“That lady was rude,” she says, walking, and he says, “Why, what’d she do to you?” and she says, “Not me; she didn’t thank you for what you did,” and he says, “Listen, you just want to do good, don’t ask or expect anything in return, and you and the rest of the world will be much better off, not only because of what you’ve done, but—” and she says, “That’s not how you tell me to act when someone helps. And it’s so easy—it’s just the lips you have to move,” and he says, “You’ve young lips; even mine are young, in comparison. Hers are much older and something might be hurting them or some other place in her or she could be partly demented, which one can become at that age,” and she thinks, What’s demented? No, it’ll take him a long time to tell her, and if it’s complicated he’ll slow down or even stand still to make sure she gets it, so she doesn’t ask, and he thinks, She doesn’t know what that word means; she can’t, and he Says, “By demented, I meant-” and she says, “I Know, I Know,” and he says, “What?” and she says, “You don’t have to tell me, I’m not in school,” and walks faster, and he has to run to catch up with her and takes her hand and they walk.
Three blocks later there’s a man sitting on the ground in front of the Korean restaurant Gould’s said a few times he wants to take the family to or order in from—and the kids always say if he does they won’t eat—with his arms out and pants legs rolled up and saying loudly, to no one in particular, it seems, “Don’t walk by me like that. People, you see the condition I’m in. You’re not blind and me neither. I’m destitute and crippled and I wouldn’t be lying here if I didn’t have to, but I have no home. Please, people, help a poor cripple with a family dying for food,” and her father stops, and she says, “You think he’s really poor and hurt and his family?” and he says, “Maybe you’re right; it is quite a story”—he’d just started searching through his pants pockets for change—“but then again, what’s a quarter?” and holds one up and says, “Want to put it in his paper cup?” “I don’t like him. Even if he’s telling the truth, he shouldn’t be scaring children with his begging and screaming for help and showing the ugly sores on his legs,” and he says, “Okay, you don’t have to,” and goes over and drops the quarter into the cup, and the man says, “God bless you, sir,” but doesn’t smile—he looks at her father as if he wants to spit on him; that’s what it seems like to her—and her father says, “Thank you,” and comes back and takes her hand and they walk and she doesn’t want to talk anymore, just stares straight ahead, and he thinks, What’s she moody about now? What’d he do? The man? What was so bad about that? and it only took a few seconds; and she thinks, If they don’t talk they’ll walk faster and get home sooner. If he does talk to her she’ll first pretend not to hear and if he says it again she’ll answer with a yes or no but something quick and then pretend she’s thinking to herself again, and maybe he’ll stop talking or at least asking her questions, when she sees coming toward them and walking her dog a woman from their building, someone her father always stops to talk with, either in the lobby or street or anyplace they meet, even in the elevator. She’s a college teacher of a subject he’s interested in, she doesn’t remember exactly what but it has to do with books they both read, and he says, “Hey, how you doing?” and stops, and then, “Josephine, don’t go away, I only want to say hello—a second, sweetie, I promise,” but she keeps going, faster, starts running, and he says to the woman, “See what I’m up against sometimes? She’s just come from camp, probably got overtired there—talk to you soon and best to Alan”—and runs after her, but she’s nowhere around. The Drive maybe, and he runs to the corner but doesn’t see her going down the hill on either side street. She’s small, and he runs across the street to make sure she’s not walking or hiding behind a parked car. So where the hell is she? Hates it when she does this. She’s pulled it on him a few times—his other daughter used to wander off, still does, but not because she was angry at anything he did; she’d get interested in some store window or store and would forget she was with him—and he’s told Josephine—told them both—how he feels about it. It’s not because he then has to look for her. Someone could snatch her, especially on the side streets between Riverside and Broadway where there are fewer people around. Is that overdoing it? No, it’s being realistic. A couple of these side streets—not this one—have SRO hotels and a lot of seedy characters in them—you can sometimes see them hanging out the windows and on the stoops—and there’s a church two blocks away that feeds lunch to the homeless and some of those guys hang around after and he’s sure are responsible for a lot of the cars being busted into in the neighborhood and who knows what else?
