Deranged (7 page)

One of his most dependable workers had decided to move on, however, and Howard was looking to replace him. Edward’s ad had appeared at a most propitious time. He smiled up at the boy. “You look strong enough to work.”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie answered, leaning forward eagerly. “And I ain’t afraid of hard work, either.”

Howard nodded approvingly. “I am prepared to pay fifteen dollars per week for as long as you can stay with me.”

“That sounds good to me,” Eddie said, turning to his mother, who was sitting beside him with a look of perfect satisfaction on her face.

A moment of silence passed, during which Eddie and his friend exchanged a glance. “We was wondering, Mr. Howard,” Eddie said, pointing a thumb at his friend. “My chum Willie here is also looking for summer work.”

Howard turned his gaze to Willie, then asked if he would mind standing for a moment. The boy got to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height, while the old man looked him up and down.

“All right,” he said after a moment. “I can use a fine, big fellow like you on my farm.”

Grinning broadly, Willie plopped himself back onto the sofa.

Reaching a finger into his vest pocket, the old man fished around for a moment, then pulled out a big stemwinder. He snapped open the lid and held the timepiece close to his face. “I must be on my way. I have a business engagement out in New Jersey.”

Lifting himself gingerly from his seat, he told the boys to pack the “oldest clothes you have.” He would return on Saturday afternoon with a car and drive them out to Farmingdale.

The boys, followed by Mrs. Budd and Beatrice, escorted their benefactor to the door, where Howard shook hands all around, thanked Mrs. Budd for her hospitality, and patted the little girl on her head. Then he was gone.

No sooner had the door shut behind him than Edward and Willie began doing a little dance around the living room, as tickled as a pair of ten-year-olds who have just received a particularly profitable visit from Santa Claus. The classified that Eddie had invested in had paid off in spades. Mr. Howard’s offer seemed too good to be true.

And so, over the next few days, Edward Budd and William Korman excitedly began making their preparations, while the little gray man who called himself Frank Howard set about, in a state of even greater excitation, making his.

6

Workers of iniquity, which speak peace to their neighbors, but mischief is in their hearts. PSALMS 28:3

Eddie and Willie passed most of the appointed day—Saturday, June 2—inside the Budds’ apartment, impatiently awaiting Frank Howard’s arrival. A pair of canvas duffel bags, crammed to capacity with well-worn but freshly washed work clothes, lay in a corner of the living room.

The two teenagers had spent the week crowing to their acquaintances about their good fortune, about the “gentleman farmer” from Long Island who had offered them summer jobs in the country and fair wages to boot. Now Eddie and Willie were eager to get going. But the day wore on with no sign of Frank Howard.

Late in the afternoon, someone finally knocked on the door, and Eddie hurried to open it. Much to his disappointment, he found himself face-to-face with a Western Union delivery boy, who handed him a message and hovered in the doorway until Eddie forked over a dime.

With Willie peering over his shoulder, Eddie read the terse, handwritten note: “Been over in New Jersey. Call in morning.” The message was signed “Frank Howard.” The boys exchanged a brief, crestfallen look. Then Eddie shrugged. By now, it was four o’clock. Evening was just a couple of hours away. They had managed to wait this long. Waiting another day wouldn’t kill them.

*  *  *

Though he had decided, for reasons of his own, to delay his plans until Sunday, the old man, too, had been impatient for the week to pass. True, neither the Budd boy nor his friend was exactly what he’d had in mind when he first came upon Eddie’s classified in the newspaper. In spite of the enthusiasm he’d found it necessary to feign, he had been disappointed by their appearance.

But—flame with a passion he could barely contain—he was in no position to pick and choose. Eddie Budd and Willie Korman might not have been his ideal choices. But they would do.

He had, in fact, spent much of the week in an agony of anticipation, so intense at times that it felt almost paralyzing. Still, he had not allowed himself to be idle. There were important things to be done, and he had attended to them promptly and efficiently.

The first order of business had been his shopping. On Tuesday, the day after his visit to the Budds’, he had strolled over to a hock shop called Sobel’s on 74th Street and Second Avenue. There, for less than five dollars, he had bought three of the items he would need. The three most essential items.

Carrying them back to his apartment at 409 East 100th Street, he had carefully opened the brown paper package and, after briefly admiring his purchases, placed them in a neat row on the floor underneath his bed.

As it turned out, he had cause to regret removing them from their wrapping. Later that week, shortly before noon on Thursday, he had gone out to buy a newspaper and had run into a twelve-year-old acquaintance named Cyril Quinn, who was playing boxball on the sidewalk with another boy the old man recognized, the son of the burly Italian who delivered coal to his building.

For several months, the old man had been cultivating the Quinn boy’s trust by giving him small gifts—candy, ice cream, pieces of change. He had particular plans for the lad, which he had been waiting for the right moment to implement. Now, seeing the boys playing on the street and thinking about his new acquisitions resting on the floor beneath his bed, he was seized by a sudden inspiration. He would test out his new purchases on Cyril Quinn.

Greeting the boys, the little man asked if they had eaten lunch. When they shook their heads, he invited them to his apartment for a bite. As soon as they were all inside, the old man repaired to the kitchen, pointing to his bedroom and telling the boys to wait for him there. The old man was at the sink, slicing bread and cheese for sandwiches, when the accident occurred.

