“Are you an old friend of Henry’s?” asked Osiecki, trying lamely to worm his way into Sheldon’s good graces.
“Mister Miller is everybody’s friend,” was the answer.
“He used to work for me,” I explained.
“Oh, I see! Now I get it,” said Osiecki. He seemed inordinately relieved.
“He’s got a business of his own now,” I added.
Sheldon beamed and began twiddling the jeweled rings on his fingers.
“A legitimate business,” said Sheldon, rubbing his hands together like a pawnbroker. Hereupon he slipped one of his rings off and held it under Osiecki’s nose. It held a large ruby. Osiecki examined it appraisingly and passed it over to Louella. Meanwhile Sheldon had slipped another ring off and handed it to Mona to examine. This time it was a huge emerald. Sheldon waited a few moments to observe the effects of this procedure. Then he ceremoniously took two rings off the hand, both diamonds. These he placed in my hand. Then he put his fingers to his lips and went Shhhhh!
While we were exclaiming how wonderful the stones were Sheldon reached into his vest pocket and brought out a little package wrapped in tissue paper. He undid this over the table, opening it out flat in the palm of his hand. Five or six cut stones gleamed forth, all small ones but of extraordinary brilliance. He laid them carefully on the table and reached into his other vest pocket. This time he brought forth a string of tiny pearls, exquisite pearls, the like of which I had never seen.
When we had feasted our eyes on all these treasures, he again assumed one of his mystifying poses, held it for an impressive length of time, then dove into his inside coat pocket and extracted a long wallet of Moroccan make. He unfolded this in mid-air, like a prestidigitator, then, one by one, he drew forth bills of all denominations in about a dozen different currencies. If it was real money, as I had good reason to believe it was, it must have represented several thousand dollars.
“Aren’t you afraid to walk around with all this stuff in your pockets?” someone inquired.
Fluttering his fingers in the air, as if touching little bells, he replied sententiously: “Sheldon knows how to manage.”
“I told you he was nuts,” cackled O’Mara.
Oblivious of the remark, Sheldon continued: “In this country no one bothers Sheldon. This is a civilized country. Sheldon always minds his own business.… Isn’t that so, Mister Miller?” He paused to inflate his chest. Then he added: “Sheldon is always polite, even to niggers.”
“But Sheldon.…”
“Wait!” he cried. “Quiet, please!” And then, with a mysterious twinkle in his gimlet eyes, he unbuttoned his shirt, rapidly retreated a few steps until his back touched the window, dangled a piece of black tape which was slung around his neck, and before we could say Boo! gave a terrific blast from a police whistle attached to the tape. The noise pierced our eardrums. It was hallucinating.
“Grab it!” I yelled, as Sheldon raised it to his lips again.
O’Mara clutched the whistle tightly. “Quick! hide everything!” he yelled. “If the cops come we’ll have a hell of a time explaining this loot.”
Osiecki at once gathered the rings, the bills, the wallet and the jewels together, calmly slipped them in his coat pocket, and sat down with arms folded, waiting for the police to arrive.
Sheldon looked on scornfully and contemptuously. “Let them come,” he said, his nose in the air, his nostrils quivering. “Sheldon is not afraid of the police.”
O’Mara busied himself stuffing the whistle back in Sheldon’s bosom, buttoning his shirt, then his vest and coat. Sheldon permitted him to do all this quite as if he were a mannequin being dressed for the show window. He never once took his eyes off Osiecki however.
Sure enough, in a few moments the bell rang. Mona rushed to the door. It was the police all right.
