Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories

by Allen Hoffman

  “And anyway,” Kagan said, “I don’t have time. By the time I get a parking space, I’ll hardly have time to eat.”

  Before they knew it, they were back at Ninety-fourth Street.

  “Look, Kagan, a spot right in front of your building.”

  Kagan beamed. Yes, this is my lucky day. And tomorrow, because of Yom Kippur, alternate-side-of-the-street parking regulations are suspended. Who said God doesn’t love the Jews?

  “Kagan, no excuses now. Go win a bundle and say goodbye to penury and woe.”

  “Penury and woe?” Kagan said backing the balky Falcon into the spot. “You make it sound like a law firm.” But would I ever like to say goodbye to penury and woe, Kagan added to himself.

  “That’s right, penury and woe. If you want to make your life a joke, all right, but I don’t want to hear you crying about it the rest of your days.”

  Kagan had parked, but he remained inside the car to finish the conversation. To think some people found him a poor listener.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Kagan agreed. “I’m awful about that, I really am. A real crier, disgusting. I can’t help it; that’s me. But let me ask you something. You’ve got hot pants, nothing personal, mine aren’t so cool themselves, but a gambler you never were. You’ve always discouraged me from any action. You’re always quoting the odds. So why all of a sudden you’re so desperate that I should play?”

  “Kagan, listen, I don’t bet, but I know that if you bet that number today, it will win tonight. And, Kagan, I know you. I’m your angel, remember me? You think in the back of your scheming sanctimonious mind that God will reward you for not betting tonight by turning that number into the winning number for tomorrow night. Quit gambling with God, Kagan. You almost got a ticket today.”

  “But I didn’t!” Kagan announced triumphantly, springing from the car.

  “And yet— “ the angel called after him.

  The words instantly collapsed the buoyant joy in Kagan. He stumbled on the curb and with a confused heart barely dragged himself onto the sidewalk. He didn’t know whether to turn into his building or race over to the OTB parlor. He stood expressionless on the sidewalk. Confused and fatigued, he felt as it he were carrying an unbearable burden that would crush him even more quickly if he were either to take another step or attempt to put it down. The numbers, five — seven — three — four, raced through his head faster and faster until he was standing inside his own head watching them rush around the inside of his skull like the incandescent traveling letters of the headlines running around the Allied Chemical Tower in Times Square: 5734, 5734, 5734.

  He might have stood there all day and night had Mrs. Goldshmidt not held the door open for him.

  “I know where you’ve been. I can tell from the hair,” she said.

  “Yes,” Kagan answered, watching the dancing, dazzling points of light circumnavigate his cranium. Yes, yes! Five — seven — three — four! Yes!

  “You’ve been to the mikveh!”

  “Mikveh.” Five — seven — three — four. “Mikveh.” Five — seven — three — four.

  “My Ernie used to go.”

  “Used to go.” Five — seven — three — four.

  Kagan entered the elevator. Every floor lit up 5734. He ran out when the elevator man opened the door for him.

  3

  KAGAN stood in amazement in front of his own door with a lost feeling and a sense of terror; it didn’t say “5734.” It said “8C.” Not knowing what to do, he rang the bell. Nothing happened He rang the bell again.

  “Just a minute!” Fran’s distant voice called.

  Fran! Fran! What the hell does Fran know about five — seven — three — four?

  The numbers disappeared and Kagan’s point of view returned to his eyeballs. How could Fran know anything about five — seven — three — four? Kagan had sworn to her that he had quit gambling. And it was true. He had. Hundreds of times.

  He took out his key and opened the door. Their small cat rubbed against his leg in greeting. Kagan let the creature indulge herself for a moment, then carefully stepped around her.

  “Who is it? Moe?” Fran called.

  Kagan crossed through the small, jumbled living room. Fran was on the john — with the door open.

  “God damn it!” Kagan howled in pain. “Do you have to shit with the door open Erev Yom Kippur?”

  “Moe, when I came into the bathroom, you weren’t here.”

  “Would it have killed you to close the door?”

  “C’mon, Moe, how was I supposed to know you were going to walk in?”

