30 Pieces of a Novel (51 page)

He takes her hand and they walk. He asks her who she plays with at camp; she says, “Avery's my best friend there, I play with her the same every day.” “Every is your friend Avery day?” and she says, “Are you making fun of her name? That's not nice, and you and Mommy tell me on things like that not to,” and he says, “No, it's only I just noticed the closeness of the two words.” “Avery isn't a word, it's a name,” and he says, “Right, you win. Listen, the lunch I made you today, was it enough?” and she says, “It was fine.” “Did it taste okay and there was sufficient variety?” and she says, “I said it was fine.” “You got the box of chocolate kisses in the bag, didn't you?” and she says, “Don't lie.” “Are you still mad at me for talking so long with those men? You know I couldn't help it. I haven't seen Lenny, the tall one, for a while. You heard, we go as far back as college together, when between the two of us we had a full head of hair. No, the truth is he was always balder than I. And you don't want me to be impolite on the street. He can call the cops and have me arrested. That's why it's best not to be stopped by anyone outside with a cellular phone.” “He didn't have any, and you're not being funny. And if he's your friend you shouldn't talk about his being bald that way.” “Why, he brought it up, and I was referring to my own baldness too. But tell me—this is important for tomorrow—do you want cream cheese on your lunch bagel instead of peanut butter, or peanut butter and jelly? Actually, if it gets too warm out the cream cheese can spoil, while the peanut butter or peanut butter and jelly—oh, my goodness, look who's there.” A man's standing at the corner not too far away, smiling and shaking his head and waiting for them, she's sure. She doesn't recognize him but she knows he's going to stop her father and they're going to waste more time talking of nothing that interests her till she gets mad. “What do you know,” Gould says, “Burton Minowitz. We haven't run into each other since yesterday,” and they shake hands and the man says, “It's true, I can't walk on Broadway three blocks without seeing you. What're you doing, following me?” and he says, “You got it. A big investigation, Josephine's really the lead detective, and they only put me on with her to make her cover look visually more realistic, right, sweetheart?” and she thinks, Does he want her to answer that? Well, she won't; whatever she says it'll just lead to more silly talk from them. “Look, Burt, I wish I had the time to chat about everything that's happened to you and me since yesterday, but she's got to get home.” She does, she thinks, but not like the way he said it. It's as if she's sick instead of bored with their talk. “You just pick her up from camp? I can tell by the sack-my boy has the identical one in blue,” and she thinks, Oh, God, no, and her father says, “Yup, a few minutes ago,” and the man says, “Which one you go to, honey?” and she says, “June camp,” and her father says, “The one at St. Matthew's between West End and Broadway,” and the man says, “We're sending our boy to Cathedral; it's where I'm off to right now. St. Matt's would be a lot closer, but he wanted to be with his friends.” “Our older girl went there two years ago and we found it sort of not together … was it two years ago or three?” he asks her, and she says, “I don't know. Can we go?” and he says, “In a minute. Anyway, the kids were sort of rough, or unruly, rather, and the counselors somewhat apathetic and negligent, I thought. I was afraid they'd lose her when they went on a trip to Liberty Island,” and the man says, “Haven't seen anything like that. Aaron loves it, the other boys are friendly, and the counselors are very responsive and conscientious,” and she starts walking; she's not going to stay for any of this anymore. Are all men her father's and that man's age—older fathers, she's saying—big blabberers? If her father doesn't chase after her, she's going to walk the rest of the way to their building; she knows where it is, not the street number so much but the stores on the Broadway corner of the street it's on, and it's at the bottom of the hill on the right and faces the river. “Wait, Josephine—listen, Burt, you see what's happening; some other time,” and runs after her, and Burt says, “But I'm going that way—we should've just walked together,” and Gould catches up with her, grabs her hand to stop her, and says, “Just say you want me to take you home, that's all you have to do,” and she says, “I said so, and I thought you knew it.” “All right, all right, maybe you did. So what do you want? Want a bagel along the way—something else?” and she says, “First let's cross the street. That man's behind us, and if he catches us we'll only go slow,” and they cross Broadway and she wants a bagel, she's hungry, but doesn't want to stop anymore. He might see someone he knows in the bagel place or even while he's looking out the window while they're waiting in line, and then he could yell out the store to that person if the door's open or run after them, even, once she got her bagel, and so on. She only wants to go home, even if there are no bagels there. She and Fanny ate the last two this morning unless he bought some since then. “Did you or Fanny buy bagels today for home?” and he says, “Why, should we stop for some? That'll mean crossing Broadway again if you want to get them hot at Ray's Bagels,” and she says, “I'd rather go home. Can we take a taxi?” and he says, “For what, seven blocks? Come on, you got strong legs—we'll be home in twelve minutes if we walk at a fast clip,” and they walk a block and a half, he asks her about camp, same questions he asks every camp day and she answers them the same, but he smiles and says things like “No kidding” and “Wow, that sounds like fun,” as if he's hearing her answers for the first time, when he says, “Excuse me, sweetie,” and lets go of her hand and goes over to a very old lady who seems to be having trouble stepping off the curb, she keeps raising one foot and then putting it back down on the same place, and he says, “Need any assistance getting across the street, ma'am?” and she says, “No, in getting a cab. If I try waving my cane or hand for one I'll get all unbalanced and trip,” and he says, “I'll hail one,” and Josephine thinks, Oh, darn, why can't others do it? Why's it always have to be him? More time wasted, and suppose no taxis come? and he says to her, “Stay here while I get a cab for the woman,” and she thinks, Yeah yeah, and he goes into the street and signals for a cab and several pass and he keeps signaling and one stops and he opens the door and helps the woman off the sidewalk and into the cab and she doesn't say thank you. She speaks to the driver and then sits back and faces front and her father shuts the door and through the window says goodbye. The lady just stares at him—no smile, even—as the taxi pulls away.

