A Long Island Story

by Rick Gekoski

  The timing was important. Too quick, and it would sound like a mere defensive reflex. Too considered, and it admitted the possibility that the answer was yes. He counted to three.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’re hardly a sexual predator. What’s this all about, then?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know . . .’ he began.

  ‘We got plenty of time, she’ll be asleep in the damn hallway before we get out of here.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s make it simpler,’ she said. ‘Do you love me?’

  Two seconds.

  ‘Yes.’ Two more seconds. ‘In my way. I don’t think I am very good at it.’

  She took this in with the contempt that he deserved, seemed almost to elicit.

  ‘One more question. Do you want to see your children again?’

  The air seemed to congeal with his fear. He leant back in his chair, took a deep breath, put his hand to his heart, rubbed his chest as if to assuage a stabbing pain. He was a lawyer. He knew that in all but the most extreme kinds of divorce custody was given to the mother, visitation rights to the father. He would see his children again, sometimes.

  But he knew he wouldn’t. By the time the process was finished, and their mother’s rage had ignited their contempt, Jake and Becca would be withdrawn and distant, no longer his children. Hers. And in time, and probably not all that much time, someone else would be living with them, some man or other, and they would learn to think of him as their father. They were that young, that malleable, that anxious to please. That realistic. He would still be Ben, this new guy would be Dad.

  In a spasm of guilt and anxiety he summoned their faces, to make them real, but nothing showed on the screen behind his eyes. The little one? He couldn’t remember what Becca looked like! Couldn’t hear her voice, recall her gestures and habits. She was going, she was already gone. No Jake either, not a trace. He could feel himself squinting, trying to see; it must have looked as if he were fighting back tears, or summoning them. No harm in that.

  It took more than a count of two. A full minute must have passed, a very long time. Too long a time. If he had been clear about what case he needed to argue, he would have done so. Did he unequivocally want his family, the move to Long Island, the new life and law practice? All the things that had seemed so necessary and so right only a few weeks ago. Yes. That was exactly what he wanted, but the words would not release. He sat, looked stupid and indecisive, and could see the growing doubt and rage manifesting themselves on Addie’s features. Unwilling even to say he wanted his children!

  But if he registered her outrage, it was accompanied – he could see it in the set of her shoulders and the thoughtfulness in her eyes – by a growing unease. Perhaps this was more serious, more life-threatening than she had assumed; suppose she couldn’t simply scoop him up and return him to his rightful place, like putting a dropped scoop of ice cream back in the cone, give him a hard time for a while, forgive him eventually? Suppose he actually was considering an alternative life?

  How could he?

  ‘Ben . . .’ she said. That was a good sign. ‘Ben, what is this really about? Who the hell is she? What does she want?’

  ‘Me,’ he said.

  ‘You?’ As if it were inconceivable.

  ‘Me! She believes in me.’

  ‘Believes in you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful. Like in God?’

  Easy phrase, easy sarcasm, easy to deny. But there was enough truth in it to give him pause, enough time to recollect Joyce’s view of the artist as the god of creation, paring his fingernails . . . Yes, she believed in him like that, wanted not to worship but to enable and to extol.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  She walked the few steps towards his desk and sat in the chair, aware that it ceded physical ascendency but she had oodles of ascendency to give away.

  ‘You don’t sound like you,’ she said. ‘Where’d you go? Where are you now?’

  He started, of a sudden, to cry. Not fugitive tears tracking the lines of his cheeks, but sobs that might well be heard through a door in an office corridor. He didn’t care, or think of that. The tearstorm had taken him unaware.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he sobbed. ‘I don’t know who I am any more.’

  She reached across the desk and pulled at his arm.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said, ‘and talk, and you will remember who you are, and I will try to find a way to forgive you, if I can. And you will let go of all this mishegas!’

  He stood up, compliant. If only it were as easy as that.

