Sam's Legacy (45 page)

“And Stella?” Flo asked.

“Sure,” Sam said, and he was not surprised by the suddenness of her question. “I think about her a lot.”

“Yes?”

“That's all,” Sam said. “I don't have to say anything else.”

“That's right,” Flo said. Her voice was cold.

“I mean, you yourself just said she's not part of the program—” Sam laughed.

“You're just like your father,” Flo said. She stepped across the room to where he sat, in the corner, and she put a hand on his shoulder, then bent over and kissed him on the forehead. He stared at her blouse, his nose an inch from her left breast. “You take care of yourself.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “I got brains.”

Flo laughed, and opened the door to the cellar. Sam smelled dust. He heard her footsteps on the wooden stairs. In a hole was right, he thought to himself, looking around the room and thinking of the store above. He didn't like the idea of being in a room without windows. He didn't like the idea of others—Flo and Tidewater—keeping a lookout for him. The deck of cards that Tidewater had left for him, unopened, lay on the table where Tidewater had placed it, next to the jar of pencils. That had been a mistake—telling Tidewater that everything would have worked out if only he could have had a game now and then, because the truth, Sam realized, was that he wasn't much interested any more. Instead of cards, he thought of Stella.

He lay down on Tidewater's bed, and slept. He awoke at noon, when Tidewater arrived to make lunch for the two of them. Sam asked him how his work—the story—was coming, and Tidewater said that it would be ready soon. After lunch, Sam started on the dishes, and Tidewater put on his coat. He offered to get a newspaper for Sam. “One thing,” Sam said, as he sprinkled soap powder on the dishes. “I was thinking: how come you don't get yourself a piano?” He saw Tidewater smile. “I mean, as long as you're staying. Down here—the noise—it wouldn't bother anybody.”

Tidewater's long face, next to his olive green raincoat, seemed ashen. “Ah Sam,” he said with affection. “You know—you asked me yesterday why it is that I take such an interest in you. You wondered if it was only because of my feelings toward your father.” He moved forward, and Sam kept his eyes on the man's hands, which curled toward him gracefully. “But don't you see? You're rare yourself, Sam. You are—I've thought about it—you are what I would call a man more sinned against than sinning, don't you see? There are not many of your kind left.”

“Sure,” Sam said. “Whatever you say.”

Tidewater left. When Sam had finished the dishes and put them away in the tall closet next to the door, he sat in the easy chair and did nothing. He was surprised at this—that it did not bother him to do nothing. Like his Bible Man, he was ready to retire. He found that it was, below the store, easy for him to sit for an hour or more, not sleeping, not moving, not thinking, not worrying. Letting the others take care of him now—he laughed at the idea—he figured it was his way of keeping up with inflation.

The only thing he regretted, other than not being able to see Stella, was that he couldn't leave to tell Steve's wife about what had happened and why he hadn't shown up to get Steve's message. It angered him to think that Steve might lump him with everybody else—thinking that Sam had not meant what he'd said. He had thought of asking Mason or Flo to leave a message for Steve at the candy store, but the less anybody knew about his life, the better. There was no point in leaving any clues for Sabatini, as long as the guy felt like hunting.

Flo visited him again the following morning. She had spoken with Stella and it was, she said, arranged: Stella would come to the party that evening—Tuesday night—in the rummage shop. Flo and Mason would, when things were in full swing, bring her downstairs.

“No,” Sam said, and he laughed. That, he could have told Flo, if he'd wanted to, would have been carrying things too far.

“But I thought, since they must be watching this building anyway, and it wouldn't seem unusual for Stella to—” Sam watched her trying to read his mind. “I haven't said anything. Just that if she comes, she'll see you. That's all she knows.”

“No,” Sam repeated. “You tell her I'll be in touch. Tell her—” Sam thought of saying something about the neighborhood, something that would make Stella laugh. “Tell her I'm okay, that's all. I'll be in touch.”

“Your friends called again—Shimmy and Sid. I've been doing as you said, telling them you're on vacation.” She paused at the door. “It is nice to know people care, though, isn't it?”

