In the Walled City

by Stewart O'Nan

  He took out his son’s list, unfolded it on the table, and began going through it with a red pen, seeing realistically what he could afford.

  Steak

  Sheila ignored the two tens on the table in front of her. She did not want steak, and John’s insistence on buying dinner for his parents annoyed her. For John the meal was symbolic; for her it was another errand in a day filled with housework.

  Sheila turned her back to the bills and watched her mother-in-law, Mrs. Wystrzemski, dry the breakfast dishes. Across the table, Mrs. Zapala, a neighbor Sheila had met only once, gossiped about the new parish priest.

  Mrs. Wystrzemski noticed that Sheila avoided touching the money. The girl was proud, she thought; it was acceptable at such a young age.

  Sheila swirled another spoonful of sugar into her coffee. John was out looking for work, Becky was upstairs napping, and the morning was settling into a gray calm. She wanted to get back from the store before Becky woke up, but with Mrs. Wystrzemski along it would be impossible. Twice Sheila had offered to return the spoiled sole, and both times John’s mother had implied that only someone more experienced could deal with the grocer.

  “Father Krooss is old-fashioned,” John’s mother said, opening the cupboard below the sink. Her hair fell to one side, mud-colored against her black shift. “Old-fashioned is good. They say this new one is an organizer type. He has ideas what a church is for. I say, what, a church? It’s a church.”

  Mrs. Zapala nodded and light flashed from her bifocals. “True. My Stefan says you go to church to pray, not to think.” She looked to Sheila, as if for support.

  “I’m sure the new one will do fine,” Sheila said.

  Mrs. Wystrzemski did not want to argue with Sheila again this morning, but with Mrs. Zapala in the room she felt obligated. “I don’t like all these new ideas, they get everyone angry. It’s better to be happy. Look at the young people, where do the young people go, church? No. Are they happy? No.” She waved a skillet, her lips pursed as if about to spit, but the girl was not looking.

  Mrs. Zapala dismissed the issue, shooing it with the back of her hand. “They don’t care. All they think about is fancy things. Cars, clothes, things like that. Not that they work for them, understand. You see the young people work?”

  “What do I know?” John’s mother asked. “They go away, they don’t stay anymore.”

  Sheila picked up a grain of sugar by pressing her finger against the table and flicked it away invisibly. The two tens waited for her. It was the first money John had made since they moved back to Pittsburgh. Yesterday he had come home powdered with soot, his good office shoes scuffed, and after changing his shirt had presented her with the two bills. He did not say what he had done, merely handed her the money and said, “This is for steak for everybody tomorrow. It’s a tradition, every Wednesday. I’ll tell Ma it’s a surprise, so don’t say anything around Steve or Pops.”

  Sheila had not argued. Baked potato, broccoli with béarnaise sauce, burgundy. No, they would have beer, and cheese sauce would do. At her parents’ house they would insist on a more risqué potato, but while she was at the Wystrzemski’s she was expected to act like a daughter, a cook’s dim-witted assistant. It was stupid, but she would do it. John had mailed his resumes two weeks ago, and the companies would respond soon. If he felt guilty and wanted to pay their way by buying dinner, fine, she would do it; but only once. In a few months they would be in California or Seattle or Florida, and twenty dollars would seem like nothing again.

  Before going to bed, she placed the money on the windowsill so she would not forget. Earlier that morning, while struggling with the sides of Becky’s crib, she had noticed it below the snow-framed view of the mills and the river, and remembered. Now the two tens lay before her, nagging as a single sock.

  John’s mother continued, “People run around crazy today. One day this, one day that. I stop looking at the paper every day. I don’t want to know.”

  Sheila drained her cup. “The world is the same as it always was,” she said. “The only difference now is the media. Now you know what’s happening around the world. Before you didn’t hear about the floods in Turkey, only Johnstown. If there was a war in Africa, you didn’t see it on the news so you thought Africa was fine. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a war there, you just didn’t know about it.”

  “Thank you but I don’t want to know,” John’s mother said, buffing a mug.

  “Like she says,” Mrs. Zapala agreed, “no one wants these things on their mind. Why should they have to?”

