Tunes for Bears to Dance To

by Robert Cormier

  Just before closing time, while Henry was sweeping the floor, Mr. Hairston’s daughter came into the store. She appeared at the back door, having descended from the tenement above, where Mr. Haifston lived with his wife, whom Henry had never seen, and the girl, whose name was Doris. Doris was a whisper of a girl, slender, with long black curls that reached her shoulders, a bow in her hair. It looked like always the same bow but the colors were different, red and yellow and blue, bright and vivid colors in contrast with her pale white face, the dark eyes deep in their sockets, like the windows of a haunted house.

  She usually came and went like a ghost, appearing suddenly and then fading away, a door closing softly behind her or the rustle of her clothing faint in the air. Sometimes he didn’t see her at all but sensed her presence somewhere in the store. She was a year ahead of him in school and when they met in the corridor she lowered her eyes and looked away. She always carried library books in her arms. In the store he sometimes felt those haunted eyes upon him, turned and almost saw her, then heard the back door closing softly. They had never spoken a word to each other.

  Whenever Mr. Hairston saw her in the store, he ordered her to leave. “Upstairs,” he commanded, his hand pointed to the ceiling.

  That afternoon the girl spoke to Henry for the first time, a brief word: “Hello.” So brief and whispered that at first he doubted his ears. She didn’t smile at him but her expression changed, or rather an expression of some kind filled the usual blankness of her face. He could not read that expression. As she turned away before he could return her greeting—if it had been a greeting—he noticed a bruise on her cheek, purple and ugly.

  “What happened to your cheek?” he asked, whispering for some reason.

  “Upstairs.”

  Mr. Hairston’s voice was like thunder in the quiet store and Henry leapt with surprise as he turned to confront the store owner, whose face was dark with anger.

  Henry began to sweep furiously and heard the girl’s footsteps fading, the door opening and closing.

  “She fell down,” Mr. Hairston said while Henry swept the same spot over and over. “Clumsy girl, always hurting herself.”

  A late customer entered the store and Mr. Hairston turned away, cursing beneath his breath. He hated last-minute customers.

  That night Henry added Doris to his prayers as he knelt beside his bed. He said his prayers every night as the nuns at St. Jude’s Parochial School back in Frenchtown had taught all the students to do. He prayed first for his mother, small and delicate who had worked the night shift during the war, coming home at dawn, white with fatigue, trying to sleep in the noises of the day. Now she was a waitress, standing on her feet all day and carrying heavy trays. He then prayed for his father, deep in his silence. He prayed that his father would begin to gamble again, even if gambling was the reason there was never enough money in the house. His father, too, worked in the wartime shops but gambled away his earnings most of the time, a hard-luck gambler willing to bet on a ball game or a horse race or on the cards in his hands but seldom winning. Now his father didn’t gamble anymore and Henry prayed for him to come out of his grief even if it meant gambling again and losing as usual.

  He also prayed for Eddie, in case he was not in heaven. But where else could he be? Certainly not hell. Eddie had never done anything to deserve hell. Purgatory? Maybe. The nuns had often spoken of that place where souls waited to be admitted into heaven. Souls got into heaven from purgatory if enough prayers were offered on their behalf. So, Henry prayed for Eddie’s soul, taking no chances that he might not yet have reached heaven, hoping to nudge him closer each night.

  “And deliver us from evil,” he murmured. “Amen.”

  Before making the sign of the cross, ending his prayer, he thought of Doris who was clumsy and fell down a lot and hurt herself. He prayed to keep her safe from harm. Then he added a prayer for the old man, asking Jesus to watch over him. Anyone who lived in a crazy house certainly deserved a prayer.

  The next day, Henry followed the old man again, more curious about his actions now —the way he tipped his hat, his changes of expression, his sudden trances—than his destination.

  Turning a corner, he was startled to find that the old man was nowhere to be seen, as if he had disappeared from the face of the earth.

