“London was a swamp,” he’d say in argument, “when the Jews were in Palestine.”
But that’s all he knew. His lawyer, Brookline, was wise in the details of ancient Judea. But what was Siegel going to do, call the overworked attorney in the middle of the night when he was in a tight rhetorical spot? Just his luck, he’d get a bill.
Years had passed since Siegel had stood before a rural school board and in a strangulated voice asked: “Do you teach democratic values?”
A short, dark woman reprimanded him. “You’re not the first one of your people we’ve had here.” Again, his people.
Obviously, in the years that followed, the culture had changed. Jews were all over the place – high up in the Defense Department. There were laws that said you couldn’t insult a Jew, except in the privacy of your home. Otherwise, you’d have to pay a fine. All of this enforced by tough assistant D.A.s of what else, the Jewish faith. Nobody even knew what a Jew looked like anymore. A case in point was Siegel himself, whose hair had become blond and flaxen over the years, though still revealingly kinky at the sides. This in contrast to the dark and sensuous Victoria St. John, from a distinguished WASP family, yet with a voluptuous body that had played no small part in their courtship, though of course he admired other qualities of hers as well. No longer did Jews live through Koufax’s arm or the achievements of Henny Youngman. General Ariel Sharon, arguably a bullvun, had thundered through the Middle East, demonstrating that you couldn’t push Jews around anymore. They would come to your home and find you, even living under an assumed name in Terre Haute. Jews, when you could find them, stood tall, all, that is, except Siegel who hadn‘t lost a single relative to the camps but had been insulted once at a tennis club in Connecticut. Before leaving the lush grass courts, he’d raised a fist and vowed: “We don’t forget.”
So he continued his search, unable to relax unless he felt unwelcome. Could life be comfortable when there was no enemy at the gates? Siegel wasn’t sure. Were there other Jews like him, still another lost tribe? He didn’t know that many Jews and besides, he’d never asked.
Though Siegel tried to ferret out a little intolerance, the village held firm. The people were reserved, but was that grounds for an accusation? Should he call them together in Town Hall and say: “I’m sorry, but you’ve been a little reserved.” When they’d lived among themselves for several hundred years? What were they supposed to do, run over and wash his feet? Because he’d decided to rent a cottage next to their only Chinese restaurant?
Then one night, in a local bar, just as he was about to throw in the towel, Siegel felt he’d struck paydirt. He could tell by the invitational curve of the fat man’s arm that he was onto something.
Men with billowing volunteer ambulance jackets were bunched at the bar. Good-naturedly, they called each other asshole, forming their mouths into one. Waitresses, built low to the ground, smirked by. The special was sauerbraten. The stage was set. Siegel practically ran into the fat man’s arms, and accepted a drink, so anxious was he to get underway. The man said he was Moon from the bait business. Siegel, of course, was Siegel; he was in defensive clothing. There was no need to tell the man he had made a killing in armored playsuits and that he was taking a year off to catch up on history, an old love. He could tell him that later. Quickly, it was established that both men grew up on Eastern Parkway, Moon insisting that his experience as a German-American in the early’40s was unique.
“You have no idea what it was like, being chased through the streets, not able to emerge from your apartment . . . and that song . . .”
Siegel, of course, was aware of the offending ballad, “In Der Fuhrer’s Face.” Sung with interspersed farting sounds, it satirized broadly the unthinking allegiance of Hitler’s followers and seemed harmless enough at the time. Admittedly, he had never calculated its effect on a German-American fat boy at a formative stage of his life. Still, now that he had, what was he supposed to do, forget about that little matter with the Jews in Germany, call it a wash?
“It must have been rough,” said Siegel.
Moon waved a disgusted arm. “It was awful,” he said, his voice rising an octave.
Moon said he owned a house inland. Siegel was temporarily renting while he looked around.
“I live with my girlfriend, Victoria St. John.”
As he said her name, he caught himself leaning forward as if waiting to be congratulated.
