by Paul Hond
Believing wildly that there remained one final scrap of dignity to be salvaged—it required that he walk the hell out right now—Mickey raised his chin and unfocused his eyes so that he could appear to look gamely into hers. “Good-bye,” he said, then turned to the door, fully expecting that she would stop him. Instead he found the doorknob in his hand, the door pulling back, and himself walking through the office with vicious poise, exiting like Shaw from a triumphant stage. But inside he was reeling, and when he landed three stories below in an afternoon of gathering white clouds, he had no memory of descending the stairs.
He tore open the door of the van and threw himself into the driver’s seat. It was all the kid’s fault, he told himself as he jabbed the key in the ignition and twisted its tiny neck. The engine croaked to life, then howled as Mickey smashed the pedal with his foot. If only Ben had been straight with him, had told the truth! But no: he’d lied, a bald-faced, flat-out lie, and because of it Mickey had walked blindly into Donna’s office and gotten his lights knocked out.
And so it was over before it even began. He’d done what he could up there in Donna’s office—he’d put himself on the line. But there’d been too much damage to overcome.
He slammed his fists on the steering wheel. He’d come home from Paris with a full heart and had been met with nothing but lies and deceit and sorrow. His own son! His own son had undermined him, had wrecked his best plans.
Dejected, Mickey was left to grapple with the notion that he had raised a monstrous child. The young man in whom he’d been so eager to discover the hope and promise of youth, whom he’d wanted so badly to embrace as an image of himself, had been corrupted by ambition and power. How defensive and protective he’d become at a few well-meaning suggestions! How proud of that computer!
Mickey grabbed the gearshift and pulled; and as he sent the old van barreling out into the street, he suddenly recalled something Emi had said, years ago, during her first pregnancy: how she feared that the child, were it a male, would remind her of her estranged father, the heartless industrialist who’d made his fortune “off the backs of others.”
And yesterday: hadn’t he seen, in Ben’s dark, gleaming eyes, the first faint lights of ruthlessness?
It was crazy: there he was on the plane coming home, worrying himself sick that he’d been a derelict father, that Ben was in some way crying out for him, only to find that the kid had been living the life of Riley, computer and all, cutting shrewd deals and summarily axing his workers. Oh, he’d been self-sufficient all right! But what hurt Mickey most was that the kid had probably wished his father had never returned, that he’d stayed abroad forever. And then to withhold crucial information—to cost him his chances with Donna! Oh, it would have been one thing had the kid been, when Mickey first saw him there behind the desk, the picture of neglect—he might forgive him, then—but damned if he hadn’t walked in on a small-time tycoon, who, even at this moment, up there behind the door of his bedroom—Mickey could see it—was plotting his father’s deposal.
Mickey bore down on the road. He wasn’t sure which end was up anymore. But in a secret place in his conscience, so secret he was barely aware it existed, he wondered if he weren’t inflating the imagery a little so as to avoid the fact of his own desertion.
Ben stared out his bedroom window at the rooftops, the wires and bare branches, the cold white sky. Rattner’s voice had been oddly conspiratorial, as though he and Ben were now brothers in doom. “Nelson put a gun to my head last night,” Rattner had told him over the phone. “I don’t know if you’ve had any trouble, but I thought I should call and warn you. But don’t, I repeat don’t under any circumstances—do you hear me, Lerner?—don’t you dare breathe a word of this to anyone. Not even the cops. He’ll kill me otherwise. I’m not kidding, Lerner. He put a gun to my head last night and fired. Missed my head by an inch.”
It had taken everything in Ben’s power to cover his own terror—he knew that Mickey was watching him—and when he hung up the office phone, he saw his father in yet another light entirely. The man had gone from being a benefactor for whom Ben had been so anxious to make good, to a defector who had left him in harm’s way, to an unwelcome invader who, raving about ovens and bricks and baskets, had failed to recognize his accomplishments, to finally a kind of unwitting protector, his one shield against Nelson. With Mickey back, Ben could stay cooped up in his room with the gun in his hand instead of being an open target at the bakery. And he would no longer be alone in the house at night.
