Place in the City (6 page)

The priest smiled, very slowly, but the officer, staring straight in front of him, saw nothing of the smile. He hardly heard him say, softly: “The air is clean and the snow is cold. Tomorrow, you will see your children, O'Lacy, and then you will not be so hard on them. If they believed—”

“In the dollar and the gut!”

“No—not all. Sometimes there's a light, and then they stagger out with the burden still on their shoulders. If they only knew which way to go; if I only knew. But if I have faith, I still don't know.”

“They are rotten already. Look how Timy has the whole ward under his thumb, and if I were to say this to any other man, where would my job be tomorrow? Heelers—they're all heelers, and cursed with it.”

“Yes—”

“Now I am with two boys growing up, and what shall I say to them when they go to Shutzey's house to take in the disease and the women?”

“You will tell them that it is wrong—”

“And will they believe me, when they see Shutzey riding around in his big shiny car, and living in one of them places uptown? Will they believe me?”

“They'll believe you.” But there was no conviction in the priest's voice, and when he left the officer to go to his mission, he was wondering how long his faith would last, how long he could stand up in his cassock and tell people that he believed.

On the next block, next door to Kraus' saloon, was the mission house. It had been, formerly, a livery stable; now it had some benches, two coats of buff paint, and a pulpit.

The priest went through the big door, and walked straight to the pulpit, still wrapped up in his thoughts. When he turned around, he saw that all the benches were taken. Well, that was the way things went on a cold, bitter night. There was no place to go, and the missions were always full.

He took off his hat and his coat, went to the stove and threw some more wood into it, and then looked at the people who sat on the benches. They were always the same, men whose eyes held nothing at all, women who could no longer walk the streets, and a sprinkling of well-dressed sightseers. For a moment, he looked at them; then he smiled; then he went into the room behind the pulpit. When he saw that the girl was there already, waiting for him, he felt suddenly and completely rested. She turned around, a girl with yellow hair and a smile as eager as his own. Her name was Marion Meyer; she was the third daughter of the man who kept the cigar store.

This room, an L behind the stable, was a combination living room, kitchen, and office. There was a coal stove, a couch, two big chairs, three small chairs, a desk, and a red carpet. There were some pictures on the walls, but the walls themselves were not in such good repair. The paint curled, and it was yellow with age. And there were cracks in the plaster where the wind came in from the outside. On the stove, a two gallon coffee pot bubbled and steamed, and the whole room was heavy with its fragrance.

“I have a cup for you,” she said. “Look, cream, one lump of sugar, and two pieces of toast with butter. You're wet and you're tired.”

She put her two hands in his, and for a moment he simply looked down at them; then he raised them to his lips, then let them fall abruptly. He sank into a chair, and she brought the coffee over to him.

“Does your father know you're here again?” the priest asked her.

“He didn't ask me where I was going, Jack. But if he had, I would have told him. Don't you think I would? If you want, I'll make a point of telling him tomorrow. He knows I come here to sing and help you. Is there anything so terribly wrong in that?”

“No—”

“Then eat, and then we'll give out the coffee. Isn't it a frightful night, cold and wet. Your feet are soaked, and of course you would never think to put on overshoes. No—just like now. What are you dreaming about now? If the coffee gets cold, you won't like that, and you'll scold me. I work hard all day, and then I come here to be scolded by you. Ah—please drink your coffee. Wonderful, I made you smile. Tell me what happened, where were you? You'll have to change your shoes. Here are the others. Jack, do you ever get new shoes?”

She brought him a pair of shapeless, patched black shoes, and while he drank the coffee, unlaced the ones he was wearing. After he had changed, he stared at her; then he clasped her in his arms and kissed her.

“You're a devil—but God bless you,” he whispered.

“Am I? What shall I sing tonight?”

“Tonight?” He walked to the stove, lifted the coffee pot, and she took up a tray of tin cups; and then, as they walked to the door, he threw back over his shoulder:

“Anything to give them hope. Onward, Christian Soldiers, The Lord is My Rock—” He opened the door, a cloud of steam from the coffee pot preceding him. “Look how they sit there. Sing to them, Marion.”