Moon ignored this. “Fuckin’ Jews from Brooklyn,” he said. “That’s all they do is rent.”
And there it was, out on the table, the fruits of a month-long search. Siegel congratulated himself on his diligence and the sensitivity of his antennae. Then he sat back, almost smug, prepared to savour his triumph. Yet oddly enough, the release he felt was vague and unsatisfactory. Perhaps there hadn’t been enough foreplay. The “fuckin” was useful, of course, but the balance of the insult was hard to work with. What was he supposed to do, throw the man on the ground and spit in his face for suggesting that Jews rented? Of course they rented. That wasn’t all they did. They also bought, as a man in a volunteers jacket was quick to testify.
“C’mon, Moon, they’re grabbin’ up the whole area.”
“There you are,” said Siegel, nodding his appreciation to the man, although not too vigorously, since, after all, he could hardly be considered a soulmate.
A Christ-like man at a table looked up from a slim volume and said: “You can’t get published unless you’re a Jew.”
“What about Updike?” Siegel shot back and was prepared to buttress his argument with other examples if the ascetic-looking fellow persisted in the absurd argument.
“Jewish themes,” said the fellow dismissively.
“What Jewish themes?” said Siegel, conveniently ignoring the excellent character, Bech.
Maddeningly, he felt he was being drawn into an argument in his old neighborhood. They might have been bickering over the Phillies’ pennant chances. And the bar did have some characteristics of Eastern Parkway, an irony since for decades he hadn’t been able to find one in the city, filled as it was now with rich Brazilians, another reason he had cleared out.
Surprisingly, the bartender, a tall slender fellow with a head of curls, responded well to the proceedings.
He beckoned Siegel to a back room and opened a safe. Expecting drugs or porn, Siegel instead got a look at Brad Van Pelt’s helmet, on loan from a cousin in the area. Siegel asked if he could touch it, with sincerity, as it happened, since he had always admired the great linebacker who’d labored so heroically in a losing cause, only to be denied a Super Bowl triumph. When Siegel was finished playing with the helmet, the bartender leaned in close to him, shooting his eyes from side to side as if he were passing along a racing tip. In an overview of the evening, he said, “Hey-y-y, new bar . . . new guy . . . earn them spurs.” Then, with several shakes of his tiny tush, he led Siegel back to the bar, immediately topping off Moon’s drink in a show of impartiality.
“Anyone comes in here is lonely,” said Moon, in a remark clearly directed at Siegel, although refusing to give him the courtesy of turning in his direction.
“Not necessarily,” said Siegel, who took this as a personal attack on his romance with Victoria, even though, disappointingly, she was back at Cavanaugh’s Cottages, enjoying a sitcom lineup.
“Yes, necessarily,” said Moon.
“Get your arm up here,” said Siegel, theatrically clenching his teeth and pounding the bar.
“You’d lose,” said Moon, with a sad wave of his hand.
“You’re probably right,” said Siegel, enclosed suddenly in the other man’s gloom, as if it were a cologne.
Overtipping shamelessly, Siegel got up to leave.
Moon erupted in the style of a building superintendent, perhaps mimicking one who had chased him as a German fat boy.
“And don’t you ever let me catch you bringing no book into a bar.”
The new attack puzzled Siegel. Was this a reference to what h
e perceived to be Siegel’s scholarly demeanor? He was in body armor. Where was the scholar? Did Moon know Jews who studied in bars? Siegel had cartons of books back at the cottage, but it was inconceivable that someone had phoned this information in to Moon. Be on the alert, Siegel’s coming with books.
Nonetheless, the attack had to be answered: Siegel put a hand to his mouth, fell back in horror and, using a falsetto voice, said: “The people of the Book?” Then he did an Ali shuffle, threw some punches in the air and waltzed out of the bar in an absurd burst of conviviality.
