“Rudy was from Brooklyn,” I said. “Coney Island.”
“All I know is what I’m telling you.” Two more pretty girls stopped to buy a pretzel from a street vendor and the guy began to serenade them with a spirited tune, flashing his eyes, taking tiny steps, inviting them to dance with him. They turned their backs and walked away, not giving him a second glance.
“Sorry, girls,” the guitar player called in a loud voice as we walked away. We looked back, not knowing if he was talking to us or to the girls who’d ignored him.
“Rudy wouldn’t have taken off like that, without letting us know,” Al said.
“How could he let us know? He didn’t even know our last names,” I said. “Or where we live. He didn’t know anything about us. When you come right down to it, he didn’t know squat about us. We knew about him, or what he told us about himself. We’ll probably never see him again.”
“We’ll never find that woman, either. I feel it in my bones.” Al’s shoulders slumped, and she fumbled in her pocket for the five dollars. We both looked at the money stupidly, as if wondering how it had gotten there.
“The city’s too big,” I told her. “You hardly ever find anyone you’re looking for.”
“Let’s go to St. Patrick’s,” Al said. “Sit down and smell the incense.” Al was crazy about the smell of incense.
“All right,” I said. St. Patrick’s Cathedral is beautiful and vast. It makes me feel as if I’m in Europe when I go there. There are lots of cathedrals in Europe, I understand. St. Patrick’s may be as close as I’ll ever get to Europe.
We sat and watched the people taking pictures, wandering around, admiring everything. On our way out, there was a box marked For the Poor of the World. Al carefully folded her money and slipped it in the slot. We went down the church steps, and the humidity made us gasp.
“At least I did something positive,” Al told me.
“That beats nothing,” I said.
chapter 21
“How’s your little boy?” I asked Mr. Keogh when Al and I stopped to see him Monday morning on our way to class.
“He’s a pistol. Turned two last week. We gave him a set of blocks for his birthday. First thing he did was make a towering structure which he says is a church. My wife thinks he’s aiming to be an architect. I think he might be aiming to be a priest.” Mr. Keogh grinned. “Hard to tell, at this age.”
Mr. Keogh fiddled with a pencil.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” he said.
“So ask,” Al said.
“Right. Well, here it is.” Mr. Keogh cleared his throat. “If you’re not busy next Saturday morning, how about coming with me to visit my father in his nursing home?”
I looked at Al, and she looked back. Flabbergast city.
“To do what?” Al got out.
“Talk. Read to them, the old people, I mean. Sing songs, if you want.” Mr. Keogh tapped his teeth with the pencil. “The point is, they need distraction. Most of them sit in the same chairs, in the same places, day after day. They watch television, but that’s about it. Lethargy sets in and it’s bad for them. They lose interest in things, in life. The doctors asked me, after they found out I was a teacher, if I knew any kids who might be willing to visit the patients. They’ve experimented and found that old people benefit greatly from contact with young people. Just having them around, the doctors said, is extremely beneficial, even for a short while.
“So I thought of you right off. You’re good kids. I wouldn’t ask just anyone to come up there with me.” Mr. Keogh smiled tentatively at us.
Al said, “I could tell their fortunes.”
“Great! Who doesn’t like to have their fortunes told?”
“I can’t do anything,” I told Mr. Keogh. “I can play the harmonica but only a little.” I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to spend Saturday morning talking to a bunch of old fogies.
“Harmonica’s great, too. Fortunes are always good.” I had the feeling if one of us said we could pick pockets, Mr. Keogh would say, “Great! Picking pockets is always good for a laugh.”
“It’s purely an experiment, don’t forget,” Mr. Keogh said. Then the bell rang and we breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a short but stressful interview. We said all right, we’d go. Mr. Keogh said he’d pick us up Saturday morning outside our apartment at ten sharp.
“Thanks, girls.” He shook hands. “You won’t regret this, I promise you. You’re doing a good deed, and maybe both of you will benefit from it, just as my father and the rest of them will benefit from having you there.”
