The Naked and the Dead (92 page)

            Miss Marsden hears them at last. Did you do it, Casimir?

            Me, teacher, why would I do it?

            Come up here, Casimir.

            He walks up to her desk, leans against her arm when she puts it about him. Looking at the class and winking as he lays his head on her shoulder. (Snickering.)

            Now, Casimir, don't do that.

            Don't do what, teacher?

            Did you put the gum on the seats? Tell me the truth, I won't punish you.

            No, teacher.

            There isn't any gum on Casimir's seat, Miss Marsden, Alice Rafferty says.

            Why isn't there any? she asks him.

            I dunno, teacher, maybe the kid who did it was scared of me.

            Who did it, Casimir?

            Oh, I dunno, teacher. Do ya want me to help clean the seats?

            Casimir, you should try to be a good boy.

            Yes, Miss Marsden. He walks back to his seat and on the pretense of helping the other boys, he whispers to the girls.

            In the summer the kids stay out late at night, play hide-and-seek in the empty lots, bathe in the hydrants, which have been turned on for them. There's always some excitement in summer. A house is burning down, or they can go up on the rooftops and peek at the big kids fooling around with the girls. If it's hot enough they can sneak into the movies 'cause the exit doors are left open for ventilation.

            Once or twice they have real good luck.

            Hey, Polack, there's a drunk asleep in the alley behind Salvatore's house.

            He heeled?

            How do I know? the other kid curses.

            Aaah, c'mon.

            They tiptoe up the alley, debouch into a deserted lot behind the tenements. The drunk is snoring.

            Gaw ahead, Polack.

            Whadeya mean gaw ahead, how we gonna split?

            You can split it.

            He creeps up to the drunk, feels about his body slowly for a wallet. The drunk interrupts his snoring, clutches Polack's wrist.

            Leggo a me, ya goddam. . . Fumbling, his free hand finds a stone on the ground, picks it up and cracks it against the drunk's head. The hand tightens on his arm and he smashes down again.

            Where is it, where is it, c'mon hurry up.

            Polack fumbles through the pockets, pulls out some change. Okay, let's go.

            The two boys sneak out of the alley, divide the money in front of a street light.

            Sixty cents for me, a quarter for you.

            Whadeya mean? I found him.

            Whadeya mean? I took all the chances, Polack says, whadeya I t'ink dat don't count for nuttin'.

            Aaah.

            Go crap in your hat. Whistling, he walks away, begins to laugh shakily as he thinks of how he struck the drunk. But in the morning the man is gone, and Polack feels relieved. Aaah, ya can't hurt a rummy, he thinks to himself, a bit of knowledge from the older boys.

            His father dies when he is ten, and after the funeral his mother tries to send him to work in the stockyards. But after a month the truant officer is around, and Polack is sent to an orphanage when his mother can think of nothing else.

            There are all the new lessons not really unfamiliar to be learned. It is even more important never to get caught now; it hurts too much when you are.

            Hold out your hand, Casimir.

            Why, Sister? Wha'd I do?

            Hold it out. The clapper comes down with surprising force on his palm, and he jumps. Holy Jeez.

            For swearing, Casimir, you have to be punished again. And once more the black-clad arm rises, strikes his palm.

            The kids are laughing at him as he walks back to his seat. Through his tears of pain he manages a dubious grin. Nuttin' to it, he whispers, but his fingers are swelling, and he nurses his hand through the morning.

            Pfeiffer, the gym teacher, is the guy you gotta watch out for most of all. When they march in to eat, everybody has to be quiet for three minutes while prayers are said. Pfeiffer snoops around behind the benches, watching you to see if you whisper.

            Polack darts his eyes to either side; nobody seems around. What da hell we eat tonight?

           
Thrump!
His head stings through the layers of concussion which revolve dizzily in his skull.

            All right, Polack, when I say quiet I mean it.

            He stares numbly at his plate waiting for the pain to subside; it's very hard to keep himself from rubbing his head.