A
FTER
supper, Jessica went down to mind the store.

Meyer hardly ever had the girls do that, because the store was so much of a hangout for pimps and heelers, men like Shutzey. But tonight, Meyer was tired, more tired than he had ever felt before; he couldn't go down to the store again, and now he wanted his wife with him.

He sat in a chair in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, while his wife did the dishes. When she had finished drying them, she pushed back her light hair with one plump arm, and turned to face Meyer. She wasn't old yet, hardly any gray in her hair, still attractive, and plump enough to make a man continue to want her, even after all these years. She leaned against the sink, stood arms akimbo, watching him, and then she smiled at the despair in his face.

“Meyer, Meyer, what's so terrible, maybe you could tell me? We still have the children and our health, and enough money saved in all these years to make you and me happy when we get old; so why is there a face like the world came to an end?”

“Yes—”

“Is that an answer for a man? Come into the living room then, and let me get away from these dishes.”

But in the living room, he presented the same dead face. Actually, he was wondering how he could tell her, and what she would do. Would she scream at him and call him all the names he could think of for himself? Or would the news hit her too hard? Or would she refuse to believe? How was it that for such a time life could go in a simple even manner, no burdens, no real worries, no complexities; that was happiness. What had he wanted?

Only to make things better for her, better for her than for himself. If he had succeeded in only doubling his money, there would never be another day of worry for them. He would be a respected man in the community, not only Meyer, the cigar store keeper; his girls would have dowries worthy of them—

His wife said: “Look, Meyer, soon the girls will be married. I was thinking, maybe, that you need a rest. I need a rest, too. You could sell the store. If we wanted to, we could go back to Europe to see the old folks, then come back here and settle down somewhere in the country. We have enough, surely—”

“We got nothing,” Meyer blurted out.

She stared at him, at his crumpled, dejected figure, at his face that was already a thousand years old; could any face ever be older than that? And all of a sudden. What had happened to him? What did he mean?

“We got nothing,” Meyer repeated. Then, quick as a flash, he thought of Shutzey and Timy and the rest. An honest man had nothing, while sin gave them money and more money. No God but money, and money had no scruples, no honor, no ethics. The way did not matter; it was only the end that mattered. He, Meyer, was an honest man. But inside he was laughing at himself, laughing the way he had never laughed before.

“Meyer!”

“We got nothing!” Meyer shouted. “We got nothing,” he screamed, “nothing!”

“Meyer, what's the matter with you?”

“What's the matter?” He tried to sneer, to show her what was going on inside of him; but the sneer turned his face into the face of a hurt child, and tears ran out of his eyes, down his cheeks.

“Meyer!”

“Look at me! Look at me, I say! Look at an honest man! All my life I work, and what do I have? I got nothing—nothing! I live in a hole of sin, with whores and pimps and thieves, but I got nothing.”

“Meyer, stop screaming! Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened. I lost the money. Isn't that enough to happen?”

“What money—?”

“All of it. Everything we saved. Eleven thousand dollars. But I lost it, so now—”

“You lost it,” she said dully.

“You understand me. I lost it.”

“Everything—all of it?”

“All of it.” He looked at her, but she said nothing else now; she only stared at him, nodding her head, continued to nod her head, while in his mind, hours passed. Then, when she spoke, she said:

“Where's Marion?”

“At a time like this you ask me such a question! How should I know?”

“I think she's at the mission, with that priest. You should speak to her, or he'll make a goy out of her.”

“With the worries I got, you want I should worry over Marion too.”

“No worries now,” she said quietly. “It's gone, ain't it?”

“So why don't you yell? Why don't you tell me what a rotten no-good loafer I am? Why don't you tell me, instead you should sit there and ask me questions about Marion. At least I'm an honest man, but you tell me my daughter will be a goy! Answer me only this—who brought them up? Answer me that!”