“That lady was rude,” she says, walking, and he says, “Why, what'd she do to you?” and she says, “Not me; she didn't thank you for what you did,” and he says, “Listen, you just want to do good, don't ask or expect anything in return, and you and the rest of the world will be much better off, not only because of what you've done, but—” and she says, “That's not how you tell me to act when someone helps. And it's so easy—it's just the lips you have to move,” and he says, “You've young lips; even mine are young, in comparison. Hers are much older and something might be hurting them or some other place in her or she could be partly demented, which one can become at that age,” and she thinks, What's demented? No, it'll take him a long time to tell her, and if it's complicated he'll slow down or even stand still to make sure she gets it, so she doesn't ask, and he thinks, She doesn't know what that word means; she can't, and he Says, “By demented, I meant-” and she says, “I Know, I Know,” and he says, “What?” and she says, “You don't have to tell me, I'm not in school,” and walks faster, and he has to run to catch up with her and takes her hand and they walk.

Three blocks later there's a man sitting on the ground in front of the Korean restaurant Gould's said a few times he wants to take the family to or order in from—and the kids always say if he does they won't eat—with his arms out and pants legs rolled up and saying loudly, to no one in particular, it seems, “Don't walk by me like that. People, you see the condition I'm in. You're not blind and me neither. I'm destitute and crippled and I wouldn't be lying here if I didn't have to, but I have no home. Please, people, help a poor cripple with a family dying for food,” and her father stops, and she says, “You think he's really poor and hurt and his family?” and he says, “Maybe you're right; it is quite a story”—he'd just started searching through his pants pockets for change—“but then again, what's a quarter?” and holds one up and says, “Want to put it in his paper cup?” “I don't like him. Even if he's telling the truth, he shouldn't be scaring children with his begging and screaming for help and showing the ugly sores on his legs,” and he says, “Okay, you don't have to,” and goes over and drops the quarter into the cup, and the man says, “God bless you, sir,” but doesn't smile—he looks at her father as if he wants to spit on him; that's what it seems like to her—and her father says, “Thank you,” and comes back and takes her hand and they walk and she doesn't want to talk anymore, just stares straight ahead, and he thinks, What's she moody about now? What'd he do? The man? What was so bad about that? and it only took a few seconds; and she thinks, If they don't talk they'll walk faster and get home sooner. If he does talk to her she'll first pretend not to hear and if he says it again she'll answer with a yes or no but something quick and then pretend she's thinking to herself again, and maybe he'll stop talking or at least asking her questions, when she sees coming toward them and walking her dog a woman from their building, someone her father always stops to talk with, either in the lobby or street or anyplace they meet, even in the elevator. She's a college teacher of a subject he's interested in, she doesn't remember exactly what but it has to do with books they both read, and he says, “Hey, how you doing?” and stops, and then, “Josephine, don't go away, I only want to say hello—a second, sweetie, I promise,” but she keeps going, faster, starts running, and he says to the woman, “See what I'm up against sometimes? She's just come from camp, probably got overtired there—talk to you soon and best to Alan”—and runs after her, but she's nowhere around. The Drive