“They put my jaw back together,” Ruth said all at once, defying Christmas with her gaze. “They straightened my nose, they gave me two new teeth, my broken ribs are almost healed, the internal bleeding got absorbed; I can’t hear much out of my left ear, but that’s supposed to get better over time.” Then she slipped her bandaged hand out from under the warm shawl. “But they can’t do anything about this.”
Christmas watched her in silence, not knowing what to say. His lips were slightly parted and his eyes showed the anger he felt for what she had suffered. He shook his head, to the right and to the left, in a reiterated mute: No.
“Nothing and nobody can ever make my finger grow back,” Ruth said aggressively.
Christmas closed his mouth, but he didn’t take his eyes off her.
“From now on, I can only count to nine,” said Ruth, with a forced little laugh, with an adult cynicism. For that was what she felt like now. A little girl who had been forced to grow up in a single night.
“If I was your teacher,” Christmas said softly, “I’d change arithmetic for you.”
This wasn’t the kind of reaction Ruth had expected. She thought he’d commiserate; offer her the phrases everybody offered her. All she wanted was for this stupid blond, black-eyed boy to feel at least as embarrassed as she did, knowing a terrible detail about her life, a handicap hidden between her legs, something she wasn’t brave enough to name.
“And if I was President Harding, I’d make a law so all Americans had to count just to nine,” said Christmas.
Ruth still had her hand lifted, like a bloodstained flag. She felt something break inside her. And she was afraid she might start to cry.
“You’re just silly,” she said angrily, and she turned her back to him, opening her eyes wide so that they’d dry quickly. She heard a rustling behind her. When she was sure that she wasn’t going to cry, she turned back. Christmas wasn’t there. She looked around and saw him across the lawn, and the end of the path, reaching into her grandfather’s car. She thought he was dressed terribly. Like the workers in grandpa’s factory when he’d arranged a Hanukkah party. Clothes that were too new and too old at the same time. For an instant she was afraid he was leaving.
Then Christmas turned back towards her and smiled. Even over there, from the other side of the lawn, he had an open smile. He tossed his head to get the blond forelock out of his eyes. There was something vulgar, impertinent … luminous about it. The color of wheat. Like the old gold in some of her grandmother’s jewelry. And his eyes: Dark as they were, they still shone across that distance. As if there was a light inside them. She saw him fussing with some paper in his hand, she saw him toss some colored scrap away — he did that three times. Then he came walking back down the path towards her. His stride was soft and firm. He flung his legs forward energetically, but it was as though he were moving under water. And when his foot came down, his head tilted the slightest bit to one side, carelessly.
Christmas came up to her and held out some flowers in a wretched brown paper wrapping, wet at its base.
Ruth didn’t move. She didn’t look at the flowers.
“You’re right, I am silly,” said Christmas, gently placing the flowers on the cashmere lap robe.
Ruth looked at the flowers. She counted them. There were nine. Nine horrible poverty-stricken blossoms. And again she wanted to weep.
“I wish I could come and see you every day,” said Christmas in a voice that he intended to sound playful, but it came out embarrassed. He rocked from side to side, hands back in pockets. “But you don’t exactly live right around the corner.”
“We don’t live here all year. During school we’re in Manhattan. We’ll have to go back there in two weeks.” Ruth was surprised to hear herself saying all this, as if she were actually sorry not to see more of him. “Just as soon as I’m well.” She couldn’t stop now. “We’ve got a house on Park Avenue.”
Christmas nodded. “Yeah, Park Avenue, I’ve heard of that.” He paused and looked at his shoes. “You know Monroe Street?” he asked.
“No …”
“Well, you haven’t missed a thing,” laughed Christmas.
Ruth listened to that laugh make its way into her ears. And she remembered Bill’s laugh, and how it had made her feel happy, how it had led to her escaping from the great sad house. That laugh that had hidden the horror. She looked at Christmas, who’d stopped laughing. “Thanks,” she told him.