“Meyer, don't yell at me. Why should I talk about the money, when already it's gone. Ain't you told me that it's gone, so should I call you a liar? Will that make it better?”

“You don't care!” he yelled, his eyes full of tears and his face contorted. “You don't care. All my life I slave, and do you give a damn? That's what I want to know! Do you give a damn? Me, you accuse of making goys from our daughters!”

“Meyer, I'm not accusing you.”

“What then? You're praising me?”

“Meyer—Meyer—”

She went over to him, went down on her knees next to him, and rested her head on his lap. Now she was crying, softly, easily. Then she raised her head, stared at him through her tears. They looked at each other. Then she put up a hand and touched his face.

Her thoughts came slowly. When your thoughts come like that, so slowly, it means that you are growing old, doesn't it? They were both old, so old now.

His face was rough under her hand. He hadn't shaved that morning; and how was it she did not notice, when he was a man who never, under any circumstances, neglected to shave? But she hadn't noticed. People grow old, and then they begin to forget. As soon as one is gone, the other forgets. Look how tired his face was, and how old—

If she hadn't said anything about Europe—All the money was gone, and he was afraid; in just the same way that a little boy is afraid, when he has done something wrong. Wrong? But what was wrong? Her man wasn't great. How could you be great, when you only kept a little cigar store? But he was honest. An honest man is like a rare jewel.

“Meyer,” she whispered.

“What is it?” he asked brokenly.

“Meyer, I'm not even asking you what you did with it. Meyer, I love you. Look how many years we are together, and you doubt me. Meyer—”

“I'm afraid. What should a man believe in?”

“Meyer, look at me. We love each other—”

J
ESSICA
stared at Shutzey; in the zoo, once, she had stared at a lion in the same way, and then she had been afraid, too. Yet she knew that if Shutzey were to reach out his hand and put it against her cheek, she wouldn't be afraid. She wondered how it would feel, the large, powerful hand, with the curling black hairs all over the back of it. How would it feel if it clenched hers tight inside of it?

“Now ain' it a shame,” Shutzey said, “leavin' yu down in the store like this.” He looked at the cigar he held in his fingers, turning it over and over, and then he looked up at her and grinned. There was no gainsaying that Shutzey looked good when he grinned. “Now ain' it a shame,” he murmured.

She stared straight at him, returning his look. He was like a beast, big and strong and sure of himself. No woman had him. He owned women, bought them and sold them the way he bought cigars. But he might be tamed. Surely he might be tamed.

“Now what're yu thinkin', beautiful?”

She tossed her head, took a rag and began to wipe the counter, watching him out of the corners of her eyes. He caught her glance, and she found herself smiling.

“Yu ain' talkin', eh?”

“Why should I? I know who you are.”

“Yeah—it ain't nice. You're Meyer's kid. Well, geesus, I never thought yu were so good tu look at. Baby, yer wasting away here. Yu got a face and figure that could take yu places—”

“I'm not interested.”

“Ain't yu? Maybe yer afraid uv me?”

“No—I'm not.”

“Well, don't tie yerself down to that counter. It won't get yu nowhere.”

“Maybe it will.” She flirted the rag back and forth along the counter before she looked at Shutzey again. Then she said:

“You couldn't buy me.”

“Geesus, gimme a break.”

“What kind?”

“Listen, kid, I'll play straight with yu. Now look, tonight, maybe around nine-thirty, ‘I'll have my car opposite Kraus' saloon. Why don' yu drop over an' take a spin with me. I'll wait fur yu.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. I'm on the level with yu.”

Inside, her heart was thumping like a hammer, but she knew she had to keep a calm face. That was part of the game. Let him think what he wished, she wouldn't come so easily. He would be a beast to tame.

“Maybe,” she answered slowly.

“Awright. I'll wait right there in the car.”

D
ANNY
was waiting for Alice in his car that evening. She came over to him, tall and slim, wrapped in a long black coat. He thought she looked as nice as anyone could. The snow fell around her, and when he kissed her, there was a flake just melting on her lips.