Israel (40 page)

Abe had no idea why a man as prosperous and important as Stefano de Fazio enjoyed hanging around a modest grocery store. When he visited, a sleek black Pierce-Arrow waited for him at curbside. Behind the wheel slouched a fellow with a tough look about him despite his suit and tie. The car was really something to see.

Stefano, fatter than ever, his mustache and thick head of curls completely grey, would come in and go directly upstairs to see Leah. He never failed to bring her candy or flowers. He'd come back down, slap Abe on the back and help himself to some fruit. Then he'd toss his expensive pin-striped suit coat behind the counter, loosen his tie, roll up the sleeves of his silk shirt and help put the tins on the shelves.

The whole notion of Stefano acting the stockboy at
first confounded Abe. Here was a man who hobnobbed with important people—Stefano's name was always in the newspaper financial columns, and once the papers published a photograph of him shaking George M. Cohan's hand at a Liberty Bond rally in front of the great entertainer's own theater in Times Square.

So why is he hanging around making small talk and dusting my stock? Abe found himself wondering.

Stefano did own the place. At first Abe feared Stefano was coming around to break the news that he was going to sell the building. When Abe finally worked up enough nerve to ask about that possibility, Stefano laughed and promised that he would not sell for a long time, if ever.

“I like this store,” Stefano said. “I like owning a piece of this old neighborhood, and I like having you around, Abe. You know what you are? You're my good luck charm. When I was nothing I came to you and asked that you trust me with your savings—and you did. You trusted a little shit like me.”

“I knew you had good intentions,” Abe shyly said.

“That's true, I did,” Stefano nodded thoughtfully. “You know, the union changed as it got bigger. Sometimes I had to do things, or have things done, that weren't very nice.” He grinned. “But when I come here I get to see some of the old guys from Allen Street. I get to relax and enjoy myself. That's why I come here and that's why I wouldn't sell this old tenement. Now where do you want the canned peaches?”

Once Abe knew the visits were nothing more than they seemed, he began to relax. With Leah upstairs the two men had ample time alone to talk, or rather for Stefano to talk and Abe to listen.

“I had to get out of the union,” Stefano began one day. “I love this country very much, Abe. I love what it stands for. When we started the union it was to get the workers their fair share, but now with that damned revolution in
Russia there's guys—mostly Jewish guys, you'll pardon me for saying—who think America oughta be socialist. That's not for a guy like me. I mean, there's got to be workers and there's got to be bosses—and you know why I stood up to the manufacturers in 1910?”

Abe did indeed know that. “Everybody in America has the opportunity to improve his situation.”

“Yeah, exactly right,” Stefano said excitedly. “Look at me. I was a presser, and then I held union office, and now I got property and part ownership in a warehouse on the Hudson. And this week I'm closing on two more facilities, one in Brooklyn and one on the Jersey side of the river. A guy like me would still be a presser in the old country.”

“Maybe not.”

Stefano beamed. “You stick with me. Whenever you're ready I'll find something better than this market for you to run.”

“I thought you liked this store.”

“I do, but you gotta grow with the times, Abe. You gotta be always thinking, always looking for a way to make a buck. Just last week I put a guy I knew from my union days—a manufacturer of hosiery—in touch with one of Uncle Sam's buyers on the War Service Board. That guy's now making socks for our doughboys. The finished goods go to my warehouse in my trucks. I got the right connections with the Teamsters to make sure everything goes smooth at that end. I also lent the guy some money to get extra knitting machines so he can fill his new orders. So now I got a piece of a sock company along with everything else.”

“I don't know, Stefano,” Abe sighed. “When you explain it, it sounds easy. I just don't know how to do it for myself. Maybe after my son is older and I teach him the grocery business, the two of us can move on to something bigger.”

“It's always a son with you,” Stefano chuckled. “God makes daughters too, you know. There's nothing wrong with a nice little girl.”

“You can say that. You already have sons.”

“You can have both sons and daughters.”

Abe nodded noncommittally. Some things were just too personal for him to discuss with Stefano, such as the doctors' opinion that Leah should not risk another pregnancy.