“I’m not hot on this deal,” I said, as Al and I hurried back to our home room. “I don’t know what to say to them.”
“Neither do I. But I’ll say this.” Al’s eyes glittered. “This is our chance to make something of ourselves, to do something selfless. We’re getting points in heaven for this one, baby.”
“I’m not out to get points in heaven,” I told her.
“I don’t know why not.” Al’s eyebrows did their disappearing act. “You need all the points you can get.”
How does she know I need points?
She has some nerve.
When I told my mother about Al and me going to the old people’s home to cheer them up, she flipped. I mean, you would’ve thought I’d said I was going to become Florence Nightingale.
“Marvelous!” she exclaimed, giving me a bear hug and an approving look. She frequently gives me bear hugs. Approving looks are in shorter supply. While I basked in my mother’s approval, a dismaying thought crept into my head.
Suppose they’re deaf? Lots of old people were, I knew. Suppose they couldn’t hear when I played my harmonica? Well, I was so bad at it, it might be a good thing if they were deaf. Still, knocking myself out on the harmonica for a bunch of deaf oldsters has got to be straight out of a Fellini movie. Fellini is an Italian movie director who deals in the existential absurdities of life.
Maybe Martha Moseley could come with us and give a lecture on pierced ears and fourteen-karat-gold earrings. That oughta get her points in heaven, too. Which, I figure, she needs a heck of a lot more than I do.
When I went down the hall to Al’s to discuss our plans for the oldsters, she was deep in her math homework. If Fellini had ever observed Al doing her math homework, he would’ve signed her to a ten-year contract on the spot. Math is Al’s worst subject. She sweats bullets over it.
“I’ll come back when you’re done,” I said.
“No! Stay. I’m almost finished.” I read a fashion magazine and listened to her breathing. When I heard her slam her book closed, I knew she was through.
“I wish I hadn’t said I’d go,” I said. “I won’t know what to say, what to do. I don’t know anything about how to treat old people.”
Al looked surprised. “How about your grandfather?” she asked.
“He’s not old old, he’s just old,” I said.
“No offense, but to some people he might be considered old old.” Al hadn’t brought up the subject of her mother and my grandfather’s date again. Neither had I.
“I guess we just play it by ear,” I said. “Just act natural.”
“Listen.” Al held up a finger and waved it under my nose. “I read the Diary of Anne Frank last night.”
“Again?” We’ve read that diary about a hundred times, each of us.
“She was only our age when she said, ‘I felt lonely, but hardly ever in despair!’ That’s when she was shut up in that room, hiding from the Nazis. How do you like that? She said she’d hardly ever been in despair. It makes me ashamed of myself when I read that. Doesn’t it make you ashamed?”
“No,” I said. “She wrote that diary to keep herself sane. I’m sure of that. If it hadn’t been for those creeps that gave her away, the Nazis never would’ve found her hiding place.”
“The world is full of creeps,” Al told me. “I know I agitate too much about trivial things. Like, am I popular, am I pretty, am I a winner? And we all know the
answers to those, right?” Al began to pace. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I can’t help it. I think about those things. Am I an achiever? Heck, no. But I’m smart.” She turned to look at me, and I saw tears in her eyes. Reading Anne Frank did that to us, me and her. “Chalk one up, for me. Am I gorgeous? Heck, no. But I might be someday. Am I a winner? Heck, no, but someday my name may be a household word.”
“What’s the household word?” I asked because I knew she wanted me to.
“Try Comet,” she said. “Or how about Listerine?”
“Would you settle for Pepperidge Farm?”
“I have often been in the pits,” Al said, “but never forever. Do you ever wonder what you’d do if you were in Anne Frank’s shoes?”
As long as I’ve known Al, I’ve never gotten used to the way she switches subjects.
“That’s like saying do you know what you’d do if somebody pulled a knife on you,” I said. “You can’t know until you’re actually faced with something terrible.”
“It just so happened that Anne Frank and Joan of Arc had the strength and the inner fortitude to face death without flinching.” Al stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself.
