Omigod, Walt thought. She’s making a pass at me.
They stood quite still, not looking at each other. Walt waited for her to move, but she didn’t, and then he realized that she was waiting for him to do it, move, act, something. I wonder what I’m going to do, Walt thought, because whatever quandary means, I’m in one, because I’m engaged and that’s important, to me, it is, even though I don’t know if I love her or not, Blake, and Blake says she’s a bitch, Imogene, but if she is I’ve never seen it so I don’t think so, what I think is that she’s beautiful and sweet and kind and maybe even cares for me, not much but maybe a little, maybe, so I wonder what I’m going to do. I mean, of course, I won’t do anything. I just couldn’t. Except she’s right there. Imogene. Waiting for me. The two of us. Together. In the dark. Alone.
Hey, Walt thought. Hey, I better remember this.
The pressure of her breasts against his body; he could feel the tender pressure. They were standing close together, almost but not quite touching, except where her breasts grazed the front of his shirt, and even though the pressure was light, so light, he could feel it. And the date was the eleventh of May; the time: half past twelve. Place: Oberlin, Ohio. More specifically, the lawn of Keep Cottage. More specifically still: close beside a tree, the biggest tree on the lawn, to the left of the front door, deep in shadow. The weather was warm, and a warmer wind washed them from the south. Except for the leaves overhead, there was no sound. The sky? Clear, with the usual number of stars, a wedge of moon. The moonlight was not strong, and the tree branches cut off most of what there was, but a bit of it managed to spot her shoulder, paling her pale red hair. She wore white, a man’s shirt, much too big for her, the sleeves rolled up over the elbows. Her red hair cascaded down, covering the collar of her shirt. Her eyes were bright—pale blue in sunlight, bright only now. Bright was the color of her eyes.
IX
SID AT THE DELI was Sid at the bottom.
In all his life he hated nothing as he hated that store. Yet, every morning at eight, he descended the stairs and unlocked the door and sat in the gloom waiting for customers. The boy was no help, being off at school, and Esther spelled him only occasionally, because of her migraine headaches.
The first migraine, the day of her father’s funeral, she had endured without medical aid, but a week later, after a second and more severe attack all but crippled her, she sought attention, thereby learning the name and nature of her malady. The doctor’s advice, so Esther reported to Sid, seemed eminently sensible: take it easy, get lots of fresh air, try not to get excited. For a few days thereafter, she and Sid alternated in the deli, but soon it turned out that her presence in the store brought the headaches on, so Esther returned to the doctor, later coming back to Sid with both a reason and a solution. Reason: being so close to the spirit of her father caused tension and tension caused headaches. Solution: stay out of the store. So the business of clerking fell to Sid alone, and Esther began getting lots of fresh air. As spring came she took to spending mornings upstairs, resting and gathering strength, and then, on nice afternoons, she would dress up prettily and wave goodbye through the store window and never return until late afternoon. Although Sid resented her departures, he had to admit that the treatment was working. Her headaches grew rare while her disposition and appearance were unquestionably better than they had been in years.
Sid, in the meantime, declined. It was the store, the goddam store, that was doing it. He could never decide which was worse, waiting for the customers to come or waiting on them when they came. He loathed waiting on them. The indignity of it was bad enough; worse was the fact that he wasn’t good at it. They didn’t like him, the fat lady customers. They didn’t like him, not one bit, and he could tell. They resented his presence (was it his fault he wasn’t Turk), his slowness (he could never quite learn where anything was, and while he scurried frantically from shelf to shelf he could hear them muttering impatiently behind him), his jokes (they wouldn’t laugh—never; no matter how funny, they just wouldn’t laugh). So when they walked out the door with their brown bags full of junk, Sid wasn’t sorry.
Except that when they were gone, he was alone.
Alone with his thoughts and the rotten smell of garlic. Everything smelled of garlic in the lousy store, and eventually he too smelled of garlic, no matter how hard he scrubbed his once manicured hands. Stinking, Sid sat in the old man’s chair and thought. And no matter what he tried to think about, no matter where he began his daydreams, it was only a moment until his mind betrayed him and he was standing outside himself, looking down at himself, seeing only a small man who stank of garlic—a failure. A failure. A nothing. For the first time in his life his confidence was entirely gone. His dreams of gold, gone. Everything, gone. Alone in the store, Sid saw himself as what he was afraid he was: a butt, a runt, a gas bag, a clown—to be laughed at, to be pissed on.
