A glint of light flashed along the wall near his hand. It was his switch knife. I crouched still lower and inched forward, holding my breath. A few more steps.
I came out of the dark ground, my fist aiming at Spit’s chin. His head jerked back quickly, warned by an instinct of danger, and my fist grazed the side of his face.
Against the street light his knife flashed down at me. Desperately I lunged and caught it. He was struggling in my grasp, his free hand scratching at my eyes. A searing pain ran up my arm as Spit twisted the blade of the knife gripped in my palm. My hand jerked in reflex and I lost my grip. There was a burning pain in my side as Spit’s hand flashed downward.
I gasped in sudden shock and grabbed at the knife hand. I caught it and held it tightly. Spit began twisting the knife again and the nerves in my arm screamed in agony, but I didn’t dare let go. His free hand was clawing at my throat. In the dark I snapped a punch at his face. There was a sharp pain in my knuckles as they smashed against his teeth, but it was a welcome pain. I brought my knee up sharply. He gasped and began to double up.
I bent his knife arm around behind him, straightening him up. I had his back against the wall, my shoulder pressing hard into his throat. With my free hand I threw punch after punch into his face. At last he slumped against me.
I let go of Spit’s arm and stepped back, my breath rattling through my throat as he slid crazily to the ground. He sprawled out at my feet, lying on his stomach. I leaned over him, searching for the knife.
I found it, its point two inches into his side. It must have happened when I held him against the wall. There was no emotion left in me. I was neither glad nor sorry. It was him or me.
I straightened up and slowly walked out of the alley. I wondered if Spit was dead. Somehow I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered if only I could get home and into bed. Then everything would be all right. In the morning I would wake up and find it had been nothing but a dream.
I stood in the hallway outside my door, searching my pockets for my key. It wasn’t there. Nothing was there except the five hundred-dollar bills and a stub of a pencil. Wearily I tried to remember what I had done with it.
It came back to me suddenly. I had thrown it on the table in front of Papa that morning. We’d had an argument. Now I couldn’t even remember what the argument was about. There was light coming from beneath the door. Somebody was still up. They would let me in. I knocked softly.
I heard a chair scuffle inside the room, then footsteps approached the other side of the door. “Who’s there?” a voice cautiously asked. It was my father’s voice.
A lump had formed in my throat when I first missed the key. Now I almost cried in relief. “It’s me, Papa,” I said. “Let me in.” Everything would be all right now.
For a moment there was silence, then Papa’s voice came back heavily through the door: “Go away.”
Slowly the words penetrated my mind. I shook my head to clear it. I was hearing things. My father didn’t say that, he couldn’t. “It’s me, Danny,” I repeated. “Let me in.”
Papa’s voice was stronger now. “I said go away!”
A cold fear was running through me. I banged on the door, leaving bloody imprints from my hand. “Let me in, Papa!” I cried hysterically. “Let me in! I got no place to go!”
I could hear Mamma’s voice. She seemed to be pleading with him. Then I heard Papa again. His voice was hoarse and rough and as immutable as time. “No, Mary, I’m through. I meant what I said. This time it’s final!”
The sound of her sobbing came through the door, then the click of the light-switch. The light under the door had gone out. The sobbing behind it faded slowly into the house. Then silence.
I stood there a moment in shocked, frightened bewilderment. Then I understood. It was over, all over. Papa had meant what he said.
I slowly went down the stairs, feeling lonely and empty. On the stoop again, the night air was cool on my face.
I sank to the steps and leaned my head against the iron railing. I made no sound, but the tears were rolling down my cheeks. There was a burning sensation in my arm. I rubbed my hand along it. My fingers came away wet and sticky. The palm of my hand was cut and bleeding and my right sleeve was torn open. Through the rip I could see a cut on my arm in the dim light. The blood welled slowly into it, but it didn’t matter. It meant nothing to me now, I was so tired. I rested my head against the railing and closed my eyes.
They were closed only a moment when I opened them suddenly. The feeling I’d had earlier that evening came back upon me. Someone was watching me. My eyes felt puffy and swollen, as I peered up the street.
An automobile was parked across the way. Its lights were out but the motor was running quietly. They were after me again. Spit and the Collector must have reported back.
Without getting to my feet I rolled over on my belly and crawled back into the hallway. There I huddled for a moment, wondering what to do. Maybe I could sneak out the back and over the roof to the next house and duck them that way.
A feeling of hopelessness came over me. What good would it do? They would keep after me until they found me. They had friends everywhere. There was no place to hide.
My fingers dropped into my pocket. The money was still there. Maybe if I gave it back to them they would let me go. But even as I thought of it, I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I had gone too far. I was in too deep.
But the dough was still good for what I’d got it for. The old man could still use it to buy that store. At least Mamma and Mimi would get a break that way. If they caught me with it they would only have everything. Why give them the whole pot?
On the floor near my hand there was a circular. I picked it up and looked at it. “BIG SALE AT BERNER’S DRUGSTORE.” I turned it over. The back was blank. I reached in my pocket for the pencil.
The words took shape on the paper, in pencil and blood:
Dear Mamma—The money is for the store. Don’t let him throw it away again. Love, Danny.