  “How was I supposed to know you were going to walk in?” he mimicked. “Because I live here. Because it’s Erev Yom Kippur and I want to eat so I won’t starve to death tomorrow.”

  She sat there. “You’re right, I apologize. It was stupid of me.”

  ‘‘You’re damn right it was stupid of you!” he yelled. “Come out of there this minute. You have no business in there Erev Yom Kippur or any other day.”

  “I’m not finished,” she laughed.

  “Then why can’t you shit with the door closed like a normal human being?” he screamed, slamming the door, not knowing why she had laughed, and wondering why that guy shot the other guy with the arrow, much less on Shabbes of all days. What did Fran know about that?

  He stomped into the bedroom. What’s wrong with her? he fumed. Is this what I live for? To come home and find the bathroom door open? In the old neighborhood, you had to close the door. You’d better; the toilet was in the hall. You had to be quick, too. But that was long ago. Kagan barely remembered that.

  Then they had moved to the “new building.” They still called it the “new building.” It was old when they had moved in; it was older when they had moved out. And now? Ancient, a tired clump of old, dirty brick on Avenue A with a tired, old, sat-on, lived-on, slept-on fire escape. It sagged so much, it looked more like wood than iron. But it remained the “new building.” Hey, Pop, you want to drive by? Sure, let’s see how the “new building” is doing. What did Fran know about that?

  Still, maybe it wasn’t her fault. Very few, practically no one, knew about that stuff. In high-school French, Mlle. Fleischman told them about the Pont Neuf, the New Bridge, of Paris, and do you know how old the new bridge is, class? One year, they guessed. Two, three, four years. Kagan wanted to guess a thousand years, but he couldn’t. It was a setup. Her routine called for a brand-new bridge. Kagan played straight man. What a nitwit she was! What a dumb question.

  A dumb question. Kagan looked at his pickle-green watch. It was late! They’d better eat fast. He looked up to tell Fran to hurry when something on the bed caught his eye. He stepped over to see a small gift-wrapped package.

  Oh, my God, cringed Kagan, it’s our anniversary! No, that’s in June, Kagan recalled with some certainty. A shudder of horror captured Kagan — her birthday. Some affected friend at the office gave her a precious gift and I forgot. Shit, does she have to have such stupid friends? They’d love to break us up. Wait a minute, wait a minute, Kagan cautioned himself. Fran had a birthday this year and I remembered it. No, not a birthday; that’s out. Hmmm? Perplexed, Kagan picked up the package, hoping that by touching it, he would be able to divine its purpose. Kagan couldn’t stand people who shook gifts. It seemed barbaric and unfeeling, as if, somehow, the gift could get dizzy. Kagan touched it carefully. Hanukkah? That’s pretty good! How could Hanukkah be the night of Yom Kippur?

  Fran appeared in the doorway. “Open it. It’s for you,” she said.

  Kagan looked at the gift in surprise. For him? That he had not divined. “For me? Is it my birthday?”

  “No, it’s just a gift. It’s for you. Open it. It won’t bite you.”

  Kagan tore off the paper to find a small paperback, Tree Trails in Central Park.

  “Won’t bite me?” Kagan raised his voice. “Why don’t you give me a bicycle to run into them? Tree Trails in Central Park, my God!” My God, Kagan thought, this kid is too much.
If it were a joke, it would be a great routine, but she really believes I’m going to go out and learn the names of trees, when the dogs who piss on them don’t bother to look. Kagan heard a choking sound. Fran was crying — Connecticut.

  “I just wanted to give you a gift,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I can’t say I wanted it, but it’s very educational.”

  He stood there like an idiot. He felt like a fool. Erev Yom Kippur and she had given him a gift and he’s yelling at her. Who knows, in Hartford they might fast Hanukkah. And it beats a gift certificate to Colonel Sanders Kentucky Fried Chicken. Speaking of which, they’d better eat their chicken.

  “Listen,” he tried again, “it’s lovely. Thank you.” He sounded unconvincing. “I had a hard day....” I must have, I haven’t had any easy ones lately. Something must have been hard about this one. Why should it be any different? “Yes,” he said quickly, “I had a hard day at the mikveh.”

  “At the mikveh?” she asked, tears still flowing.

