Abraham, his arms groaning inside him with the strain, heaved the boy up off his knees and leaned him against the counter where he was partly hidden behind the cash register.
“You’ll have a drink with us to celebrate, eh? Two drinks, in fact,” said Polsky. “One for my new building, and one for your return to the city. You can be sure we won’t let you go again so easily.”
“It’s nice to be with friends again.” Laiah laughed. “Out East it just wasn’t the same. Hello!” Laiah, catching sight of Abraham, flowed toward the counter, extending her hand. “You haven’t changed,” she said. “Of course I’ve not been gone that long, have I? You people probably didn’t even notice.”
“How could I help noticing?” Polsky winked. “The best poker partner I ever had.” He reached under the counter for the bottle and poured while Laiah’s laugh crooned out huskily.
“Lachaim,” said the barber.
“Good times,” said Laiah as her red lips closed over the glass. Polsky looked into her eyes, enjoying the game. I like a flashy-looking woman, he told himself.
Abraham looked with some wonder at Laiah. The makeup, which seemed to be trying to bolster up the sagging cheeks, ended, he noted, right under her chin. There was a mass of blue-green stuff around her eyes. Her red lips had left a stain on the glass. The whole face could be wiped off. What would be left underneath?
Laiah flashed him a smile. She was telling about the apartment that she had been lucky enough to find in the district, inviting them all up for a drink sometime. She noticed Hymie standing, head down, behind the counter. “Who’s this?” She looked incredulous, opening her eyes wide. “It can’t be! Not Hymie!” She gave a little laugh of disbelief.
“Who then?” asked Polsky, laughing.
“I can’t believe it!” Laiah batted her eyelashes. “The last time I saw him he scarcely reached the top of the counter.”
She moved toward him. Hymie looked up and giggled, keeping his mouth shut, and looked quickly down again.
“What a fine strapping fellow!” said Laiah. “You don’t have to be shy of me. I’ve known you for a long time.” She laughed disarmingly. “Why, your father and I were young together.” She glanced sideways at Polsky, who laughed.
Hymie giggled again, as though with a full mouth, and tried to draw back behind the cash register.
“How big you’ve grown,” said Laiah again. “Let’s look at you; you look just like your father.”
From Hymie’s throat there issued a sound as of a sewer backing up. He ducked behind the counter. Abraham sighed, glanced at the startled Polsky, and went in search of a rag. He came back a moment later and, pressing the cold, wet rag against the forehead of the wretched boy, led him into the back room.
The barber turned to Polsky and Laiah and with the spontaneity of drunkenness clapped his hand to his stomach and, puffing his cheeks out bigger and bigger, ran his hand from his stomach up his chest to the front of his mouth, forcing at the same time a very loud, variegated burp that was a convincing imitation of Hymie’s eruption. Then, stepping daintily over the boy’s puddle, he wove toward the back room, muttering that he would offer his help.
In the back room Abraham heard peal on peal of laughter from the front of the shop. The barber entered, glanced at Hymie, stepped over to the sink, dipped his handkerchief under the tap, and began to bathe his own forehead.
Polsky stopped laughing suddenly. “Maybe we shouldn’t laugh so loud,” he said.
“Why not?” Laiah had laughed so hard that the tears had run rivulets of mascara down her cheeks. She was busily trying to repair the damage, between fits of laughter. “It’s so funny. He’ll see it himself someday.”
“It’s not that.” Polsky motioned toward the back room. “His wife just died a few months ago, you know.”
“Whose, the barber’s?”
“No.”
“Ah,” said Laiah slowly, “that’s too bad.”
“Yes.” Polsky wanted to pour himself a little more but decided against it. “He’s still in mourning, naturally. So –”
“Of course,” said Laiah. “Naturally.”
A moment later Polsky chuckled. “The little son of a so and so!” He began to laugh again. Laiah laid her finger to her lips and Polsky, nodding, chuckled quietly, his belly shaking.
“She couldn’t have been such an old woman, was she?” Laiah asked, nodding in the direction of the back room.