One afternoon he closed up shop. He ran out the door, locked it good and took off for an hour. When he came back he was afraid Esther might find out, but she didn’t, so two days later, when the gloom became overpowering, he took off again. He didn’t go anywhere special, just walked, but he always felt better when he came back. Business, of course, fell off a little but not to the point of total disaster, so Sid kept it up, chipper with his secret, hoping only that he wouldn’t run into Esther, who would flay him, he knew, if she discovered. Spring had never seemed so becoming to Sid as it did on his afternoon walks, and so the day he saw the hearse parked in an alley he stopped and shook his head, because it didn’t seem right that anyone should die in such weather. The hearse, Sid noted first, belonged to Shapiro’s, and as he shook his head he saw that young Shapiro himself was seated behind the wheel. And Sid saw that young Shapiro was talking, with obvious relish, to a woman. And the woman, Sid saw, was Esther.
Sid stumbled back to the store.
Esther? Esther having an affair? No, no, not possible. Not Esther. She wasn’t the type and, besides, who would want her? Once it might have been conceivable, back then, when she had her body, but now her breasts sagged and her can was flabby and she was getting a gut. Sid nodded. It was absolutely impossible. What he had witnessed was an accident, a chance meeting; happens all the time. Young Shapiro was probably driving along in his hearse and he saw Esther and he gave her a lift to the alley. “Why to the alley?” Sid said out loud. He shrugged. Why not to the alley? Sure, he dropped her off at the alley and went inside and picked up some corpse. Made perfect sense. Esther unfaithful? Never.
But that afternoon, as she returned from her constitutional, Sid beckoned her into the store and they chatted amiably for a while. And as they chatted, Sid studied her—every move, every sound, every look. And it was obvious. All so obvious. Not that she slipped and called him “Eli,” young Shapiro’s name—nothing like that. Sid just knew. He could tell. Because she loved Eli Shapiro. Not only was she having an affair, she loved him.
Numb, Sid sank into Old Turk’s chair as Esther smiled and went upstairs. She loved him. That was what almost made him cry. Hot pants he could almost understand. But love? How could she? Why? Sid hid his head. Why not? Eli Shapiro was rich and handsome. Eli Shapiro had a present and a future. You didn’t piss on Eli Shapiro.
“Closed,” Sid said to the woman in the doorway.
“I just want milk,” the woman said.
“Closed,” Sid repeated. “Go,” and she left.
Sid got out of the chair and locked himself in the store. Then he turned out the overhead lights and sat back down in the darkness. Esther was leaving him. A matter of time only. She would take the child and go. How many times had he wished for just such a happening? And now the possibility was horrifying. Why? Why? He didn’t love her, so why not let her go? Be glad of it? Why? Sid huddled in the dark store, his hands around his knees. He had never lost a woman. And if he lost one now, now, with things the way they were, it could only prove that he was that lowest of all lows, a human urinal, and Sid was not remotely sure if he co
uld bear that burden or, if so, for how long.
“Eli, over here,” Sid shouted as Shapiro entered the poolroom.
Shapiro approached.
“Good to see you, Eli,” Sid said, and he held out his hand. “I’m sorry to bring you all this way, but I told Esther I’d be playing tonight, and in case she calls me ... you understand. Esther and I, we don’t like to lie to each other.”
“I understand nothing,” Eli Shapiro said. “You telephoned me, told me to meet you on a matter of terrifying importance, you sounded upset, and here I am. Mr. Miller, I want—”
“Sid’s the name and I apologize. I know I acted mysterious, but I just had to talk to you, Eli.”
“I haven’t much time, Mr. Miller.”
“Please, Eli. Sid.”
“Sid. I’m playing cards this evening with my father and we pride ourselves on our punctuality.”
Sid sat in an empty chair. “We may as well get comfortable.”
“I’m quite comfortable standing. All right, what is all this?”
“I want you to promise to take care of the boy,” Sid said.