  Addie opened the door, just a crack, and glanced out into the hallway, looked both ways, looked again. The Turkish delight was gone, she was smarter than Addie had given her credit for, unwilling to hang around outside the door like a dog – no, a bitch – waiting to get in. Had some pride, that one, she wouldn’t give in so easily. There was trouble, more trouble, plenty of trouble ahead.

  She stepped into the hall, leaving the door open for Ben to follow.

  ‘I’ll take the day off,’ he said. ‘I can leave a note on the door and tell the reception girl that I have to go home, won’t be back till Monday.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Addie, firmly. ‘We are going directly to the train station and on to the bungalow. I am never spending another night in that apartment again.’

  He looked startled, but didn’t demur.

  ‘And as for you coming back on Monday,’ she added. ‘I don’t think so.’

  5

  ‘Rabbit food,’ said Sal, pushing the vegetables across the table to Maurice. ‘Can’t stand the stuff.’

  He waved imperiously, looking round the room. ‘Hey, you! Take this stuff away!’ He pointed to the salad and a puzzled busboy scooped it up. Not many customers rejected the fresh salad! By the time most of them were through with it there were only a few stems and sprouts, the odd leaf perhaps, huddled at the bottom of the wicker basket.

  It was part of the Mama Leone’s schtick that every table was loaded with an overflowing basket of garden produce – fresh lettuces and cucumbers, fat tasteless tomatoes, bunches of celery, carrots and radishes.

  ‘It don’t cost them much, and the tourists love it. Think they’re getting something for nothing, only it’s the other way round!’ Sal laughed loudly at his own wit.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The tourists get half a buck’s worth, and then they pay through the nose because they feel grateful for the generosity, poor schmucks. They come back again and again, recommend it to the other schmucks, never even notice that the prices are higher than other wop joints and the food’s worse.’

  Schmucks. Mo smiled at the Yiddish word on Sal’s shiny lips, wet with the first glass of Chianti Classico. He probably thought it was just English.

  ‘So you’re one of the schmucks, too?’

  ‘Nah. It’s owned by my cousins. I don’t get stuff cheap, I get it free. So order what you like! The steak pizzaiola’s great!’

  ‘You go ahead and order for the two of us, you know what’s good.’

  Sal smiled at this acknowledgement of his culinary expertise, but paused to ask, with unexpected sensitivity, ‘You ain’t kosher?’

  ‘Not here, I’m not. Why miss all the fun?’

  They raised their glasses into the air, clinked them gently, as if toasting their forthcoming business agreement. Morrie sipped his and avoided making a face. He only drank wine at Seders, that Mogen David was good stuff, but this Italian slop tasted like shoe leather. Sal emptied half the glass, as if drinking water, to quench his thirst.

  When the teeming bowls of spaghetti arrived they ate in silence for a few minutes, slurping and chewing, bibs round their necks. Sal was too hard on the place, the food was great! If you could stuff it all in. No wonder Italians were even fatter than Jews!

  Sal had been heavy-set as a young man, but in middle age he’d entered the spectrum between corpulent and obese. His shiny grey sha
rkskin suit was some years old, and too tight, the buttons of his not entirely fresh white shirt strained, and patches of hairy chest and stomach showed through. Though the restaurant was air-conditioned, almost too cool, Sal looked overheated. He always did, even in the winter.

  By the time they’d finished the spaghetti Morrie was satisfied, replete, begging for mercy. And then the steak pizzaiola arrived, huge slabs of meat swimming in red sauce, together with potatoes fried in olive oil and plates of sautéed vegetables, enough to feed the Israeli army. Or the Italian army, if they had one. It probably got taken away from them after the war.

  Maurice knew it was essential that he finish his food, had eaten sparingly the night before, abjured breakfast. When you eat with an Italian, eat like an Italian. Perle would have understood.

  At last the waiter took their plates away, refilled the glasses, brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth, offered menus for choices of dessert. Sal ordered tiramisu, recommending it earnestly. Morrie managed to settle, just, for coffee.

  ‘Espresso?’

  ‘Regular.’