Polsky shrugged. “I don’t suppose so. But getting on. He’s no youngster.”
“He took it badly?” Laiah kept her voice down to a near-whisper.
Polsky shrugged again. “His wife, after all.”
“He’s still a good-looking man,” Laiah mused.
“What, on the scent again?” Polsky raised his voice.
“Grobion.” Laiah glanced around. “Can’t I even have an opinion?”
“Of course.” Polsky grinned and rolled slightly against the showcase. “Can’t I?”
“Oh, talk through your mouth,” muttered Laiah a little testily.
Polsky laughed. “The kid’s growing up.”
“Let’s see how he’s getting along,” said Laiah.
Hymie was flopped in a chair, his arms and legs loosely sprawled, his head lolling back. Abraham took the rag from his head and turned around to find Laiah beside him. “I’ll help you.” She smiled, taking the rag from him. She went to the sink, poured fresh cold water on the rag, and, still smiling, came and laid it gingerly on the boy’s forehead. The water dripped down Hymie’s face. Polsky had also come in and was standing looking down at his son and shaking his head. Abraham took another rag from the pipe under the sink and went to clean up the mess in the shop.
TEN
No one who knew Chaim Knopp could fail to recognize him on the street. Even strangers took notice of him. For Chaim, in his long black coat and ancient derby, had a way of bobbing along that was individual and unmistakable. And yet one early winter morning as Chaim was on the way to his slaughtering shed, hugging two chickens under his arms for warmth, his son Ralph drove by him in his big car, without stopping.
That was a heavy day for Chaim. Each one of his sixty-nine and a half years came to him individually, so that for the first time in his life, even though he had often talked of age, he knew what it was to be an old man. Strange thoughts kept coming into his head. If it had been his mother he would have stopped, he found himself thinking. A little ashamed, he corrected himself – At least he would have stopped for his mother. And then: Thank goodness he would have stopped for his mother, he amended still further, righteously, while his heart swelled with aching self-pity.
Was it Ralph, after all? he asked himself at another moment. And if it was, how could he be blamed for not stopping? I would have absolutely refused to get into the car, Chaim told his chickens at one point. I can just see myself climbing into the big car with the chickens smelling and dropping their fleas and feathers and God knows what else all over Ralph’s rich friends.
All day long Chaim avoided people that he might have to talk to, and put off even his visit to Polsky’s butcher shop, although it was a day when he usually collected several orders. He closed up the shack early and walked home by another route altogether than that which he usually took. I won’t tell Bassieh, he decided for the tenth time. Bassieh would see that there was something wrong, and she would ask him, but he would not tell her. He would bear it himself. Bassieh would be likely to point out some reason why Ralph had not stopped, and bawl him out into the bargain, making it all his fault. She might even mention it to Ralph, and then they would both turn on him. Maybe he had been on his way to a big business conference, so how could he be blamed for not wanting to stop? What would he have said to his friends – “Excuse me, the business must wait, I want to stop and give my father and his chickens a lift to the slaughtering shed”? Chaim himself had to smile a little at this.
He let himself quietly into the front hall and stood there for a moment in the darkn
ess. Through the door he could hear voices in the living room. It dawned on him that one of them was Ralph’s voice, loud and angry-sounding. Flustered, Chaim had difficulty in unwrapping the long black woolen scarf in which he trussed himself up in the wintertime – like what Polsky called an Egyptian mamma. Hastily he took off his overcoat, galoshes, and the ancient derby, under which his skullcap sat firmly. He stood for a moment, rubbing his hands together and listening. Certainly Ralph did not sound apologetic. Chaim was overcome with embarrassment. How should he face his son?
“Here he is,” said Bassieh as he entered the room, still rubbing his hands self-consciously. “Speak to him for yourself.”
“Pa” – Ralph wasted no time – “I’ve been waiting for you. When are we going to have enough of this chicken business? It’s time you quit.” Ralph had obviously been talking long and vigorously. His face was slightly flushed. Instead of looking directly at his father when he spoke, he looked at his clothes.
Chaim seated himself on the edge of a chair, at the same time plucking a feather from his vest.
