Last Respects

by Jerome Weidman

  “They don’t really belong to the real world,” my Aunt Sarah said. “It’s like you could say the Kingdom of God, Mr. Kelly. A boy has a piece of honey cake? The minute he sees someone who doesn’t have any honey cake, the boy says here, take mine. Most people they understand the emotion this comes from. When a boy says here, take mine, they know it’s polite and decent to take only a piece of mine. I mean of his. The boy’s. Because if you interpreted what he said to mean here, take all of mine, what would be left for this poor religious boy? So take a bite, Mr. Kelly, not the whole thing. Go ahead. Don’t be bashful. You don’t even have to be scared. Sick it will never make you. I baked it myself. Honest.”

  Mr. Kelly reached out and, gingerly, took my piece of still-warm lekach. He chomped off a couple of square inches, and returned the base to me. “Thank you very much, Benny,” he said. “This is delicious. I mean it’s not only delicious, it’s also very tasty.”

  “The butter,” my Aunt Sarah said.

  “Pardon?” Mr. Kelly said.

  “The butter,” my Aunt Sarah said. “Most people, they’re baking, when it comes to the butter they become cheapskates. A very bad mistake. The whole secret of baking is the butter. You got to use butter until it’s coming out of your ears. Remember that, Mr. Kelly.”

  “Thanks,” Mr. Kelly said. “I will.”

  “Another piece?” my Aunt Sarah said. “I have it here on the stove.”

  “No, thanks,” Mr. Kelly said. “This is superb, really it is.”

  “It’s what?” my Aunt Sarah said.

  “He likes it,” I said.

  “I do indeed,” Mr. Kelly said.

  “Well, if you change your mind,” my Aunt Sarah said, “how much work is there to cutting off another piece? A chop with the wrist, that’s all. I’m already holding the knife.”

  “You’re very kind,” Mr. Kelly said.

  “Say only I’m a good lekach baker,” my Aunt Sarah said. “You ready, Benny?”

  “Could I have a little more milk?”

  My Aunt Sarah went to the icebox and came back with the bottle. “A boy who likes milk,” she said as she refilled my glass. “This is a kind of boy you don’t find any more. You should pay attention, Mr. Kelly. Keep your eyes open in this world for boys who like milk.”

  “I will,” said Mr. Kelly.

  “Enough?” my Aunt Sarah said.

  “Yes, thanks,” I said.

  What else could I have said? The stuff was slopping over the edge of my glass.

  “So drink already,” my Aunt Sarah said. “Milk costs money. You want me to waste it?”

  “May I start?” Mr. Kelly said.

  “I’m stopping you?” my Aunt Sarah said.

  “Well, now, Benny,” Mr. Kelly said. “You are aware, of course, of what happened last night?”

  “Last night?” I said.

  If you are ever grilled by the cops, try to arrange to have it done while your mouth is full of lekach and milk. Very confusing to an interrogator. It’s even better if you can arrange to be young. Cops are scared of children.

  “I must say I can’t blame you for being a bit confused,” Mr. Kelly said. “But surely you are aware that last night, in the Lenox Assembly Rooms on Avenue D, a young man named Aaron Greenspan, who was marrying the daughter of a neighbor of yours, a chicken merchant named Yonkel Shumansky, this young man was shot and killed under the canopy where only a moment earlier he had been married? You are aware of these basic facts, are you not, Benny?”

  “Could I have some more?” I said.

  “Which?” my Aunt Sarah said. “The lekach or the milk?”

  “Both,” I said.

  Mr. Kelly looked annoyed. To go to the stove, cut a slab of lekach, then go to the icebox and get the milk bottle, these are not complicated activities. But they do blunt the edge of an interrogation. Especially when these acts are being performed by my Aunt Sarah in the grip of a conviction that she was imbedded in the Song of Solomon and was doing a bit of comforting with apples.

  “Drink slow,” my Aunt Sarah said. “From hiccups a person could die.”

  I slowly drank, while Mr. Kelly slowly burned.

  “You finished?” Mr. Kelly said.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Well, now, look, sonny,” said Mr. Kelly, and I knew I was in trouble. It was that word “sonny.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said again. It seemed the safest comment.

  “When that young man was shot to death last night,” Mr. Kelly said, “you were right next to him. Is that correct?”

  “Well, uh,” I said.