  Eating precedes business in Italian culture, he surmised, while Jews can do both at once, talking with mouths full, gesticulating, bargaining, haggling. Fun, usually, sometimes less so. This wasn’t likely to be.

  ‘So, Morrie,’ said Sal, as if casually, ‘you understood what I said, right?’

  Maurice acknowledged with a nod of the head that he had indeed.

  ‘So. No problems. Right?’ It didn’t sound like a question.

  Morrie dared to waggle a finger, pointed at Sal, waggled it some more. ‘The golden goose,’ he said. He took a sip of his regular coffee, like a regular sort of guy. ‘The golden goose!’ As if that settled the matter, and Sal might rise and shake his hand apologetically, having remembered how rare the species was.

  ‘C’mon, Morrie, gimme a break,’ said Sal, spreading his hands expressively. He’d become more Italian as the meal went on: the more he ate and the more wine he drank, the more he sounded like, well, a minor mafioso. Which he was not, as far as Morrie could tell. Just another wise guy.

  ‘So, Sal, cut to the bottom line. What’re we talking here?’

  Sal took a red leather diary from his jacket pocket, put on his reading glasses and leafed through the pages. Put his finger to the page, looked up.

  ‘As of today you owe me $1,130, near enough.’

  Morrie nodded, quite right.

  ‘And like I told ya, prices gotta go up. My suppliers are killing me . . .’

  So Sal had to kill his customers, that was how it worked: the killing went on up and down the sales chain. That was called business.

  After all, he’d done the same thing. A long time ago. Shrewder than most of the machers drinking and schtupping their nights away like animals, Maurice had come to the realisation early: These were good times! They were too good! He was smart enough to suspect a bubble, émigré Jews sniffed impending disasters, planned accordingly. If the disaster failed to materialise, that was terrific. If it did, best have a fully mature Plan B in the cupboard.

  He did not, of course, foresee the catastrophe of 1929, or the years of deprivation to follow. But one thing was clear to him from the start: good times or bad times, there would always be big shots and hot shots, celebrities, sports stars, movie stars, politicians with deep pockets, old money that stuck, new money that could be made in difficult times. Especially in difficult times.

  And all these folks, every one of them, would want to look good, put on their glad rags and take an equally snazzy girl to a club. No matter how bad things were, there was always money to be made. And Maurice had set himself early to making these contacts, pressing flesh, buying drinks, giving out his business cards, being an entertainer. And supplying those clothes too cheaply. He didn’t need to make big money, not yet. First he got his customers addicted, supplied them at only tiny margins to himself. Good old Morrie, let me introduce you to him. He’s the best! He could always raise his prices later, like a drug dealer.

  And now good old Sal was doing it to him. The only question, now: was he dead, like that ex-golden goose, or just maimed? A leg removed perhaps? An animal that valuable you don’t eat all at once.

  ‘Make it reasonable,’ said Mo. ‘I can pass it on.’

  ‘Course I will, we’re old pals, ain’t we?’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said Maurice, knowing it to be premature. ‘How much are we really talking here? Be a mensch!’

  Sal closed his little red notebook and put it back in his pocket, took off his reading glasses, put them in their case, pocketed that as well. Took a sip of his espresso.

  ‘What I said! Double! Including what you owe me. Double as well.’

  ‘Sal!’

  ‘You got thirty days,’ said Sal, pushing his chair back, standing up. ‘It’s always great to see you, you take care.’

  Morrie stood up with him, grabbed his arm, fought a humiliating desire to fall to his knees in supplication.

  ‘Let me explain, Sal. It’s a bad time, very bad. I have obligations. Family, you know. Family.’

  Italians liked families. Same as Jews. Family!

  Sal brushed his hand aside.

  ‘I gotta go, stuff to do, people to see.’

  At least he didn’t say people to do. And with that he sauntered towards the door, pausing to talk to the middle-aged woman at the cash register, turning to wave goodbye in a manner easily mistaken for friendly.

  Morrie collected himself slowly, finished his coffee.