I folded the dough in the paper, got to my feet, and shoved it in the mailbox. For once I was glad the Government had made the landlord put in new mailboxes, because the old ones were broken and anybody could open them. Mamma would find it there tomorrow morning when she came down for the mail.
The car was still standing out in the street, its motor purring. I brushed off my trousers. There was a dull, sick feeling in my stomach as I slowly went down the steps. I turned my back on the car deliberately and started walking away. Halfway up the block I heard its gears shift and the sound of its tires rolling away from the kerb. Fighting an impulse to run, I glanced back over my shoulder. The car was swerving across the street toward me.
The impulse to run grew stronger. I checked it. To hell with them! I stopped and turned to face the oncoming car. Tears were running freely down my cheeks and a freezing fear had turned my body into ice. I swallowed desperately, trying to choke back the nausea that was rising from my belly.
I moved a few steps back. My fingers felt the cold metal of a lamppost and I sagged weakly against it. Already I could taste a bitterness creeping into my mouth, and a million crazy thoughts leapt frantically through my mind.
When did you grow up, Danny Fisher?
There is a time in everyone’s life when he has to answer that question. There in the cold, black night of morning I found the answer.
I was afraid to die. And there, while that shapeless fear ran through my body I grew up with the knowledge that I was not immortal; that I was made of flesh that would rot and decay into dirt, and blood that would turn black in my veins when I died. Then it was that I knew I would have to face my judgment day. That my mother and father were only the mechanics of my creation and not the trustees of my soul. I was the accident of their creation.
I was alone and in a lonely world of my own. In that world I would die and no one would ever remember my name. Death would descend on me, dirt would cover me, and I would be no more.
My legs had turned to watery jelly, and despite my frantic grip on the lamp-post I sank to my knees on the sidewalk. I shut my eyes tightly, the lids squeezing out the tears from under them, as the car pulled to a stop. I heard its door open and footsteps ringing hollow on the pavement as they hurried toward me.
I turned my face to the post and began to pray.
There was a soft hand on my arm, a voice was whispering in my ear. “Danny!”
I tried to bury my face deeper in my arms. A cry of fear stifled in my throat. Death’s voice was gentle like a woman’s, but it was so only to torture me.
The voice was insistent. “Danny!” it repeated. “I’ve been waiting for you. You got to get away!”
This was not the voice of death. It was a woman’s voice filled with warmth and sympathy. It was a voice of life. Slowly, scarcely daring to look, I raised my head.
Her face was white in the glow of the street lamp. “I’ve come to warn you,” she whispered quickly. “Max has got Spit and the Collector out looking for you!”
I stared at her for a moment as the words sank into my mind. Then I couldn’t help it. It was Sarah, called Ronnie. I began to laugh weakly, hysterically.
She stared at me as if I had suddenly gone mad. Her hands shook my shoulder. “You gotta hide,” she whispered insistently. “They’re liable to be here any minute!”
I looked up at her, the tears still running down my face. I stopped my laughter and held my hands toward her. “Help me up,” I asked her, the words coming huskily. “They won’t come.”
Her arm was under my shoulder and she was lifting me to my feet. “What do you mean they won’t come?” she asked.
I was standing now. Suddenly her hand came out from under me. I sagged against the post as she stared at it. “You’re bleeding!” she cried.
I nodded. “They caught up with me already.”
A frightened look came to her face. “What happened?” she breathed.
“What happened?” I rasped. I began to laugh again. “I don’t know what happened. I left them in the alley. I think Spit is dead. Maybe the Collector is too. The whole thing’s very funny. They came to kill me and instead I killed them!”
The laughter gurgled in my throat as I leaned my head back against the post and closed my eyes. It was a hell of a joke on Maxie Fields.
Her hand pulled at my arm. I stumbled forward and almost fell. “You gotta get away! Fields will kill you when he finds out!”
I stared at her, still smiling. “Where can I go?” I asked. “There’s no place to go. Even my father won’t let me in the house.”
Her eyes were staring into mine. “No place to go?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No place.” I began to slide toward the sidewalk again.
Suddenly her arms were around me and she was dragging me toward the car. I followed her numbly. She opened the door and I stumbled into the back seat. The door closed and she got in behind the wheel. I felt the car begin to move beneath me. I turned my face to the seat and closed my eyes.
Once when I opened them we were on a bridge. It looked like the Manhattan Bridge, but I was too tired to see and closed my eyes again. I turned uncomfortably. I was beginning to get very warm.
She was pulling at my arm again. I woke up. There was a smell of salt air in my nostrils. I stumbled from the car wearily, my eyes trying to focus. We were parked on a dark street. A few feet from us I could see a boardwalk, and beneath it the sand was white. From beyond the beach I could hear the rolling sound of the ocean. She was leading me toward a small building just beneath the boardwalk. There was a sign on it:
BEN’S PLACE SODA HOT DOGS HAMBURGERS CANDY
“Where are we?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked at my face. “Coney Island,” she answered briefly.
She led me around behind the building to a small bungalow. I was weaving back and forth and she kept an arm around me as she knocked at the door. “Ben! Wake up!” she called softly.
