Among the Living

by Jonathan Rabb

  “And no one saw anything?”

  “ ‘Saw anything’?” said Calvin. “I’m sure there was a mess a boys who saw it. Ain’t no one going to do nothing about it.”

  Mary Royal returned with a tray and a pitcher. She set them down on the dresser and poured out a few glasses. She handed one to Eva.

  Calvin said, “I got something to show you outside, Mr. Ike, that is if that’s all right with you, Miss Eva?”

  “Of course. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, ma’am. Just sit with Mary Royal if you would.”

  “Of course.”

  Goldah followed Calvin down the corridor and outside to the porch. The dirt street was empty under dusk, save for some boys a few houses down, tossing a rock or a ball. Calvin stepped to the edge of the porch and placed his hands on the railing. He stared out at the street and waited until Goldah was with him.

  “You go off with Miss Eva today?”

  “I did. Yes.”

  “Out to Tybee?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you stop by Miss Pearl on the way back?”

  “She was the one to tell us.”

  Calvin spat something to the dirt. “There ain’t nothing I got to show you out here, Mr. Ike.”

  “I didn’t think there was.”

  “Just didn’t want Miss Eva or Mr. Abe hearing, that’s all.”

  “Hearing what?”

  Calvin continued to stare out. “You seen him. He ain’t right about this. He said maybe three words when he come in, and then he just set there. He knows it’s on him what happened to Raymond and I ain’t going to tell him otherwise, but he’s got to snap himself out. Whatever he done, he done, but it only gets worse if he don’t find his way. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think I do, Calvin.”

  “Them Irish sending their message all right this time, sending it through his nigger.”

  Goldah had never heard an edge in Calvin’s voice; he was glad for it but said nothing.

  “That boy ain’t never going to use that hand again. And no telling for sure about that eye neither. They used a bat, Mr. Ike. A bat. That’s a war hero laying in there, and they used a bat. Think Mr. Abe understanding things now?”

  “I know.”

  “Yes, I know you know. And I know you know better than most. I understand, but this ain’t like what you had in the war in those camps. I’m sorry to say it, but it ain’t the same. They tried to kill you, all a you, all at once. I seen that. But here they kill us one at a time and that’s a difference.”

  They had never spoken about the war, about anything before Savannah. Goldah had told himself there had been no need. They knew each other, knew the shared silences to their cores. Now Goldah saw how naïve that had been. There was a ranking, even to victims, and severity had no cause against time.

  “Yes,” said Goldah. “It’s a difference. You’re right.”

  Calvin continued to stare out. Goldah left him there and moved back inside. From the dark of the corridor he saw Eva sitting with her hand in Mary Royal’s, Jesler behind them, his shoulders rocking in his chair. He was a Jew in prayer. For what, Goldah could only imagine.

  PART TWO

  6

  MARY ROYAL SAT with Raymond on the small porch of the house. His good eye was still having trouble adjusting to the sunlight and she brought the brim of his hat lower on his face so as to lend him some ease. His bandaged hand sat on his lap like so much rotted fruit: hints of a shape that was familiar, with an odor that required constant tending. His other held a bottle of Coca-Cola, its straw absently resting on his lip.

  They heard the car before they saw it, its carriage bouncing along the tiny hillocks of churned dirt.

  When it came to a stop, Mary Royal said, “Hey there, Miss Eva.” Mary Royal always did her best to hide the exhaustion in her voice. “We sitting outside today. First time.”

  Eva had made a habit of dropping by every few days. She stepped around the front of her car, and said, “I can see that, yes. It’s a good day for it. Good for you. I’ve brought some apple butter. Mr. Ginsburg sent it along, no charge.” Eva placed the jar on the rail as she moved up to the porch.

  “The Ginsbergs is good people,” said Mary Royal. “Raymond helped them move themselves upstairs in the store a few years back, you remember that, Raymond?”

  Eva said, “Mr. Ginsburg mentioned that, yes. Hello there, Raymond.”

