Draw the Dark (21 page)

Now, peering through gaps in the boards, I can just make out Mr. Eisenmann and another man and Papa. Papa is shouting; he’s shaking his fist in Mr. Eisenmann’s face. The other man is talking to Papa, trying to calm him down. He catches at Papa’s arm: “Mordecai, stop, you don’t want to cross him; this can only end badly if you...”

Papa curses and the words sound ugly coming from his mouth. That’s how I know Papa is beyond caring. I can’t see his face well, only his body from the shoulders down because of the angle, but I know from his voice and the set of his feet and the way he bunches his fists. When the other man speaks, Papa shakes him off and then pushes him so he goes staggering back. I hear a cry and then a crash as the man smashes into the side of a stall. The horse inside snorts and whinnies in alarm; it gives the stall a stout BANG with its hooves. . . .

“There now, Witek, stop, you’re upsetting the horses.” It is Mr. Eisenmann, and his voice is abrupt, the way it is when he gives orders. “What’s done is done. Now, of course, we can talk about a monetary settlement....”

“Money?” The word explodes from Papa’s mouth. “Do you think money matters? I hold you responsible for this. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen and now this. . . .”

“It’s not as if she’s innocent.” Mr. Eisenmann’s tone is colder than ice. “She’s brought this on herself. I hate to be crude about it, but no one forced her to lift her skirts.
That
is the result of breeding and
your
responsibility, wouldn’t you agree?”

Papa says nothing for a time. Through the gap, I see his hands unfurl, and I think:
No, Papa, no, don’t give up, don’t let him win.

When Papa speaks again, his voice is ragged. “How much money?”

“A yearly stipend to pay for her needs and the . . . well, a yearly stipend. That’s more than generous, considering that I’ve absolutely no legal obligation in this matter whatsoever.”

It is the wrong thing to say. “Yes, you
would
think of that. Wait until they take your lives from you, just . . .
wait
....” Papa’s voice breaks, and now I hear that he is weeping, and it is almost more than I can bear. “We pay and pay, the Jew
always
pays ....”

“Come now, Mordecai, you’re being overly dramatic. I gave you your life, your job, your position. Is it my fault that I was taken advantage of?” Yet Mr. Eisenmann sounds almost bored. “It’s not as if your family is the first to suffer from this kind of thing, and it won’t be the last.
You’re
just lucky that I have the means to help you.”

“Only because you don’t want the scandal.”

“And you do?”

Papa says nothing.

“I thought not. That’s wise. There is, after all, your boy to think of and your wife.”

Papa’s voice is tight as a string. “You don’t own me.”

“On the contrary, I own every inch of your flesh. You owe everything to me: your position, your job, your
life
. I gave you your chance; I discovered you in that cheap little flat in Milwaukee with the rats and the cockroaches. I got Anderson to rent that farmhouse to you dirt cheap so you could paint to your heart’s content. I scraped you off the street, and I can throw you back just as easily. So you do not tell me what to do. I tell
you
. Is that clear?”

A pause. Then Papa comes back: “Perfectly.”

“I am so glad. Now you
will
inform the union members of my final, nonnegotiable offer and count yourselves lucky I don’t call the National Guard and throw you all in jail. Don’t think I won’t. There is plenty more labor to be had, and all I have to do is say the word.”

“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re all alike, all you Germans,” Papa says, bitterly. “You’re all brothers under the skin.”

“And the Jews aren’t? Of course, we take care of our own. Don’t you lecture me about brotherhood and morals.”

“But the Jews aren’t murderers.”

“No, you’re just thieves,” says Mr. Eisenmann easily. “You think to cuckold men like me.”

“What ...
what
?”

“You heard me. You need a dictionary? You want me to draw you a pretty picture? Oh but of course, you do that so well, don’t you . . . when you’re not busy
screwing
what isn’t yours.”

No one says anything. My skin is icy with sweat. I didn’t tell, Papa, I didn’t.

Eisenmann barks a harsh laugh. “No wonder now where your daughter picked it up so well, eh? She must’ve learned from Daddy.”

“I . . .” Papa sounds strangled, like he’s choking on his own words. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh come on. You think I’m a fool? You think I don’t know? I’m talking about you and Catherine. I’m talking about you, my
employee
, and my little wife-to-be.”

Oh, Papa. Oh, Papa. Below, there is silence. My heart thuds in my chest. Oh, Papa, leave now, leave these people,
leave
, just let the wolves go....

Then the other man says, “I don’t need to hear this.”

“No,” says Mr. Eisenmann. “Stay, Walter, I insist. I’ll need a witness in case Mr. Witek here decides that violence is the answer to his particular problems.”

Papa finally speaks: “Nothing happened.”

Mr. Eisenmann lets go of a nasty laugh. “No? That’s not what I heard.”

“You couldn’t have heard anything. Anything you’ve heard is a lie.”

“Oh, I assure you: Catherine may be many things, but she doesn’t lie to me. In fact, she told me about your boy spying on the two of you. In truth, I think she found it rather exciting. I know she couldn’t get enough of me after she related her little tale of voyeuristic abandon. Tell me, is your boy all right? Not traumatized seeing Daddy in a rather compromising position?”

Papa says nothing. My face burns.

