In the Catskills: A Century of Jewish Experience in "The Mountains" (53 page)

We had liver for dinner, which was only a slight improvement over the chicken for lunch. Lila cut wedges of apples for us and we drank more wine from the stockbroker’s cache. Lila confided they had switched to chilled champagne. “Her choice,” Lila said. “It’s her turn-on. Give her a couple of bottles and she tries to tear his dinger off.”

“Jesus, Lila, don’t talk like that in front of a guest,” Sammy complained.

“What guest? This is Bobo.”

“Is he paying?”

“Of course he is.”

“Then, goddamn it, he’s a guest.”

“And guests need some entertainment,” Lila shot back. “Which is exactly what we’ve got in Hump and Bump upstairs.”

“You make it sound like a whorehouse,” Sammy mumbled.

“Honey, she ain’t charging,” Lila hissed. “She’s giving. I call that life.”

“And I call it a joke,” Sammy countered.

Lila laughed cynically. “You would,” she said triumphantly. She turned to me. “Am I offending you, Bobo?”

“No, of course not,” I said.

“Good.” She leaned to Sammy. “Then, you can kiss my ass,” she whispered.

After dinner, after the running, word-swatting argument about the stockbroker and the judge’s wife, I went with Lila and Sammy to the front porch of the Inn and we sat in padded rocking chairs with our wine, and I listened as Sammy talked hopefully of his Woodstock exhibit.

“All I need is a foot in the door,” he said. “I’d sure like to sell something.” He paused. “Well, something else.”

“You’ve been selling some pieces?” I asked.

“A couple,” Sammy said nonchalantly. “A guy down in Jersey—Vinnie Paulsen—bought a couple of things last winter when he was skiing.”

I saw Sammy look at Lila. She pulled on her cigarette and stared at the empty ghost-town street. I knew she heard the accusation in Sammy’s voice.

“He said he had one of those modern apartments,” Sammy continued. “Said what I did would go perfect in it.”

“That’s good,” I told him. “It’s a start, a good one.”

Sammy smiled painfully. “I guess. I need all the help I can get.”

Lila picked up her wineglass and sipped from it. I wondered if she had bartered with Vinnie Paulsen to buy Sammy’s curious sculpture, and if she had, was it for Sammy or for her? I knew she loved Sammy, but I also believed she was lonely.

“So, you’re going to let me know if you want the
Old Man
for your service?” Sammy said.

“Of course,” I replied. “And that’s something I should go up and get started on.”

Sammy tried to sound cheerful, but there was begging in his voice: “Just let me know.” On the porch, in the rocker, Sammy looked tired and desperate.

“Look, why don’t we put that to rest now,” I suggested. “I think it’d be nice, having the piece. Something that Avrum would have liked. Let’s use it.”

Sammy shifted in his rocker. He nodded relief. “You’re sure, Bobo? I don’t want to push it on you.”

“You’re not doing that. I’m glad to have it.” I stood and thanked them for the wine and the company at dinner.

“The company’s our pleasure,” Lila said. “You need to thank the stockbroker and his playmate for the wine.”

“It’s a good vintage. I hope they stay for a week,” I replied.

Lila laughed and beckoned me to lean to her for an embrace. She whispered, “Thanks, Bobo. By the way, I’ve got a little surprise for you upstairs.”

I knew the surprise when I saw the two empty champagne bottles at the doorway leading to the suite next to my room: by Lila’s arrangement, I would be forced to listen to the stockbroker and the judge’s wife making love. I knew that, downstairs, Lila was pleased, and I knew that she would greet me at breakfast with a wink.

I took paper and pen from my briefcase to make notes for Avrum’s memorial service, but I knew the notes would be useless. It would be a short, informal ceremony. I would thank those who appeared—if any did—and I would tell them about meeting Avrum, and how our friendship began, and then I would tell them a story I had never told anyone. I did not know what I would say about Sammy’s
Old Man
.

I began a letter to Carolyn, but the words were heavy and listless and I wadded the paper and dropped it into the trash can. In 1955, I had written to her daily—at least in the beginning—and she had written to me daily. I wondered if she ever thought of that summer of letters and of the confusion that eventually found its way into my words. The confusion was over Amy Lourie. I could not tell Carolyn about Amy. I had wanted to tell her, yet I could not. And in the years after the summer of letters and confusion, I had often wanted to say to her, “Look, there was a girl in the Catskills. Her name was Amy Lourie …” But I knew what Carolyn would say and how she would say it: “Oh, really? And why are you talking about the Stone Age? Did something happen I need to know about?” She would try to say it teasingly, but there would be a touch of arrogance in her voice.

That has been the one constant about Carolyn: she has an answer for every mood, and her answer can be as soft as a kiss or it can be delivered on the tip of a dagger. She permits very little silliness in her life, and maybe that is why our children have always relied on her when they needed protection. She has been—is—the warrior for them, and it did not matter if the foe was a neighbor or an umpire in a Little League baseball game. Carolyn was—is—a lioness in the face of threat against her family, including me. I have heard her bully art dealers who expressed a so-so attitude about my work, even when the work did not impress her.

Still, I think Carolyn suspected something must have happened that summer. In one of her letters, she had asked,
Are you dating anybody?

I answered with a lie:
No
. I explained there was a group who would sometimes go to a movie or take walks together or meet in Arch’s to have milk shakes and to talk. I told her the only date I had had was not a date at all, but a favor for Harry Burger, and he had paid me for the experience. And it was true. It was also the reason that I began to be with Amy.

Harry had been raving about his two teenage nieces, who were to visit him for a weekend. They were beautiful, he assured me. I would be begging to take them to a movie, he predicted, but I would agonize over which to choose. “Angels,” Harry sighed with pride. “Like models in great magazines.”

