"No kidding? What's a taxidermist?"
"A person who stuffs all the animals and birds for display."
"Wow," I said. "Even the tigers?"
Mr. Moriarty nodded. "Even the elephants."
"Wow," I said again. "What a neat job. What'd he die of?"
"Heart," said Mr. Moriarty, shaking his head sadly.
"That's too bad," I said.
"Indeed," said Mr. Moriarty, "indeed." He heaved a heavy sigh.
"Was he a friend of yours?" I asked.
"I like to think of all my customers as friends," said Mr. Moriarty. He sighed again.
I shook my head. "You sure must lose a lot of friends," I said.
Mr. Moriarty nodded sadly. "Well, good day, son," he said. "Remember me in your time of need." He reached his hand out to me and I shook it gingerly. It was cold and white, and it gave me the heebie-jeebies to think I was shaking the hand that touched all those dead bodies. He walked on down the steps, all stooped over and somber. I was still watching him when Mickey walked out the door.
"What're you looking at?" he asked.
"Mr. Moriarty."
"Why?"
I shook my head. "He sure is good at mourning," I said.
Mickey shrugged. "It's his job. What do you expect?"
I nodded. "I suppose. Hey, he said there's a good wake down on One-Hundred-First."
"Oh yeah? Who?"
"Some guy named Milke. Wanna go?"
"I thought you have to work."
"I got the day off. You wanna go or not?"
"I dunno," said Mickey. "I told Kitty I'd come by."
"Jeez, again?"
"What d'ya mean again?"
"You just saw her yesterday."
"So?"
"And the day before, and the day before that."
"So?"
"So what about you and me, Mick? We don't hardly do nothing together anymore."
"We played stickball yesterday."
"Oh wow, for all of an hour, 'til she came along."
Mickey looked torn for a moment, then we heard a door bang shut and looked over to see Maggie and Kitty standing on their stoop. Mickey's face lit up like a streetlamp.
"I know," he said, "we'll all go."
He ran over and grabbed Kitty's hand and pulled her down the steps. "C'mon," he said, "we're going to a wake." He looked back at me. "Well," he said. "What are you waiting for?"
"Nothin'," I grumbled. I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked on over. Maggie still stood on the stoop.
"You coming?" Mickey asked her.
She shrugged and looked at me. I looked down at the sidewalk and kicked at a loose chunk of cement.
"C'mon, you two," Mickey pleaded, "it's a wake."
"Please, Maggie," Kitty's soft voice added.
I looked up. Maggie smiled and came down the steps.
"Sure," she said. "There's nothing I like better than a good wake."
Mickey and Kitty skipped off together like little kids and left the two of us standing there.
"Well," said Maggie, "it looks like it's just you and me again, Wild Bill."
I smiled and drew an imaginary six-gun from my hip and aimed it at Mickey's back. Maggie drew one too and aimed it at Kitty.
"Bang! Bang!" we shouted.
Mickey and Kitty glanced disgustedly over their shoulders at us like we were hopelessly childish.
Maggie sighed. "Kitty sure has changed," she said.
I nodded. "Yeah, Mickey too."
We holstered our guns and walked on in silence. Maggie looked at me after a while, and I looked back, then we both looked away. There didn't seem to be anything else to say. I felt my ears starting to burn. Why is it so hard to talk to her all of a sudden? We've been friends all our lives. I looked at Mickey and Kitty giggling up ahead. It was all their fault some how. Why did they have to fall in love and change everything?
"So how come you're not at the store today?" asked Maggie at last.
"Weissman gave me the day off."
"How come?"
"I dunno. I guess he was in a real good mood about the election."
Maggie smiled. "Yeah," she said. "I guess everybody is."
We walked on again in silence.
"How's your ma doing?" Maggie asked suddenly.
I looked at her. "Fine. Why?"
"I heard her in the toilet, throwing up again this morning. Is she expecting another baby?"
My stomach twisted into a sharp, painful knot, and for a moment I couldn't seem to catch my breath.