She’s in a store, watching him through the window. A drugstore, the only one of the nearby stores she quickly looked at that she thought she could go in without them asking where were her parents or babysitter. He’s always teaching her a lesson, so here’s one for him: when she wants to go home, he should take her, because he can’t pretend this time she didn’t tell him. If he wants to talk to people so much when he’s walking with her, let him arrange to talk with them on the phone or meet them for coffee later.
He goes inside a store: women’s shoes. She wouldn’t come in here, her sister would, so why’d he? “Excuse me,” when a saleswoman gets up from a chair and starts over, about to ask what can she do for him, “but I’m looking for my daughter. Young, small, dark hair, in shorts?” and she says, “How recent?” and he says, “At the most, minute and a half ago,” and she says no but the look says she doesn’t believe him. Why else she think he’d come in here? Maybe it’s just that she had to get out of the chair, but can’t she see he’s worried? “Thank you,” and goes to a bookstore two stores away—store between is a tiny chocolate shop with only a few feet of space for customers, and he saw through its window she wasn’t there—looks up the five or so aisles and goes back outside and looks around. She’s never gone off for so long on their walks home. Chances are slim anything can happen to her, but they still exist and does he really know how slim the chances are? Slim for what age, hers, or for kids younger and older? She could be home now, if she ran all the way. There’s a phone on the next corner, and he should call from it to see if she’s there. But if she is looking at him from a hiding place now she’ll see how worried he looks and will probably show herself soon. Maybe he should put it on a bit, look even more worried, till she thinks she’s gone far enough in this trick or in getting even with him or whatever she’s doing it for, and that if she doesn’t he could get so worried that when he does finally see her, since she has to come out sometime, he might explode. The drugstore, he just notices; that should have been the first place he checked. His girls love looking at the makeup and hair stuff and the new things they have for kids their age—though he’s almost sure she’s just hiding somewhere, not looking at store shelves, though there’s also that chance she’s already home. Just go in, nothing to lose, quick peek—and heads for the store. She sees him coming and thinks, Better leave before he gets here so he won’t be even madder that he had to go in to find her and she didn’t come out on her own.
He reaches for the door handle; she’s pushing the door open. “There you are,” he says; “Jesus, was I worried. What’ve you been up to?” and she says, “What do you mean? I’ve been here,” and he says, “I know, I can see that, you’re not a ghost, you didn’t just fly in, but what were you doing in there?” and she says, “I came in to see if they had something,” and he says, “What?” and she says, “Are you getting mad? I can hear it in your voice. If you are, you should stop now, Daddy; that’s what Mommy says, stop it when it starts,” and he says, “Just answer me normally: what were you looking for that was so important?” and she says, “A shampoo conditioner Fanny and I like, but they didn’t have it,” and he says, “You were going to buy it?” and she says, “No, I was going to ask you for the money,” and he says, “Come on, what’re you handing me? Listen, I don’t like it, your running away and hiding from me,” and she says, “I did
n’t, I told you. I came in here and I thought you knew,” and he says, “All right, you want to lie to me? You think I’m not smart enough to see through your actions and fibs both? We’ll call it a big fib, to be generous and not carry this to where we’re really angry at each other—” and she says, “You’re the one who’s angry, I’m not,” and he says, “Fine, have it your own way, but you know how I feel and that I’d also like you to be more honest,” and she says, “Okay. I ran away and inside here, but I had to. If I didn’t, you’d take forever to get home. If I frightened you—” and he says, “Who said you did? I was worried, like any father would be when his little girl suddenly disappears on the street, but I knew you’d turn up. And now you’re here, we’re together again, I don’t have to look for you anymore, so good, I’m glad, but please don’t do it again. Never, you hear? It’s wrong to treat me like that,” and she says, “And it’s wrong too for you to treat me the way you do on the street. Talking to everyone,” and he says, “So your father knows a lot of people; what’s he supposed to be, if they want to talk to him, rude?” and she says, “Yes,” and he says, “You can’t be, it isn’t right. And if someone old needs a cab or to get across the street, you help them, or if just a quarter to give a guy, that too. That’s what people should do: learn that,” and she says, “Not when their daughter has to get home,” and he says, “All right, right now you’ll never quit, so let’s go home and we’ll talk about it some more there. And we’re even: my stopping to talk with people and your worrying me,” and she says, “You won’t get more angry over it with me at home?” and he says, “No, you proved your little point pretty well,” and she says, “It isn’t so little,” and he says, “Fine, it isn’t, I’ll agree on that if you’ll agree that I had good reason to be somewhat worried about you and that it’s something you shouldn’t do again,” and she looks away, and he says, “You’re not answering?” and she continues to look in the direction she wants to walk, maybe he’ll get the hint, she thinks, though she’s not going to start walking to really make it obvious, that’d make him mad, and he says, “We’ll settle that later too, but calmly, don’t worry; I intend to be extra calm and reasonable with you,” and takes her hand and she pulls it back, and he says, “Come on, Josephine, give me your beautiful hand,” and takes it and they head home along Broadway.