Carter knew them. He laughed foolishly and said, “Bobo, you are talking about the two ugliest girls in the state of New York, and, just possibly, the northeastern United States. They were here last year.”

“Harry said they were beautiful.”

“What did you expect him to say? They’re his nieces, and he’s Jewish.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, Bobo, but the Jews tend to have a little pride. If those girls weren’t Harry’s nieces, he’d swear they were freaks from a sideshow, but blood, like love, is blind, boy, blind. Harry thinks he’s got Jane Russell and Betty Grable on their way here.”

“Harry wants me to take them out,” I told him. “He said to find somebody to go with me and he’d pick up the tab.”

“And you’re asking me?” Carter said suspiciously.

“No,” I replied sarcastically. “I thought I’d ask Ben Benton.”

“Ben would slit your throat,” Carter said. He pondered a moment. “All right, I’ll do it, but this is what you’ve got to tell Harry: twenty bucks apiece, plus expenses.”

“I can’t do that,” I protested. “Not after all he’s done for me.”

Carter shook his head and laughed cynically. “Believe me, he’s been setting you up for this little adventure since day one. That ten bucks he gave you for washing dishes, it was just a down payment. All that waiter training was for one thing: his nieces. Remember, Bobo, I’ve seen them. Twenty bucks. That’s the deal, or find somebody else—if you think you can. I’m telling you, last year every eligible male in a twenty-mile radius went into hiding the weekend they were here. Twenty bucks apiece. All you’ve got to do is say it to him like you’re kidding him. He’ll pick up on it. You don’t know Harry. He’ll go for a bargain like a trout after one of Arch’s flies, and that, my friend, is a bargain. Trust me.”

Carter was right, as usual. The next day I said to Harry, “We need to talk about this date with your nieces.”

“What’s to talk?” Harry said irritably. “I offer you a night out with beautiful women and you want I should talk about it?”

“I figure twenty bucks each for me and Carter, plus expenses,” I said, grinning.

Harry did his dramatic sigh, the one where he rolled his head and his eyes in exasperation. “
Ach du lieber Gott
,” he muttered. He wagged his cigar like a swagger stick. “You’re a thief, Bobo Murphy, an Irish
no-goodnik
, but, all right, all right. If I didn’t like you so much, I’d find somebody else for two such beauties.”

Harry gave me the money up front. He said it was because he was an honorable man. Carter said it was because he didn’t want me to renege on the arrangement.

Carter, again, was right.

Harry Burger’s nieces were beyond ugly. They were tragic. Thin, pinched faces, no chins, beaver teeth, tiny eyes behind thick eyeglasses. Coy Helms would have said of them, “You’d have to hang meat around their neck to get a dog to play with them.”

They were waiting with Harry on the porch of the Inn, having arrived an hour earlier, after dinner.

“Take your pick,” Carter mumbled as we approached him.

“I’ll take Harry,” I whispered.

Carter giggled. “Damn, Bobo, you just did a funny.”

“So, boys, you’re in good spirits, I see,” Harry called cheerfully.

“Great,” Carter said.

“Good, good,” Harry chirped. He beamed a smile of joy.

We reached the porch.

“Boys, I want for you to meet Charlotte and Erin,” Harry said. He indicated the girls. Then: “Girls, this is the Georgia boy I’ve been telling you about—Bobo Murphy. He didn’t know a
schnitzel
from a
schnook
when he met me. Now, he’s a waiter.” He looked at Carter. “And Carter you know already. He’s the one who dropped the fruit cup down your back last year, Erin.”

The girls smiled.

I thought: Oh, my God.

“Hi,” Carter said brightly. “You still mad at me, Erin?”

Erin tilted her head to Carter, like a long-necked bird inspecting an insect. She shook her head timidly.

“Hi,” I said weakly.

“Well, boys, what’s it to be?” Harry said in a loud voice. “A movie? A little stroll under the moon, maybe? Yes? Why don’t you make the start down at Arch’s? I told him you’d be there, to put whatever you wanted on my bill.”

“Uh, I—I think we’d better get on to the movie,” I said.

“So, what’s the hurry?” Harry replied in a firm voice, “No, no, Bobo. The girls love Arch’s. There, first.”

“Suits me,” Carter said flippantly. “Come on, Erin, why don’t you go with me? I owe you.”

“Sure,” Erin said in a small voice. She stepped off the porch to stand with Carter.

“And that leaves lovely Charlotte with Bobo,” Harry said proudly. He pushed at his niece. She moved hesitantly toward me.

“Have fun,” Harry crowed. He wiggled his finger at her. “No hanky-panky, boys.”

Carter coughed down a laugh.

“No, sir,” I promised emphatically.

We began the long, tortuous walk to Arch’s.

I saw Avrum on his bench. His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed and he was not aware of us. I wondered if he was listening to the ghost-voice of Amelita Galli-Curci, or if he was faking a nap.

Ben Benton was waiting to turn into the side yard of the Inn for his garbage pickup. He looked at me in astonishment, then shouted from the window, “Hey, Bobo, finally found you a woman, did you?” He ducked his head in laughter.

Mrs. Mendelson, slow-stepping up the sidewalk, paused and smiled. “
Gut, gut
,” she squeaked.

We walked into Arch’s. It was early and only a few people were there. One of them was Amy. She was sitting alone in a back booth, writing a letter.

Carter called to her, “Hey, Amy.”

She looked up, first to Carter, then to me. She saw the girls and a shudder of surprise touched on her face. She tried to smile, but the smile faded quickly. She got up and walked past us and out of Arch’s. She did not speak.