But once outside, he felt sad, for himself, for the evening, for the paltry nature of his catch. If Moon with his tush and his renting was the new face of the enemy, the Jews might as well look for another profession. Where were the fresh young anti-Semites of yesteryear? Was it possible that he was lonely for the old Siegel, who would have been halfway out to the highway after such an evening, not sure if he should get guns or a psychiatrist? Or maybe round up Dong from the restaurant and go back and get them, picking up an old black jazz musician along the way for additional support. So that never again would anyone dare to take the position that Jews rented. The old Siegel slept with clenched fists and greeted each day as if he’d been shot out of a gun. He stuck wrenches in his tweed suit and went forth to avenge insults, sometimes over space at a counter. Was it possible to miss such a fellow? Of course. He missed his first hard-on, too. But such an individual would no longer be alive, having either shot himself or killed an innocent bystander. Fortunately, a doctor caught him in the nick of time. At a cost of five grand – and worth every penny of it, incidentally – he explained: “There is a little anti-Semitism out there.” And just like that, Siegel popped quietly back into his slot, a useful member of society.
Now, as he whipped his Chrysler along the seacoast, he realized there was no one chasing him. Who had the time? Moon could barely get his ass off the bar stool. Who else was there? A waitress from the barley fields? What would she do when she caught him? Maybe Bunz, the bartender, would run after him and show him Y.A. Tittle’s jock. He knew there was nothing to worry about. Eventually, death would step in and straighten him out. In the meanwhile, he slowed down. There was no need to fly along the Coast in this manner. He was safe and had to live with it.
Siegel had enjoyed a mystifying success in armored play suits. So confident was he that the line would be a disaster he sent Victoria to the stores to see how it was doing. She came back and reported overflow crowds. Even the footwear was selling, truly a surprise, considering how few people were shot in the feet. For the first time in his life, Siegel didn’t have to worry about being tapped on the shoulder by the government. (There was a moral consideration. Unless sales were controlled, the wrong type of person might be able to defend himself. The industry wrestled with this issue.) Meanwhile, Siegel had bought a year. With frugality, perhaps more. So naturally, he rented. To buy would have been to define his feelings for Victoria.
The thought of his ladylove made him drive faster, although not too fast, since he was never sure what he would find when he got there. She hailed from a family of sleepwalkers. He might have to look for her in a tree. He wanted to spend eternity with Victoria, hand in hand, on separate but individual clouds – still, he was a little unsure of his feelings. Not once, for example, had she ever yelled at him. There was no evidence that she had ever yelled at anyone. Other men didn’t exist for her – though he tried to arrange a little interest so he could be pissed off. She thanked him formally and promptly whenever they made love. A fresh cup of strong coffee stood ready for him each morning, although there was some question as to the long-term effect on his health. Her heart was his on a plate. Such a woman had to be watched.
So they lived impermanently, renting studios, waiting for something to happen. Something did happen and still they rented. Not that Siegel loved it. Take their current arrangement. Cavanaugh could sail in anytime he wanted to fix the plumbing. Or send his sons with bad skin to change a bulb. What if the youngsters caught Siegel fucking? It would have been nice to tell Cavanaugh to get lost. It bothered Siegel, too, that others in his field had waterfront property. He’d had a house once, too, but it slipped through his fingers. So he was careful to have nothing. Consequently, nothing could be taken away.
In a growing state of emergency, he ran up the stairs to their bedroom, shouldering his way through a barricade of food and magazines. Though Victoria came from vague wealth in Montana, she was reluctant to throw away anything. Bread crumbs had to be smuggled out in the dead of night. Also old copies of Vanity Fair.
Not surprisingly, Victoria’s bed was empty. Instinct took him to Dong’s restaurant – he didn’t bother to check the roof. He’d already found her there and she tended not to repeat. Sure enough, there she sat, in her flannel nightgown, folding dumplings with Dong’s daughters, not hurting a soul. Her legs gaped in the nightgown. What if Dong, for all his humanity, took a peek? Or worse, in the new culture, Dong’s daughters? Was there any guarantee that Victoria would wake up in time?