  “Yes, at the mikveh. They ran out of towels. How do you like that? They charge five dollars and they run out of towels.” He was truly indignant.

  “What did you use?” she asked.

  But Kagan’s mind had leaped back into that soggy cardboard box to dip among the five-dollar bills.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, thinking about those five-dollar bills. Why, that guy must be a millionaire. Okay, good for him, but why did he think Kagan had to be one, too? Five dollars!

  “How did you dry off?”

  “With a towel, why?” he answered, wondering how the mikveh man knew that the patrol car was coming. Maybe there was something to that ESP stuff.

  “I thought you said they ran out of towels.”

  What towels is she talking about? “Oh,” he improvised enthusiastically, “those towels! I used Shapiro’s towel.”

  “A dirty towel?”

  “Well, yeah, but Shapiro’s so uptight he didn’t touch his ass or his balls with it.”

  Fran smiled at that. He looked at his petite, graceful Connecticut wife, thirty-one and after six years of marriage to a character like himself still a good-looking girl. Hair like Little Orphan Annie; Kagan was twelve years older but she didn’t get any Daddy Warbucks! He had liked the curly hair and the lithe body, but it was the kind, gracious charm that had misled him into thinking that he should stand under a wedding canopy. And the shy, twinkling, girlish smile (sweet but hoping for passion) that he had never seen before. He was always a sucker for that, wasn’t he?

  Kagan leaned over to embrace her. She cried as he kissed her on the cheek. What a crazy time for a gift. Wanting to comfort her, he awkwardly fiddled with the button on her blouse. He unfastened it and cupped her breast. There are some advantages to the modern woman, Kagan thought. All that unhooking of bras in his youth. The old neighborhood. He kissed her again.

  “C’mon,” he said gently. “I got the tree, if you got the trail.”

  She turned away. “You don’t have to fuck me because of my tears.”

  “Oh, no, your tears have nothing to do with it. I hate to fuck sad women in the afternoon. I want to fuck you because I hate to write thank-you letters. If you don’t give me my chance to respond, you’ll never get a thank-you note.”

  She was undecided.

  “It could ruin our marriage!” he warned.

  “There’s no time,” she said surrendering.

  “We’ll hurry.”

  “How was the mikveh?” she asked, undressing.

  “What do you mean how was the mikveh? It was the mikveh.” What a dumb question! Wait a minute — they were making up. He already had his pants off and it was Erev Yom Kippur! “There were a lot of nice asses, but none like yours.”

  He pinched hers.

  “It’s late. Leave your socks on,” she said.

  They hurried, but not fast enough. Kagan was caught and passed by five — seven — three — four. When he heard them behind him, he closed his eyes, but their hoofbeats became deafening. He thrust and raced them for the wire, but it was five — seven — three — four, then Kagan and Kagan. (The last nose to nose.) Fran jumped up. Kagan lay there, his eyes closed and his body ravaged; five — seven — three — four, penury and woe win; Kagan and Kagan lose.

  “Let’s eat!” she said, scrambling toward the kitchen.

  The phone rang. Kagan sat up and called, “I’ll be there in a second.”

  He pulled on some shorts and ran into the living room.

  “Is it for me? Is it Stein?”

  “Just a moment please,” Fran spoke into the phone. Putting her hand over the mouthpiece, she said to Kagan, “Moe, it’s for me. It’s the office, do you mind?”

  “Hurry up! I have to call Stein.”

  Kagan returned to the bedroom and took his suit, his only suit, out of the closet. He had even had it cleaned. The hell with the suit. He had to call the Steins! They were in the “new building.” Upstairs, near the plumber. Mr. Stein — that’s what a Jew should be — honest, sweet, charitable. And Louie! Kagan had started going to shul with Louie. Without Louie, he wouldn’t even know how to pray. Every Shabbes with the Steins, Louie and his dad.

  At first, Kagan’s old man couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. “All day he sits in shul praying like a tzaddik and all night he sits in the candy store playing cards like a bum! A kid like this I never had! Either you go to shul or you go to the candy store. Moey wants to do both!”

