Late Stories (7 page)

The eighth? Maybe when a publisher called to say she was taking his first book. That was in '76. He was happy but not ecstatic. He'd been trying to get a story collection or one of his novels published for around fifteen years. But it was a very small publishing house, no advance, a first printing of five hundred copies, and probably little chance of getting any book reviews or attention. So maybe that was his ninth happiest moment, and the eighth was when a major publisher took his next novel and for enough of an advance for him to live on for a year if he lived frugally. But again, not a great happiness when the editor called him with the news, since the novel was accepted based on the first sixty-seven pages he'd sent them and the rest of it still had to be written.

The tenth also happened while he was living in New York and had no phone. 1974. Same year
Harper's
took, but months later. He'd come downstairs from his apartment to go for a run in Central
Park. The mailman, whom he knew by name—Jeff—was in the building's vestibule, slotting mail into the tenants' mailboxes. He dug a letter out of his mailbox and gave it to him. It was from the National Endowment for the Arts. He'd been rejected two years in a row by them for a writing fellowship, so expected to be rejected again. He opened the envelope. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I won an NEA fellowship.” “What's that?” Jeff said. He told him. “But it says for five hundred dollars.” “So, five hundred isn't anything to sniff at,” Jeff said. “But I thought all their fellowships are for five thousand.” “Now, five thousand would really be something, landing in your lap like that. Do I get a cut for delivering the news?” He ran down the street to the candy store at the corner, got lots of change and dialed the NEA number from a phone booth there. The person he finally got to speak to who he was told would know how to deal with the matter said “That is strange. We don't have any five-hundred-dollar fellowships. Let me look into it and call you back.” “I don't have a phone,” he said. “Then you'll have to hold the line while I check.” She came back about ten minutes later and said “Are you still there? You were right. Your notification letter was missing a zero.” “So the fellowship is for five thousand?” “In a week you should be receiving a duplicate letter to the one you got today, the only difference being the corrected figure written in.” “When can I start getting the money?” and she said “You'll receive another letter after the duplicate one with some forms to fill out.” “Can I get the money in one lump sum, or do you spread it out over a year?” and she said “Everything will be explained in the instructions accompanying the forms. But to answer your question, yes.” “One lump sum?” “If you want.” “Whoopee,” he said, slapping the metal shelf under the telephone. “Boy, am I ever going to write up a storm the next year.” “That's what we like to hear,” she said.

The eleventh or twelfth happiest moment in his life? He forgets
what number he left off at. It could have been when he was living in a cheap hotel in Paris and was called downstairs by the owner to answer a phone call from “
les États-Unis
,” she said. He ran downstairs. Something awful about one of his parents, he was sure. This was in April, 1964. He'd been in Paris for three months, learning French at the Alliance Française; his ultimate aim was to get a writing job in the city with some American or British company. It was his younger sister. “Dad's not too thrilled with my making this call,” she said. “Too expensive. A telegram would be cheaper, he said, if I kept it short. But I explained the urgency behind my calling you. Prepare yourself, my lucky and talented brother. I have something terrific to tell you.” “Come on,” he said, “what is it? The
madame
here doesn't like me hogging the one phone.” “You got a telephone call from someone at Stanford University. You won a creative writing fellowship there for three thousand dollars, this September.” “Oh my god,” he said. “I forgot all about it, which tells you how much I thought I'd get it.” “Listen, though. This woman said because they took so long to select the four fellows, they want your decision right away. If it's a no, they need to choose someone else in a hurry. I told her I'm sure you'll take it, but I'll call you and then call her with your answer.” “I don't know what to do,” he said. “I mean, I'm grateful, and I should be overjoyed, but I'm just beginning to really like it here and I'm learning the language and making friends. Think they'd let me defer the fellowship for a year?” “I already asked her about that possibility,” she said. “She told me you have to accept it now for this year or reapply with completely different supporting material for the next year, though you wouldn't need to get new references. That's their policy.” “The
madame
's staring at me. I have to hang up. I guess I'll take it, then. My feelings are mixed, as you can see, but it's too good an opportunity to pass up. And California should be fun.” “Monsieur?” the owner
said. “Sometimes,” his sister said, “you have to give up something good to get something better or even comparable. And I'll fly out to California to see you, which will be a nice break for me.”