Sally, the prettiest daughter, shot a look at Victoria, rotating a finger at her own temple to connote an unbalanced state. Then, moist-eyed, she pressed her face against the window pane and said: “Something’s wrong, Siegel, something’s missing in my heart. I keep waiting and waiting for it to happen, but it never does. Do you think it ever will?”
Though Siegel was tenaciously faithful to Victoria, he’d considered the actress-y Sally, then erased the thought. His only experience with an Asian woman had ended, to his shame, when he pulled back his friend Han’s seal black waist-length hair to reveal the jaw of a Mongol warrior.
Siegel diplomatically ducked the girl’s question, then scooped Victoria up in his arms. He had met her when he was distributing free vests to the endangered workers at an abortion clinic in the Carolinas. They weren’t top-of-the-line items, but they would be of some use; it was better than going bare-chested against pickets. Back then, the vest weighed more than she did. Now Victoria had some heft to her. Lifting her, he felt a pain in the fifth metacarpal. A few more pounds and he’d have a back condition. Still, he loved the feel of her rough nightgown on his face. No one smelled as much like a person as she did. On an adjacent lawn, the Cavanaughs snapped open beers. He carried Victoria to their bed. Before she took her stroll, she’d plumped up the pillows on his side, folded his pajamas and left a note that said: “For Captain Cozy.” She was a sleep chatterer, too. Holding out a small hand, palm upward, she had called for reason from anti-abortion hecklers. It had been drilled into him; don’t rouse a sleepwalker. But the hand got to him and he whispered: “Let’s buy a place here. I can’t explain it, but there’s something about this area I like.”
The next morning, to show he wasn’t afraid of anyone, Siegel ordered eggs at the local diner. The sauerbraten boys were bunched in a corner. A waitress, Dawn, from the night before, slid hotcakes at them. When his order was a little slow in coming out, Siegel was offended. What point were they trying to make? That Jews ate too many eggs? Is that what ailed America? Maybe they should be taught a lesson and have to wait for their eggs. The thoughts were involuntary. Some day he would have to stop thinking that way. Did he really believe that people had nothing to do except worry about Jews? The second they got up in the morning? That they didn’t have to make a living, like the poor waitress who had to draw strength from her stocky legs so she could work the breakfast shift? Siegel had time to worry about Jews, not them.
Outside, Siegel saw Moon with a shopping bag, asking himself a question in the rain. In the bar, his fatness had a pinky ring elegance to it. Now, in the daylight, he wore ear flaps and a short Mackinaw jacket that called unnecessary attention to his spectacular tush. He might have been the kind of fat fellow who stood in shopping malls with his mother, a religious fanatic. Moon let a bus go by, then came inside and said he felt Siegel had overreacted the night before. Siegel denied the charge, but with a show of graciousness, asked Moon to join him for a cu
p of coffee. Moon accepted, emptying the contents of his bag on the table, a combination of fishnets, chicken wire and possibly some felt from his last Mackinaw, all formed into what was supposed to be a vest. Siegel pushed it away from his eggs and wondered, what did he do, stay up all night to create this concoction? When he heard Siegel was in the business? And after pretending he didn’t notice?
“Would you mind looking this over?” asked Moon.
“Not at all,” said Siegel, who had already decided it had no commercial application. Still, the garment had a certain rough integrity to it. Siegel had been wrong before, on his own playsuits. Maybe it could be featured in a country line.
“I’ll send it to the lab,” said Siegel.
“Thanks,” said Moon. “Last night I didn’t know where you were coming from.”
“Others have made that mistake,” said Siegel, not sure if this was true.
Moon went back to the rain. Siegel wondered if he had dressed pathetically for effect. Also, he was slightly disappointed. Their first encounter had been promising. He had expected a lot more from the man.
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