Shapiro looked at him.
“That’s the whole thing, Eli, right in a nutshell. I just want you to promise me, man to man, that no matter what happens, you’ll take care of the boy.”
“What boy? What are you talking about?”
“Eli, this is Sid. Come on. Will you promise?”
“You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Miller.”
“Eli, I know. I know all about it.”
“All about what?”
“Eli, please. I’m not mad. I understand you want to be cautious, but I know. Everything.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Shapiro said, and he turned.
Sid grabbed his coat sleeve. “Esther’s told me everything, Eli. So cut it out.”
“Esther? You mean Mrs. Miller?”
“Eli, my God, Eli, will you stop with the ignorance. This is me. Esther’s told me everything. Today, after you screwed her, you parked in the hearse in an alley. Do you want me to tell you what you talked about?”
Shapiro said nothing.
“Don’t be upset, Eli. Esther always tells me everything. I told you earlier, we don’t like to lie to each other.”
Shapiro sat down.
“Oh, you are upset. Well, stop it. Esther loves you. I swear to you on my sacred word of honor, she loves you, Eli. You’re not like the others.”
“Others?”
“Of course others. Esther’s—but you know it anyway—Esther’s a nym ... nymph ... What’s that word, the opposite of lesbian?”
Shapiro said nothing.
“Maybe she’s not really that, but she needs her action. I suppose that’s my fault. I don’t satisfy her. Never have. Maybe that’s why she does it. But anyway, the thing is, she really loves you, Eli. But I’m afraid for the boy. I mean, he’s not yours, and I love him except I can’t take good care of him, and I want you to promise that no matter what Esther does when the two of you are married, no matter what she tells you, that you’ll love the boy and take care of him. Will you promise? Come on now, Eli, she loves you, you’ll get used to this—it’s not so bad. Eli, get hold of yourself. Snap out of it. Please. Aw, Eli ...”
The next day, Esther had a migraine.
Sid did what he could to help, talked to her, soothed her, rubbed her back and neck with ice until his fingers were sore. But the headache lingered. Esther moaned, writhing and sobbing through the night and well into the next morning until finally she dropped momentarily into a dead sleep. Sid scurried downstairs and opened the store, but in a while he could hear Esther pounding on the floor above, their signal, so he closed the store and ran upstairs and rubbed her again with ice. All told, he ran up and down the stairs more than a dozen times that day.
It set a pattern. Through the next month, Sid tended the invalid and tended the store. The doctors were no use; migraines were mysteries. Sometimes ice was good, sometimes heat. Try this, try that, try anything. Sid tried. He stumbled exhausted from week to week, losing sleep, weight, hair. There was never a minute to relax. If it wasn’t some old bag in the store screaming his name, it was Esther. Up the stairs, down; down the stairs, up. Run, run, all the day, all the night, run. He began to regret bitterly ever having spotted the hearse in the alley. For, compared to his present (non) existence, before had been splendor. At least before he had had occasional daydreams; now he had no time. Up the stairs, down the stairs. Coming, Tootsie, coming, Mrs. Feldman, coming, everybody, coming. In spite of his labors, business began falling off. He couldn’t really blame the bags for heading elsewhere; nobody likes banging on the door of an empty shop, waiting five minutes for a lousy quart of milk and a half a pound of cheese. But blame or no, business was failing, and so Sid was forced to keep longer hours in the store in an effort to bring it up to his old low level. OPEN TILL EIGHT Sid printed on a cardboard sign hanging in a window, and that sign lasted for a week, when the “Open Till Nine” sign replaced it. Then it was ten. Still there was no money. Eventually the sign read OPEN TILL MIDNIGHT and there it stayed. At midnight, Sid would lock the door and trudge up to Esther, rub her weakly as long as he could, then fall back limp on his pillow, feet, more often than not, hanging over the side of the bed. Rarely did he get a full night; Esther usually shuddered between three and four, slamming her fists against her forehead. Sid, once awakened, would feel his way to the icebox and return with the cold cubes, rubbing them into her flesh until she was semi-quiet, and then he would collapse again, dreamless until eight, when the first customers began filtering into the store.