Ralph did not give him time to consider answering. “And how long have you been planning to get rid of this house?” Chaim sensed a boundless contempt in his son’s voice. “Four years, five years, ten years?”
“God knows how long,” Bassieh broke in. “Only God knows how long.”
Ralph paced the floor with the restless tread of a man who has many important things on his mind, and has been forced to pause over some irritating detail. “And what’s been stopping you?” Ralph faced his father. In his green tweed suit, which fitted him loosely to cover up the fact that he was spreading out, he looked the picture of a successful man. Even now Chaim couldn’t resist a feeling of admiration, of awe. Ralph stood, spread-legged and stocky, in front of him, but commanding, at his ease. Chaim raised his eyes to his son’s face. Ralph’s features were sharp and straight, cast from his mother’s mold. But good living and advancing middle age were adding a softening background of flesh. Ralph did not meet his eyes, but stared severely at his father’s sleeve cuff. Chaim cast a furtive glance at his linen.
“Well?” asked Ralph with modified sarcasm.
“Well,” repeated Chaim timidly, trying to think of some thing.
“I can see it’s no use relying on you to do anything. I can have this house rented in two days, if not sooner. I can get you a little flat that will cost you practically nothing. The rent from the house will cover the flat rent and then some. As for an allowance, I’ll arrange it with the others. You’ll have everything you need.” Ralph paused to draw a breath, expanding his chest.
“Oh Ralph, my son.” Bassieh’s eyes shone and spilled over.
Ralph glanced at his father, who was tucking his underwear under his shirt sleeve. “You understand, Pa? No more work. From now on you’re retired.”
Chaim nodded his head, without looking up. “My practice, my shack?” He waved his hand vaguely, questioningly.
Ralph gave a loud, patient sigh and exchanged glances with his mother. “You want me to deal with that too? Well, we’ll get rid of it right away.” He glanced at his watch. “Do you know anyone who’d want to take it over?”
Chaim shrugged vaguely. “Maybe young Lachter – or Kalinsky the Litvak.”
“Come on, then. We’ll drive down right now and see about getting rid of it.”
“Now?” Chaim blinked at his son incredulously. The idea that his whole life’s work could be disposed of so quickly was hard to grasp. He laughed a little, nervously.
“Now,” cried Bassieh with excited impatience. And to Ralph: “You hear him? ‘Now?’ he asks. If you had learned what ‘Now’ meant fifty years ago you might be someone today, instead of dragging yourself to and from your shack every day.”
“Pa,” said Ralph, “once you’ve decided what you want to do, you do it right away. That’s how to get on in this world.”
“Go then, go then, get your coat on,” said Bassieh. “You see, that’s what sons are for. We worked hard to bring them up, and now –” Bassieh didn’t finish her sentence but smiled fondly at her son, who returned her smile. Bassieh’s eyes filled with tears again. “For your old father,” she said, “your old father.” She choked slightly and turned away to wipe her eyes.
Chaim felt his own eyes filling with tears. He nodded his head up and down quickly several times. “We’ve lived to see it.” He spoke hesitantly, still a little confused.
Ralph, in spite of himself, felt the tears come to his eyes as well, and at the same time he was conscious of an overmastering sense of his own virtue. He laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. “You think you have such an entirely bad son, eh?”
Chaim shook his head wordlessly, and Bassieh sobbed openly.
“Well,” said Ralph, “we can’t stand here crying all day. We’ve got work to do.”
Ralph drove his car masterfully, starting it up with a broomph! that sent the snow flying from under the wheels. “You don’t have to worry, Pa; I can afford it. I don’t like to have my father still walking about the streets with chickens under his arms. And especially at your age. You’re not a young cockerel any longer, you know.” Ralph laughed.
“Why else do we work,” said Chaim hesitantly, “if not to hear our sons say this?”
Ralph laughed again pleasantly and turned his eyes to the road. This was the precise spot, that they were passing now, where Ralph had this morning passed his father. Ralph accelerated, throwing Chaim suddenly backward. But the picture had already sprung into his father’s mind.
