The Magician (6 page)

Urek was yelling, “You think you’re something, huh?” as Mr. Japhet pounded on his back, then pulled at his shoulders, trying to drag him off his son, and Lila screamed and screamed. Mr. Japhet got a grip on Urek’s hair, and pulling with a strength he didn’t know he had, actually tore hair out of Urek’s head. Urek was now up, off Ed, yelling at the other three to get the bag. “Smash it, smash it!” Urek yelled, and they smashed the second bag against the bumper of the car, and stomped on it, though Ed was now beyond caring about the crushed contents.

It was a miracle that the school door opened and the half-soused custodian appeared with his huge flashlight, stabbing its beam at them. “What you! Stop, stop, what you do?”

“I’m Mr. Japhet. Get help! Quickly!”

He didn’t seem to have gotten through to the custodian, who stood in the doorway looking out into the snow. Could he see? Thus distracted, Mr. Japhet did not see Urek bring Ed down to the ground again until his ear caught the gurgling sound and he turned to see Urek with his hands around Ed’s throat, squeezing, squeezing. Mr. Japhet pulled the back of Urek’s coat collar without effect, then drummed his fists fruitlessly on Urek’s hunched back, wishing he had a gun to blow the boy’s head off.

Just then the old custodian at the door yelled, “I call the police!”

That did it. Though it would take the police forever to get there in the snow, Urek let go of Ed’s throat and suddenly got up, knocking Mr. Japhet backward.

Urek bellowed at the other three, who circled around the car and started to lope down the road away from the school.

Mr. Japhet felt a surge of relief seeing them retreat. He got his snow-soaked body upright and stepped toward Ed, lying, it seemed, unconscious, when in the periphery of his vision he thought he saw—he did see—Urek, not yet finished, lift his chain on high and swing it against the windshield of the car, shattering the huge curving pane to smithereens.

Ed had been unconscious only for seconds. As his father raised his head from the snow, he could see the three boys off in the distance, Urek still some distance behind them, swinging the chain.

Ed could not manage on his feet, and Mr. Japhet couldn’t carry his weight alone, but with Lila’s help, somehow, with one of Ed’s arms around each of their shoulders, they were able to get him onto the back seat of the car.

Ed gestured toward the forgotten suitcases.

“They’re both smashed, son. Might as well leave them till morning.”

Ed shook his head. He tried to speak, to say he didn’t want people finding out how the tricks were done, but the pain in his throat was excruciating, and the words weren’t clear. He gestured toward the bags again.

Mr. Japhet got the two cases into the trunk of the car. He saw Lila had gotten into the back seat, was holding Ed’s head in her lap, the blood from his face where the chain had first hit him staining her dress.

Mr. Japhet put the key into the ignition, stepped down on the pedal twice, turned the key, and after a few seconds of churning, the engine caught, and he put the car into gear and headed slowly downhill toward the highway. With the windshield gone, the snow whipped through at his face. He held on to the wheel with both hands, his eyes grim against the white night as he headed the vehicle toward the hospital.

Chapter 6

STUDENT MAGICIAN BEATEN UNCONSCIOUS BY CLASSMATES.
The New York Times
’s story was picked up by many other newspapers in the country.

The Washington
Post
angled its story differently: HIGH-SCHOOL HOOLIGANS ATTACK STUDENT, WRECK TEACHER’S CAR AFTER TERM-END PROM, SITUATION IN NEW YORK SCHOOLS WORSENS.

In the
Post
story one learned that racial tension was not the cause of the incident inasmuch as the attackers and the victims were all white. “The student who was severely beaten had just performed a magic show at a school dance. He was attacked after refusing to explain how his magic tricks were done.”

The centerspread of the New York
Sunday News
carried a large photo of the Japhet car seen from just in front of the shattered windshield. The caption read, “Teacher’s car smashed by students’ chains after Friday-night prom. (See story, p. 6).” On page 6 there was no story because its nine inches had been dropped for a late-breaking subway-station rape that had produced no picture to substitute for the smashed Japhet car. The headline on the Associated Press story said: GANG FIGHTS TEEN TRICKSTER, which, at least, had the virtue of brevity.