  It was true. And it stayed that way, but his pop started going to shul with him. “I’m sure as hell not going to go to the candy store like a bum!” The four of them used to set off together from the “new building” to the little shul. The Steins moved before they did, but they always remained close. Louie and his wife and kids still went to the old folks for Yom Kippur.

  Kagan ran out of the room to make his call. Good, she was off the phone.

  “Moe, the soup and chicken are ready. Let’s eat.”

  Kagan was dialing.

  “Moe, it’s late!”

  “Shhh! I hope the Steins haven’t left for shul yet!.”

  “Allo!” Old Mr. Stein answered the phone.

  “Mr. Jacob Stein?” Kagan asked stentorially.

  “That’s right. Who’s this?”

  “I’m calling from Restaurant Associates to announce that you have won a gourmet meal for twenty-five tomorrow at the Four Seasons Restaurant. Would you like to begin with the shrimp cocktail or the smoked eel?”

  “Oh, Moey, it’s you! We were worried. We thought maybe something happened.”

  “Mr. Stein, I’ve been rushing around all day. You didn’t think I wouldn’t call?”

  “Moey, without your call it wouldn’t seem like Yom Kippur. Thank you.”

  Kagan heard the sweet voice coming over the tensile wire strung under the frantic world of Manhattan, and Kagan felt good. He was happy, even excited, to know that among the serpentine loops, tangles, convolutions of subterranean madness upon which the whole meshugginer island stands such a voice could successfully make its way through. Happy, not just for himself, but for everyone. Kagan felt the moist warmth of tears in his eyes.

  “Mr. Stein, there’s nothing to thank. If it weren’t for you and Louie, I wouldn’t be going to hear Kol Nidre tonight.”

  “No, Moey, it would have been someone else. You always had it in you.”

  “I want to wish you that you should be sealed in the Book of Life — and an easy fast.”

  “A cohen’s blessing. Thank you. May you and the missus be sealed in the Book of Life. A good year.... Louie wants to talk so I’m gonna go now. Be well.”

  “You too, Mr. Stein.”

  Louie’s younger, less accented voice came on. He and Kagan exchanged wishes to be sealed in the Book of Life.

  “How are the kids, Louie?”

  “Okay, everybody’s fine. How about you?”

  “All right. Hey listen. I have a question for the man who got smicha
from Reb Moshe Feinstein.”

  “No eating tomorrow, Moe,” Louie teased.

  “Gee, that’s a shame! What’ll I do with the cheeseburgers? No, listen, Louie. Is it true that if you shoot somebody with a bow and arrow on Shabbes, no, I mean before Shabbes, the shooting, not the hitting-him part, is before, but the guy gets killed afterwards. Right away, of course, but after Shabbes. Louie, do you know what I’m talking about?” Kagan appealed.

  “You mean the case where the arrow is shot before Shabbes, but the arrow kills on Shabbes?”

  “Yeah, yeah, right! Reb Moshe Feinstein knew what he was doing when he ordained you. Yeah, in that case, he didn’t violate Shabbes?”

  “No, he didn’t violate Shabbes.”

  “Not at all, Louie?”

  “Not all all, Moe.”

  “Oh,” Kagan said.

  “Why do you want to know, Moe?”

  “So a guy could bet before Shabbes on a Shabbes race and it wouldn’t be violating Shabbes?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You’re becoming a scholar, I see.”

  “Not me, Louie. Don’t worry about me.”

  “You got something good, Moe?”

  “Terrific, terrific,” Kagan mourned. “Louie, what should I do?”

  “Moe, I’m not worried about you. Not with your soul. Don’t worry. It’s Yom Kippur.”

  There was a pause. Louie continued, “You really want to know what I think? I would do it, but you’re a cohen, a priest. I always said that you were more religious than I am. You won’t do it.”

  “You’re right,” Kagan said with no great enthusiasm.

  “Moe, it’s late. We better get off the phone.”

  “Yeah.”

  They wished each other a good fast. After he had hung up, tears began to flow. Fran, concerned and solicitous, put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Kagan?” she inquired gently. She always called him “Kagan” when she was worried about him. “Kagan, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, Fran, nothing,” Kagan said as he dabbed at his eyes.

  “Why are you crying then?”