“I knew already,” Sam said.

“Dutch stops by every morning.”

“Dutch is okay.”

Flo left. Hearing the names of his old friends, Sam thought of how badly Tidewater had felt about not having known the guys on his team. The last thing he needed, though, was advice from people like Sid. Sid had been the one, he remembered, who, years before, had tried to stop Dutch from running onto the grass at Ebbets Field in order to shake Duke Snider's hand, and if Dutch had listened to Sid… Sam could remember cheering as Dutch ran around the outfield with cops chasing him, and—afterward, at school—how good he'd felt, being the best friend of a guy who had done the kind of thing Dutch had done.

When the heat was off, he told himself, he would see to it that he spent more time with Dutch, but for the time being, he had no desire to think about him. If he thought about anything, it was about leaving. Afterward, when things were straightened away, he and Stella could laugh about Flo's scheme. Sure. And maybe, if Tidewater spent all his time below working on his life story—Sam turned the idea over in his head—maybe then the heat would stay off for good.

In the middle of the night, Sam was awakened by the sound of a siren. He sat up in bed, in the darkness. “Mason?” he whispered, but there was no reply. From habit, Sam reached for his pants—held his knife, and waited. He heard the door to the street open, and he listened to footsteps, going up the staircase to his landing. A minute passed, and Sam heard nothing. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, but it made no difference: without windows to let in light, he saw nothing. If Tidewater were upstairs, he would throw them off the trail. Somebody—Sam didn't care who, whether it was Sabatini or Sam's own buddies—was checking on him. But they'd find nothing out of order. Ben's room would be just as it was when Ben had left. The brochure would be there, on the desk, if anybody was interested. Sam laughed to himself, hearing Ben's voice:
People of advancing years gradually—or sometimes suddenly—come to realize that their present home no longer meets their needs in the best way, and that they should think of a change
.

In the morning, when Tidewater did not appear, Sam made breakfast for himself: juice, eggs, bacon, toast, milk. He had offered Tidewater money for food, but the man had refused, and Sam had seen no point in arguing. He'd make it up to him when he got back on top. Although Sam had not seen daylight for six days, he felt good. He did his exercises in the morning and evening, he slept well, he ate well. He felt alert, on edge, ready for anything; the slight dizziness and the pains were gone. There was no point in going above ground and taking chances, but the fact was that they had gone easy with him.

When Flo visited him at eleven, Sam said nothing about what had happened during the night. Flo spoke about her program, and Sam listened. It was something which he was interested in, and it made him feel good to know that the hours he'd put into the store, over the years, though they didn't amount to a lot, had gone for something worthwhile. One of the guys in the program—in graduate school at Teachers College—was going to be the director of a Head Start program for the coming summer, and Sam understood Flo's pride in the fact. He listened to her and remembered one time her voice had not been so sweet. Marion had put up a sign, when Flo had been away, and Flo had been furious when she'd seen it:
I complained because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet
. Flo had been right to take the sign down, Sam thought. Most people would probably have thought that it made sense. Sam smiled, glad to have Flo with him. It took somebody like her to understand why words like that didn't do anybody any good.

“Did Mason tell you about last night?” she asked.

“I didn't see him this morning.”

“They took Mrs. Reardon away, you know. I called this morning. They don't think she'll last the day.”

It took an instant for the name to register, and then Sam heard his heart thump, off-beat. “What about the kid—Muriel—?”

Flo did not look directly at him. “I put through some calls this morning, to people I know—”

Sam was standing. “What
happened
to her?” He wanted to reach out and grab her, to shake the information from her, but he found that he could only stand stiffly, his hands at his sides. “C'mon. What happened—?” He found the only words which made his point for him: “I got a right to know.”

“They took her away this morning. I wanted to keep her—believe me—I tried to—”

“I got a right to know,” Sam said again, but weakly. “I mean, I know her since she was a—since she was left here.”