  No such thing as a free meal!

  Before catching a train back to Huntington, Maurice stopped first at his stockbroker’s and then at his bank. The situation was not good, but it was manageable. He could pay the $2,260 within thirty days, if he had to. Maybe he could talk the fat bastard down a little, or get more time to pay? He was hardly insolvent, and the prospect of giving out six or eight months of sandwiches to Ben and Addie was painful but not impossible. He would have to sell his few remaining stocks, raise a mortgage. It could be done.

  Maurice was by nature optimistic, and by the time he boarded the train from the LIRR his native spirits had recovered. Perhaps this was a good thing after all. His little cottage industry had flourished under the conditions of Prohibition, and then the Depression, which was curious, or perhaps it was ironic. Who cared? Even during the war, with the boys away, many of the girls continued to have a good time, and there were always servicemen aplenty to party with. But now the party was over, and the girls had grown into women, had children of their own, and if they were looking for clothes it was not fancy duds but outfits suitable to suburban mothers. Matrons. Cheap dresses in cheap prints, crap really. Morrie tried to keep up – or down! – with the new tastes (you wouldn’t call them fashions) but his income had diminished, his suppliers grown old and he no longer knew where to find his clients. Certainly not at the 21!

  The girls were older, he was a lot older; they had lost heart, he had a dicky heart. The writing was not so much on the wall as emblazoned over the sky, as if left there in trails of vapour by some trick pilot: MORRIE IS FINISHED.

  Pay the wop the money and walk away. He could stay with Molly and Sol, that was routine, and easy enough, and though they distrusted him they also needed him badly. He’d tell them he was no longer moonlighting, was theirs and theirs alone. They wouldn’t believe him, not at first. Who cared? He’d still earn enough to pay his way, minus the sandwiches. Well, the kids would have to learn to stand on their own two feet; they’d had plenty of support, plenty to thank him for.

  Not that they were all that thankful! Ben had spoken to him, after dinner at Linck’s, as if he were some sort of mobster! Ungrateful schnorrer, with his morally superior airs. A big-shot Communist, right? To each according to his needs! And now he needed more money from his sandwich dispenser (lot of thanks he would have for that!) and was pretending he could raise it himself. What was he planning, to rob a damned bank?

  But Addie needed the money, an
d it would have to be found, and not by that lousy husband of hers. He’d spend it.

  The burst of optimism dissipated, and it was a weary and heartsore Mo who plodded down the pathway into the bungalow a few hours later. Perle watched him walking like an old man, she’d been waiting for this moment, though she didn’t go to the door to greet him. When he entered she turned from the rocker and said in a tone he didn’t recognise, ‘You need to sit down. Take your tie and jacket off, and I’ll get you a cold drink. A beer?’

  He began to make himself comfortable. Took off his shoes, too. His slippers were next to the rocking chair. Solicitous? That was the word. And gentle, too. It was no wonder he didn’t recognise it at first. He looked up as if to make sure that it was really Perle looking after him so tenderly, but she was opening a beer in the kitchen, clinking a glass.

  ‘Mo,’ she said, ‘you look plain worn out. This can’t go on. We need to have a talk.’

  A talk? What the hell was she talking about?

  The next thing he knew, she was sitting on the cedar chest. He put out his hand expecting the cold glass of beer, but instead got hers. He tried to withdraw, it was too hot for this sort of uncalled-for stuff, but she pressed his fingers.

  ‘I don’t want to lose you. I need you, we all need you. But this has got to stop!’

  He could hardly meet her gaze.

  ‘I have no idea . . .’

  She squeezed his finger.

  ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Do you think I am stupid?’

  He did, sometimes. Not exactly stupid, only not smart in the way he was. Perle was there, Perle was Perle. Her acuity was wasted on him, but her women friends regarded her as anything but dumb. Smart as a whip, that one.

  He removed his hand, took a long schlook of beer, wiped his mouth with his wrist.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, and as he asked it, knew the answer. She knew everything. God knows how.