And yet he had his doubts as to whether Mickey would ever literally protect him, defend him, should the worst come to pass. Hadn’t Mickey always kept him more or less at arm’s length, as though he were embarrassed of him, ashamed? And to think that all he’d wanted to do was please the man, make him proud! Why had he even made the effort? For it was obvious, now, that his work had been overlooked. Mickey wanted to change things. Change them! And the worst thing of all was that he would never have come home in the first place had it not been for the arrests. The police must have contacted him in France. But suppose they hadn’t? Would he have just stayed over there forever?
Ben looked down at the gun in his hands. He tried to recall any signs of his father’s pride, his approval. Hadn’t he said, last night in the kitchen, that he, Ben, had done a bang-up job? And before that, at the bakery; hadn’t he said he wouldn’t turn everything upside down? And hadn’t he been impressed with the computer, and the Lazarus decision, and how everything in the office was so neat and orderly? Wasn’t it just possible that he was a lot more pleased than he’d let on, that between his exhaustion and the hoopla over the arrests, and then the changes at the bakery, he’d simply been too overwhelmed to react? Wasn’t it possible that he was in fact bursting with pride, but that maybe he’d felt a little funny—a little jealous—about how things had come along so well without him?
But if he was proud, Ben thought; if he was pleased by his son’s achievements—but no, it was too awful a thought. And yet what if he found out about Nelson, found out that Nelson had been fired, that Ben had mishandled things, and that Nelson now had a possible vendetta against the bakery? What would Mickey think of him then?
And what was to stop Nelson from showing up at the bakery while Mickey was there, and telling him what had happened? Or worse—coming in and shooting the place up? Wasn’t that possible too?
Ben felt a new fear—that Mickey himself was in danger. Should he warn him? Tell him what had happened? Explain his side of the story before Nelson had a chance to act? Or was that taking too much of a risk? Suppose Nelson just faded from the picture?
No: he couldn’t tell Mickey the truth about Nelson. How could he ever admit that he’d bungled the situation, that he’d hemmed and hawed and waffled and displayed all sorts of weakness, whereas Mickey had never parted on bad terms with an employee in his life?
He needed to see his father right now, he decided, needed to get another reading of the man’s feelings, his thoughts. It was impossible to sit still any longer without knowing exactly how Mickey felt about him.
It was already four in the afternoon. Ben got dressed and placed the gun in his coat pocket, just in case Nelson should decide to surprise him along the way. It was a good thing Rattner had warned him, he thought. Rattner, of all people, looking out for him.
There was snow coming; Ben could smell it, a hint of smoke in the air. By the time he reached the end of the alley his ears stung, but his hands were warm inside the gloves that Donna had given him.
The bakery came into view. Ben crossed the street and stood at the far end of the parking lot.
He looked in all directions: no sign of Nelson. He walked around the lot and crept up to the bakery from the side. At the edge of the window he turned and peeked in. Behind the counter stood, not Mickey or Morris, but Lazarus; he was reading his tattered book, rocking back and forth, lips parted. The new counterman? A white skullcap lay on his head like a snowball smashed home by a Gentile.
> Morris would be at lunch, Ben figured. Mickey would be back in the office.
Lazarus looked up as he entered. It was strange seeing Lazarus under these circumstances; just a few days ago he’d been signing the man’s paychecks. Now he himself was in limbo, and Lazarus was waiting on customers.
“Good afternoon,” said Lazarus.
“Hi,” said Ben. “What are you doing here?”
“Morris called me and asked if I would come in and give a hand. He was all alone, he said, it was getting busy, and can I come in and help? So here I am. Meanwhile he went to lunch.”
Ben nodded. There wasn’t much warmth between them; Lazarus had serious reservations about the child of a woman who, among other things, would choose to be cremated.
“Is my father here?” said Ben.