Christmas shrugged. “It’s not like we’ve got fancy flower shops around my neighborhood,” he answered.
“I didn’t mean the flowers.”
“Oh …” Silence. “Well, anyway …” Silence. “Don’t mention it.”
Ruth laughed, but quietly. Almost keeping it inside herself. “And you really like the radio?”
“Are you kidding? It’s fantastic!”
“What programs do you like?”
“What programs? I … I don’t know. I never had a radio before.”
“I like the ones where they talk.”
“Really? What do they talk about?”
“Everything.”
“Uh-huh. Well, sure.”
A new silence. But suddenly it was a different silence.
“Miss Ruth! It’s time for lunch.”
Christmas turned, He saw a young housemaid in a black smock with white frills at her wrists and collar and a frilled white cap.
“She looks like a chicken in mourning,” said Christmas.
Ruth laughed. “I’m coming,” she said, standing up and taking her bouquet of nine flowers.
Christmas followed her, with his hands in his pockets. When they came to the gravel circle in front of the villa he saw Fred polishing the Silver Ghost. He whistled to him. “Hey, Fred, I’m goin’ to eat now,” he called.
Ruth smiled.
“Very good, Mr. Luminita,” replied Fred.
A butler in gold-braided livery opened the door for the two young people. Ruth handed him the flowers, saying softly, “In my room.”
Christmas walked open-mouthed through the house, not knowing where to look. Now he was attracted by a painting, now by a rug, now by the gleam of marble, an inlaid door, or a seven-branched silver candelabrum. “Wow,” he murmured to the butler who indicated the entrance to the dining room.
Christmas shook hands with Ruth’s father, whom he already knew; and with Ruth’s mother, a beautiful and elegant woman who reminded him of a flickering light bulb. Old Saul Isaacson sat at the head of the table, his faithful cane conveniently within reach.
They all sat. A footman approached with a large silver platter covered by a dome.
“Wait,” said the patriarch crossly, ready to brandish his cane. “Sarah, Philip, I think you may want to thank the boy who saved Ruth?” He gave his son and daughter-in-law a fierce stare.
The husband and wife stiffened in their chairs.
“Well, naturally,” said Ruth’s mother, with a polite smile. “We only wanted to give him time to sit down. We have a whole luncheon to thank him. All the same, I want you to know that we do thank you, with all our hearts.”
“That’s all right, missus,” said Christmas, glancing at Ruth. She had been staring at him but looked down as soon as she met the deep black gaze of her rescuer.
“Yes indeed, many thanks,” Ruth’s father added weakly.
“Focking shit, you sound like you’re at a funeral! This is supposed to be a party!”
“You may serve, Nate,” Sarah Isaacson told the footman.
“I thought rich people didn’t use bad words,” said Christmas.
“Rich people do whatever they want, boychick,” said the old man with a satisfied chuckle.
“Some rich people,” said Ruth’s father. “Others, as our guest has so rightly observed, avoid that kind of language.”
“Yes, the ones who ended up rich and never had to work for it,” snorted the patriarch. He turned to Christmas. “Since you’re Italian, I had them make spaghetti and meatballs,” he
announced while the footman was serving from the silver platter.
“I’m American,” Christmas remarked. “But they look good,” he added, looking at the cascade of spaghetti the footman had put on his plate.
“No sausage in the meatballs, though,” said the old man. “Religious Jews don’t eat pork. And the meat’s kosher.”
Christmas was about to plunge his fork into the pasta when he remembered to watch how the others did it. They didn’t suck in the spaghetti with a whistling sound, he noticed, meaning that being polite was a big bore. That was the whole point of eating spaghetti. But he managed. He swallowed and then asked the old man, “You weren’t born in America, mister?”
“No.”
“But your son was?”
“Yes.”
“So your son’s American, not a Jew.”
“No. My son’s an American Jew, boy.”
