A Minor Story
HE’S DONE SEVERAL quick versions of this already, none have worked, and he dumps them into the wastebasket by his desk and starts again. He picks up his younger daughter at the camp she goes to every weekday for seven hours and they’re walking home from it. “Do you mind if we walk home?”—this is probably where he should have started it—“Do you mind if we walk home today?” and she says, “How long is it?” and he says, “If we walk at a normal pace—” and she says, “I mean streets,” and he says, “You know, same old route, ten mostly short avenue blocks and then the long side street to our building, which we’d have to walk down anyway if we took the bus. But we can get—you can; I’ll just have a coffee if we stop—a bagel or frozen ice or pizza or anything you want along the way, though what else is there after those three?” “I’m a little tired to walk,” and he says, “But it’ll take two blocks to the bus stop from here, so that means only eight more blocks to walk,” and she says, “How do you know that?” and he says, “Well, two from ten is eight. And it’ll be interesting—things to see, people and such, sudden surprises: you never know what’s going to happen on a walk that long in this city. Not long; just ten short blocks and then the side street to our building, and that one’s all downhill. We’ve done it a few times and you haven’t complained. And if you get tired along the way, we’ll take the bus,” and she says, “Okay, we’ll walk, if you want me to.”
They start walking. They said all that standing in front of the church school the June camp’s in. They’re walking and he takes her hand; his other hand holds her little knapsack and his book. “Was it a long day, sweetheart?” and she says, “Same time as all the days there,” and he says, “I meant was there a lot to do today that tired you out? You go swimming?” and she says, “We always go if there isn’t a trip. Today there was no trip. We even go if it rains, but not hard. We have to walk a long way to the pool. I hate it in the rain when I have to carry my swim things. And then we have to walk back but just as slow because there’s a big group and some of the kids are very little, and that’s harder than going there.” “It didn’t rain today, did it? I mean, maybe it did on your block but not ours, or not when I was looking out the window,” and she says, “How can it rain where I am but not where you are?” and he says, “It’s possible, take my word, we can be on the same street but different sidewalks and on yours it’s raining and mine it’s not. But it didn’t rain while you were on the camp roof or walking to the pool and things like that, right?” and she says, “We didn’t go to the pool. It was closed for cleaning.” “Then did your counselors run you around a lot at camp, to make you tired?” and she says, “How, make us run round and round till we fell?” “No, I’m not being clear, I—”
“Gould,” someone says, and he looks and it’s the same guy he met two Junes ago on Broadway when he was also taking her home from camp, or both kids, or maybe he was alone and it was last year; and she thinks, Oh, no, it always happens, this is awful, he knows so many people around here, where they used to live all the time, before she was born, and now only in the apartment in June and around Christmas for two weeks and lots of long weekends when all of them can take off on Friday or Monday. And he keeps bumping into people when he’s out with her, while she wants to get home fast—though first stopping for a pizza slice or, if it’s hot like today, a frozen ice—and then take a shower and have a snack at home too, but a shower first if she’s already snacked outside, or maybe a bath, whichever she feels like—they let her take both now by herself—and read and watch the hour of TV a day she’s allowed and maybe a nap if she’s tired, which she’s not—where does he get that?—and to be with her sister. To play with Fanny, who doesn’t go to camp every day anymore: too old, she says; twice a week is the most she’ll go for—and her parents let her get away with it because of all the money they save, she bets—but to have fun with her, like go up the block to shop for something or to the library if it’s open, things Fanny’s more willing to do with her than on other days, maybe because she’s mostly alone and done almost nothing that day and so wants her company, and now he’s going to talk. And talk and talk. Talk’s what he loves doing most when he’s in the city, she thinks, and he knows how awful it is for her when he does it on the street or in the building lobby with other people when he’s with her and they’re going someplace. The man says to the man he’s with, “This guy got me my first and only news job at NBC thirty years ago. What am I saying? Closer to forty; so long ago I had hair then, a fantastic mane of it.” A mane? she thinks. Like a lion? He’d look funny. “When he went to Europe to study—” “Just to travel,” her father says. “Gave myself a postgraduation hiatus for two months before I looked for a real nine-to-fiver in New York, though I believe then it was till six.” “Travel, then. And play around, don’t tell me. I used to see you operate in school.” Play around? She thinks. Operate? How? The first, he’d be too old; the other, too young. It must mean something else. “So he got me in as his replacement. Weekends. The Monitor radio show. Copy boy. Paid next to nothing and they worked you to death. We went to City together; that’s how we met. I wanted to be a newsman then, had worked on the school newspaper…. Good grief, I forget its name now, the evening-school one; I was the features editor.” “Observation Post,” her father says. “That’s it. It’s obvious your brains haven’t rotted away from alcohol, not like a lot of our fellow students then. Remember Johnny Welsh? He became an actor.” “No.” “The name’s familiar,” the other man says. “A basket case now. Last time you saw him in a film was ten years ago, and I think he played a drunk. Only thing he could play. They must have pushed him in front of the camera and said, ‘Act natural.’ But working at NBC convinced me news wasn’t my lifetime thing.” Oh, darn it, will they never stop? “Tearing copy off the wires and feebly rewriting it. But was that what those teletype machines were called?” and her father says, “If they weren’t, that’s what we dubbed them. From wire services, I’m sure.” Dubbed? she thinks. Like knights and things? That what he means? “So I began thinking of applying to grad school for something else…. This your little girl? You didn’t introduce, and such a cutie.” “No, it’s some kid who’s been following me the last few blocks.” “I have not.” “I only said it—watch this, she’s going to know the word; we spoke about it this morning—facetiously.” “It didn’t sound like that,” she says, “and you told me the word’s meaning yesterday.” “Oh, boy,” the man says, “not only like a tack but a wit too. I think I saw you the last time I met your father on the street, or was it your sister—you kids grow so fast. Are you Franny?” “No, Josephine. My sister you met is Fanny.” “I stand corrected and censured. Josephine, eh? After the great French emperor? Ah, I’m only kidding too. Your dad and I took a course in kidding at City, just ask him. Lenny Moses,” and puts his hand out to shake and she shakes it. Such a fat wet hand, like a big dog’s paw, and she wipes her hand on her shorts. “So I should have realized,” the man says, “you were a year ahead of me, if you had graduated when you went abroad.” Goodbye, good luck, good wishes, so long, we’ll see you. “And now you’re a professor of something at Princeton,” her father says, and the man says, “Hunter. Urban anthropology. I can never leave this city, in both ways.” What are they talking about? And they won’t ever stop unless she does something, and she folds her arms across her chest and puts on the face; she knows what it looks like and hopes her father sees it because he knows it too. Uh-oh, her father thinks, the pout. Next, she’ll be tugging his arm and then saying angrily they should go, and if that doesn’t work, she’ll storm off. “Excuse me, Lenny, but Josephine’s had a long day at camp—” and the man says, “Oh, yeah? Where? My kids also went to camp when school was out, but in Brooklyn, where we were living and where their mother still does. Now they’re grown, one has her doctorate, other’s writing plays, and I miss that age enormously; I pine for it, in fact. Got divorced three years ago—I told you about it last time—and I have a one-bedroom o
n a Hundred-twelfth, and I love it. The neighborhood’s fantastic: bookshops, subway stop two blocks away, and all the indigenous cafés. We should meet for coffee or lunch; let me write down my number,” and her father says, “Just tell me, I’ll remember,” and the man does. But he won’t remember, she thinks. He’s pretending, maybe because he saw her look so wants to get them away faster before she gets madder, or else he doesn’t want to meet the man again. Who would? The man never stops talking and won’t let the other man talk and didn’t introduce that man to them, yet scolded her father for not introducing her to him. And his hand is fat and wet and she bets his whole body is but he’s keeping his stomach and chest in so nobody can see it. He also has no hair on his head except the sides and is much taller than almost anybody so is too tall for a man with no hair like that. It makes him look funny and scary, as if the whole top of his head is like a shiny piece of empty skin. And his face is long and full of big holes and with a pointy chin with a deep hole in it, and it isn’t nice when he smiles like her father’s. But the worst thing about him is he sometimes spits when he talks, and he also doesn’t say he’s sorry when it gets on people’s clothes. She’s standing far away from him, but if it got on hers or her hair she’d wipe it off right away because she wouldn’t want it to dry on her, but then wouldn’t know what to do with the spit on her hands. She’d think of it all the time she was walking home, or maybe she’d ask to go to a restaurant for some pizza, but the one that has the bathroom, just so she can wash her hands. She bets he was mean to his children when they were kids, that’s what his smile and everything he does says, mean to his wife, which is why she didn’t want to stay married to him, and is now mean to all his students but his favorite ones. She can see someone like him living alone the rest of his life because no one would want to be with him again, and his children not wanting to visit him much either, and his wife never even to speak to him on the phone once they were no longer married, but also because he would never shut up. “Goodbye, little Josephine,” the man says, and the other man says goodbye to her and shakes her father’s hand and says, “Nice to meet you,” and she says goodbye nicely to them, one goodbye for them both, and smiles nicely at them too. She knows when she’s smiling nicely, she can feel it on her face, and this time it’s because she’s finally going, and Gould thinks, She’s smiling because they’re going, otherwise she would never have given up those angry clenched arms and that pout. Kids can be so transparent.