  “Let me refresh your recollection,” said Mr. Kelly. He pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket, flipped a few pages, and read aloud. “Party involved named Benjamin Kramer was standing under the blue velvet canopy approximately twenty-four inches from deceased Aaron Greenspan when bullets entered thoracic cavity and caused instant death.” Mr. Kelly looked up from the notebook. “You were there, sonny, were you not?”

  I nodded.

  “What did you say?” said Mr. Kelly.

  “He didn’t say anything,” my Aunt Sarah said. “He shook his head like this.”

  She bobbed her head up and down. The imitation was impressive. Like bringing in Niagara Falls to impersonate a leaking faucet.

  “What does that mean?” said Mr. Kelly.

  “It means he was saying to you yes,” my Aunt Sarah said.

  “Would it be possible for him to say it himself?” said Mr. Kelly.

  My Aunt Sarah turned to me. “Say it,” she said.

  Unfortunately, I had a mouthful of lekach beautifully sogged up and crumbled with milk.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  My Aunt Sarah leaped from her chair. She brought the dish-rag from the nail over the kitchen sink and dumped it in my lap.

  “I’ll just brush it off,” she said to Mr. Kelly. “It’ll all come out, believe me,” she said. “You use only Grade A milk, and you don’t be a cheapskate with the butter when you make a lekach, you’ll never have a stain on your pants.”

  While Aunt Sarah worked on my pants, I worked on my defense. Up to now I had been rattled. I had been stalling for time. Aunt Sarah had given it to me. Now I knew what to say.

  “May I proceed?” said Mr. Kelly.

  “If the boy is dry enough,” said my Aunt Sarah. She tested. “He’s dry enough,” she said.

  Mr. Kelly turned back to me. “Last night, when Aaron Greenspan was shot to death under the wedding canopy in Lenox Assembly Rooms,” he said, “you were standing in front of him, Benny, and what I want to know, what the government wants to know, what we all want to know, Benny, is what killed him?”

  “The bullets, sir,” I said.

  “We know that,” Mr. Kelly said not without asperity. “What the government wants to know is what led up to the bullets.”

  “Well,” I said, “first there was the noise. Then the red spots on his shirt. Like paint but spreading out. Where the bullets hit him. That’s what killed him, sir.”

  Mr. Kelly bowed his head over his notebook. It gave me a chance for a quick look at my father. He looked frozen. His eyes were like ice. My heart jumped. I had never before thought of my father as a man who distrusted me.

  “Yes, Benny,” Mr. Kelly said finally. “You’re quite right. What killed Aaron Greenspan was those bullets. What we, what the government, what all of us want to know, Benny, we want to know where the bullets came from. Can you tell us that, Benny? Where did those bullets come from?”

  My Aunt Sarah reached out as though to stroke my hair back into place, but actually what she did was give my cheek a “knip.” A knip is a pinch of approval performed by taking between the middle knuckles of the forefinger and middle finger a lump of flesh, usually from a cheek, although a forearm or thigh will do. Buttocks will also serve, but if buttocks are employed, it is wise to make sure the recipient of the accolade is below the age of puberty or above the age of consent. Knips have been known to be
misinterpreted. I did not misinterpret my Aunt Sarah’s knip on that day after the Shumansky wedding. She was saying, “Keep punching, Benny, we’re in this together, I’m on your side.” It sounded different in Yiddish, of course. Especially unspoken Yiddish.

  “Madam,” said Mr. Kelly. “This boy was an eyewitness to a murder. We have reason to believe he knows a good deal about it.” He whirled on me. “Benny,” he rapped out. “What were you doing under that wedding canopy?”

  I had a moment of panic. The simple question suddenly seemed terrifyingly complicated. What had I been doing under that canopy? My Aunt Sarah sensed I had fallen off the sled, so to speak. She reached over and gave me another knip. I came to.

  “I was the pageboy,” I said.

  “You were the what?”

  “Tell him,” my Aunt Sarah said.

  She sounded as though we had been approached by a very sick man and I was in a position by my kindness to cure his ailment.

  “The pageboy carries the ring,” I said. “The wedding ring. He carries it down to the rabbi, and at the right moment, when the rabbi says okay, the man takes the ring from the pillow.”

  “How many pageboys does a wedding usually have?”

  I looked at my Aunt Sarah.

