Winter Eyes

by Lev Raphael

  “I’ll take a cab home,” she said to Sasha. “You’ll come down with me.”

  “So, darling,” she said, sitting at the metal-rimmed table, drumming a pretty hand on the Formica top. “How’s school?”

  He shrugged. “The same.” And he suddenly felt awkward, now that the dishes were done and he had to hang up the dish towel and turn to face her. She looked as beautiful as always—even when the weather changed, his mother never looked as sweaty or tired as other women her age. Her white linen dress was hardly creased, and with her hair pulled back she looked very sophisticated.

  He brought out a pitcher of iced coffee, which she loved. He had seen it there that afternoon, and wondered if Sasha hadn’t prepared it for his mother.

  She clapped her hands. “Lovely!” She held the cool clinking glass to her face, briefly, as if it weren’t just refreshing, but something special and dear.

  “Will there be a war?” he asked.

  She sipped from the glass, eyelids flickering. “I think so.”

  “Will the U.S. and Russia be in it too?”

  Sasha was off in the living room, playing a Chopin ballade, the rippling notes wafting in with the air conditioner in that room.

  Stefan and his mother were silent, and he felt a sudden tension in her, like she wanted to say something, do something. Or maybe she wanted him to say or do—what?

  “We need to be together at times like this,” she brought out, and he wanted to laugh at her. She was afraid, and he was supposed to make her feel better? What a crock!

  “Let’s go listen to Sasha,” he said, and she followed him.

  They sat on the couch, but not too close, and let Sasha fill the air around them with wave after brilliant crisp wave of Chopin, a clear potent sea of music. He was old enough now to know that Sasha’s expression was better than his technique—perhaps because for him, it was just the opposite. But there was still something magical about having Sasha play for him.

  He clapped when Sasha finished with a slightly mocking roll of his shoulders. Sasha turned and leaned back against the keyboard, his hands on the piano stool.

  “Lovely,” his mother murmured, as if she were in a museum opposite a painting. And imagining that, Stefan said, “Let’s go to the museum next week.” That always meant the Metropolitan.

  His mother grinned at him and then at Sasha, and Stefan felt momentarily embarrassed that such a little thing could make her so happy.

  They went on a Thursday, by which time war had been raging for several days. Stefan wasn’t interested in any special exhibit. As usual, he just loved being there, loved the crowds, the enormous rooms. He roamed from hall to hall, consorting with Junos and knights, consoles and landscapes, surrendering himself to color and form: the lift of a marble chin or the light on a marquetry cabinet top jostling for attention in his mind. It didn’t matter how long he was there, any time at all was like shoving his face into a bouquet of flowers—sweet, rich and strong. Tonight, he needed the distraction because of the war, which it looked like Israel would win. He spent a lot more time than usual in the Greek and Roman sculpture galleries. The gods and senators seemed in their shiny silence to have a message for him. He felt hypnotized, confused.

  Sasha and his mother talked about it at dinner in the noisy museum restaurant, and Stefan felt very adult because they didn’t act as if he wasn’t there or couldn’t understand, but asked him his opinion now and then, and talked to him too, not just to each other. It was kind of exciting, and he wondered somehow if this new war wasn’t connected to it all.

  His mother was flushed and sat with her head up, her chin high, as if she were Joan of Arc ready to go into battle alone.

  “They must win.”

  “That’s what Sasha said,” Stefan noted, slicing into his steak. And he felt that his mother and Sasha probably believed in all underdogs everywhere. Stefan was very proud of them, but also a little concerned. Sasha hadn’t been sleeping at all, and his mother was calling several times a day, like she was afraid that they could be separated even more than they were by the divorce.

  His mother had even taken his hand when they crossed the street to the museum. Before he could snatch it away and complain, she laughed and lightly patted her cheek as if slapping it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “An old habit.”

  “It’s better than smoking,” Stefan quipped, and she and Sasha eyed him with delight.

  That evening his father called from Michigan.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Stefan said “What do you mean?” His father’s voice was as cool and unemotional as someone asking questions for a survey about dish detergent.

  “The war. It’s hard when you’re young.”

  “There’s a war in Vietnam, Dad. I watch the news, I read the papers.”