On October 18, a brisk sunny Thursday afternoon, Leah called down to Abe that it was time. Both Stefano and Glueck had offered to drive Leah to the hospital, and Glueck was closest. Abe completely forgot about the pay telephone by the front door and sprinted up the block and around the corner to Glueck's office. In ten minutes the doctor's Ford was idling in front of the market.

“It's such a wonderful, beautiful day,” Leah gushed as they brought her outside. “Please, can we put the top down on the car?”

It was a short ride to the hospital. Leah basked in the golden sunshine as she cuddled next to Abe in the back seat of the open touring car. How she'd missed being out of doors these last few months.

“I'll take the baby for a stroll in its carriage every day,” she confided to her husband.

Abe hardly heard her. He was too busy praying that it would be a son.

“Is it?” he blurted out to Leah as they were pulling up to the hospital's entrance. “You never actually said it all these months. Is it a boy?”

“God made that decision nine months ago,” Leah said demurely. “I really don't know.”

“Why not? You knew well enough that first time,” Abe wanted to shriek, but he didn't. It wouldn't do to remind his wife of that awful first miscarriage now of all times.

As soon as Glueck escorted them inside, the nurses came to take Leah away. The two men awkwardly stood about for a few moments, and then Glueck offered to drive Abe home.

“You're not staying?” Abe asked, incredulous. “You're the doctor—”

“Not here,” Glueck said somewhat wistfully. “Henderson is her doctor.”

“All right, but I'm staying. Keep me company.”

Glueck shook his head. “I've got to go back to my office.”

They had been speaking Yiddish, and now Glueck looked uneasy when an orderly, passing by, smirked in amusement.

In our neighborhood he's The Doctor, a pillar in the community. Here he's just a funny-looking old Jew, Abe thought, no better than me as far as the goyim are concerned.

“Go,” Abe said. “I'll stay.”

“It could be a whole night and day before the baby comes.”

“I'll stay.”

After Glueck left Abe waited patiently for an hour until Dr. Henderson could see him. “She's comfortable,” the young physician said, hardly pausing as he swept through the waiting area. “I suspect it'll be a long labor.”

What else should I have expected? Abe thought dourly. He called out his thanks to the departing doctor, swore that he would be here come evening and went out for a walk.

He was oblivious to the cold and the surrounding scenery as he walked along the East River and beneath the Brooklyn Bridge all the way to Fulton Market. He sat at the counter of a waterfront cafe and ate roast chicken and mashed potatoes without tasting the food. The crowded, smoky cafe was filled with weary longshoremen and clipboard-toting supervisors wearing the uniform of the United States Army. From here it was not very far to the
West Side and Stefano's waterfront office, but Abe was apprehensive about going there. It was one thing for Stefano to come see him, but who was he to drop in on a big shot?

You are his good-luck charm, don't forget, Abe reminded himself as he drank his coffee. He was not too dimwitted to comprehend that Stefano considered him more of a pet than an equal. Still, why shouldn't it be that way? Stefano had made something of himself, and Abe owed everything to Stefano.

If he wants to throw me a few crumbs as the years go by, I'll take them and be grateful. That way I'll provide for my wife and have the time to enjoy my son. Then when he's older, the boy can go to work for Stefano and learn to be a big shot. That's not such a bad life. Plenty would be glad to trade places with me.

“Only one child,” the doctors warned.

I haven't asked for much, God . . . Let this one be a son
.

He paid for his dinner and elbowed his way out of the cafe.

The sun set. As he wandered with his nerves on fire through the evening he passed a spirits shop whose bright windows lined with green and brown bottles beckoned him.

A drink—a real drink—was just what he needed. He had not had anything stronger than wine for many years. But I'm alone tonight and I need something to calm myself, he thought as he entered the shop. One bottle won't hurt me after all these years. I'll have a few drinks, sit by the river and dream about my son. When I go back, who knows? Maybe he'll have been born. A father can have a drink on the day his son is born; of course he can.

“A quart of vodka,” he said to the man behind the counter.

