Plexus

  Ed Vossler enjoyed a certain protection from his second cousins, the Laskis. Especially from Eddie Laski, who was a little older than us and a most unpleasant fellow too. His brother Tom, whom Eddie aped in every way, was rather a sweet person and already on the way to becoming a figure in the world of fisticuffs. This Tom was about twenty-two or three, quiet, well-behaved, neat in appearance, and rather handsome. He wore long spitcurls, after the manner of Terry McGovern. One would hardly have suspected that he was such a fighter had not Eddie, his brother, boasted so much about him. Now and then we had the pleasure of watching the two of them spar in the backyard where the manure pile stood.

  But Eddie Laski—it was difficult to keep out of his range. As soon as he saw you coming he would block the path, his mouth spread in a wide, nasty grin which bared his big yellow teeth; pretending to shake hands he would make a few passes—like lightning!—and give you a tremendous jab in the ribs or else what he called “a playful poke in the jaw.” The damned fool was always practicing the old one-two. It was positive torture to extricate oneself from his clutches. We were all agreed that he would never make his mark in the ring. “Some day he’ll meet up with the wrong guy!” That was our unanimous verdict.

  Jimmy Newton, who was vaguely related to the Vosslers and the Laskis, was a complete anomaly in their midst. Nobody could have been more silent than he, nor more well-behaved, nor more sincere and genuine. What he worked at no one knew. We saw him rarely and spoke to him even more rarely. He was the sort of fellow, however, who had only to say “Good morning!” and you felt better. His good morning was like a blessing. What intrigued us about him was the undefinable and ineradicable air of melancholy which he wore. It suited one who had experienced some deep, unmentionable tragedy. We suspected that his sorrow had to do with his mother whom we never saw. Was she an invalid perhaps? Was she insane? Or was she a horrible cripple? As for his father, we never knew whether he was dead or had deserted them.

  To us healthy, carefree youngsters, this Laski ménage was enveloped in mystery. Punctually every morning at seven-thirty the elder Mr. Laski, who was blind, left the house with his dog, tapping the way with a stout cane. This in itself had a queer effect upon us. But the house itself looked crazy. Certain windows, for example, were never opened, the shades always down. At one of the other windows sat Mollie, the Laski daughter, usually with a can of beer beside her. She was there, as in a show, from the moment the curtain rose. Having absolutely nothing to do, having no desire moreover to do anything, she simply sat there the whole day long gathering up the gossip. She had the low-down on everything that went on in the neighborhood. Now and then her figure ripened, as if she were about to have a child, but there never were any births or deaths. She simply changed with the seasons. Lazy slut that she was, we liked her. She was too lazy to even walk to the corner grocer’s; she’d flip us a quarter or half dollar from the window, which was on the street level, and tell us to keep the change. Sometimes she forgot what she had sent us for and told us to keep the damned stuff.

  Old man Vossler, who also ran a trucking business, was a big brute of a man who did nothing but curse and swear when you ran into him. He could lift enormous weights with ease, whether drunk or sober. Naturally we stood in awe of him. But it made our blood curl to see the way he booted his son around—he could fairly lift him from the ground with his big toe. And the way he lashed him with the horse whip! Though we didn’t dare to play any tricks on the old man we often held prolonged conferences in the open lot at the corner as to how we might retaliate. It was disgraceful to see how Ed Vossler put his hand over his head and crouched when he saw his old man coming. In desperation once we summoned Ed to confer with us, but the moment he got the drift of our talk he ran off with his tail between his legs.

  Curious how often these figures out of my boyhood reverted to memory. The ones I speak of belonged more to that old neighborhood, the 14th Ward, which I was so fond of. In the street of early sorrows they were anomalies. As a mere lad—in the old neighborhood—I had been accustomed to mixing with half-wits, incipient gangsters, petty crooks, would-be prize fighters, epileptics, drunks and sluts. Everyone in that dear ancient world was a “character.” But in the new neighborhood to which I had been transferred everyone was normal, matter of fact, non-spectacular. There was only one exception, apart from the members of the weird tribe inhabiting the farmhouse. I can no longer remember the name of this chap, but his personality is engraved in my memory. He was a newcomer to the neighborhood, somewhat older than the rest of us, and distinctly “different.” One day, as we were shooting marbles, I dropped an expression which made him look up in astonishment. “Where do you hail from?” he asked. “From Driggs Avenue originally,” I said. At once he was off his knees and literally hugging me. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” he cried. “I’m from Wythe Avenue, corner of North Seventh.”

  It was like two Masonic brothers exchanging passwords. At once a bond was established between us. Whatever game we played he was always on my side. If one of the older boys threatened to go for me he interposed himself. If he had anything important to confide he’d employ the jargon of the 14th Ward.

  One day he introduced me to his sister, who was a trifle younger than I. It was almost love at first sight. She wasn’t so beautiful, even to my youthful eyes, but she had a way about her which I associated with the behavior of the girls I had admired in the old neighborhood.