  Suddenly he stepped out of the shadows of a doorway, his black bag clutched to his chest for protection, his hands trembling as they held the bag, his eyes wide with fright.

  Blushing furiously, Henry said, “Don’t be afraid.” He had never seen such fright in someone’s eyes.

  The old man hacked away, cringing now, as if expecting a blow.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Henry said, gentling his voice, wondering if the old man understood what he was saying. “I’m only eleven years old….”

  Perhaps his words or the regret in his voice took some of the fear away, because the old man halted his backward steps and relaxed his grip on the bag. Big tears filled his eyes now and spilled onto his cheeks, dampening the white moustache.

  Tears blurring his own eyes, shocked that he had frightened such an old man, Henry heard himself saying, “I’ve been watching you every day and wondered where you went, that’s all. My leg was broken and my brother is dead….” He was amazed that he was confessing such things to this old man, a stranger.

  Wiping his cheek, the old man said, “Dead?” Or a word in a heavy accent that sounded like dead. Then a sound Henry had never heard from a man or woman before, an anguished cry from deep within: “Aaaaayyyy …” Like the sound someone makes when the pain is too much to bear, the load too heavy to carry, the heat too hot, the cold too cold.

  Touching the old man’s shoulder, grateful that he did not pull away, Henry said, “It’s all right. My leg is better now and my brother is in heaven.” He did not mention the possibility of purgatory.

  The old man nodded his head and fell silent, although his cry still echoed in Henry’s ears. They stood silently together, ignoring the people who looked at them curiously as they passed by.

  Raising his hand and beckoning, the bag no longer a shield for protection, the old man said, “Come.” Henry fell into step beside him, offering to carry the old man’s bag. The bag was not heavy at all but rattled with whatever was inside. Henry pretended not to notice when the old man tipped his cap occasionally, although he did not pause or go into one of his trances.

  When they came in sight of the store, he saw the giant pacing the sidewalk, all bone and muscle. It was a wonder the pavement did not tremble beneath his feet. The giant shouted with relief when he spotted the old man. He spoke a few words to him in a language Henry did not understand, then explained, looking down at Henry, “I was worried about him because he was late. You can usually set your clock by him.” Scrutinizing Henry from his lofty height: “So, you came back …good.”

  The giant led them into the store.

  It was not a place of deep dark secrets after all but a big room where a dozen people busied themselves at benches, heads bent in concentration, fingers flying everywhere. At first Henry thought the store had been converted into some kind of factory. Machines whirred at some of the benches, sending showers of dust into the air. Other people worked quietly with their hands. Green-shaded lights threw pools of brilliance on the benches.

  As the old man made his way to a sheet-covered bench, the giant said, “This place was once a pool hall, but now it’s an arts-and-crafts center. People come here who can’t afford lessons. Or don’t have enough money for supplies. Some are artists who need a place to work. Some just need a place to go. The city of Wickburg pays for all this. …”

  In one corner a tall, thin man squinted at a half-finished painting of birch trees against a bright blue sky. A few feet away a round woman with blue hair massaged a big lump of clay. When Henry narrowed his glance, he saw the head of a child emerging from the clay.

  Turning away, amazed at the swarm of activity, Henry saw the old man pull the sheet off t
he bench, revealing a miniature village of houses and barns, populated by tiny wooden figures, not more than an inch or two in height.

  “Mr. Levine is a wood carver,” the giant said. “He’s re-creating the village of his youth there on the bench.”

  “Is that his name, Mr. Levine?”

  “Yes, Jacob Levine.”

  “My name is Henry. Henry Cassavant.”

  “And I’m George Graham,” the giant said, a smile revealing his big teeth.

  George Graham? Henry thought that a giant like this man should have an imposing name, like the heroes in books, Thor or Ivan.

  Mr. Levine looked back at Henry, then gestured at the wooden village, smiling. But there was something sad in the smile, Henry thought. The old man opened his bag and set small tools out on the bench.