  Raymond licked at one corner of his mouth, the other still swollen, and slowly pulled the straw from his lip.

  “Afternoon, Miss Eva.” His words were slurred. The doctor had said it was still a few days before the jaw and throat would find their full mobility.

  “You’re sounding so much better,” said Eva. “Maybe you could get in some walking today?”

  Raymond continued to stare out at the street. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Walking can really do the trick.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Eva heard the hollowness in his voice. Worse, she heard the need in her own and thought how petty and foolish these words must sound — the consolation and the caring — and recalled their hollowness when her Charles had died.

  Mary Royal said, “No Mr. Ike today?”

  “No,” said Eva. “He’s down at the store … or with the truck. I forget.”

  “He’s always down at the store these days.”

  “Yes.” Eva forced a smile. “Shall we have some of this apple butter?”

  Raymond said, “We been eating just fine, Miss Eva. Mr. Abe sent all sorts a food. Feed an army on it.”

  “Good — that’s good. I’m glad.”

  Mary Royal said, “Not that we don’t appreciate what you brung. It’s very kind.”

  Eva saw the strain in the girl’s eyes. She tried to share a moment with her, but Mary Royal kept her sadness to herself.

  Eva said, “And when was Mr. Jesler here?”

  “He ain’t,” Raymond said plainly. “Just sent it. We be fine on food for a while. No need to trouble yourself no more. Or Mr. Ike. We be fine. That’d do the trick.”

  Eva heard the quiet scorn — the brazenness in the word “trick” thrown back at her — and she let it pass. “Yes,” she said. “Well, I just wanted to check in. I’ll leave the apple butter here, shall I?”

  Mary Royal said, “That’d be fine. And you tell Mr. Ike we appreciate all he done, taking over the deliveries and such.”

  Eva nodded. “Yes. I surely will.” She thought to place a hand on Mary Royal’s shoulder but knew it would do neither of them any good.

  The smell of sweat and varnish filled Goldah’s nose as he sat on the bleachers and watched the boys in their short pants and sleeveless shirts move across the wooden floor. There was a squeal of rubber each time one stopped. Jacob, the smallest and fastest, showed no fear of darting in between the rest.

  He had been asking Goldah for nearly a week to come and “catch a game,” a phrase that had caused several moments of confusion until Jacob explained that Goldah would not, in fact, be “suiting up.” This next phrase had brought its own set of problems, though it proved less confounding than the rules to the game itself. Suffice it to say, tonight was Goldah’s first visit to the Alliance and a basketball match. Thirty years ago someone had decided that the poorer Jews in town needed a place to socialize, a place to blend in and forget their shtetl pasts. Now there was glee club and summer camps and stage revues … and a great deal of basketball. It brought a certain pride: nothing too Jewish, and nothing like the workmen’s circle or the communists. Better to throw a ball around for a few hours than to get involved with any of that.

  A whistle blew and the boys gathered. The small crowd began to stand and Goldah realized that the game had come to an end. He headed over.

  Jacob’s red hair was matted against his brow, the ball tucked under his arm. “Pretty good, huh? You could follow?”

  “Enough,” said Goldah. “I take it you won.”

  “Kille
d ’em. Wouldn’t want to be on that bus ride back to Jacksonville tonight, I can tell you that.”

  Goldah had to remind himself he was talking to a boy: Jacob spoke with the tired swagger of a man who had won these kinds of victories beyond the playing fields and gymnasiums. Goldah said, “They were much bigger than all of you.”

  “Jacksonville Jews is big Jews, but they’re slow, so we just run ’em until they get winded and then we take care a business. We’ll see them again in October, but they’ll be just as slow. It’s the Charleston Alliance boys you got to worry about.”

  “Well … it was a good match.”

  Jacob looked around as if expecting to see someone.

  Goldah said, “Lots doing these days at the store. I’m sure Abe tried to make it.”

  “Yeah. Sure. I know.”

  As if on cue, Jesler appeared at the doorway. He was winded from the three-story climb, his face red and glistening under the bare bulb of the stairwell light. Goldah smelled the booze as Jesler drew up to them.

