Tunes for Bears to Dance To (9 page)

Walking blindly, stumbling once, he made his way to the door. He opened it cautiously, peered out, saw the deserted center, a small bulb dimly glowing near the front door. Sheets covered easels and benches, turning them into ghosts of all shapes and sizes. His gaze fell on the mallet.

Such a little thing to do, the grocer had said.

He picked up the mallet and walked on legs still stiff from the cramped position of his sleep to the old man’s bench. The mallet was heavy and he put it down. He removed the sheet, careful not to disturb the figures. Letting the sheet fall gently to the floor, he gazed upon the village in the dim light of the distant bulb. The village and its inhabitants were caught in a kind of twilight. He touched the figure of the man as a boy, the blue cap on his head, the dark jacket. A toy, really. All the figures toys. Not a real village and not real people.

Don’t think. Do it.

He picked up the mallet. Raised it above his head. The weight of the mallet sent him slightly off balance and he swayed a bit. Sweat broke out on his forehead like small explosions from his pores. His hair was suddenly damp, a moist lock falling across his forehead. Fastening his grip on the mallet as he held it aloft, he looked down at the village.

Such a simple thing. You don’t have to do anything.
Let the mallet do it. Let it drop, like an atomic bomb falling from a plane.

Blood drained from his arms above his head into his shoulders, flooding his heart, causing it to thump dangerously in his chest.

Do it.

But could not.

Could not move either.

He stood frozen like a statue in a park or a church, utterly unable to move, the pain spreading throughout his body now, his heartbeats thudding in his temples. Trapped this way, as if for eternity.

Then, a small darting movement to his left at the corner of his vision. Looking down, unable to move anything except his eyes, he saw a rat leaping to the bench, saw it slithering among the buildings and figures. Henry, too, leapt, startled, gasping, dropping the mallet, then watching in horror as it smashed into the village, splintering the farmhouse, sending figures askew, the old man’s mother spilling out of the window. Other figures, including the old man as a boy, tumbling and falling and then the bench itself breaking in two, like a crack in the stir-face caused by an earthquake, the building and figures disappearing into the crack.

A sound came from deep inside him …
Ahhhhhh
… like the sound the old man had made the day Henry told him about Eddie’s death, a sound of anguish and heartache that filled the center
as Henry looked down at the ruined village. The village blurred as his eyes filled with tears.

The silence in the center was almost deafening.

Get out of here.

Get far away.

He swiveled away from the broken bench, unable any longer to gaze at the horror of his accomplishment. He stalked toward the door on legs as stiff as wooden stilts.
I didn’t want to do it.

But he had done it, after all.

A
thundering waterfall greeted him as he stepped out into the dismal and deserted street, lit up suddenly by a flash of lightning. He drew back, pressing himself against the door.

He knew that he could not risk hanging around the center. Someone might spot him here and remember his presence later. Despite another flash of lightning and the instant boom of thunder that followed, he dashed onto the sidewalk, hunching his shoulders against the rain and a sudden blast of wind. His breath caught as he raced along. Rounding a corner gasping, he came face to face with Mr. Hairston.

“In here,” Mr. Hairston said, indicating the doorway of a furniture store closed for the night. Thunder boomed again and Henry ducked in beside the grocer. His wet clothes clung to his body.

He had never seen the grocer outside of the store before. He was smaller, thinner, shivering with the chill of the rain.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, eyes bright with anticipation. “Did you do it? Is the village smashed?”

“The village is smashed,” Henry said, his voice cracking as he spoke.

Rain beat against the store windows.

“Excellent, excellent,” Mr. Hairston said, briskly rubbing his hands together, savoring his moment. He reached out as if to embrace Henry and Henry pulled away.

“I smashed the village,” he said, “but it was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“How could it be an accident?” the grocer asked.

“I found a big mallet and was ready to use it. But couldn’t.” He saw doubt leaping in the grocer’s eyes and raised his voice. “I didn’t want to do it.” Then sighed. “A rat jumped on the bench. I dropped the mallet. It smashed the village.”

“How bad?” the grocer asked, warily.

“Bad enough,” Henry said. “Bad enough so that it won’t go to City Hall. Bad enough to ruin it.”

“Congratulations,” the grocer said. “You did it, then. Whether you wanted to or not, you did it.” Astonishingly, he winked at Henry, the wink drawing them into a kind of conspiracy, and Henry backed away against the cold glass of the window.

“I’m a man of my word, Henry. You’ll keep your job and have a raise. I’ll speak to the owner about your mother’s promotion. And the monument—I’ll order it first chance I get….”

For the first time the enormity of Mr. Hairston’s offer stunned Henry. Why all these rewards for wrecking what the grocer regarded as a toy village?

“Why?” he asked, the word almost lost in a boom of thunder.

