Boys & Girls Together (39 page)

Sid was too tired for anger, but every so often, in the morning, in the shower, a vision of the past would bubble up behind his weary eyes, and for a moment he would see the Sid that was, Super Sid, in full glory. That was what made it so hard, the past. If only the broads had been less easy, not quite so soft; if only the pool cue had never been steady, the inside straights had never filled. But they had, and at the sight of what had been—without a break in the rhythm of soap and washcloth—Sid would weep. For he was dead. Sid was dead. And soon (he prayed) he would get to lie down.

Summer made things worse. The steaming days increased Esther’s agony, and although the boy was home from school, Sid could never leave him alone for long in the store. He was good at reading labels, and when the orders were small, two digits, he could select the proper sum, after much pencil-point licking. But as soon as a customer wanted more than a pickle and a can of soup, the boy’s mathematics failed him. So although Sid was now free to walk out of the store, he was only free to walk far enough to realize that he had to get back. And that was worse than not being able to go at all.

Sunday was the store’s biggest day, since all nearby competition was closed. And the first Sunday in July was better than most, being close to the holiday. So when the nigger appeared in the entrance, Sid hid his natural prejudice with a smile, figuring on an order of at least several quarts of beer. The nigger’s pistol, however, Sid did not figure on, and his smile vanished as the black rifled the money drawer and disappeared.

Stunned, Sid managed to summon the cops, who were polite but not particularly helpful, since Sid was unable to give much of a description, for in his mind niggers were like Chinamen, indistinguishable.

“Robbed?” Esther said.

Sid nodded.

“All the money?”

Sid nodded.

Esther lay back in bed, clutching at her brain.

Sid started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Out somewhere.”

“What about the store?”

“Good question.”

“Sid—”

“I can’t go in there, Esther. Please. Not today. I just can’t.”

“I know. You’ve been working very hard.”

“I’ll be back. Later. Try and get some sleep.”

“I will. And you have fun.”

Sid managed a nod and closed the door, walking slowly down the stairs, holding tight to the banister. It was late afternoon and very hot and when he reached the street he paused, hands in his pockets, trying to decide where to walk. It didn’t matter, and that made the decision not only difficult but painful, but finally he started to move because at a far corner he caught a glimpse of a red skirt and what might have been halfway decent legs, so he trudged to the corner. The legs and the skirt were out of sight when he got there, but he was started in a direction now, and since he could think of no reason to change, he kept on. He intended to walk forever, but in twenty minutes he was bushed. The heat. It was too much. Too hot to move, too hot to think. Sid leaned against a lamppost, searching for relief. Down on the next corner was a movie theater, and Sid sighed, squinting at the marquee. Gary Cooper. Gary Cooper and something else. A double feature. Sid nodded and crossed the street in the direction of the theater. “Air-cooled,” it said, and Sid picked up the pace. Paying his pennies, he walked inside the theater and sat down. The “something else” was playing and Sid gave it little attention at first. Then he tilted his head up toward the screen. A moment later he was ramrod straight. He gaped and then the word “Yes!” escaped, much to the annoyance of those around him. “
Yes!
” he said again, and before anyone had a chance to say “Shut up” he was off, running from the theater, tears in his eyes. Tears of joy; the news was good. Super Sid was back in town.

“A movie star?” Esther said, sitting up. “Our Rudy? A movie star?”

“Why not?” Sid cried. “Why not? Give me one good reason.”

“Our Rudy?” Esther repeated.

Sid grabbed her hard. “Our Rudy! Yes! Yes!”

“But—”

“Esther—Esther, listen—I know I’m right. I can feel it. I
know
. We’ve been crazy not to see it sooner. Fools. Oh, Esther, I tell you, I was sitting in this movie watching this Shirley Temple and I thought, ‘What’s so special about her? What can she do my little Rudy can’t?’ And the answer is nothing. Nothing. Is Rudy gorgeous? You should see the way the people stare at him in the store. The old ladies. They stare and they stare, they can’t believe it. You know how much money that little Shirley Temple makes a year? Millions. And Rudy will make more. Can’t you see us, Esther, in California with a house and servants and big black limousines? Oh, we’ve been fools starving here when we can live like kings in California.”