  Sheila went to the sink and rinsed out her cup. Outside, behind the frosted window, snow fell lazily, dusting a bare spot in the neighbors’ driveway. Through the water, she could hear Mrs. Zapala going on about her son’s computer night school and how it would get him a job. She took the tea towel from John’s mother, who was following the story with absolute attention. After a long string of words, Mrs. Zapala asked, “Am I right or am I right?”

  “We should get going,” Sheila said, handing the towel back to John’s mother. “They said three-to-six inches this afternoon.”

  “My knee said snow last night,” John’s mother said, holding her thigh.

  “Signs always,” Mrs. Zapala said. She rose from her chair as if in pain, clasping the corners of her fringed shawl together. “No one tells you, you just know. That’s what life is.”

  Sheila tucked the money into the pouch of her purple sweatshirt. “Ready,” she prompted. She took her beige coat from the pegboard beside the door, revealing beneath a laminated plaque with the slogan “One day at a time.” There were similar plaques nailed to the pine paneling throughout the house, and each time Sheila noticed one, her head gave a jerk, reared back as if struck.

  Mrs. Wystrzemski had seen the girl twitch before, and thought it a nervous tic. The older woman attributed it to too much thinking. She tucked her hair inside her collar, knotted her lime babushka under her chin, and pulled on her black trench coat. “All right,” she said, stuffing the foil-wrapped sole into her purse.

  “If Becky wakes up, don’t give her a bottle,” Sheila instructed Mrs. Zapala, holding the door open. A few snowflakes crept onto the linoleum. “She shouldn’t have anything until noon.”

  Cars fishtailed up the hill, rears swinging. From the top of Mc-Clure Street, Sheila could see the black hull of the Homestead Works, and across the slow, brown Mon, a newer plant, blue with the U.S. Steel trademark painted on the roof. She was going to point out that there was no smoke coming from the stacks and what that meant to the Pittsburgh economy, but John’s mother, afraid of falling, was bent over her boots, lagging, oblivious. Sheila stopped at the corner of 21st Avenue and waited for her. Down the street, a group of men huddled around a smoking trash barrel. In front of brick row houses, For Sale signs creaked in the wind.

  On Long Island she and John had lost their house. One afternoon he had come home drunk and announced that Grumman had laid him off. He slouched in a chair and wept while Sheila held him.

  She was not working at the time, but as soon as she found day-care for Becky, she went back to her job as a foster child caseworker. John took two jobs to meet the mortgage payments, but it wasn’t enough, and whenever Sheila suggested that her parents could help, he said, “We’ll do it ourselves,” and refused to discuss it further.

  On a starless December night, a collection agent repossessed their car. John was working the second shift at a self-serve gas station, and every night Sheila picked him up at eleven. Home alone, she was in the living room, trying to feed Becky strained peas, when she heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway. She thought it was someone turning around. The rest of the evening she read, then at 10:30 bundled Becky into her coat, found her keys and license, and clicked on the front porch light. The car was gone. “Perfect,” she said.

  Even when the policeman delivered the foreclosure papers, Sheila thought they could make it on Long Island. She told her parents it was only temporary, that with a little he
lp they’d brave the hard times. The families she dealt with at work were in much worse shape. But John would not take money from her parents, and so they had moved back to Homestead, planning to stay until John found another engineering job.

  Looking at the For Sale signs, Sheila wondered if Father Krooss did anything for the unemployed. She imagined a rumpled man with a hearing aid and dandruff who folded his hands and flexed his fingers when he spoke. He would hold Latin masses and demand proper attire.

  Arms stretched out on both sides, purse jiggling on its strap, John’s mother tottered toward Sheila like a child learning to roller skate. Though it was fifteen degrees and windy, her legs were bare. In the five years Sheila had known her, she had never once worn pants. Sheila had mentioned it to John, who said, “A dress is as American as she’ll go. Women don’t wear pants in the old country.” She reminded him that this was the new country. “She can kneel faster in a dress,” John had replied. Sheila remembered this and smiled, picturing his mother on her knees in the snow, praying for a new, mindless daughter-in-law.

  Mrs. Wystrzemski grabbed the stop sign with both hands, her purse circling the pole until it ran out of strap, then unwinding. The girl turned and started to cross without her. “Slow down please, Sheila.”