“Is that the face of someone with inner fortitude?” she asked her face. Then she answered, “Heck, no, it’s the face of an abject coward.”
Then, switching to her swami voice, Al said, “Mother Zandi detects the odor of dead fish. The fish stinks from its head. Evil is everywhere. ‘To thine own self be true’ and bad luck will take a different road. The one you love will love you back.”
“You’re full of it, Mother Zandi,” I said.
“We’ll wow those senior citizens, kid,” Al told me. “I know we will.”
chapter 22
Mr. Keogh’s beat-up station wagon was almost full when he picked us up promptly at ten Saturday morning. Two seventh-grade twerps were in back and two girls about our age from Mr. Keogh’s neighborhood were in front. Al and I climbed in the middle. Mr. Keogh introduced us. Nobody spoke as we rattled our way up to the Bronx. I looked over at Al. She was staring out the window and biting her nails. Let me out of here, I thought.
What if they were handicapped? Or had goiters, those things old people got that looked as if they had rubber tires around their necks. Maybe they were losing their marbles, or didn’t know what year it was or what their names were. I didn’t know if I could cope.
The home was U-shaped and painted a pale, sickly green, with aluminum awnings and dusty geraniums lining the path to the front door. Above the door a sign said Sunlight Manor. Across the street a used car lot advertised Super Buys! and Cream Puffs for Sale.
Maybe it wasn’t a used car lot, I thought; maybe it was a bakery disguised as a used car lot.
An attendant in a white coat met us and said, “They’re waiting for you,” in what seemed to me an ominous tone. Mr. Keogh led the way up a flight of stairs.
“Don’t forget, kids,” he said nervously, “we’re all feeling our way here. I’m new at this, too. Remember: if it’s worth doing at all, it’s worth doing well. Hold the thought.”
He stopped outside a door at the top of the stairs. “Well, here we are,” he said. The door opened, and a tall man with steel gray hair came out and shook Mr. Keogh’s hand.
“I’m Dr. Simon,” the man said. “We’re so glad you could come. We’re all looking forward to this very much. Please come in.”
Mr. Keogh led the way. We almost clung to his coattails in an effort to stay close to him.
“Do any of you know how to play the piano?” Dr. Simon asked. “Music is always a good icebreaker.”
There seemed to be a lot of old people in the room. Nobody looked at us or indicated any interest in us. They all looked very clean and very old. My grandfather would look like a teenager in this crowd, I thought. I looked at Al to see what she was thinking. Her face was totally without expression.
“Donny does,” Mr. Keogh said, indicating one of the seventh-grade boys. Donny went to the grand piano in a corner of the room, sat down, and punched on the keys until they gave up a tune, which I finally figured out after a couple minutes was “God Bless America.” Donny performed with great aplomb, as if he was Leonard Bernstein. His mother would’ve been proud. His music teacher, if he had one, ought to be shot.
Donny kept punching away, and music filled the hall. A tall, stout lady in a black dress with pearls and a veil over her blue hair got up, went to the piano and rested one hand lightly on it, and sang. She knew a lot of the words, and those she didn’t know she faked. Some of the others joined in, their reedy voices rising and falling. The woman in black got with it and wound up belting out the words like she was Kate Smith at the opening game of the World Series. When she and Donny were through, she bowed to the left, then to the right, eliciting a smattering of applause.
I felt as if I had about a dozen arms and legs and none of them was the right size. It was like being at a boy-girl party and not knowing where to sit, where to look, how to act, whom to talk to.
Then I heard a sound like escaping steam.
“Ssssstt,” it said. “Ssssstt.” I followed the sound with my eyes, which lit on a tiny plump little woman in a cardigan sweater sitting on a couch all by herself.
“Sit down,” she said. “In my day I could’ve sung rings around her. But my day is past, and I’m smart enough to know it. Unlike lots of people I could mention.” She wore diamond rings on both her tiny spotted hands, which moved constantly, emphasizing her words.