"No," I said hoarsely. "She's got a touch of the flu is all. Caught it from Mrs. Mahoney."
Maggie stared at me and I stared back at her, wanting desperately for her to believe what I'd just said so I could go on believing it. At last she nodded and I was able to breathe again.
TWENTY-THREE
When we got to 101st we looked for the funeral wreath. It was on a building on the other side of the street, up toward Madison Avenue. It was a nice building with fancy iron railings and front steps that came down to a landing and then curved down on both the right and the left to the street. There were potted plants on the landing, and the funeral wreath was big and full, tied with a pink ribbon, which means Mr. Milke wasn't too old. When it's an old person, the ribbon is purple, and when it's a kid, it's white. Ma always gets all teary-eyed when she sees a building with a white funeral wreath on it.
We caught up with Mickey and Kitty at the foot of the stairs.
"Looks like a rich one," Mickey said. "Who'd you say he was?"
"Mr. Milke," I told him, "a taxidermist from down at the Museum of Natural History."
Mickey looked puzzled, but he glanced at Kitty and Maggie and didn't say anything more. We all brushed ourselves off and tucked ourselves in, and spit on our shoes and wiped them with our sleeves. Mickey passed around an onion he'd grabbed off a vegetable cart on the way over. We all squeezed it and sniffed until our eyes got red and watery.
"All set?" asked Mickey.
The rest of us nodded.
"Okay," said Mickey, "follow me."
The hallway inside was dark and fancy, with polished marble floors and fine woodwork. I tapped Mickey on the shoulder.
"I don't know, Mick," I whispered. "Maybe it's too fancy."
Mickey waved my words away. "Don't be silly," he said. "It's just an apartment building. Believe me. Guys like him don't make that much money, no matter what kind of highfalutin names they call themselves."
"Okay," I said. Mickey started up the stairs and the rest of us followed. The wake was all the way up on the fourth floor. The apartments were set up like ours, with the kitchen door toward the back of the building and the living-room door toward the front. There was no toilet in the hall, though, so I guess each apartment had its own.
There were a few people standing out in the hall. They were well dressed and looked down their noses at us as we filed by and went in through the front-room door. The casket was there, set up in front of the window and surrounded by more flowers than I'd ever seen in one place before. The air was heavy and sweet, and the room was full of red-eyed women dressed in black who sniffled and whispered to each other through rumpled handkerchiefs. All around, on the walls and tables and even standing on the floor, were stuffed birds and animals that stared at us with beady glass eyes.
The four of us worked our way over to the casket, where we went down on our knees and crossed ourselves. Mickey bent his head and whispered in my ear.
"What do you think all them dead animals are for?" he asked. "You think he's trying to take them with him like those Egyptian guys used to?"
"Quit foolin' around," I told him, trying not to laugh. "You're supposed to be saying a prayer." I crossed myself again.
"Dear Lord," I prayed, "please take this guy to heaven if he was good, and if he wasn't, please try not to be too tough on him. It's probably hard for you to understand, being God and all, but for us people it's not easy to be good all the time. Thank you, Lor
d. Amen."
One by one we got to our feet and stood staring down into the casket. Mr. Milke reminded me of one of his stuffed animals, except that his skin looked like it was carved out of pale pink wax. He had thinnish black hair combed low on his forehead, not a strand out of place, and a handlebar moustache that curled up so stiffly it looked like it would break off if you touched it. His face was all powdered up, and circles of rouge stained his cheeks. Black pencil outlined his lids and brows, and purplish lipstick colored his mouth.
"Doesn't he look natural?" I said.
The others nodded and murmured in agreement.
I sighed and clasped my hands together and made my way over to the chief lady in black, who was seated on a chair on the other side of the casket.
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," I said.
The lady stopped dabbing at her eyes and looked up at me, then beyond me at the other three.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"We were friends with Mr. Milke down at the museum," I said.
She continued to stare at me, obviously unconvinced, when Maggie started sniffling. She was rubbing her eyes with her hand, the one she'd squeezed the onion with. Tears started streaming down her cheeks.