Christmas swallowed another forkful of spaghetti, thoughtfully. “So when you’re a Jew you’re really stuck, huh?” he said. “You never get to be American, right?”
Mr. And Mrs. Isaacson stiffened again. Ruth looked at her grandfather.
He gave a soft laugh. “Right, when you’re a Jew you’re stuck,” he said.
“It’s like that for Italians, too,” said Christmas, shaking his head.
“I believe you’re right,” said the old man.
Christmas concentrated on sweeping up the last meatball, then he left the fork in his plate and cleaned his mouth. “Well, I just want to be American, that’s all.”
The old man lifted his head and stared straight into his eyes. “Good luck,” he said.
Ruth was watching her grandfather. He liked the blond boy with pitch-black eyes, she could tell. He would never have let anyone else get away with saying anything like that, and certainly not with such smiling acceptance. Her grandfather almost never smiled, only for her. She glanced towards her parents. Obviously they were uninterested, barely following the conversation. As always, they were absent. It was just as obvious that they despised — if they felt anything at all — the boy who had rescued their daughter. She almost sensed that they blamed him for everything. She’d often overheard her grandfather and her father talking about the workers in their factory. Grandpa said they were Jews. Just like them. But Papa always said no, they were from countries in Eastern Europe, so they were different. Grandpa had no problem about exploiting them and paying them as little as possible, but he also cared about their families. Papa didn’t have a problem about exploiting them and paying them as little as possible, but he didn’t even know who they were. And the workers — the starved people from the East — looked on Saul Isaacson as if he were one of their own who had made good, but they looked at Papa as if he were nothing. Sometimes Ruth had the feeling that for her grandfather, too, his son was nothing. But now it seemed that in his eyes, Christmas was something. Somebody. He almost felt admiration for this scruffy boy. And perhaps it was this that made Ruth let down her defenses that gave her an unexpected feeling, filtered through her adored grandfather’s eyes. She liked this boy, or — yes: She could like him. As soon as she recognized what she was feeling, she grew frightened. Because she had sworn to herself that she was going to keep men — males — out of her life, forever.
“What’s the name of the Jews’ country?” Christmas was asking the old gentleman, cutting up a strange, spicy food that had appeared on his plate.
“The Jews don’t have a country,” said Saul Isaacson.
“So then what makes you a Jew?”
Saul Isaacson laughed.
“It’s a matter of ancestry,” interjected Philip Isaacson. “We protect our own, and that sets us apart from others.”
“As for that, there’s one other thing,” hinted the old man.
Christmas thought about this, then brightened. “Oh, so it’s true!” he said in amazement. “I thought it was a joke, what they say in the neighborhood,” and he shook his head in disbelief. “So really, if you want t’ know if somebody’s a Jew, you have to look at his … uh …” he stopped, understanding that he couldn’t say what had come into his mind. He glanced at Ruth, blushing.
“Exactly, boychick. His nose. You have to look at his nose,” said the old man, saving him.
Ruth’s mother coughed. Philip Isaacson kept eating, barely lifting one eyebrow.
The old man, after a few seconds of silence, slapped his hand on the table and burst into delighted laughter.
“So, what do you want to do in life, boy?” he asked after a while, contemplating a cake with whipped cream and candied cherries. “Do you work?”
“I’ve had lots of jobs, mister, but I didn’t like any of them much,” said Christmas, gulping a cherry so that he wouldn’t speak with his mouth full — as his mother had told him. “I’ve sold newspapers, I’ve mopped tar on people’s roofs, I’ve shoveled snow, I’ve delivered for a delicatessen, but now … now I’ve got a …” Christmas, about to boast that now he had a gang, suddenly realized that this might not be the kind of activity that made a good impression on the outside. His mouth remained open, not knowing how to go on and at the same time having gone too far to stop.
“What? Now you’ve got what?” the old man urged him on.
Christmas looked across at Ruth, in her heavenly beauty. “I’ve got … Now I’ve got a radio!” he said, smiling at her.