“No,” said Lazarus. “He was here an hour ago, then he went out to make a delivery.” He returned to his book.
Ben went to the back. The work area looked the same as it had yesterday—the tables, the mixers—but the office had already begun to return to its former disarray: papers and mail lay piled on the desk. It was like entering a patient’s room and smelling urine: a kind of senile incontinence seemed manifest in the renewed chaos of receipts and bills and notices.
There came a sound from outside—the van doors sliding open. Ben rushed to the front of the store, where he saw, through the window, a sight that tore his heart: the figure unloading cargo was not the strong, silver-haired man in a starched white shirt whistling a tune as he made short work of a few empty boxes, but rather, a bent, gray, weatherworn man in trousers and work gloves, snorting steam.
Ben pictured him fighting traffic in a heap of rattling metal, hauling boxes in his arms or rolling them on the dolly through garbage-stinking delivery entrances. It was a far cry from bricks and baskets, wheat fields and mills, all those ideas that he had spoken about so passionately the day before.
Ben went outside. He could hear Mickey grunting as he reached into the van to pull out the empty boxes.
“Dad.”
There was no response.
Ben cleared his throat and tried again. “Dad?”
Mickey looked up. His face was red with cold and exertion. But there was something else there too. Something had happened.
“Need a hand?” Ben said.
“No,” said Mickey. He threw the work gloves into the back of the van and looked away.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Ben shivered. What was it? Had Morris said something to him about Nelson? Had Rattner called?
Mickey tossed another box.
“I want to help,” Ben said. He reached inside the van for the last box.
“I don’t need help!” Mickey yelled. When Ben pulled out the box, Mickey grabbed it with his bare hands.
But Ben kept hold of the other end; for some reason he could not surrender it. “Let go!” said Mickey. He tugged, ripping a corner of the box. Ben held on and pulled with all he had, causing Mickey to lose his footing. They were now on the far side of the van, out of view of the bakery windows.
“Let me help!” said Ben. He was confused by the struggle, but at the same time could not divorce himself from it; he’d rather rip the box than give it up.
He staggered forward as Mickey yanked at the box, then was thrown back into metal. The force of the crash electrified him. The box fell away from his fingers and flew up in the air with the motion of Mickey’s arm, and landed several feet away.
“What did I do?” Ben said.
Mickey looked fiercely into his eyes, and suddenly he resembled his former robust self. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you tell me you fired Nelson? Why did I have to hear it from Nelson’s mother?”
Ben could barely speak. “I—I was going to tell you!” he said, staggered that his worst imagining had come to pass.
“You lied to me. Why did you lie?”
“I—”
“What happened!” said Mickey. “Tell me what happened!”
Ben was near tears. “Nelson made a threat to Jay Rattner,” he blurted. “He threatened to kill him. I had to do something, Rattner was ready to cut us off, I had to—”
“Why didn’t you call me!” Mickey said. “I told you to call me if there was any trouble. Why didn’t you call me and tell me what was happening!”
“Why,” Ben shouted back, “did you leave me?”
Mickey stared at him with wild, uncomprehending eyes. Ben hardly knew what he had said—the words had shot up as if from some exploded core—but he could see that he had struck a nerve in his father, who had fallen speechless.
“You should have been here,” Ben said, and he felt the trembling of another eruption. “Then you could have handled it yourself. You could have saved Nelson.” He glared savagely at his father: “And why wouldn’t you—you liked him better than me anyway!”
And he realized that, crazy as it sounded, it was true. Mickey had always treated Nelson gently and with fatherly approval.
“Benjie,” Mickey said. His eyes were now pleading for understanding.
“You were always nicer to him,” Ben pursued. “Like when—” He broke off, pained by the image, then took a breath and came out with it: “Like when you’d teach him stuff about boxing.” He looked away, ashamed of his outburst, but still he saw them there, on the bakery floor, the two of them exchanging playful blows, Mickey instructing, Nelson nodding. And himself standing in the shadows, watching.