Cyril—who had visited the apartment before and felt at home there—began wrestling with his friend on the old man’s creaky mattress. The rough-housing grew wilder. Suddenly, locked in a bear hug, the two boys slid to the floor, laughing raucously. Their laughter died abruptly, however, when they looked over and saw what was lying under the bed.

Before the old man could stop them, the boys had jumped up and rushed from the apartment.

Not a word had been spoken. But the old man knew exactly what had occurred. Through the wall that separated his bedroom from the kitchen, he had heard the sounds of the horseplay, the thump of the bodies tumbling onto the floor, then the sudden, charged silence. And as the two boys hurried past the kitchen on their way to the door, Cyril Quinn had shot the old man a look that spoke more eloquently than any words.

It had been a look of pure fear.

7

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

Sunday, June 3, was one of those gray, dreary days in the city when the sky seems less cloudy than smudged. At around 10:30 in the morning, Frank Howard, dressed in the same slightly scruffy blue suit he had worn the previous Monday, disembarked from the subway at 14th Street and began making his way toward the Budd residence, several blocks away.

Cradled in one arm was a compact bundle, tightly wrapped in a piece of red-and-white-striped canvas. A small white enamel pail—purchased the previous morning from a peddler named Reuben Rosoff, who sold sundries from a pushcart on the corner of 100th Street and Second Avenue—dangled from his other hand.

On the way to the Budds’ apartment, the old man made several stops. At a small German delicatessen, he had his pail filled with fresh pot cheese. Across the street, at a fruit-and-vegetable stand, he purchased a small carton of plump strawberries. Then he continued westward along Fourteenth Street. Managing the box of berries, the pailful of cheese, and the canvas-wrapped bundle was a slightly awkward business, but the old man was more dexterous—and far less feeble—than he looked.

Still, when he stopped to buy a paper at a newsstand on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, just a block away from the Budds’ apartment building, he made a show of fumbling with his packages as he fished for a coin.

“You going to be able to manage the paper, too, Pops?” asked the news seller.

“I’m not so sure,” said the old man. Then, nodding at the canvas-covered parcel under his arm, he asked if he could leave it at the newsstand for a little while. He would return for it in an hour or so.

“Sure,” said the newsy, reaching for the bundle, which he placed inside his stand.

Frank Howard thanked the man for his trouble. Then he picked up his paper and turned the corner toward the Budds’ apartment.

It was a few minutes before eleven when Frank Howard knocked on the door of the Budds’ ground-floor apartment. The family had been to church that morning. Mr. and Mrs. Budd, still dressed in their Sunday best, were relaxing in the living room, listening to Gene Austin croon “My Blue Heaven” on the Victrola, while little Beatrice sat cross-legged on the carpet, leafing through the pages of a picture book. The rest of the Budd children were outside on the street with their friends.

Mrs. Budd greeted the little man warmly, then led him into the living room, where she introduced him to her husband.

“These are for you,” said Howard, handing the woman the berries and cheese.

Mrs. Budd exclaimed over the gifts, while the two men shook hands.

“You’ll never taste creamier pot cheese than that, I can guarantee it,” said Howard. “Nor sweeter strawberries.” He reached down and petted Beatrice on the head. “I bet you like strawberries, don’t you?” he whispered.

Beatrice, embarrassed, looked down at her feet and shrugged.

“This come from your farm, Mr. Howard?” asked Albert Budd, moving closer to his wife and squinting at the fruit and the little white pail with his one good eye.

Frank Howard smiled often enough, but he didn’t seem to know how to laugh. Instead of opening his mouth, he would tighten his lips together and make a faint snuffling sound through his nose, like someone clearing his sinuses. He did this now in response to Albert Budd’s question.

“That’s right,” he said happily. “Those products come direct from my farm.”

Howard was invited to stay for a potluck lunch. Eddie was over on Seventeenth Street, Mrs. Budd explained, playing stickball with some friends, but he had promised to be home by noon. Removing his hat, the old man said he would be pleased to join the family for their meal. Mrs. Budd excused herself and bustled off to the kitchen, carrying the treats that Howard had brought.

“I’d be interested to hear more about that farm of yours, Mr. Howard,” said Albert Budd, motioning his visitor toward the sofa.

“I hope the boy wasn’t too disappointed about yesterday,” the old man said. “I was over in New Jersey buying horses.” He was about to seat himself on the sofa when he stopped, as if struck by a sudden thought. “That message I sent,” he asked. “Do you know if the boy threw it away?”

Why no, replied Mr. Budd. It hadn’t been thrown away. Eddie had stuck it over there, on the mantelpiece.

Frank Howard nodded, then did something that would stick in Mr. Budd’s mind, though at the time he didn’t attach much significance to it. Stepping over to the mantel, the little man picked up the message, glanced at it for a moment, then casually slipped it into the pocket of his suit jacket and walked back to the sofa, where he carefully lowered himself onto the cushion with a sigh.

Mr. Budd settled into the easy chair facing the sofa. Then, as he listened raptly, Frank Howard proceeded to paint the same beguiling picture he had evoked for Delia Budd the previous Monday—a vision of his twenty fertile acres, his teeming colony of fat Rhode Island Reds, his fecund dairy cows, his lush fields of produce, his crew of happy workers, his Swedish cook. Poor and uneducated, a simple man who had spent his life toiling at the most menial jobs, Albert Budd could only shake his head and make admiring sounds.