Sid was too tired for anger, but every so often, in the morning, in the shower, a vision of the past would bubble up behind his weary eyes, and for a moment he would see the Sid that was, Super Sid, in full glory. That was what made it so hard, the past. If only the broads had been less easy, not quite so soft; if only the pool cue had never been steady, the inside straights had never filled. But they had, and at the sight of what had been—without a break in the rhythm of soap and washcloth—Sid would weep. For he was dead. Sid was dead. And soon (he prayed) he would get to lie down.
Summer made things worse. The steaming days increased Esther’s agony, and although the boy was home from school, Sid could never leave him alone for long in the store. He was good at reading labels, and when the orders were small, two digits, he could select the proper sum, after much pencil-point licking. But as soon as a customer wanted more than a pickle and a can of soup, the boy’s mathematics failed him. So although Sid was now free to walk out of the store, he was only free to walk far enough to realize that he had to get back. And that was worse than not being able to go at all.
Sunday was the store’s biggest day, since all nearby competition was closed. And the first Sunday in July was better than most, being close to the holiday. So when the nigger appeared in the entrance, Sid hid his natural prejudice with a smile, figuring on an order of at least several quarts of beer. The nigger’s pistol, however, Sid did not figure on, and his smile vanished as the black rifled the money drawer and disappeared.
Stunned, Sid managed to summon the cops, who were polite but not particularly helpful, since Sid was unable to give much of a description, for in his mind niggers were like Chinamen, indistinguishable.
“Robbed?” Esther said.
Sid nodded.
“All the money?”
Sid nodded.
Esther lay back in bed, clutching at her brain.
Sid started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Out somewhere.”
“What about the store?”
“Good question.”
“Sid—”
“I can’t go in there, Esther. Please. Not today. I just can’t.”
“I know. You’ve been working very hard.”
“I’ll be back. Later. Try and get some sleep.”
�
��I will. And you have fun.”
Sid managed a nod and closed the door, walking slowly down the stairs, holding tight to the banister. It was late afternoon and very hot and when he reached the street he paused, hands in his pockets, trying to decide where to walk. It didn’t matter, and that made the decision not only difficult but painful, but finally he started to move because at a far corner he caught a glimpse of a red skirt and what might have been halfway decent legs, so he trudged to the corner. The legs and the skirt were out of sight when he got there, but he was started in a direction now, and since he could think of no reason to change, he kept on. He intended to walk forever, but in twenty minutes he was bushed. The heat. It was too much. Too hot to move, too hot to think. Sid leaned against a lamppost, searching for relief. Down on the next corner was a movie theater, and Sid sighed, squinting at the marquee. Gary Cooper. Gary Cooper and something else. A double feature. Sid nodded and crossed the street in the direction of the theater. “Air-cooled,” it said, and Sid picked up the pace. Paying his pennies, he walked inside the theater and sat down. The “something else” was playing and Sid gave it little attention at first. Then he tilted his head up toward the screen. A moment later he was ramrod straight. He gaped and then the word “Yes!” escaped, much to the annoyance of those around him. “Yes!” he said again, and before anyone had a chance to say “Shut up” he was off, running from the theater, tears in his eyes. Tears of joy; the news was good. Super Sid was back in town.
“A movie star?” Esther said, sitting up. “Our Rudy? A movie star?”
“Why not?” Sid cried. “Why not? Give me one good reason.”
“Our Rudy?” Esther repeated.
Sid grabbed her hard. “Our Rudy! Yes! Yes!”
“But—”
“Esther—Esther, listen—I know I’m right. I can feel it. I know. We’ve been crazy not to see it sooner. Fools. Oh, Esther, I tell you, I was sitting in this movie watching this Shirley Temple and I thought, ‘What’s so special about her? What can she do my little Rudy can’t?’ And the answer is nothing. Nothing. Is Rudy gorgeous? You should see the way the people stare at him in the store. The old ladies. They stare and they stare, they can’t believe it. You know how much money that little Shirley Temple makes a year? Millions. And Rudy will make more. Can’t you see us, Esther, in California with a house and servants and big black limousines? Oh, we’ve been fools starving here when we can live like kings in California.”
The Novels of William Goldman Page 31