“Talk!” muttered O’Mara. He raised his voice as though continuing a heated argument. I responded in the same key, not caring what I said. At the same time I signaled Osiecki to join in. All I could get from him was a grin. With arms folded he placidly watched and waited. Between snatches of the mock dispute Mona could be heard protesting that we knew nothing about a police whistle. Hadn’t heard a thing, I could hear her say. O’Mara was chattering away like a magpie, assuming other voices, other intonations now. In deaf-and-dumb code he was frantically urging me to follow suit. Had the police brushed their way in at that moment they would have witnessed a droll piece of business. In the midst of it I broke out laughing, forcing O’Mara to redouble his efforts. Louella, of course, sat like a stone. Osiecki looked upon the performance as if from a stall in the circus. He was completely at ease; in fact he was radiant. As for Sheldon, he never budged from his position. His back was still against the window. He remained there all buttoned up, as if waiting for the window dresser to arrange his arms and legs. Repeatedly I waved to him to speak, but he remained impervious, aloof, altogether disdainful, in fact.
Finally we heard the door close and Mona scurrying back.
“The stupid fools!” she said.
“They always come when I blow the whistle,” said Sheldon in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I only hope the landlord doesn’t come down,” I remarked.
“They’re away for the weekend,” said Mona.
“Are you sure those cops are not standing outside?” said O’Mara.
“They’ve gone,” said Mona, “I’m sure of it. God, there’s nothing worse than a thick mick, unless it’s two thick micks. I thought I’d never convince them.”
“Why didn’t you invite them in?” asked Osiecki. “That’s always the best way.”
“Yes,” said Louella, “we always do that.”
“It was a good stunt,” grinned Osiecki. “Do you always play games like that? He’s fun, this Sheldon.” He got up leisurely and dumped the loot on the table. He went over to Sheldon and said: “Could I have a look at that whistle?”
O’Mara was instantly on his feet, ready to fling both arms around Sheldon. “Cripes! Don’t start that again!” he begged.
Sheldon put his two hands out, palms forward, as if to ward us off. “Quiet!” he whispered, reaching with his right hand for the back pocket of his trousers. With one hand thus extended and the other on his hip, but concealed by his coat, he said quietly and grimly: “If I lose the whistle I always have this.” So saying, he whipped out a revolver and leveled it at us. He pointed it at each of us in turn, no one daring to make a move or utter a sound for fear his hand would automatically press the trigger. Convinced that we were properly impressed, Sheldon slowly returned the revolver to his hip pocket.
Mona made a beeline for the bathroom. In a moment she was calling me to join her. I excused myself to see what she wanted. She almost dragged me in, then closed and locked the door. “Please,” she whispered, “get them out of here, all of them, I’m afraid something will happen.”
“Is that what you wanted? All right,” I said, but halfheartedly.
“No, please,” she begged, “do it right away. They’re crazy, all of them.”
I left her locked in the bathroom and returned to the group. Sheldon was now showing Osiecki a murderous-looking pocketknife which he also carried with him. Osiecki was testing the blade with his thumb.
I explained that Mona was feeling ill, thought it best we break up.
Sheldon was for running out and telephoning a doctor. Finally we succeeded in ousting them, Osiecki promising to take good care of Sheldon, and Sheldon protesting that he could take care of himself. I expected to hear the whistle blow in a few minutes. I wondered what the cops would say when they emptied Sheldon’s pockets. But no sound broke the silence.
As I undressed for bed my eye fell on the little brass ashtray, from India supposedly, which I was especially fond of. It was one of the little objects which I had selected the day I bought the furniture; it was something I hoped to keep forever. As I held it in my hand, examining it anew, I suddenly realized that not a thing in the place
belonged to the past, my own past. Everything was brand new. It was then I thought of the little Chinese nut which I had kept since childhood in a little iron bank on the mantelpiece at home. How I had come by this nut I no longer remember; it had probably been given me by some relative returning from the South Seas. At intervals I used to open the little bank, which never had more than a few pennies in it, get out the nut and fondle it. It was as smooth as suede, the color of light sienna, and had a black band running lengthwise through the center. I have never seen another nut like it. Sometimes I would take it out and carry it about with me for days or weeks, not for good luck, but because I liked the feel of it. It was a completely mysterious object to me, and I was content to leave it a mystery. That it had an ancient history, that it had passed through many hands, that it had traveled far and wide, I was certain. It was that which endeared it to me. One day, after I had been married to Maude for some time, I had such a longing for this little fetish that I made a special trip to my parents’ home to recover it. To my amazement and disappointment I was informed that my mother had given it to some little boy in the neighborhood who had expressed a liking for it. What boy? I wanted to know. But she could no longer remember. She thought it silly of me to be so concerned about a trifle. We talked of this and that, waiting for my father to arrive and have dinner together.