"He was such a good man," she blubbered, "always so kind to us kids."
That did the widow in. She started blubbering, too. "Oh yes," she said. "He did love children. We never had any of our own, you know."
"I know," I said gently. "He spoke of it often. It was a sorrow to him."
The woman sighed and nodded. "Yes, yes, to me, too. Well, thank you so much for coming. Do be sure and go into the kitchen and have something to eat before you go. Herbert would never forgive me if you didn't."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am," we all murmured.
We walked solemnly over to the door, breathed a sigh of relief that the formalities were over, and beat it around back to the kitchen.
The kitchen was thick with smoke and crowded with men who were puffing on cigarettes and sipping bootleg whiskey, telling off-color jokes and trying not to laugh too loudly. They paid no attention to us as we swarmed around the table.
It was a great wake all right. They had baked ham and roast turkey, all kinds of cheeses, and big, hard rolls. There were pies and tarts and cookies and cakes and fruit. Our eyes were bugging out as we loaded up our plates and stuffed extras into our pockets and coats. Mickey was trying to shove a banana up his sleeve when the widow suddenly appeared at his shoulder.
"Are you getting enough to eat, children?" she asked.
We all nodded somberly.
She looked at Mickey. "It still puzzles me," she said, "how you came to know Mr. Milke at the museum. In his line of work he didn't get out front much."
Mickey shot me a puzzled glance, then looked back at the widow. "We ... uh ... met him out back," he said.
"Out back?"
"Y-yeah," Mickey stuttered. "He ... uh, used to take us for rides when he was off duty."
"Rides?"
"Yeah. You know, in his cab."
"Cab? Young man, there must be some mistake."
"No," said Mickey, turning red. "No mistake. He used to give us rides in his taxi cab..."
I was laughing so hard telling Mama the story that I was spitting beans all over the table.
"Daniel," said Mama, laughing too. "Please don't be talkin' with yer mouth full."
"Okay, okay," I said, putting my fork down. "So anyway, I told him a taxidermist is a guy who stuffs dead animals for museums." I started to laugh again. "So he says, 'How was I supposed to know? I thought it was some highfalutin name for a taxi driver.'"
I slid down in my chair, laughing 'til my sides ached and tears ran down my cheeks. Mama laughed, too, long and hard. Then suddenly she grew quiet and pale.
"Mama? You all right?"
"Aye, aye. I just need a sip of water, I think." She got up and walked unsteadily to the sink, where she put both hands on the rim and leaned heavily forward.
"Mama?"
She clutched her stomach with one hand, put the other over her mouth, and fled out into the hall.
Maureen began to cry and I picked her up out of her chair. She put her arms around my neck and we sat there, clinging to one another and listening to Mama retch.
TWENTY-FOUR
Wednesday, November 23, 1932
Thanksgiving Eve, and still no word from Pa. I felt angry and deserted as I swept up at the store. Surely he could have reached us somehow, if he really wanted to.
Mr. Weissman came over. He took hold of my hand, turned it palm up, and dropped something into it. "Happy Thanksgiving," he said.
I looked down. It was Pa's watch. "What's this for?" I asked.
"Your debt is paid," said Mr. Weissman. "Today is your last day at the store."
I stared at the watch. "But ... it's only Thanksgiving, not Christmas," I argued. "Pa promised you..."
Mr. Weissman held up his hand for silence. He arched a bushy white brow. "Did you break the window?" he asked.
I shook my head slowly. "No."
Mr. Weissman gave a short nod, then a hint of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Happy Thanksgiving," he repeated.
I smiled. He was telling me he believed me.
"Thanks, Mr. Weissman," I said.
He nodded again and gave my shoulder a quick pat.
I held the watch up by the chain and looked at it.
"I'll bet this is really worth a lot of money, huh?" I said.
Mr. Weissman shrugged. "About two dollars."
"Two dollars!" I stared at him, openmouthed. He nodded and walked away. "Wait a minute," I said. "Oh, I get it. You're kidding me, right?"