“Here.” She handed me a weekly magazine. “Read this. I forgot my eyeglasses. I don’t need them. My eyes are perfectly good. Glasses are so disfiguring, don’t you think? Start at the beginning, and I’ll tell you when to stop.”
No please, no nothing.
The magazine was open to the Personals. Personals are so bizarre. I love to read them.
I began at the first Personal.
“Successful, handsome, slim business exec wants female counterpart to share good times, music, laughter, dancing in white tie or jeans.” Then there was a box number to reply to, care of the magazine.
The little woman nodded vigorously, obviously pleased. “They all want ’em handsome and successful and slim,” she said, very knowing. “I wonder what’d happen if somebody fat and unsuccessful and ugly put in an ad. There must be a lot of fat, unsuccessful, ugly people out there who want love and good times. But then, nobody really sees themself, do they? Go on.”
I did as I was told.
“I am bright, beautiful, great figure,” the ad read. The woman cackled delightedly. “Sure, sure, I know all about your great figure!” she cried. “Keep going, keep going!” she told me.
I felt like saying, “Stop interrupting me,” but did not.
“Outgoing, sensitive, elegant,” I read. “Seek exceptional unmarried male with high standards, possible long-term relationship.”
“High standards! High standards!” the tiny woman shouted. “What do they know about high standards! Advertising in a magazine, telling all the world how beautiful they are, how great their figure is. Blowing their own horn. It’s a good thing my mother isn’t alive. Such goings on.” The woman put her hand on my arm, pinching it ever so slightly. Her eyes sparkled with malice. “Advertising in a magazine for a husband. Or, better yet, a lover. Scandalous!”
The older I get, the weirder people are. This one was a dilly. I read the whole page of Personals to the tiny woman. Then she fell into a doze. One minute her eyes were snapping, the next she was asleep. I left her and went to find Al.
She was surrounded by a circle of old folks.
“Mother Zandi says,” I heard her say. She was giving them the swami bit. “Lovers may demand more of your time than you can give,” she said in her deep, dark voice. “Look for a surprise in your mailbox. The jet-set routine may get boring this week. Take it easy, have some friends in for cards. Shoot it up.”
They loved it. That last about shooting it up brought down the house.
One man laughed so hard he started to choke and had to be slapped on the back until he got his breath.
Al was having a blast. I could tell from her face. I don’t think she ever tried her Mother Zandi routine on anyone before. Before me, that is. It and she were a hit.
Donny and the other boy played chopsticks on the piano until Mr. Keogh had to tell them to stop. I saw the two girls from Mr. Keogh’s neighborhood. It looked as if they were being given knitting lessons by a couple of old ladies who had long, half-knitted mufflers growing out of their laps. The girls were paying close attention as the mufflers got longer and longer. They’d be great for a couple of giraffes, I figured.
I saw Mr. Keogh and an old man playing chess. That must be Mr. Keogh’s father, I thought. There was a resemblance.
Somebody played some records. Two women danced together, the smaller one leading her partner in a series of intricate steps. I hoped maybe there’d be refreshments soon.
Suddenly Al was there, grabbing my arm until it hurt.
“Did you see him?”
“Who? No.”
“There.” She pointed.
Standing by the record player, his back to us, was a small man.
“So? What’s the big deal?” I said.
“Wait.” I felt Al’s breath on my cheek. She was pale, and her eyes almost popped out of her head, she was so excited.
The small man turned. It was Mr. Richards. “Oh, no,” I sighed. “No, it’s not him.”
“See? I’m not imagining it.” Al stepped back to look at me. “You thought I was dreaming, didn’t you? Or hallucinating.”
“What’ll we do?” I kept looking at him. This man was older than Mr. Richards. His face was very lined, and he had a slight hump on his back.
“It’s not really him,” I told Al. “He just looks a lot like him.”
“That’s your story.” Al narrowed her eyes at me. “Let’s talk to him. That way we’ll be sure.”
“You go,” I told her. “I’ll wait here.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. This is something we do together,” Al said.
She was right. I knew she was right, but I was scared.
Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five Page 8