  “Dammit,” Jesler said, with a weak smile, “I missed it, didn’t I? We had a shipment come in late.” Even he didn’t seem to believe it. “Anyway. You run them?”

  “Yup,” said Jacob.

  “How many’d you get?”

  “Twelve.”

  Jesler pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. “You liked it, Ike? Think we can suit you up for the next game?”

  “Jacob was excellent.”

  “Good, good. You still want that ice cream, son? A win’s a win.”

  “I’m good,” said the boy. “I think maybe I’ll just take a shower and head home.”

  Jesler smoked through whatever he was feeling. “Sure. Okay.” He took another suck. “How about you, Ike? You want some Leopold’s?”

  Goldah hadn’t seen much of Jesler in the past ten days. The store had been quiet with Jesler at the warehouse or in meetings or anywhere but the store. His absence was the surest sign that what had happened to Raymond was no longer up for discussion, for good or ill. Goldah had begun to wonder if, in fact, they were all thinking that the beating had never happened: no police inquiry, no outrage, not even a word from Calvin. And yet none of them had moved beyond it.

  “I’m heading out as well,” Goldah said. “Maybe tomorrow night.”

  Jesler looked as if he might say something funny or clever but knew it would be neither. Jacob jabbed a thumb in the direction of the locker room. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll see you Saturday unless you need me to sleep in on Friday if we got something coming early.”

  “No, nothing early,” said Jesler. “Not these days.”

  “Okay, then. Thanks for coming.”

  Out on the street the humidity trumped the heat and Jesler offered Goldah a ride.

  “I’m getting picked up,” Goldah said. He had been playing his part as well by finding any excuse he could to eat away from Pearl’s table.

  “Mrs. De la Parra going to drop you off at home?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “The plan. Good to have a plan. Always got a plan.” Jesler tossed the butt of his cigarette to the pavement. “You’re sounding like a regular American, Ike. So is it dinner, dancing? Pearl always wants to go dancing.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not much of a dancer.”

  “That’s not the point, is it?” The smile was no better than the one up in the gymnasium: It was hard, thought Goldah, to help a man so intent on going nowhere. “Okay, then,” Jesler said. “I should probably —”

  A pair of headlights turned onto the street and slowed.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Jesler said with sudden enthusiasm. He waved a hand as Goldah looked to see Eva’s Cadillac pulling to a stop.

  Jesler leaned his head into the passenger window. “Evening, Mrs. De la Parra.”

  “Hello there, Mr. Jesler. What a pleasant surprise.”

  Jesler settled his forearms on the window frame. “You missed quite a game. Sent those boys packing back to Jacksonville with their tails between their legs. You should come out to the Alliance for the next one. Jacob’s a real fine player and I’m trying to convince Ike here to take it up. He’s got the size.”

  “He surely does.”

  “You have a beautiful car, Mrs. De la Parra.”

  “Why thank you.”

  Goldah had stepped around and was opening the driver’s door. Eva slid across to the passenger seat and Goldah got in.

  Jesler said, “Taking him for some dancing tonight, Mrs. De la Parra?”

  “I’m not sure we’ve decided just yet, Mr. Jesler.”

  “It’s Abe. Please.”

  “Of course. Abe. And I’ve been meaning to ask about your young Raymond. Has the doctor said anything more?”

  Jesler seemed to lose his focus. “That’s very kind of you to ask,” he said. “Doing the best he can, that’s where it is. Looking good on the eye, but the hand — that’s a different story. We’ll just have to see. But he’s strong and young. He’ll never have a worry as long as I’m around.” He was searching for something else to say and settled on, “Well … you have a pleasant night, the two of you.” Even Jesler’s well-wishes held a kind of hopelessness. “You come when you want, Ike, make your own time.”

  Jesler stepped back and Goldah pulled out, watching in the mirror as Jesler stared after them. Jesler turned, uncertain for a few seconds as to where he had left his own car, and walked off.