Sam allowed Flo to hug him, to press her body to his. His hands remained at his sides. “I know, Sam dear—I know. But it's for the best. She'll be with children her own age, she'll be well fed, she'll have a clean bed.” Flo stood back, took Sam's hands in her own. “I had to go inside this morning, with the people from the agency. I'm glad you didn't have to see the filth in their apartment—you wouldn't believe what it was like.”

“Why'd you let them? Why didn't you come get me—” Sam turned away from her. He looked around the room, at the ceiling, and imagined Muriel in a room without windows. He did not like the idea of Flo seeing how upset he was. “We could have worked something out to keep them from taking her.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sure.” Sam's ears were ringing. “I mean, she's just a kid. She's got her whole life ahead of her.”

Flo came toward him again, but he swung his hand out. “Lay off me, with your hands. Just leave me alone, okay?” He didn't want to be angry with her, but he could not stop himself from letting the words fall. “You could have stopped them if you'd really wanted to.” He nodded. “Sure. You waited till I was down here.”

“Oh Sam,” she said. Her voice was sad. “Sam,” she said again, softly, but he did not make a move toward her.

“Just leave me alone, okay? I got to figure some things out.” He blew air into the room, as if he had been holding his breath.

“It's for the best, Sam.”

“Sure,” he said. “Everything is, if you want to look at it that way.” He sat in the chair, spent. “I should've figured something, the way she was sitting out there all last week. I should've figured something myself. I wasn't thinking.”

“I'm glad you didn't see the apartment. The odors—”

“Sure,” Sam said. “They probably wanted me to be around, to try to stop them—they would have liked that. They could have used that too.” Sam shook his head. “You don't have to say anything else. Go upstairs and rummage around, okay?”

Flo did not reply. Alone in the room, after she was back in the store, he couldn't keep the pictures from appearing inside his head: he imagined himself sneaking upstairs, wary of the guys who might be after his skin, and he knew that, if he'd searched for the girl, she would have been gone. He saw himself standing on the staircase, barring the way, and he saw how absurd the scene would have been. Maybe, in a while, he'd come to the same conclusion Flo had come to—that she was better off in a special place, where they were used to taking care of kids like her. Sure. The words were there: she'd be with other kids who were in the same boat she was in.

Except, he knew that he had—even while Flo had confused him—been aware of another solution, though he'd been smart enough not to voice it. Because even if there had been something to it, to taking care of Muriel himself, with Stella, he realized that it was too late. By the time they would have tried to get things worked out, by the time they'd have worked their way through all the forms and, given Stella's condition, the special problems—not to mention the spot he was in with Sabatini—the kid would have been long gone. Sam picked up the coffee cup Flo had been drinking from, and he rinsed it. The truth, he admitted, was that although he may have wished he could have been ready for such a thing, the thought was so new to him, the idea seemed so opposite to the way, if he'd thought about it, he'd foreseen his own life, that he wouldn't have been able to lay odds on its chances of working out. Still, it was what was in his head, and he didn't fight it. He'd see Stella before he left.

He sat down on the bed feeling weak. Later, Flo would forget about the things he'd said to her. Sam pictured her in the hospital, before he'd known her; holding her second baby, he knew she was thinking of the time the first one had had trouble standing up. The kid was smiling, pushing up from the ground with the palms of its hands. Sam was, in truth, glad that he'd been below, where he hadn't been able to see them putting Muriel into a truck. Not that he was afraid—if he'd had to watch, he could have watched. There would have been no great trick to that. But it was better, if you couldn't do anything about something, not to have to be involved in the details.

He was surprised, now that he'd decided about Stella, at how calm he suddenly was; maybe, if he visited Muriel when things got straightened away and he could return—Flo would be sure to know where she was—maybe the kid would remember him. Meanwhile, there was no point in raising the house with the hand he was holding. Sure. But if, he asked himself, he had things figured out so well, and if he seemed to be calm—he could see himself lying there, motionless—why was it that he felt, at the same time, such a shortness of breath, as if somebody were sitting on his chest?