A block later she sees someone else he knows and who he likes talking to and says, “Don’t talk to that man, please?” and he says, “Who?” and she says, “The one coming,” and he says, “I can’t just walk by without saying anything,” and she says, “You can wave, he’ll understand,” and the man says, “Hiya, Gould,” and he says, “Hey, how are ya, can’t stop, much as I want to, something at home,” and waves, and when they pass the man she says, “Let’s walk down to Riverside Drive here, even if it’s not our regular street; that way we won’t meet anyone else,” and he says, “Good idea, and it’s also probably cooler on the drive,” and still holding hands, they walk down the hill.
Ends
The Cake
HIS MOTHER SAID, “I got us something special for Halloween tonight. A Halloween cake with favors in it.” “What are they?” and she said, “That’s right, you wouldn’t know. I can’t show you the favors, but I’ll show you the places in the cake they’re in,” and opened the cake box. The cake was orange and black and decorated with a smiling Halloween pumpkin on top and had strings coming out the sides. “After we’ve eaten, I’ll bring the cake to the table. I think it’s bad luck to tell you what a favor is beforehand, so you’ll have to find out when you pull the string and the favor comes out with it.” “How many are there in there?” and she said, “Same number as the strings. Count them; that’s how you learn adding,” and he counted the strings. “Six. Who’ll pull out the other strings if I only pull one?” and she said, “Your father can, if he wants, but I doubt he will. He doesn’t think much of Halloween as a holiday, and he also doesn’t like games like that.” “And the other four strings?” and she said, “Good, if you’re counting Daddy, that makes four left. When did you learn how to subtract?” and he said, “What’s that?” “What you did; two taken away from six is four, and so on.” “I just did it, I didn’t take away.” “Anyway, of the remaining five, or four, if Daddy does play along, I’ll pull one.” “What do you think your favor will look like?” and she said, “You trying to find out what a favor is by asking me that? I told you—bad luck, especially on Halloween,” and he said, “I wasn’t, but I think it’s like a very small toy. Is it wrapped?” and she said, “Did you peek inside the cake? That’s also bad luck. And wrapped? That’d be a hoot if it was. No, it’s loose, my dear, and if I don’t want mine I’ll give it to you—was that going to be your next question?” “Will I have to give you mine for yours?” and she said, “No, even if I give you mine, yours is yours for keeps.” “And the three others, if Daddy takes one?” and she said, “The rest, unless he gets surprisingly involved in the string-pulling and wants to do more than one, are yours.” “I can’t wait. And you should tell him pulling more than one favor out is something only for children to do.” “I don’t know. It’d be sweet to have him get caught up in something silly like that, but we’ll see.” He ate his dinner quickly that night, and when his mother said, “Want seconds?” he said, “No, just the cake; can we have it now?” “What’s so special about the cake that he ate supper so fast?” his father said, and she said, “Something you might even think special enough to hurry your eating for.” “Oh, yeah, oh, boy, I can just see it: some pastry you like but you’ll insist you bought because you thought it one of my favorites from the old days.” “It’s a Halloween cake with favors in it,” Gould said, and he said, “What do you mean, favors?” “Strings,” and he said, “Strings in the cake? This is getting better and better. I thought strings are supposed to tie up the cake box, not be in the cake. What’s it, a spaghetti cake?” “I honestly didn’t think you’d like it,” his mother said, “so just in case, I bought you a cheese Danish.” “A cheese Danish I like, a prune one even better; but a plain shnecken, of all the ones in that family, I like most of all. You don’t happen to have one of those, do you?” and she said, “Only a cheese Danish and the Halloween favors cake. And you’ll have to wait, Gould, till your father and I are done eating, and that means the main plate and a salad for me.” “Salad,” his father said. “Next to the cake with the strings in it—and when the salad has sliced onions and carrots on it, even more so—that’s what I like eating best.” So he waited. He excused himself once—“May I be excused to go to the bathroom?”