And his next happiest moment? Can't think of one now, or where he was just as happy or even happier than he was in some of the last ones he mentioned. Maybe, going very far back, when he won the All Around Camper Award at the sleepaway camp he went to with his sisters and his brother Robert in the summer of 1948. So when he was told he won it by the head counselor. Or when the principal of his elementary school—this was in 1949, a couple of months before he graduated—called him and several other eighth-grade students into his office to tell them they'd each gotten into one of New York's elite public high schools, and one of them got into two and would have to choose, and which schools. His was Brooklyn Tech. He was happy but at the same time a bit disappointed because he wanted to go to Stuyvesant, where Robert was a sophomore at, but he obviously didn't do well enough on its admissions test to get in. Odd, because he thought the Stuyvesant test was a breeze compared to the one for Brooklyn Tech.

Any other time? Oh, how could he forget? They were in a little hill town in Southern France, looking at a Giacometti drawing on the wall of a small museum, when he turned to his wife half a year before she became his wife, and said “Let's get married.” She said “Are you joking?” and he said “I'm dead serious. Here, or in Nice by a rabbi if they have one there or some justice of the peace,” and she said “If I got married again it would have to be in New York so my folks and relatives and friends could come. And I'd think you'd want your family there too. But let's talk about it in a few months.” “So you'll consider it then as a possibility?” and she said “Let's say I'm not rejecting the idea outright, as preposterously as it was presented,” and he said “You don't know how happy you've just made
me. All right. I'll shut up about it for a few months.” Of course, he hugged and kissed her and then he took her hand in his and led her to the next Giacometti drawing.

And the saddest moments in his life? His wife's death, of course. Next Robert's. Then his younger sister's. Then his oldest brother in a boating accident a few years ago. Then his mother's. Next his father's. After that, his two best friends dying a year apart, both from strokes. But he doesn't want to think about them. Actually, the second saddest moment of his life had to be when his wife, two years before she died, was in the hospital for pneumonia and her doctors told him she'd have to be intubated and that there was still only a slight chance she'd survive. “One to three percent,” they said, or was it “three to five”? He can't say, when he was told by them several days later that she'll survive, that it was one of the happiest moments in his life. He was too sad at the time. He'd just seen her in her ICU room—in fact, he remembers at that moment looking at her on her bed—struggling with the ventilating tube inside her. “Get this thing out of me . . .
please, please
,” her painful look seemed to say. No, he knew her look; that's what it was saying. But if he was going to list the saddest moments in his life, those would probably be it, plus a few he missed. His wife first, his wife second, then the rest in the order he gave.

And, to end it, something like this: He gets off the bench and walks the rest of the way to his house. The cat's waiting for him by the kitchen door. He wants to be let in and fed. He'll want to be let out after, but he won't let him. It's already getting dark. He gets the opened can of cat food out of the refrigerator, gets the cat's empty plate off the floor, washes it and spoons the rest of the food in the can on it and puts it back on the floor. The cat starts eating. He's about to make himself a drink—something with rum tonight, he thinks; he's been drinking vodka every night for a week—when he
realizes he forgot the Gorky book on the bench. Leave it till tomorrow. No, it'll be gone, or if it rains, wet. Get it now.

He goes back to the bench. The book's gone. Who'd want to take it? Nobody was around; no cars were in the lot, so nobody was in the church. And really, no one but a Russian literary scholar or maybe a serious fiction writer would be interested in it. Maybe someone who lives around here was out for a walk and saw it. He wants to look at the good side of things. So it's possible a passerby got it and will bring it to the church office tomorrow and say he or she found it on one of the benches outside and thought it might belong to someone connected to the church. Ah, just forget it, he thinks. He's never going to read anymore of it. If his wife were alive, he'd go to the church the next day—midafternoon, though; he'd give the person who might have taken it time to bring it to the church—and ask if anyone turned in a book about the Russian writer, Maxim Gorky. He goes home, carefully opens the kitchen door so the cat doesn't run out, and gets some ice out of the freezer and puts it in his glass. Rum it is, with a sliver of lime.

