Seventh Avenue

by Norman Bogner

  “You should go into a different business,” Jay said.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Ass. Then you don’t have to worry about sizes and colors.”

  “Listen, comedian. You made a hit with Eva. Amazing . . . she’s the only one I haven’t banged. I had it all set up until you loused me up. I think she wants to make it with you.”

  “I’m thrilled.”

  “No, no kidding, she’s the real thing. Brains and cash, but she’s playing hard to get.”

  “Yeah, I know, it wouldn’t melt in her mouth. See you, Marty. We’ll get together next time I’m in town.”

  “Don’t forget to bring money.”

  Jay hung up and lit a cigarette to control his excitement. It was going his way - he’d have everything - money, women, good clothes. Then in the midst of his fantasy he saw Rhoda’s sad face, pleading with him, her long fingers pulling at him, her mouth on his, the hurt victimized look in her eyes, the whine in her voice, and he understood why his memory broke down - disintegrated into a thousand confused, warring factions - when he tried to think about her. It was so unbelievably crystal clear that he felt himself go chill: He hated her.

  The shop was closed when Jay returned, so he went straight to Chez Gold. Supper preparations were in progress: Howie’s wife, a matronly twenty-four-year-old blonde with carefully plucked eyebrows and two extra front teeth that crowded all the others, giving her an overbite and emphasizing her evolutionary connection to a lower, less prehensile form of life, greeted Jay with a horsy giggle and wrestler’s bearhug.

  “Hello, Jay.”

  “Hello, Janet.” Jay sniffed the air. “What are you wearing, onions?”

  “Oh, ‘scuse me, I was just in the middle . . .”

  “That’s the story of my life.”

  A potential size forty if ever he saw one: had her breasts never been firm and supple? He didn’t envy Howie his love life.

  “Where’s everybody?”

  “Poppa’s not home yet; Miriam’s in the kitchen; Howie went to the delicatessen; Rhoda’s having a bath; Momma’s in bed as usual, and Myrna’s listening to the radio.”

  “Fine, I’d like to eat by myself in any case.”

  “Oh, you . . .” she gave him a playful shove against the wall . . .”such a sense of humor. Howie thinks you’re a scream.”

  “Gently with the lapels, the suit’s not paid for yet.”

  “I hear you’re taking over the whole dress trade.”

  “You ought to join the police force with those muscles.”

  “Oh, you . . . Be back as soon as I’ve finished with dinner.”

  “Don’t hurry.”

  He fell into a chair, draped his legs over the side and waited for the others to come home. He was tired, hungry, and wished he had stayed in Manhattan and had an evening out with Marty and the redhead. Family dinners bored him, and the prospect of an evening - an entire evening - with them all dancing round him like flies, filled him with particular dread.

  “Hi, bigshot.”

  Jay looked up from the floor - he always looked at the floor when thinking. Myrna. His gaze returned to the floor.

  “I said, hi.”

  “So, what am I supposed to say?”

  “You could return the greeting.”

  “Consider it returned.”

  “You’ve really got it in for me, haven’t you?”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “I didn’t bring Dobrinski into this - it was Poppa’s idea.”

  “But you told him, didn’t you?”

  “I had to. Someone had to stick up for Rhoda.”

  “Where I come from, people mind their own goddamned business or they get their heads banged in.”

  “And they take girls to Scranton for A.B.’s.”

  “I’ll tell you something, Myrna. When I didn’t know you well, I didn’t like you and now that I know you I can’t stand you.”

  “So long as you do right by Rhoda, that’s all I care about.”

  He got to his feet angrily and seized her by the shoulders, and she dug her fingernails into his back until he could feel them pressing into his flesh. He held her head firmly between his hands, increasing the pressure on her temples till she almost screamed. Then he bit her lip, like a mad starved animal attacking a piece of meat. She pulled away quickly and uttered a pained, muffled cry, putting her hand to her mouth.

  “I’m bleeding, you bastard.”

  “Tell your father that you cut yourself shaving!”

  “What a nice guy you are. I wonder if I’ve done Rhoda a favor?”

  “There’s no wondering about it. She’ll hate you for it.”