“How—”

“Movie people, they come here all the time. In the papers, you read about them staying at the Palmer House or the Ambassador East. Every day some big shot is in town and when he sees Rudy we can kiss this all goodbye.” Sid whirled around, clapping his hands. “We’re on our way. I know. I know. We’re gone.”

“Don’t get so excited.”

“I
am
excited. I can’t help it. Smile, Esther, for God’s sake. We’ll need photographs. That will cost but nothing we can do about it. Get some good pictures of Rudy, big pictures, a foot square, in color maybe.”

“Shirley Temple, she can sing and dance.”

“Rudy will sing and dance. Like an angel.”

“We can’t afford lessons.”

“Afford,” Sid cried. “Afford. We’re gonna teach him!”

Esther lay back on the bed.

Sid bounded into the next room, returning a moment later with a package. “I went all over getting these tonight. I traveled the Loop from end to end.” He ripped at the wrapping. “Where is he? The boy?”

“The fire escape.”

“Look,” Sid said. “See? The sheet music to ‘God Bless America.’ Very patriotic. Everyone will love him when he sings it. And look still, these books. They teach you dancing. A little tap, a little ballet. Not much, just enough so he’ll look cute. It’s perfect. Perfect! And when he’s ready, and the right man comes to town, we can start packing. God, Esther, it’s so exciting.”

“It is. I think you’re right, Sid. It really is.”

“Right! I’m right! I know. I can feel. Everything is right. Everything.” He leaped onto the bed and grabbed her, twisting her across his body, kissing her open mouth.

“You’re crazy.” Esther giggled. “You’re a crazy man.”

Sid stroked her.

“Kiss me again.”

“Later,” and he bounced from the bed, running to the open window, shouting, “Rudy, Rudy.”

“What?”

“Surprise!”

“No!” the boy cried. “No!”

“Rudy, I’m a patient man, but I’m getting tired of arguing with you. You’ll like it. I promise.”

“Yes,” Esther said. “Really, Rudy. We’ll all have fun.”

The boy twisted in the chair as they walked around him. “No. Please, no.”

“Rudy,” Sid said, “I’ve explained a hundred times, there’s nothing wrong with being a movie star.”

“We’ll teach you everything,” Esther said.

“Have we ever led you wrong? Ever?”

“Please.”

“You’re being very stubborn, Rudy. Any other boy would be proud if his parents wanted to make him a movie star. Because it shows how much they love him.”

“Yes, Rudy.”

“All right now, this is the last time I’m going to ask—the last time, you understand that? The
last time
. Will you do it?”

“Please,” the boy said.

“Rudy,” Esther said, “for your mother—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Esther, but enough is enough. Rudy, do you want to go back on the fire escape?”

“Yes.”

“Then go.”

The boy vaulted through the window.

“But I’m locking the window, Rudy,” Sid said. “Stay out there. Fine. We don’t care. Just remember, you’re not coming back in here until you see we’re right. We’re your parents and we know what’s best. Stay a day, a week, stay a year. It’s all the same to us. Goodbye, Rudy!” And he slammed the window down and locked it.

“Don’t get mad, Sid.”

Sid turned, smiling. “Mad? I love it. The stubborner the better. Shows we’re right. All the big stars have it.”

“Have what?”

“Artistic temperament.”

The next morning there was a soft rap at the window.

“Even artists have to eat,” Sid said.

So they started with the lessons, singing and dancing, an hour of one, an hour of the other, in the morning, in the afternoon, a third time at night. “God bless Americaaa,” the boy sang, “laaand that I love ...” He had a soft voice, but pleasing to the ear and always on pitch, and, at night as they listened, Sid and Esther nodded to each other. The dancing was no trouble; he picked up the Waltz Clog in one afternoon and before a week was out he could glide gracefully through the five ballet positions. “Again,” Sid would shout. “Again, it must be perfect,” and the tiny figure would repeat the movements as Esther hummed for rhythm. Pinkus of the Shoreland did the photography, for too much, but the results were worth it. By the middle of August Sid began reading all the papers, noting from the columns who was in town and where. Business at the store was terrible, but they managed to eat and pay the rent, so what else mattered? “God bless America” the boy sang, for the thousandth time, and he danced, moving his small body with easy grace, Esther humming, Sid nodding his head, morning and night, night and afternoon, until, at the end of September, Springer came to town.