The Girl

S
ummer, 1952. He'd just turned sixteen and was a waiter for two months at a co-ed sleepaway camp. He and the other waiters—there were about fifteen of them, all boys—went to another camp to play a softball game against its waiters. He was his team's best hitter. He often hit balls fifty to a hundred feet farther than anyone else on the team. He wasn't that big a kid, but for some reason—his strong arms and maybe something to do with the wrists—he could hit a ball hard and far. He also had a good eye for the ball. He rarely struck out and he got his share of walks.

Their camp was in Flatbrookville, New Jersey. He thinks the town is underwater now because of a lake that was created when a dam was built there about twenty years after he worked at the camp. The camp they were playing was also on the Delaware River, near Bushkill, Pennsylvania. They were driven there in an old World War II army truck, with an open flat bed large enough to seat the entire waiter staff and all their sports equipment. One of the camp directors and the head of the waiters sat up front with the driver. It took about an hour to get there, which was as long as it took to get to the Bushkill public landing the one time he paddled to it in a canoe with another waiter. His first time in Pennsylvania, he thought then. They didn't do much once they reached the landing. Ate the lunch they brought with them and then paddled back to camp.

This other camp had a softball diamond much better taken care of than their camp's and with real bases, not pieces of cardboard
and linoleum their camp used. They were there only a couple of minutes when the camp director told the team to take batting practice and make it fast. “I want to get the game going so you kids can be back in camp to set up and serve dinner.” Everyone lined up to swing at three pitches each. The camp director lobbed in balls. He hit two of them over the heads of the outfielders, who were from his camp and playing him far. “That a way to go, slugger,” one of them yelled. “Show ‘em where you live.”

“Do that for real when you come up to bat,” the camp director said. “I want to announce in the mess hall tonight that you brought pride to our camp and helped win the game.”

There were about a hundred people from the other camp, kids and adults, sitting in the stands along the first- and third-base lines. One of them, on the third-base side, was a very pretty girl. She was around his age, so he assumed she was a C.I.T., or maybe they had some girl waiters in this camp. Long blond hair brushed back, slim, a good figure, and calm and collected expressions and a bright face. She had the look of some of the brainier girls he knew, but was much prettier than any of them. She was wearing shorts, cut well above her knees, and seemed to have nice strong legs. When she laughed with the girls her age she was sitting with, she laughed modestly, quietly, not loudly or uproariously as the rest of them did. And her face didn't get distorted when she laughed as theirs did. He liked her face. In fact there wasn't anything about her he didn't like. She seemed like the perfect girl for him. He had a hard time taking his eyes off her and wished he could meet her. But what were the chances of that? He wasn't the type of guy to just go over to her after the game and introduce himself and say he hasn't got much time to talk, his camp director will want to get them back on the truck soon and out of here, but can he have her name and does she think he could maybe write her? The camp director had
told them before they left for this camp that it was a kosher one like theirs, though not as strictly religious, and that almost all the campers and staff came from Pennsylvania, and most of those from Philadelphia. “Just thought you should know a little history about who you'll be playing and whipping the butts off of today, and that if they offer you snacks after the game, you can eat them.” Anyway: Pennsylvania. So what good would it be in getting to know her? But who knows.

After he took batting practice, he looked over to her to see if she might be looking at him. One of her friends may have told her that he had looked a lot of times at her. If she was, and she smiled to his smile, or even if she didn't smile, it might give him enough courage to make a move on her later. But she was listening, with her hand holding her chin and with a serious expression, to one of the other girls talking.