  “I know that—but the outcome there isn’t doubtful. The U.S. can’t lose, but Israel might.”

  “Even with wiping out the Egyptian air force?” He was prepared to disagree with everything his father said tonight. Maybe it was the war, or maybe it was just that he couldn’t relax with both his mother and father, but had to be mad at one of them at least.

  His father gave up after a while, asked some questions about his school work, and then asked him to get Sasha.

  Stefan closed the kitchen door when Sasha was on the phone, and went to play something to drown out the sounds of their conversation. He chose the last movement of a Haydn concerto—the Rondo alla Turca. It was fast and noisy enough.

  All week, Stefan had found himself practically ready to cheer every time he heard something good about Israel. Kids at school were jubilant, and he felt swept along. Well, most kids. Some looked annoyed or even ashamed, especially Eddie, who knew he had probably picked the losing side, and would have to settle a lot of debts.

  Stefan almost felt sorry for him, and the night that it was clear the war was over, was a miracle of victory, he imagined having Eddie over, and playing for him, or something. And he found himself before bed remembering Eddie in the gym showers one time after a volleyball game that he and Eddie had basically won. Eddie had slapped his back and rubbed it, calling him Champ. And then, stepping away from him and everyone else, Eddie had swung out his incredibly long penis, flicked it up to his belly past his navel. “Look!” he shouted, “My cock’s a clock. It’s midnight!”

  He dreamed something very confusing, about crossing the Sinai in a tank with Eddie.

  6

  Because his father was in Michigan, there were only two people to hassle him about his hair. Sasha just looked at him, fighting obvious disappointment. Like he was wondering what he had done wrong or something. Stefan’s mother wasn’t that subtle.

  “Every time I see you,” she would say cheerfully. “Your hair’s longer.” She sounded as bright and surprised as someone whose carpet had sprouted daisies.

  “That’s right, Mom.”

  “Do you have to grow your hair long, just because everyone else is?”

  “Everyone else isn’t. Lots of kids at school have short hair.” By which he meant crew cuts or styles like Dick Van Dyke, Opie in “The Andy Griffith Show”—dumb haircuts, he thought, hick haircuts. His was long enough now for a shag cut, and it looked great, though getting it styled was more expensive than a regular cut.

  He had grown his hair longer not to be like anyone at school, anyone on TV, or even any rock musicians. What had inspired him was an older guy in high school who lived in his building, someone who barely said hello to him, but did nod at Sasha. That was Louie del Greco, who had the only Italian name on the buzzers or mailboxes. It was very exotic plopped in with names like Steinmetz, Goldenberg, Kravitz, Romanovsky, Mermelstein, Kedeny.

  Louie played baseball, and Stefan often saw him twirling his bat on the way to or from a game, flushed and eager, or sweaty. Probably because he was Italian, Louie always looked like he had a tan. In fact, even in the winter Louie looked as dark as Stefan did at the end of a Rockaway summer. Louie’s mother talke
d to Sasha and to him, but it was just neighbor talk—about stores or kids getting into trouble, the landlord, the lazy superintendent—talk that was meant for the lobby, the elevator, or waiting at the mailboxes for the mailman to finish.

  Stefan had been covertly studying Louie, studying how he dressed: the type of beads he wore, the scarves, the hip-hugger bell-bottoms, the dark-brown suede fringed jacket. All his clothes were really cool—maybe because his father owned the cleaning store a few blocks up on Broadway, and Louie had to look good. Ever since Sasha had let Stefan go shopping to Korvette’s and Macy’s by himself when it wasn’t a question of something like a winter coat, Stefan had been choosing clothes with Louie in mind. Louie was shorter and stockier than he was, but that didn’t matter. He would imagine Louie there standing next to him in front of the mirror, saying, “Groovy” or pointing to a really cool shirt, pushing him away from belts that weren’t wide enough and had buckles that were too small. These images were helpful because he felt good buying something he thought Louie would approve of; he felt mature. When he had shopped with his mother or Sasha, their standards for what was nice always seemed arbitrary, and he felt much younger than he really was, like he should be stomping his feet and saying “I want it—I want it!”

  Because Louie was older, always with kids his own age, Stefan was surprised to get on the elevator with him one day after school and have Louie say, “Do you want a job? Part time?”