  “The way you do?”

  “You’re wrong. I don’t hate you. I only think you’re stupid. Anyone who gets in my way is stupid and gets paid back.”

  “I think she’s better off without you.”

  “My very words. You must’ve been peeping through the keyhole.”

  “My God, my God, what’ve I done to her! You’re not a man, you’re scum. You’ve come out of some sewer like a rat carrying disease, and you’re poisoning all of us.”

  “And you . . . what are you?” - his face was white, his eyes protruded – “a piece of ass that I can knock off any time I want to. And you hate me for knowing that I can. Someday when you’re begging for it, I might just let you have it so that you can see what you’ve been missing. I’ll draw it out so that when you think you’re enjoying yourself you’ll be suffering and when you are enjoying yourself you’ll be suffering until the only thing you’re sure of is that you enjoy suffering.”

  “On top you’re all smiles, smart answers and good looks, but inside . . . wow! There’s never been anyone who can match you for pure ugliness, for . . . oh, I don’t know . . . you’re like a dog with rabies.”

  Jay laughed, his mood rapidly swinging to one of elation.

  “Right now you’d like me to fuck you, but I’m not ready, ‘cause I’m waiting for my dinner. So go into your room and give us a tune on your clarinet - a Paul Whiteman special . . .” He began to laugh.

  The front door slammed, and Howard Gold, aged thirty, bearing hot dogs, pastrami, and corned beef, rolled into the room.

  “Hey, what’s the joke? I must’ve missed something terrific.” He took Jay’s hand warmly. “Hello, brother-in-law-to-be.”

  A born schmuck. On his deathbed, he’ll wonder what went wrong with his life. He did, that’s what.

  “Hello, Howie.”

  Myrna pressed her finger to her lip; the blood had congealed, and it throbbed.

  “Whatsa matter, Myrna? I say something wrong?”

  “No” - she relieved Howard of his package – “I’d better help Jan.”

  “Funny girl, that Myrna.”

  Jay agreed.

  “Sensitive, deep down, but she’s made a mess of her life. I kinda feel sorry for her. Whole life wrapped up in music, and having to work in a store. Have you ever heard her play?”

  “No, not yet. I’m hoping to.”

  “Never heard a sound like it. Really beautiful. It touches your soul. I hear you’re doing great in the dress business. Rhoda never stops talking about the way you’ve improved things. I’m so glad you’re coming into the family. It’ll be like having a kid brother.”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “I’ll tell you something funny, Jay. Even though I’m six years older than you, I sort of feel like I’m the kid brother. Hard to explain. I suppose because you’ve been struggling since you were a kid in Europe it gives you a kind of authority with people.”

  “Is that what it is?” he said disingenuously. He despised Howard but liked him. “I’ve got plans for myself. I’m a nothing, so whatever I become’s better than what I started with.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would.” Jay smiled indulgently at Howard’s weak face that had already begun to develop the gray unhealthy color of a wage slave, a
man born to work for others and who could probably courageously defend someone else, but who was incapable of fighting for himself. What terrified and frustrated Jay was his desire to pick Howard up by the collar, shake him out of his stupor and make him face up to life. Killers were born, not made, he thought. It occurred to him that perhaps he had been wrong about Howard’s refusal to face life, perhaps that’s precisely what he did do. Perhaps he recognized that he had more limitations than assets, that his instincts were designed for compliance. If this was the case, Jay would despise him even more, for having given in, accepted his weaknesses, instead of trying to conquer them.

  “You’ll soon be one of us.”

  The prospect sickened Jay.

  “I’ll always be what I am,” Jay said.

  “No, I mean a married man with responsibilities.”

  “I’ve got responsibilities, always had them.”

  “Well, you’ll add to them. Kids are great.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “No, seriously, it’ll be wonderful to have a little person who’s just like you - exactly, except in miniature.”

  “One Jay Blackman’s enough.”

  “Amen,” said Mr. Gold, who had entered, carrying six secondhand suits that he had purchased from a woman whose husband had run off, and who, despite this calamity, had exhausted him with a display of bargaining that rivaled his own.

