers sopping with his own urine, and how she had washed him, changed his clothes and eased him into a pair of his father’s long winter underwear, which were gray from washing. It had snowed for a week, a deathly blizzard with a Siberian impetus that froze the marrow, and when he walked away from the potbellied stove’s direct heat, he was overcome by chills. The gelid cheeselike mass of ice on the windowpanes. The cold that tore him apart so that he cried out in pain . . .
Seventh Avenue Page 21