  “See those buildings and the tiny figures?” George Graham asked.” He told me they look exactly like the people he knew in that village long ago. He’s a real artist, Henry.”

  Henry stood beside Mr. Levine as he went to work, putting the finishing touches to the figure of a child, barely an inch high, carving gently with fingers that never faltered, holding the small cutting tool securely but tenderly.

  On the bench before him an entire village was laid out. Cottages, barns, stores. Animals in the fields, horses and cows, mules and chickens and dogs. All of them in their natural colors. And the figures, like real people. Women with bandannas peeking out of windows or hanging clothes on a line, men standing in the streets of the village. Carts and wagons.

  The old man worked steadily, taking a break only to put down the figure and tip his hat to no one in particular, and then resuming his task. Once in a while he glanced at Henry and smiled, the smile becoming familiar to Henry now, a smile tinged with not-quite-sadness, not-quite-happiness.

  George Graham strolled through the center, stopping to talk to the people, nodding, touching a shoulder here and there, listening intently as they talked. Most times he knelt on the floor beside the artists, and thus was at eye level with them. Every once in a while laughter filled the air as the people called to each other or visited one another’s benches to see the work in progress. A boy only a few years older than Henry was turning a wine jug into a lamp, while beside him a young woman swollen with pregnancy stitched pieces of cloth into a quilt.

  George Graham returned to the old man’s bench and knelt down beside Henry.

  “Are you an artist too?” Henry asked.

  “No, I run places like this for the city. We have branches all over Wickburg. But this one is my favorite.”

  “How long does it take him to make those figures?” Henry asked.

  “Five or six hours each. He is the most patient man I’ve ever met”

  Mr. Levine turned and gestured to Henry to come closer. He picked up a small block of wood with one hand, a razor blade with the other. He began to whittle away at the block of wood.

  “That’s balsa wood,” the giant explained. “Soft, easy to work with, not like the oak he uses for the village.”

  Henry watched the curved head of a duck emerging, then the beak. The swift passages of the blade caught the light. The finished specimen was rough, but unmistakably a duck. The old man applied a brown dye to the wood, stroking quickly with a small brush. He turned, paused, and handed it to Henry, a wide smile on his face, no hint of sadness at all in the smile now.

  “Thank you,” Henry said.

  The old man nodded and said something in the strange language to George Graham.

  “He says the pleasure was his, that your presence here gives him pleasure,” the giant relayed to Henry.

  “What language was that?” Henry asked.

  “Yiddish, an old language from his country in Europe.”

  “Are you Yiddish too?”

  George Graham smiled gently. “Yiddish is a language, Henry. Spoken by Jews. But I’m not a Jew. I’m good with languages, that’s all. I served as a translator for the army during the war.”

  Holding the carved duck delicately in his hand, Henry watched the old man as he resumed work on the figure of the child, with a cutting tool so small that it was almost invisible in his hands. The curved cheek of the girl formed itself under the tool’s strokes.

  Finally Henry knew it was time to leave. There were chores to perform at home, a list in his pocket his mother had handed him before she left for work.

  He touched Mr. Levine’s arm.

  “I have to go now,” he said. “Thank you for the duck.”

  The old man nodded in acknowledgment, held out his hand, and their fingers entwined themselves.

  At the door, the giant said, “Will you come again? Mr. Levine is alone in the world. Has no family…. His wife dead, and his children. I think you remind him of his son. He looks at you fondly….”

  Fondly … a tender word on the tongue of this huge bulk of a man.

  “I’ll come back,” Henry promised.

  Henry and his mother took the bus to Monument every Sunday to visit Eddie’s grave. The ride was bumpy, the smell of exhaust heavy and suffocating despite the open windows. When the bus arrived in Monument, they walked a mile or so to St. Jude’s Cemetery on the edge of Frenchtown. They never went back to their old neighborhood. “Too many memories,” his mother said. Henry knew the unspoken word—sad. Too many sad memories. Eddie’s death had obliterated all the good times they had known in Frenchtown.