*

Mr. Japhet drove in the night through the swirling snow, pumping the brake carefully, sensing the inadequate traction of the snow tires on the slick patches where the snow hadn’t held. The snow streamed past the jagged edges of the open windshield, the flakes landing on his face, eyelashes, eyes, dissolving his vision, causing him to blink and blink to keep seeing the road ahead until finally he swung right on the turnoff and followed the signs to the emergency room around the back of Phelps Memorial. Though his speed had slowed, when he applied the brakes and held, the car skidded somewhat, stopping at a crazy angle to the curb. He looked back at Lila holding Ed’s head in her lap. “Is he sleeping?”

“I think he’s unconscious. It must be hurting terribly.”

Mr. Japhet stumbled out into the snow, and in a minute returned with two attendants and a stretcher. They removed Ed clumsily from the car. He was awake now, his face gray-green, his voice a low rasp, then groaning. They got him inside, Mr. Japhet and Lila trailing, suddenly feeling the warmth of the indoors, and with it, now that the mad ride was over, a jolt of fear as the intern in the emergency room touched Ed’s forehead, took his pulse, quickly looked up and down the body, asked, “Accident?”

Mr. Japhet said, “His throat. Someone tried to strangle him.”

Immediately the doctor ordered Ed transferred from the examining table to a morgue cart, saying something to the taller attendant which Mr. Japhet couldn’t hear, and then Ed was being whisked away. “I’m having him put in the intensive-care unit,” said the doctor.

Mr. Japhet and Lila hurried after the morgue cart, not hearing the doctor’s parting words, and got into the same large elevator, watching Ed’s face in the harsh light.

They were made to wait outside. Very soon the senior resident was going through the swinging doors of the intensive-care unit, still buttoning his white coat, followed by the emergency intern, talking. Mr. Japhet made out something about the difficulty of getting the tube through Ed’s nose down into the stomach because of the swelling in the throat, and that was all.

Mr. Japhet felt the hot ache in his shoulders, the stiffness of his back from the difficult drive, a sudden great tiredness and a need to sleep. When he went into the waiting room across the hall to talk to Lila, he saw her being questioned by a large policeman.

“Oh,” she said, “that’s his father, Mr. Japhet.”

The policeman took his cap off; it seemed to Terence Japhet a sign of condolence. “The radio car at the school,” he said apologetically, “they talked to the custodian, but he didn’t know much. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“I have to call home,” said Mr. Japhet, then thought, “Lila, you’d better call first. Here’s a dime.” He gestured to the phone booth just outside.

After a minute she let the receiver dangle and told Mr. Japhet her mother wanted to talk to him.

When he hung up, Mr. Japhet said, “Your father’s going to get dressed and drive down for you.” He searched in his pocket for another dime.

“You’re allowed to use the hospital phone to call the patient’s mother,” said the policeman, pointing to the phone on the nurse’s desk.

“Try not to tie up the line too long,” the desk nurse said.

His mind went blank about his own number. He’d feel like an idiot asking Lila; she was calling them all the time. Then he remembered and dialed.

“Terence. God, I was getting worried.”

He played down everything, making it seem as minor as would be plausible, emphasizing the broken windshield on the car and the fact that he’d have to get a ride home, probably from the police.

The senior resident was coming out. “Have to go now, Jo,” he said and hung up.

He stopped the doctor.

“I’m his father.”

“Well,” he said, “I think we can get the tube down, we’ll be careful. He came damn close to being strangled. Can’t tell too much from the contusions. Nothing broken in the neck, but could be a fair amount of trauma on the inside, have to see. You’d probably better get home and come back in the morning. We won’t know much till then anyway.”

In the waiting room the policeman said, “She says it looked like the attack was planned. Would you agree with that?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Japhet without really thinking.