  “What do you mean?” she said sharply.

  “I had a talk this morning with the mother of the bride,” said Mr. Kelly. “She said she was a very surprised woman last night. She still is. The pageboy who was scheduled to come down the aisle with that satin cushion was her nephew. When another boy came down, she was astonished. Before she could do anything about her astonishment, other things happened, as you know. So it was not until this morning that she learned the reason her nephew had not been the pageboy the night before was that her nephew was in the bathroom with an upset stomach. Vomiting.”

  My Aunt Sarah spoke quickly. “That’s why they grabbed Benny,” she said. “That’s why they stuck him in. Isn’t that right, Benny?”

  I nodded. It seemed safer than uttering sounds.

  “I see,” Mr. Kelly said. He flipped another page of his notebook. “Benny,” he said. “Do you know a Mr. O’Hare?”

  “He’s my scoutmaster,” I said.

  Mr. Kelly nodded. “So Mr. O’Hare told me earlier today,” he said. “Benny, do you also know a Mr. Krakowitz? Mr. Norton Krakowitz?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Well, now, Benny,” Mr. Kelly said. “I also had a talk earlier today with Mr. O’Hare, and I had another talk with Mr. Krakowitz. They both spoke very highly of you.”

  “How can you question it?” said my Aunt Sarah. “Just look at the boy, Mr. Kelly. Did you ever see such a boy?”

  “Several times,” said Mr. Kelly.

  “Where?” said my Aunt Sarah.

  “In reform schools,” said Mr. Kelly.

  “Oh, my God,” my Aunt Sarah said.

  My father spoke. “Shut up, Sarah,” he said.

  Even though I was frightened, and I knew my Aunt Sarah was trying to conceal her fright, I was shocked by my father’s interference.

  Mr. Kelly turned. “Thank you, Mr. Kramer,” Mr. Kelly said.

  “You go ahead and ask anything you want,” my father said quietly. “My son will answer.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kramer,” Mr. Kelly said again. Mr. Kelly turned to me. “It’s like this, Benny,” he said. “Mr. O’Hare told me earlier today that you came to Lenox Assembly Rooms last night with a thing called a hike wagon. He said you came there to entertain at the Shumansky wedding. You were going to give a demonstration of boy scout skills with the Morse Code flags and other equipment from the hike wagon. That is why, Mr. O’Hare told me, that is why he allowed you to depart with the wagon from the troop meeting room in the Hannah H. Lichtenstein House last night. It is also why, he told me, why he called Mr. Krakowitz and asked him to come along with him to the Shumansky wedding.” The pages of the notebook flipped. “Mr. O’Hare reports,” said Mr. Kelly, “that when he and Mr. Krakowitz arrived last night at the Lenox Assembly Rooms, you were involved in an altercation with one Mario Imberotti. You know him, of course?”

  I took a chance. “No, sir,” I said. “I mean, not exactly.”

  “Well, now, that is extremely interesting,” said Mr. Kelly. The pages of his notebook flipped. “We have been informed that you and your mother recently visited Mr. Imberotti and his father in their quarters above Meister’s Matzoh Bakery. On Lafayette Street? Is that correct, Benny?”

  My Aunt Sarah stroked my hair gently, as though to relieve the congestion inside my head.

  “Leave him alone,” my father said sharply.

  I had never heard him say anything sharply.

  “Joe,” my Aunt Sarah said. “The boy is only a boy.”

  “He’s old enough to answer a question,” my father said.

  “And old enough to tell the truth,” said Mr. Kelly. “Tell us, Benny. Tell us truthfully, didn’t you and your mother visit Mario Imberotti in Meister’s Matzoh Bakery?”

  I knew I was caught, but I made a last try. “No, sir,” I said. “We visited his father.”

  It was not a very good try.

  “I see,” said Mr. Kelly, and I had an uneasy feeling that he did see. But I had an even stronger feeling that what he was seeing and what I was seeing were entirely different things. “What you want me to believe then, Benny, is that the young man who accosted you last night on the steps of the Lenox Assembly Rooms was a total stranger. Is that what you want me to believe?”

  “What’s accosted?” my Aunt Sarah said.

  “Interrupted,” Mr. Kelly said. “Stopped.”

  “Benny,” my Aunt Sarah said. “This happened to you?”

  “Well, when I was going up the steps with the hike wagon,” I said, “somebody tripped me.”