A light flickered on inside the bungalow. There was a tapping sound. Then a voice came through the closed door, a man’s voice, heavy and husky from sleep: “Who is it?”
“Sarah,” she replied. “Hurry up, Ben, open up!”
The door swung open quickly and the light poured out on us. A man was standing there, a smile on his face. “Sarah!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you back so soon!” The smile left his face as soon as he saw me. “Sarah, what’s this!”
“Let us in,” she said, helping me over the doorway.
Silently the man stood aside. There was a small cot against the wall and she helped me to it. I sank back on it gratefully. She turned to the man. “Get some hot water,” she said quickly.
I stared at her and then at him. As he started to move across the room, there was a tapping sound. From the bottom of his pyjama leg protruded a stump of wood. I looked up wonderingly as he turned. One sleeve was pinned to his side. I closed my eyes. I was dreaming. When I opened them again, they were still there, Sarah and the man with one arm and one leg.
“He’s hurt, Ben,” she said. “We got to get some hot water and clean him up.”
I pulled myself to my feet. I was very warm. The room seemed to blur in front of my eyes. The man kept it so warm in here. “I’m all right,” I said. “Don’t bother. I’m all right.”
Suddenly the room began to spin in front of me. They were both standing on their heads. I couldn’t figure it out. Maybe I hadn’t got out of the alley at all. There was a ray of light way down in the corner.
“Papa! Let me in!” I cried, and pitched headlong into the light. I went through it as easily as fish through water and came out into the darkness on the other side.
BOOK THREE
All the Days of My Life
Chapter One
THE July sun was climbing out of the water, its golden-red rays capping the waves with a freshly laundered look as I came out from under the boardwalk. The sand beneath my feet was white and clean. Later in the day it would grow dirty and strewn with litter, but now it was fresh and cool and I liked the feel of it.
The boardwalk was deserted. Two hours from now the first of the crowd would be coming. I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air and trotted down to the water. This was the only time of the day for a swim. You had the whole Atlantic Ocean for yourself.
I dropped the towel from around my shoulders and looked down at myself. There was only a faint white scar line left along my arm where Spit had caught me. The rest was all gone, lost in the almost black tan that covered my body. I was sure lucky.
I knifed into the water and began to swim briskly toward the far pole. The bitter-sweet taste of the salt water was in my mouth and nose. It was brisk and invigorating. The beach seemed far away and small. I turned over on my back and began to float. It was almost as if I were in a world all my own.
It was hard to believe that it was almost two months since the night Sarah had brought me out here. That night had not really happened to me; it had happened to someone else living in my body, a kid with my name. But it was all behind me now. Sarah had christened me with a new name as she dipped the cotton in the warm water and washed away the dirt and crusted blood from my cut arm and side.
Danny White. That was the name she had given me as she introduced me to her brother. I smiled as I thought about it. At first I had been too weak to protest, but when I saw the papers the next day and my name under the Gloves pictures, I had been glad. The less her brother or anyone knew about me, the better off I was.
We had scanned the paper eagerly for word of what happened to Spit and the Collector. There was nothing in it. We had exchanged curious glances, but didn’t dare speak until later in the afternoon when Ben went out to get something to eat.
“D’yuh think they found ’em yet?” I had asked.
She shook her head, a worried look on her face. “I don’t know,” she answered. “I’ll know more when I go back tonight.”
“You’re going back?” I asked inc
redulously.
“I have to,” she answered quietly. “If I don’t show up, then Maxie’ll know something is wrong and come looking for me. It’s the only way we have of keeping safe.”
I tried to sit up in the small bed, but I was too weak and fell back against the pillow. “I’ll get out of here,” I muttered. “I’ll bring yuh nothin’ but trouble.”
She looked at me curiously. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I’ll find some place. I can’t stay here. Sooner or later they’ll get wise. Then you’ll get it too.”
She leaned forward and her hand stroked my cheek lightly. “You’ll stay here, Danny,” she said quietly. “You’ll stay here and work with Ben. He needs help and can’t work the place by himself.”
“But what if someone recognizes me?” I asked.
“No one will recognize you,” she said surely. “Coney Island is a big place. Over a million and a half people come down here in the summer, and a crowd is the best place for you to hide. They’d never suspect your being down here anyway.”
I stared at her. What she had said had made sense. “But what about you?” I asked. “He’ll want to know where you were last night. What’ll you tell him?”
“Nothing,” she said flatly. “The hired help is entitled to a day off. If he asks me what I did, I’ll tell him I went to visit my brother. He knows I do that every week.”
It was my turn to be curious. “Does your brother know about Maxie?”
She nodded her head, her eyes looking away from me. “He thinks that I’m Maxie’s personal secretary. Before that he thinks I worked as a model.” She turned back to me, a pleading look in her eyes. “After his accident five years ago and he found out that his arm and leg were gone, he wanted to die. He felt there was no work left for him to do and that he would always be a burden to me. We are all the family we have. That was the year I graduated from high school. I told him not to worry, that I would work and support him until he was well enough to work again. The way he supported me after my father had died, I would go out and get a job.”
A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952) Page 21