The umpire, who was some kid's father from the other camp, said “Okay, visiting team; batter up.” His side went down one-two-three. The pitcher was good; hard to hit. Struck out the first two batters and got the third on a pop-up. He was on deck, batting clean-up, flexing his biceps as he swung two bats, even though she didn't seem the sort of girl to be impressed by them.

The other team got a run the first inning. Three straight singles. He played third base, and because of that fielding position and he always played close to the bag, he got a closer look at her. She was even prettier than he first thought. Beautiful, he'd say. And so mature looking and with a nice even tan on her arms and legs but not her face. Smart. For even her eyebrows were blond. If she wasn't sitting in the shade—a couple of her friends were in the sun—he was sure she'd be wearing a hat. He fielded one grounder that inning and threw a perfect peg to first. Made the play look easy. After they got the third out, he trotted to his team's bench on the third-base side
and sat with his back to her. She didn't look at him when he came off the field. None of the girls she was with did. They were too busy talking and barely looking at the game, even when their waiters were up. To him that was a good sign. That she didn't have a boyfriend on the team. If she did, she'd be looking and smiling at him every now and then and maybe cheering their team on a little. So why were they there then? Maybe they were told to by their counselor or someone of authority, at least, to be there at the start of the game.

He was first up the next inning. He wanted to impress her with a solid hit and his fast base running or if possible even a home run to tie the score. For sure, one of those his first time at the plate, before she and her friends got bored with the game, as girls will, and left, if they were allowed to, because if they were all C.I.T.'s, then they could be there to be near their campers. He knew you're not supposed to swing at the first pitch, especially your first at-bat, but he was eager and the ball looked too good to pass up, coming in slow and fat, and he swung and hit it as far as he ever hit a softball, but it curved foul by about twenty feet.

“Straighten it out next time,” a couple of his teammates yelled. “You can do it.”

He swung at the next pitch, too—a bad one, way too low—and missed. Take it easy, he told himself. You're much too eager. Last thing you want is to strike out in front of her. Even if she had seen him hit the first pitch that far, it went foul, so meant nothing.

He stepped out of the batter's box to calm himself. The pitcher was about to throw the ball and stopped. And it was a real batter's box, chalked like the on-deck circle was and the baselines all the way to the ends of the outfield. He also wanted to give her time to look at him looking pensive and determined.

“Come on, son,” the umpire said. “Get in position. You're wasting time.”

Now that could be embarrassing, he thought, but he won't say anything. He saluted the umpire, then thought what a stupid move, saluting, and got back in the box. Definitely let the next pitch go past if it looks like a ball. Trust your eyes. Wait for another good one. He swung at the next pitch—it would have been a strike if the umpire called it right—and grounded to the pitcher and was thrown out.

The girl stayed around. Cheered once when her side got another run. Or pretended to cheer, really. That's what it looked like to him. Then she and the other girls cheered together “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Na-ho-je, Na-ho-je,” which was the name of their camp, “yea-a-a.”

The score was still two-zip in the fourth inning when two of the players on his team got on base with walks and he came to bat. “Knock it out of the park,” his teammates were shouting. “If anybody can do it, you can.”

“Don't be anxious,” the waiter counselor had told him. “Wait him out. Maybe we can walk around. Or just a simple hit. We need a run and that'll keep it going.”

“Got ya,” he said.

He swung at the first pitch, a fast one straight across the plate, and hit it over the leftfielder's head. He ran around the bases and ended up with a triple. He felt he could have stretched it into a homer, but the camp director, who was coaching at third, held him up.

“Why'd you stop me?” he said. “I could've made it. Then we'd be ahead.”

“Don't be such a hero,” the camp director said. “Best to play it safe. I also didn't want you sliding into home and hurting yourself and being sent to the infirmary. Who'd, then, wait your tables?”