“Turn around,” came Mickey’s voice. It was calm but firm. “Look at me.”
Ben turned to his father.
“Put your hands up,” Mickey said. “Like this.” He crouched and held his fists against his temples.
Ben was hesitant—he didn’t want to be pitied—but there was a cold-nosed puppy inside his rib cage that in spite of him leaped to the call, yelping scrappily through the bars.
“See,” said Mickey. “You want to keep your hands up and move from side to side, like this. See that? With your shoulders, your head.” He caught his breath. “Bob and weave. Move. Duck. To the left, to the right. A little fake. See that?” He was panting now. “Punch comes—you’re moving. Don’t drop those hands.”
Ben held up his fists, mimicked his father’s stance. “How do you jab again?” he said stupidly.
“Step into it. Your right foot. And then you shoot your arm out and turn the fist over.” Mickey demonstrated. “Jab,” he said. He did it again. “Jab!” He dropped his hands. “Go ahead and try it.” He stood within an arm’s length. “Throw one,” he said, and pointed to his jutting chin. “Right there.”
“But I’ll hit you,” Ben said.
“Jab,” said Mickey.
“But—”
“Come on!”
Ben rose to his father’s command. He swallowed his fear and then, when neither of them could have been expecting it, thrust out his gloved fist—and felt his shoulder nearly pop from its socket. The target had disappeared.
“See that?” said Mickey. “Now you try it.”
“What do I do?”
“When I jab,” said Mickey, “you duck to the side. Your feet stay planted. Upper body we’re talking. When I jab”—in slow motion he guided his pink brick of a fist toward Ben’s face—“you move.”
Ben moved to the right, and the fist whispered past his ear.
“That’s it,” said Mickey. “Now a little faster. Ready? Keep your hands up. Here goes: jab!”
Ben moved—the fist whizzed by. Close! Ben felt a tingle at the destruction which he’d barely eluded. “Again,” he heard himself say. “Faster.”
Mickey planted his feet. “Ready? And jab—”
There was a flash of white light and then a dazzle of dark colors. Ben found himself on the ground, blind, half his face ringing with pain.
“Benjie! Jesus. Are you okay?”
He felt his father’s hand on his arm; quickly he got up, too stunned to cry out.
“Jesus—why didn’t you get out of the way? Here, let me look at it—”
Ben flinched, turned his head. “I’m okay.”
“Why didn’t you move?” said Mickey. “I’ll run and get some ice—”
“No,” said Ben.
“Go home and get some ice on it,” Mickey said. “Christ, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you like that. You didn’t move. Here, let me look—”
Ben backed away. His chest heaved; he was afraid he might cry. “I’ll put some ice on it,” he said, then turned and bolted across the lot. He weaved through the parked cars and rushed heedlessly into the street, sending up a chorus of horn blasts and squealing rubber, and when he reached the other side he ran even faster. The pain in his face had concentrated itself into a hot, throbbing point under his eye, and as he ran through the alley he carried that pain in the palm of his hand, holding it as though it were something rare and precious and alive.
Once home, he rushed upstairs to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Half his face was swollen and turning colors. The eye was a slit. He touched it reverently.
He honestly could not say whether he’d had time to elude the punch or not; all he could remember was the sound of his father’s voice as he called out his name—Benjie!—that thrilling note of concern and compassion which for an infinitesimal instant had glittered in the air.
In his room he undressed, drew the shades and crawled onto the bed, grabbing the covers and yanking them over his body so that he was wrapped tight and warm inside them. The pulse of the pain became a metronome, ticking in time with his heartbeat. He cupped the bruise in his hands: he would carry it with him to sleep, a beating light in the darkness, a warning of danger to all in his dreams who sought to do him harm.
Floating languidly just below wakefulness, he perceived a weight beside him, a heat, which he knew must belong to his father.
“Can you hear me?” came the voice.
Ben felt himself nod. He plunged a little deeper toward sleep, imagining himself barely visible from above, a shadow, a sinking shape in the dark, lapping water.