“What about my theater,” I suddenly demanded. “Did you get rid of that too?”
“Long ago,” said my mother. “You remember little Arthur who lived in the flats across the way? He was crazy about it.”
“So you gave it to him?” I had never cared much for little Arthur. He was a born sissy. But my mother thought he was a grand little fellow, had such lovely manners, and so on.
“Do you suppose he still has it?” I asked.
“Oh no, of course not! He’s a big fellow now, he wouldn’t want to play with that any more.”
“You can’t tell,” I said. “Maybe I’ll run over there and see.”
“They’ve moved.”
“And you don’t know where to, I suppose?”
She didn’t, of course, or most likely she did but wouldn’t tell me. It was so foolish of me to want these old things back, she repeated.
“I know it,” I said, “but I would give anything to see them again.”
“Wait till you have children of your own, then you can buy them new ones, better ones.”
“There couldn’t be a better theater than that one,” I protested vehemently. I gave her a long spiel about my Uncle Ed Martini who had spent months and months making it for me. As I talked I could see it again standing under the Christmas tree. I could see my little friends, who always dropped in during the holidays, sitting in a circle on the floor, watching me manipulate the paraphernalia which went with the theatre.
My uncle had thought of everything, not only changes of scene and a variety of cast but footlights, pulleys, wings, backdrops, everything imaginable. Every Christmas I brought out this theater, up until I was sixteen or seventeen years of age. I could play with it today even more passionately than when I was a child, so beautiful, so perfect, so intricate it was. But it was gone and I would never see it again. Most certainly I would never find another one like it, for this one had been made with love and with a patience which no one today seems to possess. It was strange, too, I reflected, because Ed Martini had always been regarded as a good-for-nothing, a man who wasted his time, who drank too much and talked too much. But he knew what would make a child happy!
Nothing from my boyhood had been preserved. The tool chest had been given to the Good Will Society, my story books to another little urchin whom I detested. What he had done with my beautiful books I could well imagine. The exasperating part of it all was that my mother would make not the slightest effort to help me recover these belongings. About the books, for instance, she averred that I had read them over so many times I must know the contents by heart. She simply could not, or would not, understand that I wanted to possess them physically. Perhaps she was unconsciously punishing me for the light-hearted way I used to accept gifts.
(The desire to strengthen the ties which bound me to the past, to my wonderful childhood, was becoming ever stronger. The more insipid and distasteful the everyday world became, the more I glorified the golden days of childhood. I could see more and more clearly as time went on that my childhood had been one long holiday—a carnival of youth. It wasn’t that I felt myself growing old, it was simply that I realized I had lost something precious.)
This theme became even more poignant when my father, thinking to revive pleasant memories, would tell me of the doings of my old playmate, Tony Marella. “I just read something about him last week in The Chat,” he would begin. First it used to be about Tony Marella’s athletic exploits, how, for example, he had won the Marathon and almost dropped dead. Then it was about the club Tony Marella had organized, and how he was going to improve the lot of the poor boys in the neighborhod. There was always a photo of him accompanying the article. From The Chat, which was just a local weekly, he soon began to be talked about in the Brooklyn dailies. He was a figure to be reckoned with, he would be heard from one of these days. Yes, it wouldn’t be surprising if he were to run for Alderman soon. And so on.… There was no doubt about it, Tony Marella was the new star in the firmament of the Bushwick Section. He had started from the bottom, had triumphed over all handicaps, had put himself through law school; he was a shining example of what the son of a poor immigrant could make of himself in this glorious land of opportunity.