  The girl stopped, came back, and took her by the arm. They moved together toward the curb.

  “Slow, slow,” Mrs. Wystrzemski urged. At the corner, she noticed the men around the barrel. One of them wore a leather jacket, another had long blond hair and a mustache. She switched her purse to her other shoulder. “Careful with these,” she whispered.

  “There’s nothing wrong with those men. They don’t have jobs so immediately people think they’re trouble.” The girl let go of her hand.

  “So they should get a job,” Mrs. Wystrzemski said, taking hold of the girl’s wrist. Steadied, she looked up and saw the blonde one spit in the fire, and as he leaned back, she saw a beer can.

  “There aren’t any jobs here,” Sheila explained, her free hand gesturing to the mills far below. “John can’t find a job. How are these men supposed to? Is anyone helping them?”

  “Papa has a job. It’s the young ones who don’t want to work hard.” A salt-rotted Chevy passed, and they crossed the street. “They should go get a job,” John’s mother said, clinging to Sheila’s arm as they neared the opposite curb. “And clean up and get a hair cut and not be drinking all the time on the sidewalk.”

  “And be nice boys and go to church,” Sheila added.

  “Maybe if they went before this wouldn’t happen.”

  Sheila laughed. “Maybe they should have been priests! Priests never lose their jobs!” John’s mother said nothing, but half a block from the men, Sheila felt her tugging toward the street. Sheila dug in and pulled her to the center of the sidewalk. “Stop treating them like criminals. Think how they must feel.”

  Mrs. Wystrzemski was silent. The girl was walking slower now, and as they approached the men, she veered toward them. Mrs. Wystrzemski’s purse slid from her shoulder and hung on her arm, swung between them, but the girl did not seem to notice. The man in the leather jacket turned his head. His dark hair was slicked back, a greasy lock dangling above his eyes. Mrs. Wystrzemski reached across her body and restored her purse to her shoulder. In the ring of men snow flew upward from the flames. Fire licked through quarter-sized holes in the barrel, leaving black spikes and streaks on the rusted metal. The girl stopped and asked, “How’s it going?”

  The man with the greasy hair dropped his can of Iron City into the barrel, and a shower of sparks leapt up behind him and died in the air. His eyes played over the girl’s shape. “Hey, you know,” he mumbled, “things are great.” A cigarette burned in his hand.

  The girl stepped toward him, and Mrs. Wystrzemski’s hand dropped from her arm. “My husband’s looking for work,” the girl said. “Do you know if U.S. Steel’s hiring?”

  The man blew a stream of smoke. “Forget them, they’re down the tubes.” He glanced at Mrs. Wystrzemski. His face seemed familiar to her; not one of John’s friends, though. She could not connect his eyes with those of any neighborhood child, yet as he spoke she recognized him, and he, with a leer, seemed to acknowledge this. After each sentence he smiled, the ends of his lips drawn up into his cheeks, as if any second he would begin to laugh and call the girl a fool. Mrs. Wystrzemski took a firm step and clutched the girl’s arm. The man went on, “There’s American Bridge but you got to be what they call skilled.”

  The girl ignored Mrs. Wystrzemski’s grip. “So you’ve been looking for a long time.”

  “You’re damned right,” the man said, then to Mrs. Wystrzemski added, “excuse me, ma’am.” The sprig of hair touched the blank space between his eyebrows.

  “We are late,” Mrs. Wystrzemski interrupted. “We have to go.” She sank her heels into the snow and yanked the girl away.

  Sheila caught herself and tried to stop, but John’s mother was dragging her downhill. She turned her head and saw the man give John’s mother the finger. “What is wrong with you?” she asked.

  “Bad men.” The old woman bulled forward in the snow, one hand holding the knot of her babushka.

  “They don’t have jobs so they’re automatically bad people, right? He’s probably been looking all over the valley, just like John. But you wouldn’t understand that. You don’t know what it means to be looked down on by people simply because they have money and you don’t.”

  “Bad men, you talk to bad men. Drinking, dirty, long hair.”