—and his father said, “Sure, Mr. Manners, be my guest,” though he had asked his mother, and went to the bathroom, didn’t pee, just washed his hands, which he could have done in the kitchen but didn’t think she’d have let him get up to go there just for that, and on his way back stopped in the kitchen to look at the closed cake box. What will his favor be? Probably a car, soldier, football, real or rocking horse. “Gould, are you in there?” his mother said. “Come on back; we want your company.” “Why?” he said, sitting at the table. “And what do you want to talk about?” “For instance, what you did at school today.” “Nothing,” and his father said, “That’s what we’re paying good money to the school for—nothing?” and she said, “What are you talking about? It’s a public school,” and his father said, “So, that’s my joke. You didn’t get it. I’m wasting good humor on you.” “I got it,” Gould said, “and it made me laugh inside.” “Certainly you did more than nothing there,” she said, and he said, “We sat on the floor and the teacher read a story.” “So he sat on the floor,” his father said; “he did something.” “What else you do?” his mother said, and Gould said, “We played in the playhouse. I was an Indian, other boys were cowboys.” “And the girls, what were they,” his father said, “barmaids and squaws?” “Do you know how to hold a conversation with him?” and his father said, “Sure I do, what a lousy thing to say,” and she said, “Then hold one; and other things, try to hold in.” “
Now that’s good and clever; I’m finally having some influence on you after all these years.” “The girls played by themselves in the kitchen of the playhouse,” Gould said. “Are you almost finished now?” and she said, “Almost.” “She still has the radish part of her salad to eat,” his father said, “or belching roses, I call them. They take a long time to get down but shorter to come back up,” and she said, “Daddy’s humoring us again,” and smiled at his father, and his father smiled back and this made Gould happy, though he didn’t know what funny things they were smiling about. Then he and his mother cleared the table and she brought the cake in. “Strings, you weren’t joking, real strings,” his father said. “If I was a violinist I’d play on them. But what in God’s name is the rest of it? Orange and black. What could it taste like? Pure crap,” and she said, “Don’t ruin it for him.” “It’s special for tonight,” Gould said. “I don’t know which one to pull; they all look the same.” “You mean they aren’t the same?” his father said. “No, they have different favors at the ends of them. Do you want to pull one out after Mommy and I do?” and his father said, “Are you kidding? Mine no doubt has a bomb on it, hand-chosen by your mother, that’ll blow up my fingers.” “Very funny,” she said, “and a wonderful impression you’re giving him of me,” and he said, “So, I made you laugh, didn’t I? even if you’re not laughing. That’s why you put up with all the other awful things I do to you.” “That’s no lie,” and Gould said, “What awful things is Daddy talking about?” and she said, “Just pull one of the strings; you’ve been wanting to all afternoon.” But which one should he? If he pulls one, the favor on it might not be as good as the ones on the other strings. And then his mother could pull out the best favor and it’s so good she might not want to give it to him. “I can’t make up my mind,” he said. “You have to, because I want to start cutting the cake.” “Where’s my cheese Danish?” his father said. “Though I really would’ve preferred a plain shnecken. Will you remember that next time?” and she said, “I will, and the Danish is coming.” “And coffee?” and she said, “Shh, everyone,” moved her head to listen to what was going on in the kitchen, said, “It’s already percolating, I have to turn it down,” and ran to the kitchen. “This one,” Gould said. He doesn’t know why. It’s closest to him, facing him, so maybe his mother put the cake down that way so he’d pull that string because she knew it was the one he’d like best. That’s what she’d do. But how would she know what favor was there? The bakery person could have told her. Or she could have said, “This one should be for Gould”—pointing to a box with all the different favors in it the bakery person might have brought out to show her, then have that person mark the part of the cake where the favor was put in, though he doesn’t see any different kind of marking there. He grabbed the string, closed his eyes, said to himself, “I hope I’m right and it’s the best one, though I won’t know till they’re all pulled out. Then just a very good one I’ll like and want to keep,” and pulled. It was a little metal figure of a girl holding a teddy bear. “So what is it?” his father said. “It’s so small, I can’t see from here,” and his mother came in with the coffee and Danish and said, “Let me see. Nice, a doll, and well crafted. Years from now it’ll be a miniature treasure.” “But I don’t like girls with dolls.” “Breaks of the game,” his father said, “and the way life goes. But years from now you’ll love little dolls,” and he