            Afterward: Jesus, dat guy Pfeiffer's got eyes in back of his head.

            And there are angles. Lefty Rizzo, the big kid, fourteen, runs the joint when Pfeiffer or one of the Sisters or Fathers ain't around. You gotta pal up wit' him, or you don't get anywhere.

            What can I do for ya, Lefty? (Polack at the age of ten.)

            Lefty is talkin' to his lieutenants. Beat it, Polack.

            Aaah, what for? Wha'd I do to you?

            Beat it.

            He walks through the dormitory, scanning the fifty beds, the half-opened lockers.

            In one of them is an apple, four pennies, and a little crucifix. He cops the cross, saunters back to Lefty's bunk.

            Hey, Lefty, I got somethin' for ya.

            What the hell I want with that?

            Give it to Sister Catherine, a present.

            Lefty considers this. Yeah. . . yeah. Where'd you get it?

            I hooked it from Callahan's bunk. He ain't gonna yell though, y' just tell him to shat up.

            I coulda hooked it myself.

            I saved ya da trouble.

            Lefty laughs, and Polack is made.

            There are obligations, however. Lefty likes to smoke, and he can get away with a half-pack after lights out without getting caught. Every other night, the cigarette detail goes out for Lefty.

            The four kids sneak out to the wall of the orphanage in the evening, and two of them are hoisted over. They drop to the pavement outside, walk for two blocks to the shopping street and loiter beside the newspaper rack of the candy store.

            Polack walks inside to the cigarette counter.

            Whadeya want, kiddo? the candy store man says.

            Uh, I want. . . He looks out the doorway. Mister, that kid's stealing your papers! And the confederate tears down the street with the owner starting after him. Polack grabs a couple of packs, thumbs his nose at the owner's wife, who is screaming at him, and runs away in the opposite direction.

            Ten minutes later they rendezvous outside the wall of the orphanage. One of them boosts the other up to the ledge and then scrabbles after him, holding to his arm. They sneak through the empty corridors, give Lefty his cigarettes, and are in bed a half hour after they have left.

            Nuttin' to it, Polack whispers to the kid next to him.

            One time Lefty gets caught smoking. For the real bad offenses there is a special punishment. Sister Agnes lines the boys up in a file, and makes Lefty straddle a bench with his can up in the air. Each of the kids is supposed to walk by and give him a clout on the butt.

            Only, they are all afraid to, and one after another walks by giving him only a pat. Sister Agnes is furious. You're supposed to hit Francis, she cries. I'm going to punish everyone who doesn't.

            The next kid gives Lefty a mild thump, and Sister Agnes makes him hold out his palm while she hits him with the ruler she is holding. Each of the kids in turn taps Lefty and holds out his palm for the blow.

            Sister Agnes gets very upset. Her gown rustles with anger. Hit Francis! she cries again.

            But no one will. The kids file along, take their crack on the hand, and gather in a circle to watch. Lefty is laughing. When they are all done, Sister Agnes stands still, and it is obvious she is debating whether to make them do it over again. But she is defeated, and very coldly she tells the boys to march to class.

            Polack has learned a powerful lesson. He expands with admiration for Lefty. He does not know the words yet, but he shakes his head.

            Boy, Lefty is okay.

            Two years later, Polack's mother brings him back to her house. One of the older sisters is married, and two of his brothers are working. Before he leaves, Lefty gives him the secret handshake.

            You're okay, kid, I'm gettin' out next year an' I'll look ya up.

            Back to his street and the new sports fitting his age. Hitching rides on trolleys is commonplace, stealing from stores is a source of income. The real sport is holding onto the tailgate of a fast freight truck and highballing it fifteen miles out of town. His mother makes him get a job working as delivery boy in a butcher store, and he does that for a couple of years.

            It has its moments.

            When he is thirteen one of the women to whom he delivers meat seduces him.