He takes her hand and they walk. He asks her who she plays with at camp; she says, “Avery’s my best friend there, I play with her the same every day.” “Every is your friend Avery day?” and she says, “Are you making fun of her name? That’s not nice, and you and Mommy tell me on things like that not to,” and he says, “No, it’s only I just noticed the closeness of the two words.” “Avery isn’t a word, it’s a name,” and he says, “Right, you win. Listen, the lunch I made you today, was it enough?” and she says, “It was fine.” “Did it taste okay and there was sufficient variety?” and she says, “I said it was fine.” “You got the box of chocolate kisses in the bag, didn’t you?” and she says, “Don’t lie.” “Are you still mad at me for talking so long with those men? You know I couldn’t help it. I haven’t seen Lenny, the tall one, for a while. You heard, we go as far back as college together, when between the two of us we had a full head of hair. No, the truth is he was always balder than I. And you don’t want me to be impolite on the street. He can call the cops and have me arrested. That’s why it’s best not to be stopped by anyone outside with a cellular phone.” “He didn’t have any, and you’re not being funny. And if he’s your friend you shouldn’t talk about his being bald that way.” “Why, he brought it up, and I was referring to my own baldness too. But tell me—this is important for tomorrow—do you want cream cheese on your lunch bagel instead of peanut butter, or peanut butter and jelly? Actually, if it gets too warm out the cream cheese can spoil, while the peanut butter or peanut butter and jelly—oh, my goodness, look who’s there.” A man’s standing at the corner not too far away, smiling and shaking his head and waiting for them, she’s sure. She doesn’t recognize him but she knows he’s going to stop her father and they’re going to waste more time talking of nothing that interests her till she gets mad. “What do you know,” Gould says, “Burton Minowitz. We haven’t run into each other since yesterday,” and they shake hands and the man says, “It’s true, I can’t walk on Broadway three blocks without seeing you. What’re you doing, following me?” and he says, “You got it. A big investigation, Josephine’s really the lead detective, and they only put me on with her to make her cover look visually more realistic, right, sweetheart?” and she thinks, Does he want her to answer that? Well, she won’t; whatever she says it’ll just lead to more silly talk from them. “Look, Burt, I wish I had the time to chat about everything that’s happened to you and me since yesterday, but she’s got to get home.” She does, she thinks, but not like the way he said it. It’s as if she’s sick instead of bored with their talk. “You just pick her up from camp? I can tell by the sack-my boy has the identical one in blue,” and she thinks, Oh, God, no, and her father says, “Yup, a few minutes ago,” and the man says, “Which one you go to, honey?” and she says, “June camp,” and her father says, “The one at St. Matthew’s between West End and Broadway,” and the man says, “We’re sending our boy to Cathedral; it’s where I’m off to right now. St. Matt’s would be a lot closer, but he wanted to be with his friends.” “Our older girl went there two years ago and we found it sort of not together … was it two years ago or three?” he asks her, and she says, “I don’t know. Can we go?” and he says, “In a minute. Anyway, the kids were sort of rough, or unruly, rather, and the counselors somewhat apathetic and negligent, I thought. I was afraid they’d lose her when they went on a trip to Liberty Island,” and the man says, “Haven’t seen anything like that. Aaron loves it, the other boys are friendly, and the counselors are very responsive and conscientious,” and she starts walking; she’s not going to stay for any of this anymore. Are all men her father’s and that man’s age—older fathers, she’s saying—big blabberers? If her father doesn’t chase after her, she’s going to walk the rest of the way to their building; she knows where it is, not the street number so much but the stores on the Broadway corner of the street it’s on, and it’s at the bottom of the hill on the right and faces the river. “Wait, Josephine—listen, Burt, you see what’s happening; some other time,” and runs after her, and Burt says, “But I’m going that way—we should’ve just walked together,” and Gould catches up with her, grabs her hand to stop her, and says, “Just say you want me to take you home, that’s all you have to do,” and she says, “I said so, and I thought you knew it.” “All right, all right, maybe you did. So what do you want? Want a bagel along the way—something else?” and she says, “First let’s cross the street. That man’s behind us, and if he catches us we’ll only go slow,” and they cross Broadway and she wants a bagel, she’s hungry, but doesn’t want to stop anymore. He might see someone he knows in the bagel place or even while he’s looking out the window while they’re waiting in line, and then he could yell out the store to that person if the door’s open or run after them, even, once she got her bagel, and so on. She only wants to go home, even if there are no bagels there. She and Fanny ate the last two this morning unless he bought some since then. “Did you or Fanny buy bagels today for home?” and he says, “Why, should we stop for some? That’ll mean crossing Broadway again if you want to get them hot at Ray’s Bagels,” and she says, “I’d rather go home. Can we take a taxi?” and he says, “For what, seven blocks? Come on, you got strong legs—we’ll be home in twelve minutes if we walk at a fast clip,” and they walk a block and a half, he asks her about camp, same questions he asks every camp day and she answers them the same, but he smiles and says things like “No kidding” and “Wow, that sounds like fun,” as if he’s hearing her answers for the first time, when he says, “Excus
e me, sweetie,” and lets go of her hand and goes over to a very old lady who seems to be having trouble stepping off the curb, she keeps raising one foot and then putting it back down on the same place, and he says, “Need any assistance getting across the street, ma’am?” and she says, “No, in getting a cab. If I try waving my cane or hand for one I’ll get all unbalanced and trip,” and he says, “I’ll hail one,” and Josephine thinks, Oh, darn, why can’t others do it? Why’s it always have to be him? More time wasted, and suppose no taxis come? and he says to her, “Stay here while I get a cab for the woman,” and she thinks, Yeah yeah, and he goes into the street and signals for a cab and several pass and he keeps signaling and one stops and he opens the door and helps the woman off the sidewalk and into the cab and she doesn’t say thank you. She speaks to the driver and then sits back and faces front and her father shuts the door and through the window says goodbye. The lady just stares at him—no smile, even—as the taxi pulls away.
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