  One night a surprise party was given me. Every youngster in the neighborhood was there—except this newfound friend of mine and his little sister. I was heartbroken. When I asked why they hadn’t been invited I was told that they didn’t belong. That settled it for me. At once I sneaked out of the house and went in search of them. I quickly explained to their mother that there had been a mistake, that it was a pure oversight, and that everyone was waiting for her son and daughter to appear. She patted me on the head with a knowing smile and told me what a good boy I was. She thanked me so profusely, indeed, that I blushed.

  I escorted my two friends to the party in triumph, only to perceive, however, that I had made a grave blunder. On all sides they were given the cold shoulder. I did my best to dissipate the atmosphere of hostility but in vain. Finally I could bear it no longer. “Either you make friends with my friends,” I announced boldly, holding the latter by the arms, “or you can all go home. This is my party and I want my own friends here.”

  For this piece of bravado I got a sound slap in the face from my mother. I winced but stood my ground.

  “It isn’t fair!” I bellowed, almost on the point of tears now.

  All at once they gave way. It was almost a miracle the way the ice broke up. In no time we were all laughing, shouting, singing. I couldn’t understand why it had happened so suddenly.

  During the course of the evening the girl, whose name was Sadie, got me in a corner to express her thanks for what I had done. “It was wonderful of you, Henry,” she said, to which I blushed deeply. “It was nothing at all,” I mumbled, feeling silly and heroic at the same time. Sadie looked around to see if anyone were observing us, then boldly kissed me on the lips. This time I blushed even more deeply.

  “My mother would like you to come for dinner some evening,” she whispered. “Will you come?”

  I squeezed her little hand and said, “Sure.”

  It was in the flats across the street where Sadie and her brother lived. I had never been inside a house on that side of the street. I wondered what their home was like. In calling for them I was too flustered to notice a thing. All I could recall was that it had a distinctly Catholic odor. Nearly all the people, incidentally, who lived in the flats—railroad flats they were—were members of the Roman Church. This was enough in itself to alienate them from the other people in the street.

  The first discovery I made, on visiting my two friends, was that they were very, very poor. The father, who had been a locomotive engineer, was dead; the mother, who was suffering from some grave malady,
was unable to leave the house. They were Catholics all right. Devout ones. That was obvious at once. In every room, it seemed to me, there were rosaries and crucifixes, votive candles, chromos of the Madonna and Child or of Jesus on the Cross. Though I had seen these evidences of the faith in other homes, nevertheless each time it happened I got the creeps. My dislike of these sacred relics—if one could call them that—was purely and simply because of their morbidity. True, I didn’t know the word morbid then but the feeling was definitely that. When I had first glimpsed these “relics” in the homes of my other little friends I remember that I had mocked and jeered. It was my mother, oddly enough, my mother who despised Catholics almost as much as drunkards and criminals, who had cured me of this attitude. To make me more “tolerant” she would force me to go to Mass occasionally with my Catholic friends.

  Now, however, when I described in detail the conditions in the home of my two friends, she showed little sympathy. She repeated that she didn’t think it was good for me to see so much of them. Why? I wanted to know. She refused to answer me directly. When I suggested that she permit me to bring them fruit and candy from our sideboard, which was always overflowing with good things, she frowned. Sensing that there was no good reason behind her refusals, I decided to pinch the edibles and smuggle them over to my friends. Now and then I stole a few pennies from her pocketbook and handed them to Sadie or her brother. Always as if my mother had requested me to do so.

  “Your mother must be a very kind woman,” said Sadie’s mother one day.

  I smiled, rather lamely.

  “You’re sure, Henry, it’s your mother who sends us these gifts?”

  “Certainly,” I said, smiling ever so brightly now. “We have much more than we need. I can bring you other things too, if you like.”

  “Henry, come here,” said Sadie’s mother. She was seated in an old-fashioned rocker. “Now listen to me carefully, Henry.” She patted my head affectionately and held me close to her. “You’re a very, very good boy and we love you. But you mustn’t steal to make others happy. That’s a sin. I know you mean well, but.…”

  “It isn’t stealing,” I protested. “They would only go to waste.”

  “You have a big heart,” she said. “A big heart for such a little boy. Wait a while. Wait till you grow older and earn your own living. Then you can give to your heart’s content.”

  The next day Sadie’s brother took me aside and begged me not to be angry with his mother for refusing my gifts. “She likes you very much, Henry,” he said.

  “But you don’t have enough to eat,” said I.

  “Certainly we do,” he said.

  “You don’t! I know because I know how much we eat.”

  “I’ll be getting a job soon,” he said. “We’ll have plenty then. In fact,” he added, “I may get a job next week.”

  “What sort of job?”

  “I’m going to work part time for the undertaker.”

  “That’s terrible,” said I.

  “Not really,” he replied. “I won’t have to handle the stiffs.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. He’s got men for that. I’m going to run errands, that’s all.”

  “And how much will you get?”

  “Three dollars a week.”

  I left him wondering if I couldn’t find a job too. Perhaps I could find something to do on the sly. My thought was, of course, to turn over my earnings to them. Three dollars a week was nothing, even in those days. I lay awake the whole night thinking it over. I was certain in advance that I would never receive my mother’s permission to take a job. Whatever was to be done had to be done secretly and with cunning and foresight.