“It makes a difference. It’s premeditated if your boy dies.”

“What did you say?”

“I was just explaining the legal part.” He turned to Lila. “Go on about that chain.”

“I really don’t remember clearly. I remember the windshield breaking.”

The policeman, his notebook ready, said, “Mr. Japhet, could you start at the beginning and tell me everything you remember?”

And so Terence Japhet told what he knew, wanting to sleep, droning on, sentence after sentence, till he saw the resident and the intern returning to the intensive-care room with a small table of instruments, leaving the door open long enough for him to see the nurse at Ed’s bedside taking his pulse.

“Go on,” said the policeman.

Terence Japhet, who might have made a great deal more money in the outside business world, and who had stuck to teaching because it seemed so far removed from stress, went on talking a minute more until he had to stop because he realized he was crying through his spread-fingered hands.

Chapter 7

Urek, thick-tongued from four beers, pressed the point of the opener into another sweating can top, sending a small spray into his own grin. He punctured two more triangles and passed the can to Scarlatti, who threw a quarter on the pile.

Feeney still had half a can, waved away the offer of another. Smoking, drinking, sex, made him sick. The others put up with him because of old credentials. Feeney had been booked at age seven, caught by cops prying open a parking meter on an older boy’s dare.

Dillard, half-pissed like Urek, motioned for another beer. Urek pointed to the pile of change, waited till Dillard put his money in, then passed the can.

Urek hated the formality of chairs. The four squatted hump-hunched on the linoleum floor of the playroom near the fake brick fireplace Urek’s father had built during one of his layoffs. A fan behind the electric log cycled a monotonous pattern against the brick wallpaper.

“Scared the shit out of ’em last night,” said Urek.

“Shouldna smashed the suitcases,” said Scarlatti. “He’ll make trouble.”

“What trouble?”

Dillard shifted weight. “Shouldna smashed the windshield.”

Urek raised himself to his feet. “It’s insured, ain’t it?” Six eyes stared up at him. “Whatsa matter with you guys?”

He stood over Dillard.

“Okay,” said Dillard, sucking at the beer can. “When’s the kraut coming?”

“If you can’t wait,” said Urek, “whyncha go pull off?”

While they waited, Urek sold each of them, including Feeney, who wasn’t really drinking, another can of beer.

The playroom walls had been papered in imitation pine board, which looked real except at the seams. At regular intervals on the main wall memorabilia hung from spikes. The centerpiece was a World War II M-l stolen in parts by Paul Urek, who kept the ammunition upstairs in his bedroom drawer alongside the package of rubbers.

Near the M-l hung a black-wood-framed, captioned photograph of a squad of soldiers, second platoon, C Company, 18th Regiment, 1st United States Infantry Division. A red crayon circled Urek’s father’s face. He was the only one in the squad, he had told Urek, who never collected a Purple Heart or a dose.

To the right hung a plaque from the Volunteer Firemen’s Association, same style black frame. Then a certificate from the Croton Bowling Alley with a score of 299. At the other end of the wall was a picture of Jesus; if you caught it from the right angle, the eyes seemed to open and shut.

Scarlatti let a fart go just as the doorbell rang.

“Not now, stupid,” said Urek. “You’ll smell up the place.”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Scarlatti.

They heard the shuffling of feet upstairs, the front door being opened by Mrs. Urek, who hadn’t cared about anything since her right breast was removed seventeen years ago. She figured the cancer would come back. It didn’t. Afterward, she figured maybe she hadn’t had cancer, the stupid doctor shouldn’t have taken the breast off. Her husband said she disgusted him. She had given birth to Urek with one breast, bottle-fed the baby, hating him.

Mrs. Urek let the kraut in. She didn’t care.

The’ kraut came down the stairs into the playroom. Dillard, happy now, shut and locked the door behind her.

They all acknowledged her presence with a wave or a grunt.

“Beer?” asked Urek.

“Why not?” Unlike the boys, she got the beer free.