Mr. Weissman turned and looked back at me. He wasn't laughing. "Your grandfather in Ireland ... he said, "he was a wealthy man?"
"Well, no, but..."
"Two dollars," Mr. Weissman repeated, then walked away again.
I looked more closely at the watch. Mr. Weissman was right. Around the edges the shiny gold was wearing off and you could just start to see a dull gray metal showing through. I walked over to the counter where Mr. Weissman was finishing the day's tallies in the black book.
"I don't get it, Mr. Weissman," I said. "If you knew the watch wasn't valuable, why'd you make the deal?"
Mr. Weissman's bushy eyebrows lifted and he peered at me over the rims of his reading glasses.
"Valuable?" he said. "Who said it wasn't valuable?"
"But you said..."
"I said it was probably worth about two dollars. What has that to do with value? This... this is value."
Mr. Weissman grabbed the watch from my hand, opened it up, and pointed to the inscription. I looked again at the words Pa had shown me many times:
JUNE 16, 1917
GOD BLESS YOU MY SON
D. T. G.
Daniel Tomas Garvey—my grandfather. My eyes misted up for a minute and I looked down and blinked them clear so Mr. Weissman wouldn't see.
"No money can buy that kind of value," said Mr. Weissman, closing the watch and handing it back to me. "Now go, and tell your mother happy Thanksgiving."
"Mr. Weissman," I said, when my voice steadied, "I was just thinking...."
Mr. Weissman peered over his rims and waited for me to go on.
"Well, I mean, I was wondering if maybe you could still use some help here. You wouldn't have to pay me much. Whatever you think I'm worth would be ... fine...."
Mr. Weissman had closed the big black book and stood staring down at it. He sucked in a large breath that expanded his chest, then he let it out slowly and shook his head.
"It's not that I don't need the help, Danny," he said, looking up at last.
I met his eyes, then looked away. They were so sad.
"And it's not that you're not a good worker...." He rubbed his hand over the black book, picked it up as if it were very heavy, and slid it under the counter. "It's just that..."
"I know, Mr. Weissman. Thanks anyhow."
Mr. Weissman nodded. I reached out my hand to him and he took it and clasped it warmly in his.
"Your papa was right," he said. "You're a good boy, Danny."
I smiled. "Wish he could hear you say that," I said.
"I'll tell him, soon as he gets back."
"Thanks, Mr. Weissman."
I turned and headed for the door, then stopped suddenly and turned back.
"Hey, Mr. Weissman. What d'ya say I check back with you about that job next summer, when the depression's over?"
Mr. Weissman laughed and shook his head.
"You do that, Danny," he said.
TWENTY-FIVE
The whole building smelled like pies and cakes and good things to eat when I got home. Kitchen doors were open and people bustled back and forth, borrowing this and that, and sharing sips of holiday cheer. Over all I could hear Mama singing. My heart leapt at the sound. Her song was full of joy, and that could mean but one thing—Pa!
I bounded up the stairs and burst into the kitchen. Ma turned from the stove, her face all lit up with smiles, and reached her arms out to me. I rushed into them.
"Is Pa home?" I asked.
"No," she said, laughing, "but look what came today."
She pulled an envelope from her apron pocket and I snatched it before she could say another word. Some money fluttered from the envelope as I pulled the letter free, but I didn't even stop to pick it up. I unfolded the paper and feasted my eyes on Pa's messy handwriting. Misspellings and all, it looked beautiful to me. I wanted to hug the paper, but I guessed Ma would think I was pretty silly, so I sat down at the table and read:
My dearest Molly,
I'm sorry not to have wrote before this, but stamps and paper are hard to come by. I found a few days work fixing up a burnt down barn but nothing stedy yet. I'll not be home for Thanksgiving darlin, but if you take this money and have a fine feast I will share it with you in my heart. There's word of some millwork farther up the coast, so I'll be moving on tonite.
Molly my love I'll do all in my power to be home with you on Christmas, and I will count the days till then. Give my love to Danny and Maureen. Till Christmas I am
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