  “Hello, Poppa.”

  Mr. Gold glared at Jay.

  “No hello from you?”

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Mr. Gold. That’s what you should say to show respect.”

  “Poppa, Jay wasn’t being disrespectful. You’re probably tired.”

  “Feet all over mine furniture, doesn’t get up when I walk into the room. That’s showing respect?”

  Jay got to his feet. He restrained his natural impulse to knock Mr. Gold down, and smiled warmly.

  “Too late,” Mr. Gold said. “He had to be reminded.”

  “Can’t do right in this house. I don’t know why Rhoda made me come to dinner. We could’ve gone out.”

  “I’m going to wash mine hends, then we’ll eat.”

  Mrs. Gold was carried to the dinner table by Howard and her husband. She descended twice a year - for Passover and when the Yom Kippur fast was over. This evening, for Rhoda’s engagement dinner party, she made an exception. She had seen Jay only twice, and although she already distrusted him, basing her judgment on several full accounts given by her husband, she wanted to confirm that Rhoda was about to ruin her life.

  “Why we eating delicatessen?” she protested as soon as she was seated in her wheelchair.

  “Jay likes it,” Howard replied.

  “I’ve also made pot roast and a roast chicken,” Jan piped up in an effort to placate her.

  “So what we need delicatessen? Thrown-out money. There’s plenty to eat without it.”

  Fine start, Jay reflected. He was really going to enjoy dining with the Golds.

  “We’ll all get to know each other better by having these family get-togethers,” Howard said.

  Myrna glowered at Jay as he lifted his head up to Howard.

  “When Jan first came into the family, she thought we were all very peculiar, didn’t you, hon?”

  “Very peculiar,” Jan agreed.

  “What do you think of us, Jay? C’mon, tell us.”

  Jay waved his fork as though it were a baton and the musicians had strayed from the music, then he began to chuckle to himself as if he had been told a little joke that somehow nullified Howard’s question. Smilingly, he returned to his food.

  “What’s funny?” Mrs. Gold, with admonition in her voice, demanded.

  “Howard asked a question that’s entitled to an answer,” Mr. Gold said, waving his napkin in a manner that was at once seignorial and threatening.

  Rhoda, sensing danger, squeezed Jay’s kneecap, then patted it.

  “Oh, this is silly,” Howard, attempting to save the situation, declared. “I was only making conversation. We’re all, except for Rhoda, practically strangers to Jay.”

  “I don’t see what’s silly?” Mrs. Gold said.

  “Your momma’s right: a man who sits down at your table and is goink to marry your daughter should know how he feels about pipple who is to be family.”

  “Am I supposed to make a speech?” Jay asked, pleasantly.

  “No, only answer the question.”

  “Forget I asked it,” put in Howie. “Let’s talk about the state of the world. Do you think Roosevelt’s New Deal really works?”

  Ravenously Jay swam through his soup, making loud plashing noises with his spoon. Better to avoid a dispute till he’d got through the main course - then both barrels if necessary.

  “I’ll have to think about it for a while,” Jay said to Mr. Gold, his cutlery flashing like rapiers on the serving dish.

  “Jay’s doing very well in business. We’re gonna open up our own store pretty soon. Right, Jay?” Rhoda was conciliatory.

  “I’ve looked at a location today. On Fourteenth Street.”

  “He’s a real doer, isn’t he, Poppa?” Howard said.

  “From where you getting financial . . . ?”

  “Finance?” Jan suggested.

  “Finance then?”

  “It’s a problem, but I hope to have a bit of my own when the time comes,” swallowing a hotdog whole.

  “Well, I hope you got money, ‘cause from me” - Mr. Gold struck the table a karate flat-hand blow – “you not getting a penny.”

  “Millionaires we’re not,” Mrs. Gold said.

  “Four children I raised, and there’s still little Miriam to look out for.”

  “Who asked . . . ?” Jay said and was cut off.

  “Mine final word on the matter. It’s closed. Not another word. I mean you come into mine house, eat mine food, do I say how much you should eat? Fruit, candy, dinners.” Mr. Gold’s ochre skin took on a scorbutic tinge as he tried to find a continuation. “Everything you’re welcome to, but I got no money to throw in the street.”

