by T E. D Klein
One thing, at least, was certain, or so he told himself from time to time over the next few weeks: justice had been done. The creep had reaped exactly what he'd sown. His poem had hit it on the nose:
A god who smirks and says, "The joke's on you!"
And the joke had been on Huntoon.
One later incident, at least, was almost certainly a product of Nadelman's imagination-though it was somewhat unnerving at the time. Alone in the kitchen one weekend afternoon in December, while Rhoda was in the bedroom getting ready to go to the supermarket, Nadelman peered into the refrigerator and yelled, "I need more roast coffee!"-at which point, as if on command, the brown paper trash bag in the corner obligingly collapsed in on itself and tipped over, spilling its contents, including a flood of old coffee grounds, onto the kitchen floor.
He did not enter the kitchen again until the following week.
He began to mutter at odd times about "the servant problem." One day his secretary discovered a memo pad in his office on which he'd written half-distractedly: "There's a masked figure looking up at my apartment. I know that when I go out there, it'll be gone. What scares me is, what happens the day I go down . . . and it's not gone?"
His final scare came one night just before Christmas, while his arms were laden with last-minute presents.
Most of his friends complained about the holidays-the pressures, the commercialism, the materialism-but Nadelman had always enjoyed them; they were one of the few times he was truly happy being a family man. He wasn't a Christian, but he celebrated Christmas of a sort. As he saw it, material goods gave the holiday its meaning, just as they did in days of old when pagans stuffed their larders with good food and drink. It was the season for shopping, something Nadelman enjoyed, just as he enjoyed, as professional, the corny seasonal ads-Santa with the perennial Coke in hand, elves telephoning one another long distance to stay in touch.
Walking north on Third Avenue just a block from his home, he headed toward the only place still open on the block, a small neighborhood liquor store where he intended to buy some cognac, or even better, some Armagnac. As he passed the window of a toy shop, he paused out of habit to study it, even though the hour was late and the shop was closed. Suddenly, as if in warning the shop lights dimmed-and as they did so, he noticed a figure reflected in the window, ghostly in the dim light and intersected with the images of toys, games, and stuffed animals. For one crazy moment he took the reflection for his own, wildly distorted, or that of a fellow shop-per wearing a paper bag over his head. Then something gleamed below the apparition's wrist, something small and jagged, and he recognized what stood behind him.
Those in extreme situations are often known to drop what they're holding and run, but few have just paid two hundred and forty-five dollars for a salmon-colored cashmere sweater and a hundred and ten dollars for games and a new joystick for a son's Atari. Holding tight to his gifts, Nadelman took off down the block, legs flying. He didn't care that he almost bumped into the backs of a couple walking ahead of him, nor did he care what they probably thought of him for shouting, "Leave the hell alone!" as he ran. He was far more con-cerned with whether his servant could hear him, and whether it was still inclined to honor his commands.
Approaching the liquor store, Nadelman slowed down, preparing to dash inside, but increased his speed again when he heard a sound behind him that might have been the echoing tinkle of Christmas chimes, but which sounded far more like the breaking of glass. He ran on, footsteps pounding the sidewalk, sensing above him a vast face that leered down from the cold sky. Ahead, on the corner, loomed the stony grey mass of a synagogue, looking as solemn and solid as a fortress. The ancient wooden front door, through which a group of dark-coated worshippers had just passed, was slowly swinging shut ., Putting on a burst of speed, he hurried up the wide stone steps an a slipped inside.
The synagogue was Orthodox; he'd never set foot in one before. A large gold menorah stood on a platform at the front, five candles lit. A skeptical-looking attendant handed him ayarmulke as he came in. Slapping it onto his head, he sat down in one of the rear pews, brightly colored presents in his lap with pictures of Santa Claus and reindeer, as he gazed, still panting, at the high stone walls, the tapestries, the candles, the grave-looking figures depicted in the win-dows. And hours later, when the attendant came to tell him it was time to leave, he politely but firmly refused. He was willing to explain it once, he would explain it a dozen times if necessary, and always with infinite patience; he would not be moved, and he would not look back, and he didn't intend to go outside until the night was over. Everything would be all right if only he could make it through till morning.