            Oh, hello, she says, opening the door, you're Mrs. . . Mrs. . .

            Mrs. Czienwicz's son, lady.

            Yeah, I know your mother.

            Where you want the meat, lady?

            Over there. He puts it down, looks at her. I guess that's all.

            Sit down, you must be tired.

            Naah, I got a lot of orders.

            Sit down.

            He stares at her. Yeah, all right, maybe I will.

            Afterward, he feels as if his education is completed. He has known for a long time that there is no man you can trust, but women have not concerned him. Now he is positive that women too are as unreliable as the altering sands of mutual advantage.

            I'm leaving. . . Well, so long. . .

            You can call me Gertrude. She giggles.

            He has not thought of her as possessing a name. Even how she is Mrs. Something, a door at which he drops meat.

            So long, Gertie. I'll be seeing ya.

            It is only hours later that the advantages, the beauties, the absorptive recollections of this act he has known by name for so long catch up with him. The next day he drops in to see her, is there often for the rest of the summer.

            His years elapse, and he grows older, even wiser within the rigid gamut of his wisdom, but he hardly alters. He goes from job to job, becoming a butcher, working in the stockyards, even chauffeuring a car for some people who live on the North Side, but he exhausts the possibilities of the jobs very soon, knows their limitations almost before he has begun.

            In 1941, when he is eighteen, he sees Lefty Rizzo again at a ball game, and they sit down together. Lefty is putting on weight already, looks prosperous. With his mustache he looks eight years older than twenty-two.

            Ay, Polack, what the hell you been doin' with yourself?

            Play in' the percentages.

            Lefty laughs. Still the same old Polack, boy, are you a card. Why the hell ain't ya been around to see me? I coulda fixed ya up with something.

            Never got around to it, that's a fact. (But it is more than this. His code, never formulated, has been at work. When a pal has hit it, y' don't touch him unless he asks ya.)

            Well, I can use ya.

            Whah Novikoff, ya lousy Russian. Let's see ya hit somethin' besides air. Polack sits down after shouting, cocks his feet up on the seat in front of him. What was that ya said?

            I can use ya.

            Polack makes a face, purses his lips. Maybe we can do business, he says in dialect.

            He buys a car, using for the down payment his savings from the first two months' work. He drives around at night after supper going to the candy stores and barbershops to collect the numbers receipts. When he is done he rides over to Lefty's house and drops the receipts and cash, goes back to the new furnished apartment he has rented for himself. For this he gets a hundred dollars a week.

            One night something a little different occurs.

            Hey, Al, how ya doin'? He stops at the cigar counter, picks out a two-for-35-cents brand. (Rolling it in his mouth) Whadeya say?

            Al, a middle-aged man, comes out to him with a bag of change. Hey, Polack, there's a guy here wants his payoff. His number came in.

            Polack shrugs. Why don' ya tell the lucky gentleman that Fred'll be around tomorrow with the money?

            I told him, he don't believe me. There he is. (A thin seedy guy with a red pointed nose.)

            What's the story, Jack? Polack says.

            Now, listen, I don't want to make any trouble, mister, I ain't lookin' for a fight, but my number came through, I just want to get my money.

            Well, now hold on, Jackson, let's take a breat'. He winks at the owner. You don' wanta be gettin' your balls in an uproar.

            Listen, mister, all I want is the money. 572 it paid off, didn't it? Look here's the ticket. (A couple of kids who have come in for candy are watching, and Polack grasps him by the arm.)

            Let's get in here and we'll talk it over. (He slams the door behind them.) Okay, ya won, Jack, and tomorrow the payoff comes. We got one guy to collect and one guy to pay off. It's a big outfit, Jackson, we got more than your ticket to worry about.

            How do I know anybody's gonna come around?

            How much ya put down?

            Three cents.

            You're gettin' twenty-one bucks, huh? Wha' do ya t'ink, you're gonna bankrupp us? He laughs. You'll get your money, Jack.