Outside the heft of the bottle felt lovely in his hand. He was at once seized with an overpowering craving to let
a long draught of it sear his throat on its way to lighting that friendly fire in his belly.

He pulled the cork and tilted the bottle to his lips. He swallowed and swallowed. The vodka went down like water. He sighed, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his overcoat and slipped the bottle into his pocket.

As he walked toward the river the pavement softened beneath his feet as the stars overhead got brighter. Everything was going to be all right, Abe thought, and wasn't buying the bottle such a good idea!

He awoke to the harsh steam whistle of a barge on the river, horrified to discover that he'd passed out. He'd spent the night curled on a wharf, his face in the dirt, a derelict, a bum.

His eyes fell on the vodka bottle. It was lying on its side, about three fingers of drink still in it. Snarling, Abe kicked it away. It skidded several yards and then began to roll with the natural incline of the pier, slipped beneath the railing and splashed into the river.

Leah, Abe thought, my son! He moaned aloud, sick with remorse. What time was it? Oh, God, what time?

Abe got to his feet. At once the pounding within his skull began. He staggered away, savoring the pain, considering it his due.

He made his way toward Chatham Square to catch a trolley. He paused to examine his reflection in a shop window. As bad as he felt, he looked reasonably presentable. He needed a shave and his hair was disheveled, but his dark overcoat did not show the dirt.

My eyes must be red, but that can't be so unusual for a worried husband, Abe reassured himself. I can tell them I fell asleep on a park bench. I can tell Leah I worked myself into nervous exhaustion and fainted.

I can lie my way out of this, Abe thought, and then, God, I'm so ashamed.

He turned away from the shop window. Somewhere a clock tower began to chime. Abe stood frozen, counting the bells. It was twelve o'clock, noontime! Leah would surely be calling for him.

He rinsed the sour taste from his mouth at a public fountain and flagged a taxi. The driver eyed him suspiciously but relaxed when Abe showed him his money, babbling that his wife was having a baby at Gouverneur Hospital.

He was out of the cab and tearing up the steps of the hospital before the vehicle came to a full stop. He dashed through the front lobby, toward the maternity area.

Maybe she hasn't had the baby yet, he told himself. If she's still in labor, no one will have missed me. I must still be drunk. How can I hope for such a thing? Please, let her be finished with it, he prayed. Let her and my son be all finished.

The woman behind the desk looked at him like he was a maniac. “My wife, Mrs. Herodetsky? My son?” Abe pounded the desktop in frustration. Why wouldn't she answer? Then he realized that he was speaking Yiddish.

“Mr. Herodetsky?”

Abe spun around. It was Henderson. The physician looked tired and drawn and even paler than usual. “There you are.” Henderson stifled a yawn. “We've been looking for you.”

A dozen excuses flitted through Abe's mind before he realized that he no longer cared what the doctor thought of him.

“My wife?” he demanded hoarsely. “It's finished?”

Henderson permitted himself a slight smile. “Yes, indeed, Mr. Herodetsky. It was touch and go there for a
while last night. Surgery was called for, but your wife and daughter are resting comfortably.”

“Daughter,” Abe echoed. “Daughter.”

Repugnance filled Henderson's watery sky-blue eyes. “You needn't look so disappointed, Mr. Herodetsky. Your wife will be all right and the baby is perfectly healthy—”

“My wife can have more children?” Abe demanded.

Henderson frowned. “We've discussed that and my recommendation was—”

“I didn't ask what you recommended,” Abe snapped, then paused, realizing his tone would not do. He took a deep breath. “My wife can have more children?” he asked, his voice calm, his teeth clenched.

Henderson nodded once curtly. “I did not perform a hysterectomy. So yes, technically your wife can have more children.”

“Where is she?”

“I'll take you to her in a moment, but first you'll listen to me,” Henderson declared. “The only reason I didn't do it—against my better judgment—was that your wife specifically asked me not to unless it was a healthy boy. ‘Do what you think best,' she said to me, ‘but only if it's a son.'” Henderson shook his head. “Mr. Herodetsky, I'd like to understand. Is it some sort of religious matter?”