maybe, and he runs to the corner but doesn't see her going down the hill on either side street. She's small, and he runs across the street to make sure she's not walking or hiding behind a parked car. So where the hell is she? Hates it when she does this. She's pulled it on him a few times—his other daughter used to wander off, still does, but not because she was angry at anything he did; she'd get interested in some store window or store and would forget she was with him—and he's told Josephine—told them both—how he feels about it. It's not because he then has to look for her. Someone could snatch her, especially on the side streets between Riverside and Broadway where there are fewer people around. Is that overdoing it? No, it's being realistic. A couple of these side streets—not this one—have SRO hotels and a lot of seedy characters in them—you can sometimes see them hanging out the windows and on the stoops—and there's a church two blocks away that feeds lunch to the homeless and some of those guys hang around after and he's sure are responsible for a lot of the cars being busted into in the neighborhood and who knows what else?

She's in a store, watching him through the window. A drugstore, the only one of the nearby stores she quickly looked at that she thought she could go in without them asking where were her parents or babysitter. He's always teaching her a lesson, so here's one for him: when she wants to go home, he should take her, because he can't pretend this time she didn't tell him. If he wants to talk to people so much when he's walking with her, let him arrange to talk with them on the phone or meet them for coffee later.

He goes inside a store: women's shoes. She wouldn't come in here, her sister would, so why'd he? “Excuse me,” when a saleswoman gets up from a chair and starts over, about to ask what can she do for him, “but I'm looking for my daughter. Young, small, dark hair, in shorts?” and she says, “How recent?” and he says, “At the most, minute and a half ago,” and she says no but the look says she doesn't believe him. Why else she think he'd come in here? Maybe it's just that she had to get out of the chair, but can't she see he's worried? “Thank you,” and goes to a bookstore two stores away—store between is a tiny chocolate shop with only a few feet of space for customers, and he saw through its window she wasn't there—looks up the five or so aisles and goes back outside and looks around. She's never gone off for so long on their walks home. Chances are slim anything can happen to her, but they still exist and does he really know how slim the chances are? Slim for what age, hers, or for kids younger and older? She could be home now, if she ran all the way. There's a phone on the next corner, and he should call from it to see if she's there. But if she
is
looking at him from a hiding place now she'll see how worried he looks and will probably show herself soon. Maybe he should put it on a bit, look even more worried, till she thinks she's gone far enough in this trick or in getting even with him or whatever she's doing it for, and that if she doesn't he could get so worried that when he does finally see her, since she has to come out sometime, he might explode. The drugstore, he just notices; that should have been the first place he checked. His girls love looking at the makeup and hair stuff and the new things they have for kids their age—though he's almost sure she's just hiding somewhere, not looking at store shelves, though there's also that chance she's already home. Just go in, nothing to lose, quick peek—and heads for the store. She sees him coming and thinks, Better leave before he gets here so he won't be even madder that he had to go in to find her and she didn't come out on her own.