  “What?”

  “You know, J-O-B. You do work, you get money. Sound familiar?”

  The elevator stopped at the fourth floor, and Louie got out. “Come on,” he said. And Stefan followed to his black apartment door. “It’s at my dad’s store.”

  Stefan knew that Louie’s mother sometimes worked there too; it was where he and Sasha took their clothes. He usually didn’t see Louie in the store, because Louie was at the back, pressing.

  Louie waved him into the apartment, and Stefan had a strange feeling that he was in a dream. The apartment was almost exactly like his and Sasha’s, two floors up, but instead of opening to the left off the little foyer, it opened to the right.

  “Want some doughnuts?” Louie headed into the kitchen, which was much more crowded than Sasha’s, full of appliances, shiny copper pans, flowery wall plaques, plants in little pots, hanging kitchen gadgets, and dish towels. The colors were all red, green, and white.

  “The Italian flag,” Stefan murmured, sitting down at the small table covered with a red-and-white checked cloth.

  “Pretty smart,” Louie said, bringing out a gallon of milk, two big glasses, and a bag of chocolate Hostess doughnuts—Stefan’s favorite.

  Louie put on the kitchen radio, and they listened to a station play some Beatles songs from Rubber Soul and Help! They ate almost silently, grunting a little at each other when one wanted more milk. Sasha would hate how Louie ate, Stefan thought: noisily, with his mouth opening. And he slurped up the milk, almost sucked it in.

  “He’d pay minimum wage,” Louie said, abruptly setting down his glass so hard Stefan thought it would break. “It’s not hard stuff. Just putting clothes together with the tickets after they’re pressed. I do the pressing.” And Louie held out one dark arm and made a muscle. His bicep was big and hard and veins ran across it as clearly as highways on a map. “Baseball camp,” Louie said. “Every summer.”

  Following Louie to his room, Stefan felt envious—what did he do with his summers? Just went to the beach and read books.

  There were few books in Louie’s jammed and slightly smelly room, which was overflowing with clothes, dirty sneakers, baseball mitts, crumpled underwear, trophies, and lined with posters of the Yankees.

  “My mom tries to clean it up, but I won’t let her.” Louie sat down on the floor, pulled a game out from under the bed, wiped dust from the cover. “You play Risk?”

  And they launched into a hectic silent game, the little colored wooden squares surging back and forth across continents. Louie played like he was gambling, eyes on the board, tongue protruding sometimes, forehead scrunched. When he rolled the dice, he closed his eyes like he was praying, and kissed his fist. It was contagious, it made the game seem even more vital and earthshaking than games usually were. Louie’s hands were grimy, his nails ragged—but they were large, larger than Stefan’s. And when they hovered over the brightly colored board they made him think of the hands of a Roman god about to cause havoc on Earth.

  That was what Louie looked like! With the clear dark eyes, wide-jawed face, and strong body, he was like the gods you saw in gladiator movies, or in picture books about mythology, or at the Metropolitan Museum.

  “Hey—it’s your move,” Louie was saying.

  Stefan had been imagining Louie in one of those short belted tunics that only covered half your chest.

  “Are you deaf, asshole?” Louie asked, pushing at his knee.

  “Fuck you!” Stefan said, pushing back, half-joking. And when Louie tried to hit him, he grabbed Louie’s hand and they were soon rolling on the floor, wrestling, with pieces of the game scattering in every direction. Stefan was trying to do something, he didn’t know what, trying to hold Louie down and keep him there, as if Louie were his bed at night, the lights were off, and he were pressing into the sheets. Louie stopped struggling, and lay there underneath Stefan not moving, eyes half-shut.

  “Moron,” Louie said softly. “I was winning!” And he laughed, dark hair smeared to his forehead and face by sweat.

  Stefan got up, turning away because of the stiffness in his pants, and he pretended to be interested in a trophy.

  The front door slammed, and Louie called, “Hi Mom, we’re down here.”

  Mrs. del Greco was standing in the doorway, surveying the room strewn with Risk pieces. Stefan turned to say hello, and she nodded, asked how his uncle was, and then said, “One day I’ll just set a big fire in this room. That’s the only way to clean it out.”