“Cat got your tongue? Oh stop pouting, Mordecai. Do you think it escaped my notice that she wanted you up at the house? Do you think
anything
escapes me? I
gave
you to her; I’m paying for the damn portrait after all. She’s like a cat in heat that way. She fancied herself an artist, and I gave her one. Only a word of warning, Mordecai: She is rich and capricious and easily tires of a new toy, and that’s exactly what you are. You’re a novelty, and she will throw you away the moment you prove inconvenient. I’m doing you a vast favor, warning you about this.

“And tell the truth, you’ve been lusting after her since that sunset painting, haven’t you? Oh yes, you’re such a good married man, a man with principles . . . no wonder you jumped at the offer of a job in Winter. Take you far away from Milwaukee, yes? What must have gone through your mind when she arrived here and you found out that we were engaged? If anyone is the injured party, it is I.”

At last, Papa has found his voice: “My family suffers in ways that yours will never. We are poor compared to you; we are Jews; and now my daughter . . .”

“And now your daughter has proven that even a Jewess makes some very bad choices. Given her . . . difficulties, I’m being generous, and you know it. Be thankful you still have a job.” Mr. Eisenmann’s voice turns brisk. “Now, are we done here? Brotz, if you’ll bring around the car . . .”

“Wait.” Papa’s voice is urgent. “You can’t mean that this is the end of it. You can’t let them get off! They’re
Nazis
, for God’s sake! They’ve killed my people, my parents . . . !”

“I will do what I want when I want, and whom I choose to hold responsible is my choice, not yours and . . . Take your hands off . . . Mordecai! I’m warn . . .”

A shout and dull sounds, thuds, then scuffling below, and the snort of horses, the BANG-BANG-STAMP of their hooves, and then the other man—Walter—is shouting: “Stop, stop it, Mordecai, no, stop, you’ll
kill
him ... !”

Oh, Papa, no! I can’t see what’s happening; they’ve moved out of my line of sight, and so I creep to the stairs leading to the main floor of the barn, and I peer through the square. I see Papa and there’s blood on his shirt and face and hands; only it’s Mr. Eisenmann’s blood that’s spurting in great gouts from his nose. His face is coated with it; his chin is oily; the air stinks of rust. He’s on his back, his arms crossed over his face for protection, and Papa is astride, pounding his fists into Mr. Eisenmann wherever he can land them. Then Walter is there, dragging back on Papa and screaming: “Help, help! We need help in here!”

Now there’s the sound of running feet and a shout, and now there are two others. . . . They are men, but their faces are changing, and their eyes are yellow, and one darts to the right, out of sight and then . . . Papa, Papa, the pitchfork, the pitchfork ...no, no

the air’s screaming,

what the
fuck

“What the
fuck
are you doing, what the fuck you put on my bike?”

I whirled around, paintbrush still in hand. High above, crows wheeled and cried, but that was not what froze my blood.

Karl Dekker loomed, squinting through curls of cigarette smoke. He was even grimier than before, and broad streaks of soot painted his neck and face and inked the hollows of his eyes. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he might be a coal miner. He still wore his work coveralls, and a lunch pail dangled loosely from one filthy hand. He reeked of scorched metal. Tweezing the cigarette from his lips, he jabbed it at the bike. “I
said
, what the
fuck
you done to my bike? I sure as hell didn’t ask for
that
shit.”

“I . . .” I had no idea how long I’d been elsewhere—watching the past through David’s eyes—and my first horrified thought was that I’d pulled a Jackson Pollock on Dekker’s bike.

Then I got a good look at what I had done. At what I’d
drawn
.

I had painted over the fairing, and what I had painted there were the unmistakable features of a wolf’s head: from its yellow eyes to a narrow streamlined muzzle. Fangs, long as scythes, glistened above and below the headlights and, as an added touch—and again, completely without my conscious mind getting into the act at all—I had painted a swastika dead center on the front fender.

I got slowly to my feet, my eyes bugging out of my head. I was still clutching Mordecai Witek’s brush in one hand. “I . . .” I swallowed. “I . . .”

Dekker grabbed my neck and thrust his face toward mine. “Listen to me, you fucking asshole. I want some goddamned Nazi shit on my bike, I’ll ask for it. You think I need this? What you trying to do, hunh? You trying to say something?”

His breath stank of cigarettes and sour beer. I said, “I’m sorry... I ... I wasn’t thinking....”

“Fucking got that right.” He gave me another shake then thrust me to one side so hard I backpedaled, feet tangling. My hip butted one of the sawhorses, and the makeshift contraption toppled, slopping an open container of red paint onto the cold earth. “I want a fucking freak show on my bike, I’ll ask for it. How’m I gonna ride that, hunh?” He aimed a kick at my midsection, but I rolled, got to my hands and knees, and scuttled back against the rough wood of the lean-to.

“Hey!” It was Dekker’s father, trotting over from the chop shop. “Hey, Karl, back off, back off.... ” I watched as Dekker’s father collared his son and dragged him off. Dekker was arguing, his hands waving, until his father finally gave his son a shove in the direction of the shop. At the corner, Dekker screamed something else before disappearing, nothing good I was sure.

“I’d stay outta his way for a while, if I was you.” Dekker’s father planted his fists akimbo. “Not that this isn’t a fine paint job. Ask me, it’s pretty nice, good detail on that wolf and all— except that Nazi shit. What were you thinking, Cage? You are so thoroughly fucked, you know that? Now we got to paint that over and start again....” Mr. Dekker shook his head, sucked on his teeth. “You sure do manage to land yourself in a world of hurt, don’t you?”