  “What are you talking about? You drink beer, you have long hair.” Sheila had regained her lead. Now that they were safely away from the men, the old woman seemed to have lost her strength. She leaned against Sheila as if exhausted, the purse crushed between their hips. Sheila felt in her pocket for the twenty dollars, then remembered it was in her sweatshirt. She held John’s mother’s arm and steered her down McClure.

  The Giant Eagle stood on the corner of Eighth Avenue and McClure, its plate-glass windows covered by plywood sheets. Uneven blue spray paint advertised “Parking in Back.” The management had salted both the driveway and sidewalk, and when Sheila stepped onto the bare concrete, her feet slid on the unmelted crystals. At the same instant, John’s mother slipped, and only their falling in opposite directions kept them on their feet. Someone laughed loudly in a high-pitched voice.

  The laugh had come from a child standing by the electric doors, soliciting the customers as they entered. John’s mother brushed Sheila’s hand from her arm and advanced on the child. Sheila hurried after her.

  He was a short, thin boy. Attached to his back and chest by a belted harness were four metal rods supporting a white plastic helmet which encased his head. His neck, a string of tendon surrounding a prominent windpipe, bulged as he breathed. John’s mother stopped short of him, holding her purse to her chest with both hands. Sensing her fear, Sheila stepped between her and the child and patted his shoulder. The child gurgled, shook the change in his can. “When we come out,” Sheila said. “Right?” she asked John’s mother, but Mrs. Wystrzemski had passed them without looking and disappeared through the electric doors. Sheila tapped the boy’s can, winked and followed her in.

  Inside, John’s mother seemed to have forgotten the child. She stood by a pyramid of soda, jabbering in Polish with a woman who wore a similarly horrible green babushka, a black trench coat buttoned up to her neck, and boots. The old woman would never learn as long as John’s father kept his job. Sheila had seen the same blindness in her co-workers at the foster care agency. They told people everything would be fine if they had faith and worked hard. John’s mother used the same criteria, but negatively. People’s misfortunes were a product of lack of faith and laziness; success was inexplicable.

  There were only two checkout lines open, and the first aisle, the fruits and vegetables, was empty. Above the shelves plastic covers of fluorescent lights hung down like trapdoors. Sheila chose a basket, unbuttoned her coat, and took t
he twenty dollars from the pouch of her sweatshirt. She noticed there were no artichokes, no brussels sprouts. The few cucumbers were spotted with wet wounds. Sheila looked down the aisle, hoping to call John’s mother over and point out the condition of the store, but both old women were gone.

  She saw them again while searching through the meat rack. They stood in the middle of the bread aisle, carrying on their conversation, hands fluttering. There were gaps on the shelves beside them where the management must have deleted items to save money. Sheila watched them for a second, then turned back to the meat.

  Early shoppers had bought all the hamburger, but there were plenty of steaks. On Long Island, Sheila had gone to a butcher, and the cuts she inspected now seemed fattier, white tributaries invading the red flesh. She poked her thumb into the cellophane to feel for bones, discarded package after package.

  While she was sorting out the five best, standing back from the cooler, imagining how much better her dinner would be than the bland stews and roasts John’s mother served, the handicapped child appeared around the corner. He moved jerkily, one shoulder twisted behind, as if someone were holding him back. His helmet, attached to his angled torso, forced his face to the right, so that only one of his bug-eyes was visible to her. As he neared, he rattled his can.

  John’s mother and her twin were still gabbing away in the bread aisle. “Come on,” Sheila whispered to the child, now jangling the coins at her. She tapped the top of the can and pointed to the two old women. Careful of his harness, she gently pushed him away from her and up the aisle.

  He dragged himself toward the women, swaying between the half-empty shelves. John’s mother did not seem to notice him, but the other woman turned her head and kept it locked on the child. Sheila ducked behind a tower of sugar wafers. Frozen, the other woman stared at the boy, and soon John’s mother stopped talking and turned to see what she was looking at. The child raised the can above his helmet, pushing it first at the other woman, then at John’s mother. As if being robbed, she dug through her purse, tissues and pens falling to the floor, her head down, avoiding the child. She reached her hand to the can and dropped in a coin, then took the other woman by the arm and hustled her away.