  “Gimme a break, Mom,” Louie said, but Stefan saw that it wasn’t serious, since he and his mother were smiling. Stefan wished he could be so relaxed with his mother.

  “Will you stay for dinner?” Mrs. del Greco asked. “It’s just lasagna.”

  “Wow. We never have lasagna.” He looked at Louie, who nodded.

  Stefan ran upstairs to leave a note for Sasha, and when he went back down, he helped Louie clean up, or at least put the Risk stuff away, back under the rumpled bed. They played cards and listened to Bob Dylan on Louie’s eight track.

  Stefan asked, “You like him?”

  “He’s great, man.”

  “But he can’t sing.”

  Louie shook his head like he was very adult, and Stefan dropped it.

  “I bet you like the Monkees,” Louie sneered. “They don’t even play their own instruments!”

  “But the show’s funny.”

  “It’s jive.”

  “Your dad’s late at the store,” Louie’s mother said when she called them to the kitchen.

  “He’s always late,” Louie griped, sitting down and grabbing for milk. His mother slapped his hand and they both laughed. Stefan sat opposite Louie, waiting.

  “Go ahead, boys,” Mrs. del Greco said, waving a spatula. “Start.”

  And they did. Everything was terrific, Stefan told her: the salad, the lasagna, the garlic bread.

  “So skinny,” she said, shaking her head. “Does your uncle feed you?”

  Stefan started to answer, but realized it was a joke.

  “So how come we never see you in church?” Louie’s mother asked.

  He shrugged.

  “You’re not Protestant, are you? Poles are good Catholics like us. They love the Holy Father.”

  “We’re not religious.”

  “Who? Your parents? Your uncle?”

  Stefan looked away from her friendly curiosity; what he’d said sounded childish and empty.

  “Listen, you have to believe in something—no matter what you get in life.” And she shrugged, as if referring to her
own troubles—whatever they might be.

  After dinner, when she shooed them out of the kitchen, Stefan briefly explored the apartment, which actually was larger than Sasha’s, with a separate dining room crowded by swollen, dark, shiny furniture. “We use that for Sunday dinner,” Louie explained.

  The whole apartment was so full of chairs and lamps and pictures and statues of saints and Jesus and vases with plastic flowers it was like a store, or even a warehouse. It reminded him a little of the crowded chaotic Indian Museum further down Broadway not far from where he used to live.

  Everything at the del Greco’s seemed connected to the past. “Oh yeah,” Louie might say, when Stefan picked up an ashtray—“That was my Great Aunt Teresa’s.”

  They played some more cards, and then Stefan went home, his head buzzing with everything they had talked about, with dinner, with how he and Louie had wrestled.

  “Did you have a nice time?” Sasha wanted to know.

  “It was okay,” Stefan dropped, reluctant to reveal anything at all. Then he mentioned the possibility of working in Mr. del Greco’s store. “Just now and then,” he said.

  Sasha was seated at the piano, a steaming mug of tea on the small round-topped table within reach of his long arms.

  He nodded, considering it. “If you want to.”

  That was what Sasha said about almost everything, as if he were unwilling to challenge Stefan, cautious of starting a fight.

  “I’ll go talk to Louie’s father tomorrow,” Sasha said.

  Stefan shrugged. “Cool.”

  Del Greco’s Cleaner’s was on the west side of Broadway, just a block over from Fort Washington Avenue, but seemed very distant. Fort Washington was quiet, lined with large old trees that formed a canopy over the street, while Broadway was much wider, noisier and kind of dirty, with papers and stuff flying around when there was a breeze, and occasional dog turds in unexpected spots. The store was in a one-story building. On one side was a small bookstore that sold magazines, comics, and all the daily papers. On the other was a lady’s shop, called a corsetiere, that always made Stefan uncomfortable when he passed. The high narrow cleaning store was painted sky-blue inside, and stretched far back. Despite the air-conditioning, it was always warm or hot where Stefan started working near the cigar-shaped pressing machine and the steamers. Still, he liked feeling hidden back there behind the squatty beige cleaning machine and dryer and their companion bins, and behind the long oval two-leveled conveyer belt clothing rack that was a toy to him no matter how many times he pressed the controls to put away a finished ticket.