  “Poor man,” said Eva.

  Goldah took the next turn. “He’s all right.”

  “Don’t be unkind.”

  Is that what it was, thought Goldah — unkind? Unkind to expect something more of Jesler, of himself. The world was once again moving forward, getting on with things, taking care of itself. But he had seen it in Mary Royal’s eyes, in Raymond’s. They would never look at him the same way. The familiarity in their silence reminded him of his own resentment, one that Goldah had learned to choke down long ago. But to find it here … Unkind. It was a word without meaning.

  He reached his hand over and held it open. Eva took it, and he said, “There was a time when I wouldn’t have seen a difference between Raymond and me. I shouldn’t forget that.”

  This time he had caught her off guard. She said, “Only you could see it that way.” She ran her thumb over his palm and, staring down at it, said almost to herself, “Foolish to think a little apple butter would make a difference.”

  “What?”

  She looked up. “Nothing,” she said. “Mr. Jesler must be feeling the weight of the world on him. He’d been drinking.”

  “I imagine he’ll figure it out.”

  “You really should think about finding your own place. It would make it easier on him.”

  “Would it? And what do we think Pearl might do with that? She’s already so pleased with how far we’ve let things progress between us.”

  “Is she?” said Eva. “I’d be happy to set up a luncheon between Mrs. Jesler and my mother at the golf club so they could share in their untold happiness.”

  “Are the tables at the club fire-resistant?”

  “I’d have to call ahead and ask.” She shifted almost imperceptibly and said, “So how far have we progressed in all this?” Eva never failed to find a singular moment to catch him off guard. He took another turn, and she said, “You’re taking us back where we came from.”

  “Am I?”

  “You have no idea where we’re going, do you?”

  “In this car? No. I don’t suppose I do.”

  She was looking at him, his face in and out of the lamplight. “So how far?”

  Far enough, he thought, if questions like this could come so blithely.

  “I saw your father yesterday,” he said. “Downtown. He was having lunch at that pharmacy on Bull.”

  “Pinkussohn’s,” she said and let him move them along. “Every Tuesday. With Jack Stern and Sid Friedman. They’ve been doing it for twenty years.”

  “He’s always so gener
ous with his time.”

  “It’s because he likes you.”

  “He hardly knows me.”

  “He knows enough to know. If the store is so terrible, why not leave and write for my father? You know he’d love that.”

  Goldah saw they were about to pass the Alliance for a second time. He accelerated and said, “So you’ve had a chat with your father.”

  “I have lots of chats with my father. Yesterday we talked about a patch in the garden that doesn’t seem to know how to grow. He was rather concerned. You’ve just driven past the Alliance again.”

  “I’m making sure everyone got out safely.”

  “He knows how good you are. He wanted to know if I could bring it up subtly so as not to seem pushy.”

  “Oh dear, there’s that chance gone.”

  “Hush. But he understands how important family must be to you and how you might not be inclined to step away from that. But what a shame, he said, with a young man who has such talent. Take the next left.”

  “Why — is he waiting for us somewhere on Gaston?”

  “Yes, he wants to take you dancing.”

  Goldah pulled the car over. Nothing too dramatic but he felt the need to look at her, tell himself that this was real, regardless of everything else.

  “What’s the matter?” she said, but even her concern couldn’t touch this moment.

  He turned to her and reached his hand across to her waist. It was always the waist and the smallness of her hips, the feel of them beneath the crisp, taut layer of cotton, and he pulled her closer into him.

  “Oh, I see,” she managed before he gently kissed her, then with greater need. She was still holding him when she said, “You surprise me when you do that.”

  “Do I do it too often?” He felt the heat from his collar between them.

  “No … Maybe.”

  “And it worries you?”

  “It’s not a worry, no. It just feels —”

  “As if I don’t trust you’re here.”

  “Yes.” There was more strength in her voice. “Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’d know exactly what I mean.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s as if somehow you need to convince yourself of what you’re feeling. You are feeling it, aren’t you?”