  Jay pushed his plate away, not enough time for seconds.

  “Money . . . a fortune’s been spent on doctor bills in this house. So it’s not fair to demand. God knows how long I’ve got to go,” said Mrs. Gold.

  They’ll have to shoot her, Jay thought.

  “You agree, Myrna? Say what’s in your mind, you’re the eldest,” Mr. Gold demanded.

  “Not a word has she said,” Mrs. Gold added.

  “Better leave me out of this,” with a blood-curdling look at Jay.

  “Momma, Poppa, listen!” Rhoda stood up, on the verge of hysterics. “We haven’t asked you for a penny. I don’t know why you’ve got it in for Jay, but it’s not fair.”

  “Why we got it in for him?” Mr. Gold moaned, tipping his soup over. “You ask such a question? Not a night’s sleep have I hed since you started goink with him. Dobrinski warned me, he hinted at something obscurely horrendous. ‘In front of a bus he could push you, a boy like thet.’” Jay laughed; it was funny. “See he laughs. Believe me he thought about it, and now he wants I should give him money. Bupkiss, I’ll give him.”

  “Git gesugt, Sidney. Not one penny does he get.”

  “He thinks I find money on the street.”

  “Eat your chicken, Poppa,” Jan insisted. “I cooked it the way you like - gedempfte.”

  “Eat?” Insane suggestion. “How can I eat with so much aggravation?”

  “I’ll eat it,” Jay suggested.

  “See from mine mouth the food he’d steal. That’s the kind of son-in-law I’m gettink. And to think of the chances that Rhoda hed. She hed a boy who wanted to take her to King’s Highway to live, a boy who would’ve given her the world.”

  “She can still go, I won’t stand in her way,” Jay said, all humility.

  “In her condition?” Mrs. Gold cried shrilly.

  “So, she’s slightly irregular,” Jay said.

  “See . . . see .
. . how he talks about her like she was a schmata, not flesh and blood,” Mr. Gold shouted, seizing his wife’s wrist.

  “I think you all owe Jay an apology,” Rhoda said.

  “Me apologize? On my deathbed, I wouldn’t apologize.”

  Jay’s fingers were greasy from the chicken, and he stuck them in his water glass and bathed them, then he picked up the edge of the tablecloth and wiped his mouth.

  “See what manners?” Mrs. Gold said, pointing.

  “When you eat with pigs you behave like one, or it embarrasses them,” Jay replied, coolly, rising from the table. He took out a dollar bill and put it on the table. “It wasn’t worth it, but here.”

  “Jay, that’s not nice,” Howard said.

  “Say you’re sorry, please, Jay,” Jan pleaded.

  “He can drop dead. C’mon, Rhoda, I’ll take you to the movies.”

  As though under a hypnotic spell Rhoda got up, only to find her father bobbing and weaving, his fists looming in the air, in their path. Spittle oozed out of the corners of his mouth, and he danced like a dervish to the left and right.

  “In mine own house, insults!” He sprayed his wife’s pince-nez.

  “Tell him to sit down, Rhoda, ‘cause I don’t want to put him in the hospital.”

  “That’s not funny, Jay. Say you’re sorry to Poppa,” Howard begged.

  “Not possible, Howie. You wanted to know how I felt about you? Well, it’s hard to put into words, but I think I’ve found a family that’s even worse than my own - the three of you excluded” - he pointed to Howard, Miriam and Jan in turn – “and now I better go.”

  Mr. Gold returned to his place and brought his fist heavily down on the table.

  “I hope he never has a happy day. The rotten bastard!”

  There was snow in the wind that swirled dizzily like a corps de ballet out of step with the music. The evenings came early and the days, what there were of them, became intervals in the darkness that the East Side drowned in. Jay had just come in. His mother, singing a medley of complaints brought on by old age, and hardly mitigated by the fact that her life was emptier than it had ever been, missed him now that business and Rhoda had usurped her former claim. She sat at the kitchen table drinking tea, her china blue eyes taking in the image of her universe - Jay.