Much as I liked Tony Marella, it always sickened me to hear the way my folks raved about him. I had known Tony from grammar school; we were always in the same class and we graduated together at the head of the class. Tony had to struggle for everything, whereas for me it was the contrary. He was a tough, rebellious kid whose animal spirits drove the teachers crazy. With the boys he was a born leader. For years I lost track of him completely. Never even gave him a thought. One winter’s evening, tramping through the snow, I ran into him. He was on his way to a political meeting, and I, I was keeping a date with some dizzy blonde. Tony tried to get me to accompany him to the meeting, said it would do me good. I laughed in his face. A bit peeved, he began talking politics to me, told me he was out to reform the Democratic party of our district, our old home district. Again I laughed, this time almost insultingly. To this Tony cried: “You’ll be voting for me in a couple of years, wait and see. They need men like me in the Party.” “Tony,” I said, “I’ve never voted yet and I don’t think I ever will. But if you’re running for office I may make an exception. I’d like nothing better than to see you become President of the United States. You’d be a credit to the White House.” He thought I was kidding him, but I was dead serious.
In the midst of this talk Tony mentioned the name of his possible rival, Martin Malone. “Martin Malone!” I exclaimed. “Not our Martin Malone?” “The very one,” he assured me. Now the coming figure in the Republican Party. I was that surprised you could have knocked me over with a feather. That blockhead! How had he ever come into such prominence? Tony explained that it was the father’s influence. I remembered old man Malone well; he was a good man and an honest politician, rare thing. But his son! Why, Martin, who was four years older than us, was always at the foot of the class. He stuttered badly too, or he did as a boy. And this dunce was now a leading figure in local politics. “You see why I’m not interested in politics,” I said. “There’s where you’re wrong, Henry,” said Tony vehemently. “Would you want to see Martin Malone become a Congressman?” “Frankly,” said I, “I don’t give a damn who becomes Congressman of this district, or any district. It doesn’t matter in the slightest. It doesn’t even matter who’s President. Nothing matters. The country isn’t run by these shits.” Tony shook his head in thorough disapproval. “Henry, you’re lost,” he said. “You’re an out and out anarchist.” And on this we parted, not to meet again for a number of years.
The old man
never ceased harping on Tony’s virtues. I knew, of course, that my father was only trying to put some life in me. I knew that after he had done talking about Tony Marella he would ask how the writing business was coming along, had I sold anything yet, and so on. And if I said that nothing of importance had happened yet, my mother would then give me one of those sad, sidelong looks, as if to pity me for the ignorance of my ways, perhaps adding aloud that I had always been the brightest boy in the class, that I had had every opportunity, yet here I was trying to become a foolish thing like a writer. “If you could only write something for the Saturday Evening Post!” she would say. Or, to make my position even more ludicrous, this: “Maybe The Chat would take one of your stories!” (Everything I wrote, incidentally, she called a story, though I had explained to her a dozen or more times that I didn’t write “stories.” “Well, whatever they are, then,” was always her final word.)
In parting I would always say to her: “You’re sure now there are none of my old things left?” The answer always was—“Forget it!” In the street, as she stood at the fence to wave good-bye, there’d be this Parthian shot from her: “Don’t you think you’d better give up that writing and find a job? You’re not getting any younger, you know. You may be an old man before you’re famous.”
I would leave filled with remorse that I hadn’t made their evening more entertaining. On the way to the elevated station I had to pass Tony Marella’s old home. His father still ran a cobbler’s shop on the street front. Tony had blossomed right out of that hovel in which he was raised. The edifice itself had undergone no changes in the generation which had passed. Only Tony had changed, had evolved, in keeping with the times. I felt certain he still spoke Italian to his parents, still kissed his father affectionately when greeting him, was still providing for the family out of his meager salary. What a different atmosphere reigned in that household! What a joy it must have been to his parents to see Tony making his way in the world! When he made his grand speeches they were unable to understand a word he said. But they knew he was saying the right thing. Everything he did was right in their eyes. He was indeed a good son. And, if he ever made the grade, he would be a damned good President.