Had it been Ralph after all? Already it was dimming in his memory; the judgments he had been tempted to make seemed monstrous. You would think from the way Ralph had attacked him when he came into the room that Ralph had reason to be angry with him. Chaim smiled vaguely. That was his son, always brusque when he did something, to avoid gratitude. One of the men in the back of the car had looked back, Chaim remembered, and Chaim had looked quickly down, pretending he hadn’t seen. He shook his head to clear it of contradictory thoughts. Ralph was like his mother. Everything had to be done swiftly, loudly, sweepingly. But it would be done. He would take care of everything.
—
Abraham put down the chopper, leaned his arm on the counter, first putting down a piece of paper so as not to stain his underwear, over which his sleeves were rolled, and scrutinized his friend. Chaim was not in his working clothes. His black suit hung about him with an air of festive unfamiliarity. His shoes, from which he was carefully removing his galoshes, gleamed.
Abraham, who could not fail to see that this was an occasion, began with suitable formality. “Good afternoon, Reverend Chaim.”
Chaim smiled. “Where’s Polsky?”
“At the wholesale.” Abraham came around the counter and took Chaim’s coat from him. Chaim nodded questioningly toward the back room, and Abraham shrugged his shoulders. “As usual,” he murmured. He took Chaim’s overclothes and went into the back room to hang them up. Hymie sat reading a magazine. On the days when he played truant from high school and had no change with which to entertain himself in other ways, he spent his time in the back room, reading picture books.
When Abraham returned, Chaim was sitting on his barrel, smiling to himself and fingering his beard. Abraham leaned on the counter again.
“Time flies,” Chaim began, measuring his words with enjoyment. “Do you know, my friend, that I am a man of seventy years?”
“Up to a hundred and twenty,” said Abraham. “You certainly don’t look like a man of seventy.”
“Thank God, I’m alive. A man of seventy” – the grin widened on Chaim’s face, and his pointed beard stood horizontal – “is old enough to retire.”
“To retire from work?”
“Absolutely.” Chaim watched his toe execute designs on the sawdust. “You see, my children absolutely don’t want me to work any more. So I’ve retired.”
“Already?” asked Abraham admiringly.
“Already. I hav
e turned over my practice to young Lachter, the shoichet from Poland. He knows his business. He’ll get along with my customers. It’s done.” Chaim spread out his arms and, looking down, noticed and brushed a speck of dust from one of his sleeves. “I am a free man.”
“Mazeltov, mazel mazeltov.” Abraham came around the counter with extended hand. Hymie Polsky came out of the back room and stood listening, magazine in hand. “And your children saw that it was time for you to quit and they made you quit,” said Abraham enthusiastically. “Enough, just like that.” Abraham laughed. How fine it was.
“Of course” – Chaim was ruminating dreamily – “I might occasionally be persuaded to do a circumcision still. I can’t resist a celebration. But otherwise, nothing.”
“You mean you won’t be coming here any more?” Hymie’s voice, grown strangely like his father’s in timbre, broke heavily in on them.
“Well,” said Chaim a little haughtily, “I’ll drop in to visit occasionally.”
“Your place will always be here for you,” said Abraham courteously.
Hymie grunted. Chaim turned back to Abraham. “I will go about like a ladies’ man. Years will pass” – Chaim closed his eyes ecstatically – “and I will never smell another chicken.”
Abraham was as happy for his friend as though it had happened to himself. All of a sudden new possibilities had opened out. He had never tried to visualize before what would happen beyond the time when he could lift his arms to the meat no longer. And yet he knew that it was a time not too far off. Now he knew. Isaac would say to him, “Papa, you must absolutely retire. You have done enough.” And he would say, “There comes a time when the old must obey the young.” And he too would take off his working clothes and put on his blue serge suit.
“You understand,” said Chaim confidentially, “it embarrasses them when their friends see me in the street, still with a chicken under my arm.”
“Because they know it’s not right, at your age, when you could be resting. So they say, ‘Enough!’ That’s the way to deal with stubborn fathers.”
The Sacrifice Page 17