said, “How could that happen?” and his mother said, “Your father’s being silly again. Pull another, dear, but after me,” and she pulled out, without closing her eyes—maybe that’s how he should have done it—a metal racing car. She won’t want that, he thought. “It’s pretty, but a racing car for you?” he said. “Again, well crafted,” she said, “better than anything you’d get out of a Cracker Jack box. Maybe I’ll lick it off and put it in my purse and it’ll always be there to suddenly come upon and remind me of tonight.” “Why, what’s so special about tonight?” “I’d like one of the favors too,” his father said, “even if I won’t touch the cake,” and Gould said to her, “Should someone be let to pull one who doesn’t eat the cake? Isn’t that bad luck?” “There’s no such thing as bad luck,” his father said. “If something bad happens to you it’s because of something you did or didn’t do or someone else or other people did, but explainable, even when nature does it,” and he said, “I don’t think so,” and his father said, “But you understood what I was saying? Good, you’re developing quite the brain,” and pulled the string nearest him. He got a racing car too. “Two cars in one cake,” his mother said. “That’s not supposed to happen. Each favor should be singular, one of a kind.” “Take the cake back then,” his father said. “No, don’t,” Gould said. “And if I got two racing cars I could race them.” “Then you got mine”—putting the car in front of him—and his mother said, “Same here,” and put hers down next to it. “Now let’s have my Danish,” and she said, “It’s in front of you, next to your coffee,” and he said, “Well, what do you know,” and took a bite from it. “Can I pull out the other favors?” Gould said, and she said, “Wait till tomorrow night. It’ll give us something to look forward to after dinner, and I might want to try my luck again,” and his father said, “Good strategy. It’ll also keep him eating his supper,” and he said, “I always eat, if I’m not sick,” and his father said, “Don’t argue; do what your mother says.” Gould had some cake, washed the cars in the bathroom, left the metal girl on the tablecloth—if his mother throws it away, it’s okay; if she asks does he want it, he’ll say, “You can have it, what I got’s good.” He held a car between the thumb and forefinger of each hand—they were about an inch long—and drove them around the apartment, along the walls, on the furniture and rugs, while making car noises with his mouth. In bed he drove them up and down the hills his knees made under the covers and then put them under his pillow right before he shut off the light. He was going to take them to school tomorrow and show them around. There might be one or two boys who got one tonight but he bets none of them have two. His father brought home chow mein and egg rolls and rice for dinner the next night, and for dessert they had sherbet his mother had made. They had different desserts the next few nights, and about a week later he said to his mother, “What happened to the cake with the favors? I forgot about it,” and she said, “I’m sorry, it was pushed way back in the refrigerator and got so old I threw it out yesterday. You didn’t take the favors out?” and he said, “You told me not to till we ate the cake. Darn, I wonder what they were—did you know?” and she said, “No. Maybe another car, or maybe all dolls. We should remember the next time to take them all out if we get it again,” and he said, “We should; the cake was good.” They got the same Halloween cake the next few years. He was always allowed to pull four favors out the first night and his parents pulled one each. His father once got a woman’s engagement ring and gave it to his mother across the table and said, “Will you marry me?” and she said, “I can’t, I’d be a bigamist.” Gould didn’t understand that. He got lots of different favors every year; they always seemed to change. One year he got another racing car, but by this time he’d lost the cars he got from the first cake. Then one Halloween afternoon he said to his mother, “Where’s the box for the favors cake—aren’t we going to have it tonight?” and she said, “The bakery stopped making them. Said there wasn’t much call for them anymore and they also ran out of the metal favors and the place that made them went out of business. But I think I got you something special you’ll like to replace it,” and gave it to him that night for dessert—an orange and black cupcake with a plastic witch on a broomstick stuck into the top of it—and his father said, “Too bad, I was getting used to pulling one of those favors out every year. So, times change.” “I can get you a Halloween cupcake next time,” she said, and he said, “No, no, a shnecken’s just fine.”
30 Pieces of a Novel Page 49