  “God in heaven!” my Aunt Sarah said.

  “According to Mr. O’Hare and Mr. Krakowitz,” said Mr. Kelly, “nothing happened.”

  “What have they got to do with it?” my Aunt Sarah said. “How do they know how it hurts a boy when he falls on stone steps?”

  “They were there,” Mr. Kelly said. “They saw Benny get tripped. They helped Benny back to his feet. They helped Benny drag his wagon into the Lenox Assembly Rooms.”

  “And they did nothing to this rotten momzer who tripped Benny?”

  “Very few people do anything when they are confronted by gangsters,” said Mr. Kelly. “That is what makes our work so difficult.”

  “Gangsters?”

  Aunt Sarah’s reading of the single word astonished me. I had expected a scream. But no. She uttered the two syllables with one hand on her bosom, and the other outstretched as though warding off a visible evil. In a scarcely audible whisper that rang through the kitchen like the clash of cymbals.

  “Yes, gangsters,” Mr. Kelly said. “Let me give you the picture.” He flipped the pages of his notebook. “There is a law on the statute books of this country. It is called the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution of these United States. It forbids the manufacture and sale of alcoholic beverages.”

  “What’s that?” my Aunt Sarah said.

  “Schnapps,’” Mr. Kelly said.

  “What?” we all said.

  I mean all. And I mean we. My Aunt Sarah. Your correspondent. And my father.

  “Schnapps,” Mr. Kelly said. “Anything else you don’t understand? Just ask me. I speak Yiddish.”

  I looked down at my hands. I knew we were trapped.

  “Now, you all better listen,” he said. “Even though it’s against the law,” Mr. Kelly said, “I think you ought to know that. there are people who are manufacturing and selling schnapps. Among them is a family named Imberotti. And among those who have been acting as their salesmen, or maybe I should say salesladies, Benny, is your mother.”

  “Oh, my God!” said my Aunt Sarah.

  “Sarah,” my father said. It came out Sooreh. “Hold your big mouth.”

  “What Mr. Kramer said is good advice,�
�� Mr. Kelly said. “Madam, please shut up. Benny’s mother, here, the maternal parent of this prize boy scout, is a bootlegger who has been carrying alcoholic beverages or schnapps from the Imberotti warehouse on Lafayette Street to the people of this neighborhood for at least a year, maybe longer. For the Shumansky wedding last night at Lenox Assembly Rooms, the Imberotti family decided to deliver the schnapps themselves. They felt it was too large an order for your mother to handle. Your mother, Benny, disagreed. She obtained the schnapps from another source, eighteen bottles according to our information, and arranged for you to deliver those bottles to Lenox Assembly Rooms last night. This annoyed the Imberotti family. That is why son Mario was waiting for you in front of the Lenox Assembly Rooms last night. This is why son Mario tripped you on the steps. Because your hike wagon, Benny, was not full of signal flags and other materials with which you were going to give a demonstration of boy scout skills. Mario Imberotti tripped you on the steps, Benny, because your hike wagon contained eighteen bottles of schnapps which your mother had obtained from another supplier, a rival of the Imberotti family. Is that correct, Benny?”

  I did not answer.

  “I think you had better understand some of the consequences of interfering with the functioning of the law,” said Mr. Kelly.

  “We respect the law,” my Aunt Sarah said. “This is a respectable Jewish house.”

  “Is it?” Mr. Kelly said. “Your nephew, this boy scout with his merit badges, you know what he was doing last night?”

  “He was a pageboy,” my Aunt Sarah said. “With a golden wedding ring on a satin cushion. You heard him yourself.”

  “And you heard me,” Mr. Kelly said. “Your so-called pageboy nephew was dealing with criminals.”

  “Criminals?” my Aunt Sarah said. This time she turned her back on the whisper and embraced the scream.

  “Yes, criminals,” Mr. Kelly said. “Your sister used her son, this boy scout, to collect the bottles of booze she had promised to deliver to the Shumansky wedding. This bright, sunny-faced, smiling young chap spent a very interesting time yesterday. Let me see.” Mr. Kelly consulted his notebook. “Yes,” he said. “As follows. This shining boy scout, what did he do? He came home from school. And the next thing we know a young man named Aaron Greenspan was gunned to death in a bootlegger’s war started by your sister.”