  At Eddie’s grave his mother exchanged last week’s wilted flowers for new ones. The flowers made Henry sad. He had never heard Eddie say that he liked flowers. What boy did? But what else do you bring to a cemetery?

  Henry and his mother knelt down, lips moving soundlessly as they prayed. Henry did not look at his, mother, because he knew her face would be stark with grief. Why do we come here? he wondered. There was no comfort in the cemetery. Eddie’s grave was maintained by St. Jude’s parish but was forlorn and lonely, without a stone to mark it

  “Why don’t we have a stone for Eddie?” Henry asked, although he suspected the reason.

  “We will someday, Henry,” she said. “When things get better. …”

  “When Pa starts working again?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking away.

  “But what if he starts gambling again?”

  “Maybe he’ll start winning,” she said.

  “Why is he a gambler, Ma?” he asked. Henry had always been puzzled about his father’s all-night card games, why he preferred the company of men in smoky back rooms to being home with his family.

  “Know what he really is, Henry?” Not waiting for an answer, she went on: “He’s a dreamer, your father. He dreams about what a windfall will do for us, if he makes a killing.”

  The gambling words—windfall and killing-sounded alien on her lips and also funny in a sad way, her voice wistful as she spoke them.

  “But he doesn’t gamble anymore,” Henry said, still trying to solve the puzzle of his father. “And he’s so sad, Ma.”

  “More than sad, Henry,” his mother said.

  “When sadness becomes too much to bear, it becomes a sickness. As if your father’s standing in the shadows.”

  “Because Eddie died?”

  “We all have our own way of handling the bad things that happen, Henry” his mother said, staring down at the grave. “The doctor said it will take time …“

  He was amazed to find out that sadness could be treated like a disease and that his father had actually gone to a doctor. He was disappointed that his mother had kept the doctor a secret from him. But what of his own secrets? He had never told her or anyone how much he missed Eddie, or his homesickness for Frenchtown and his old pals, Leo Cartier and Nicky LaFontaine, or his bad dreams in which an atomic bomb exploded and a huge mushroom cloud obliterated the world.

  “Poor Henry,” his mother said, tousling his hair, her touch tender. Then, with determination: “Look, if you think we should have a stone for Eddie’s grave, then we’ll have one.” She bent down and picked
up the water jar, holding it as if it was a grenade she was about to toss. “One way or another.”

  “Maybe we can save for it,” Henry offered. “A little bit from your pay and a little bit from mine.”

  “Maybe,” his mother said.

  The impossible suddenly seemed possible, and Henry did a little dance of excitement there in front of Eddie’s grave. Then paused. “What kind of stone, Ma?”

  They looked at the surrounding gravestones, slabs of gray, blocks of granite, forbidding in their loneliness. Even a nearby stone in the shape of an angel was grim and remote.

  “Something special,” she said, her eyes bright and lively. “Something that would please Eddie to have it here. What do you think he would like, Henry?”

  Henry thought of Eddie and his love of baseball, his air of confidence as he stood at the plate, coiled and ready to hit, swinging the bat impatiently as he waited for the pitcher to throw the ball, and then a magnificent swing, the crack of the bat meeting the ball, and the ball soaring like the arc of a rainbow toward the farthest point of the field. And the shouts and hoorays from the stands.

  “A bat and a ball,” Henry said, the words popping out of his mouth.

  His mother regarded him with astonishment, openmouthed, then turned to look down at Eddie’s grave. Henry also looked down, picturing a baseball bat and ball arranged on the grave like the symbols of the 1939 world’s fair, the bat standing erect and the ball at its base.

  They looked at each other and began to laugh at the thought of such a monument. The first time he had seen his mother laugh since Eddie died. Her laughter bubbled merrily in the air and Henry joined in. They were suddenly helpless with laughter, as if they had been released from a long imprisonment. Seized with such merriment, they clutched each other, giving themselves to the sudden joy of the moment