“Mr. Springer?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Miller. Sid Miller.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got to talk with you, Mr. Springer.” Sid glanced down the empty corridor, then back at the other man, who stood, barely visible, peeking out from behind the half-open hotel room door. Springer was short, shorter even than Sid. Sid smiled.

“About what?”

“It’s very important,” Sid said.

“It is?”

“Actually, I’m doing you a favor. You could look at it that way. You’ll benefit, I promise you.”

Springer closed the door.

Sid stopped it with a foot.

“Move,” Springer said. “Your foot.”

“Not until we’ve talked.”

“I’ll call the house detective.”

“After we’ve talked.”

“I’m a master of jiujitsu,” Springer said. “I’m small, but I’m not to be trifled with.”

“I’m much smaller than you are, Mr. Springer. And weak as a kitten.”

“I’ve always hated Chicago. Always.”

“I’m not dangerous, I promise. Merely desperate.”

“Please go away.” I can’t.

“I’m not feeling my best today. Come back some other time.”

“I said I was desperate. I spoke the truth.”

“I feel like a fool holding your foot in the door.”

“Then let me in.”

“You’ve probably been sick.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I happen to be a hypochondriac. You’ve probably been sick.”

“Not in three years, and then just the twenty-four-hour flu. I swear.”

“What do you want from me?”

Sid handed the large manila envelope through the opening. “Look inside.”

“Why?”

“Just look.”

“Are they pictures?”

“Yes. Open it. Please.”

“Pictures of you?”

“No. No. Of my son. The next Shirley Temple.”

“You mean—” Springer began, and then he started to laugh. Sid saw his head shaking through the narrow opening and a moment later the door swung open as Springer leaned against the foyer wall, shaking with laughter. “Too much,” he managed. “It’s really too much.”

Hat in hand, Sid waited.

“You went through all this just so I would look at some pictures of your son?”

“What better reason?”

“You’ve made a ghastly mistake, Mr. ...”

“Miller. Sid Miller.”

“I’m not a talent scout. I didn’t discover Lana Turner.”

“I know who you are, Mr. Springer. You’re a director. A great director.”

“I am a lousy director. My father helped to found the company. I am a hack. But thank you.”

“Now, will you look? Will you see my son?”

“No.”

“He sings like an angel. He dances like a dream. As an actor, he’s a natural. And I’m not biased, I swear.”

“I’m a
director
, Mr. Miller. I can’t do anything for your son.”

“If you liked him, you could. If you felt, as I feel, that he will be bigger than Shirley Temple, you could. You could put him in one of your movies. You could make him a star.”

“It’s all highly unlikely.”

“Look at the pictures, Mr. Springer. And then meet my son. Hear him sing. Watch him dance. I promise you, it’s an experience. What my son does with ‘God Bless America’ will bring tears to your eyes.”

“Mr. Miller, when I repeat all this in Hollywood, you’ll be famous.”

“You’ve got to meet my son.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Miller.”

“I didn’t come here to fail, Mr. Springer.”

“I’ll write a note to the studio, how’s that? You can enclose the pictures and I promise you someone will give your child every consideration.”

“I didn’t come here to fail, Mr. Springer.”

“It’s all I can
do
. Understand that.”

“You can make my son a star.”

“I can’t make my wife a star and she also sings like an angel and dances like a dream. Southern California is crammed with dreamy dancers, Mr. Miller.”

“Not like my Rudy. You notice how I haven’t mentioned how he looks? That’s because there are no words. You have to see for yourself. See for yourself, Mr. Springer. Do us both a favor.”

“I wish I had a recording of all this.”

“You wouldn’t even have to change his name!”

“Don’t get excited, Mr. Miller. Remember—jiujitsu.”

“All his life he’s been groomed for this. From birth. His middle name is Valentino, Mr. Springer.”

“Valentino?”

“Rudolph Valentino Miller. Isn’t that something?”

“Undeniably. However—”

“We’re both Jews, Mr. Springer.”

“What?”

“We’ve got to help each other. Jews owe that to each other. Otherwise the Gentiles will kill us all. You’re a Jew, I’m a Jew, see my son!”

“Calm yourself.”