He looked at the girl. She was looking at him. She applauded twice in his direction. Little claps. Like a seal would make. No smile,
though. He took off his baseball cap and waved it to her. Good move, he thought. Dignified. She had to like it. But she quickly looked away. Anyway, she'd noticed him. He had to meet her. What would he say if he did? First of all, how would he? Like he said, he'd just go over to her and he'd say “Hi, my name is Phil. Or Philip to my friends.” No. No stupid jokes. Don't even try. “I saw you in the stands. You seemed interesting. You from Pennsylvania?” This would have to be after the game, and as he thought, quick. And hopefully they'd won. Or if they didn't, then something like “Your team played a good game. I congratulate them. Are you a C.I.T. here?” And then? Well, it'd depend on what she answered. And that he didn't have much time to talk. “Uncle Abe, one of our camp directors, will be in a rush to get us back. I'd like to write you, if you wouldn't mind. Can I ask your name”—if she didn't already give it when he gave his—“and what bunk number you're in, or your address here, so I can write?” If she asked why he'd want to he'd say “Because I thought, just by looking at you, you were interesting.” That ought to do it. And if they do write each other maybe once or twice while they're still at camp, what then after camp's over for both of them at the end of August? Maybe one day take a train or bus to Philadelphia, if that is where she lives, and spend the day with her. Would her parents allow it? Why not? It'd be a weekend afternoon and they're both sixteen, or she almost is, it seems. And there'd be no problem with his parents. They give him lots of freedom. And he'd have the money—he always has a job after school—to pay for the fare himself. And then go to see her a second time. Hold her hand. Visit a museum. Kiss her. Talk to her. What does she like to read? Or maybe they'd already spoken about this. So what does she like to do in the city? What is she studying at school? Her outside interests. What college does she want to go to? Lots of things. And if she lives outside Philadelphia, there must be a way of getting there, too.

The next man filed out. The score was tied for a couple of innings and then the Na-ho-je team got four more runs, almost all on walks. Since it was softball, it was a seven-inning game. He came up a third time and looked over at her. She wasn't looking at him; nor had she, when he was on the field or sitting on the bench—at least when he'd looked her—since that one time she clapped. With two strikes on him, he hit a pitch over the centerfielder's head, even though the outfielders were all playing him deep this time. The centerfielder was fast and had a good arm and threw the ball to third in time to stop him from getting another triple. He was halfway to third and felt lucky to get back to second before he was run down and tagged out. It was by far his longest hit of the day and he looked at the stands to see if she was looking at him, but she wasn't there. Where the hell she go? Standing on second base, he looked around for her. She and some of her friends were already a ways off, running—it looked like racing—to somewhere with a whole bunch of younger campers, probably the kids they were in charge of. Well, there goes that dream, he thought. Nothing he can do to meet her now, unless she comes back here before his team gets back on the truck and leaves.

The batter behind him ground out to end the inning. They didn't score another run, though he felt he did all he could to win. Two big hits, no errors or strikeouts, knocking in their only runs. Anyway, they were behind by so much with only one more turn at bat, another run or two wouldn't have helped.

After the game, they were told to shake the hands of the opposing team, take what refreshments were there—cupcakes and sugar cookies and lemonade—as they probably won't be getting back in time to have supper before they set up and serve, so they'll have it after, and then get back on the truck.

When he shook the pitcher's hand, he said “Good game. You guys played well. What can I say? The better team won. But can I
ask you something? There was a girl sitting in the stands. Tall, she seemed, and very pretty, and really blond hair. Over there,” and he pointed. “With some of her friends. You know which one I'm talking about?”

“Yeah, I know her.”

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“She could. I don't know. What a question to ask.”

“No good? None of my business, right? She's intelligent, though. I could tell by her face—sort of the expressions—and the way she smiled and also her laugh, not like a horse. Even the subtle way she applauded me when I got that triple to tie the score.”

“She applauded you?”

“Not ‘subtle.' Reserved? Tempered? Is that a word? Little claps. Almost pretending. And ‘subdued' is what I think I mean.”

“She's a very nice girl,” the pitcher said.

“Hey, I didn't say she wasn't. I was complimenting her on the way she tried to show her congratulations or whatever you want to call it to someone on the other team. She from Philadelphia?”