  Now it happened that a few doors from us lived a family in which the eldest son ran a coffee business on the side. That is to say, he had drummed up a small clientèle for a blend which he mixed himself; on Saturdays he used to deliver the packages himself. It was quite a route he covered and I wasn’t too confident that I could manage it alone but I decided to ask him to give me a chance. To my surprise I found that he was only too happy to have me take over; he had been on the verge of abandoning his little enterprise.

  The following Saturday I set forth with two valises filled with small packages of coffee. I was to get fifty cents as salary and a small commission on new business. Should I be able to collect on any of the bad debts I was to get a bonus. I carried a linen bag with a drawstring in which I was to put the money I collected.

  After coaching me as to how to approach the debtors he had warned me specifically to beware of the dogs in certain regions. I checked these spots with red pencil on the itinerary where everything was plainly indicated—brooks and culverts, viaducts, reservoirs, fence lines, government property, and so on.

  That first Saturday was a huge success. My boss literally rolled his eyes when I dumped the money on the table. Immediately he volunteered to raise my salary to seventy-five cents. I had gotten him five new customers and collected a third of the bad debts. He hugged me as if he had found a jewel.

  “You’ll promise you won’t tell my folks I’m working for you?” I begged.

  “Of course not,” he said.

  “No, promise! Promise on your word of honor!”

  He looked at me strangely. Then slowly he repeated—“I promise on my word of honor.”

  The next morning, Sunday, I waited outside the door of my friend’s home to catch them on their way to church. I had no trouble persuading them to let me go to Mass with them. They were delighted, in fact.

  When we left the church of St. Francis de Sales—a horrible place of worship—I explained to them what I had accomplished. I fished out the money—it amounted to almost three dollars—and handed it to Sadie’s brother. To my utter amazement he refused to accept it.

  “But I only took the job for your sake,” I expostulated.

  “I know, Henry, but my mother would never hear of such a thing.”

  “But you don’t need to tell her it’s from me. Tell her you got a raise.”

  “She wouldn’t believe that,” he said.

  “Then tell her you found it in the street. Look, I’ll dig up an old purse. Put it in the purse and say you found it in the gutter just outside the church. She’ll have to believe that.”

  Still he was reluctant to take the money.

  I was at my wits’ end. If he was not going to accept the money all my efforts were in vain. I left him with the promise that he would think it over.

  It was Sadie who came to my rescue. She was closer to her mother and she understood the situation in a more practical way. At any rate she thought her mother ought to know what I meant to do for them—in order to express her appreciation.

  Before the week was up we had a talk together, Sadie and I. She was waiting for me outside the school gate one afternoon.

  “It’s settled, Henry,” she said, all out of breath, “my mother agrees to take the money, but only for a little while—until my brother gets a full-time job. Then we’ll pay you back.”

  I protested that I didn’t want to be paid back, but that if her mother insisted on such an arrangement I would have to give in. I handed over the money which was wrapped in a piece of butcher’s paper.

  “Mother says the Virgin Mary will protect you and bless you for your kindness,” said Sadie.

  I didn’t know what to say to this. No one had ever used such language with me. Beside, the Virgin Mary meant absolutely nothing to me. I didn’t believe in that nonsense.

  “Do you really believe in all that… that Virgin Mary stuff?” I asked.

  Sadie looked shocked—or perhaps grieved. She nodded her head gravely.

  “Just what is the Virgin Mary?” I asked.

  “You know as well as I do,” she answered.

  “No I don’t. Why do they call her Virgin?”

  Sadie thought a moment, then replied most innocently:

  “Because she’s the mother of God.”

  “Well, what is
a Virgin anyway?”

  “There’s only one Virgin,” answered Sadie, “and that’s the Blessed Virgin Mary.”

  “That’s no answer,” I countered. “I asked you—what is a Virgin?”

  “It means a mother who is holy,” said Sadie, none too sure of herself.

  Here I had a brilliant thought. “Didn’t God create the world?” I demanded.

  “Of course.”

  “Then there’s no mother. God doesn’t need a mother.”

  “That’s blasphemy,” Sadie almost shrieked. “You’d better speak to the priest.”

  “I don’t believe in priests.”

  “Henry, don’t talk that way! God will punish you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “All right,” said I, “you ask the priest! You’re a Catholic. I’m not.”

  “You shouldn’t say things like that,” said Sadie, deeply offended. “You’re not old enough to be asking such questions. We don’t ask such questions. We believe. If you don’t believe you can’t be a good Catholic.”

  “I’m willing to believe,” I retorted, “if he will answer my questions.”

  “That’s not the way,” said Sadie. “First you have to believe. And then you must pray. Ask God to forgive your sins.…”

  “Sins? I don’t have any sins to confess.”

  “Henry, Henry, don’t speak that way, it’s wicked. Everybody sins. That’s what the priest is for. That’s why we pray to the Blessed Mary.”

  “I don’t pray to anybody,” I said defiantly, a little weary of her moony talk.