“By me, that’s not a job,” the old man laughed.
“No, sir,” said Christmas, unable to take his eyes off Ruth. “But I’m going have my own broadcast,” he went on, still gazing at her. “One of those programs where they talk …”
Ruth looked at him. She looked at the boy who had brought her nine flowers, who would have reinvented mathematics to fit her hands. She hated him with all her heart because she couldn’t take her eyes off him, she couldn’t stop looking at him.
“That way, Ruth can listen to me,” concluded Christmas.
Saul Isaacson looked from Christmas to Ruth and back again. Too bad, too bad you’re not a Jew, he thought, and instinctively he looked at his son, so composed and yet so weak. “You want to have a cigar with me, boy?” he asked.
Christmas turned back to him, wide-eyed. “Oh … no; thanks all the same. No offense, but they really make me feel sick.”
The old man laughed and got to his feet. “Never mind. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a good smoke,” and he went to the adjoining room where the butler had already set out the humidor on a low smoking table.
Ruth’s parents rose too. The mother sighed that she had a bad headache, and the father said he needed to go over some work. They shook hands formally with their guest and retired.
Ruth and Christmas remained sitting at the table. Once more there was silence between them. Both of them kept their eyes on their plates, smeared with cream.
Ruth was toying with some breadcrumbs on the tablecloth.
Christmas looked at her bandaged hand, at her bruised face. “Once,” he began softly, blushing at the memory, “a long time ago, when I was little … we lived someplace else, me and my mother. And I was goin’ to school. I’d just started the fourth grade … ” the words came slowly, he had to force them out. Christmas could feel his cheeks burning, red. He clenched his fists and went on. “So anyway, one day on the playground a kid from sixth grade came up to me, he was big and strong, and he brought all his pals along, from his class and mine too. And they all stood there laughin’ at me. And this guy told me he knew what my mother did, what kind of work she did … an’ they were all laughing …”
Ruth looked up from the table. She saw that Christmas’ face was red and that his fists were clenched. When their eyes met, Ruth didn’t look away.
“So he says she’s got a dirty job, and I say that’s not true, and then he says he’s gonna steal a few cents off his dad and … and …” Christmas bit his lip and breathed deeply: one, two, three times. “Get it? He says for a few cents he can take my mother in a room and do dirty things to her. So
I jump on him to make him take back what he said, but he …” Christmas gave a little joyless laugh, “he punched me, just once but really hard, he knocked me down. And while they all kept on laughin’ he pulled a knife, and he sat on me, he ripped open my shirt …” Christmas began to unbutton his shirt, “and he cut this into my skin.” Christmas opened his shirt.
Ruth saw the scar. A narrow dark scar, in relief, in the shape of a P.
“Puttana,” said Christmas in a low voice. “Prostitute. Whore. And then he dragged me all around the playground, so everybody could see. He was holdin’ on to my ear, like I was his little dog.” Christmas looked at Ruth silently. “I liked going to school. But after that, I never went back.”
Ruth saw that his eyes were swollen with tears and rage. Instinctively she wanted to reach out a hand and touch him.
“So that was the day I found out what my mother did for a livin’,” said Christmas, in a tired, almost neutral voice.
Ruth stopped playing with the crumbs and moved her hand slowly on the tablecloth. This boy was able to give presents that no wealth could ever buy. It should have been you, she found herself thinking. She remembered how delicately, with what tenderness, he’d carried her in his arms, ready to protect her from everyone and everything. She imagined how lightly he might have caressed her, how sweet his mouth would be, how filled with light his eyes were. And she felt herself drawn to him, as if towards a whirlpool — a crystalline one. Dizziness. Slowly her body followed that impulse. Her hand was traversing the crumb-strewn desert towards his hand. Her mouth came closer to his lips, to cancel the sensation of those other lips.
The Boy Who Granted Dreams Page 13