“Why what?” Frowning, surprised, the grocer looked sharply at him.

“Why do all those things for me? Why was it so important to smash the old man’s village? Why do you hate him so much?”

“He’s a Jew,” the grocer said. As if that explained it all.

Truly
puzzled, Henry said, “You could have hired some wise guys to do it. Pay them a few dollars. Why me?”

“You’re a good boy, Henry. You’re honest, you work hard. You’re good to your mother. You worry about your father. You want to buy a monument for your brother. You feel bad for an old Jew. Such a good boy.” There was mockery in his voice. “I’ll bet you say your prayers every night. So good, so innocent …”

“But smashing the village was a bad thing,” Henry said, with dawning recognition of a truth too incredible to understand. “You wanted me to do a bad thing.”

The grocer smiled, not his inside-out-sneer behind his customers’ backs but a ghastly smile, like the smile on a Halloween mask.

Astonished, Henry thought:

It was me he was after all the time. Not just the old man and his village. He didn’t want me to be good anymore.

The grocer regarded him with affection, as if Henry were a favorite son. “You see, Henry, you are like the rest of us, after all. Not so innocent, are you? Yes, the rat surprised you. But you went to the center and found the mallet. Raised it above your head. Smashed the village. None of that would have happened if you hadn’t wanted the rewards.”

Henry shriveled against the window, needing to move farther away from the grocer but trapped in the doorway.

“I don’t want your rewards,” he said.

The grocer waved away his protest. “Of course you do. You earned them. The village is wrecked. You won’t restore it by refusing.”

“No,” Henry said. “I’m quitting the job. I don’t want it. Eddie wouldn’t want your monument either. And my mother, leave her alone….”

“But you have to accept these things,” the grocer said. “We made a bargain.”

“Keep your bargain,” Henry said.

“No,
you
must keep it,” the grocer insisted. “When you smashed the village, you kept one part of it. Now you have to do the rest. Come on, Henry.”
A new note in the grocer’s voice, one that Henry barely recognized. “It’s not complete unless you accept the rewards.”

Henry shook his head. “No,” he shouted against the drumming rain.

“Please,” the grocer said.

Please?

He saw suddenly that that rewards were just as important to the grocer as smashing the village.

“No,” he said again, with deadly determination.

“You must accept. You must let me do this. It’s very important. Otherwise, the smashing means nothing….” Pleading in his voice.

Taking a deep breath, Henry ran out of the doorway, brushing by the grocer, sending him spinning, out into a torrent of rain, instantly soaked, shivering, bumping against a mailbox, almost falling. Regaining his balance, he looked back to see the grocer standing in the rain, wet and dripping, a pathetic figure calling, “Please, Henry, come back, you must come back.”

Henry shook his head, whirled, ran again, ignoring the rain and his soaked clothing, ran until, out of breath, he paused at the entrance of an abandoned theater. Shrank into the shadows, shivering, not from the rain but because he knew at last what Mr. Hairston was.

He huddled miserably in the doorway, waiting for the rain to stop.

T
hey moved back to Frenchtown three weeks later, the day after his father was discharged from the hospital. “It was a mistake coming here,” his mother said. “You can’t run away from the past. We tried to forget Eddie and that was wrong.”

His father was not cured, of course, and still sat quietly for hours at a time. But he smiled sometimes and actually helped pack up their belongings for the trip home. “It’ll be good to go back,” he said as he closed a suitcase. Henry and his mother exchanged smiles of gratitude.

In the days following the destruction of the old man’s village, Henry avoided walking by the grocery store and did not approach the craft center. He also was careful to avoid encountering the old man at eight in the morning and late in the afternoon.

He looked in the newspaper for a story, either about the exhibition at City Hall or the smashing of the village, but did not see one.

He did not have nightmares but awoke sometimes to a strange sound in his bedroom and realized that the sound was himself crying.

He began hanging around the yard behind the store, hoping to catch a glimpse of Doris. Occasionally, a woman appeared on the second-floor piazza and hung clothes on a reel or banged a mop on the banister, sending a blizzard of dust down below.

Finally, he saw Doris coming down the stairs, moving tentatively as usual, library books cradled in her arms.

He waited until she was into the alley, then stepped in front of her.

Startled to see him, she drew away. “Are you all right?” she asked, whispering even away from the store.

“I quite my job,” he said.

“He said he fired you.”

Henry shook his head. “Don’t believe him. I know he’s your father but he’s. …”

“What?” she asked. “What is he?” Curiosity curling her words, she leaned forward, as if she was about to learn for the first time who her father was.

Henry avoided the word he wanted to use. How could tell the girl that her father was an evil man? “Your father’s weak, Doris,” he said. “And he’s
afraid. You have to stand up to him. Don’t let him call you clumsy and hurt you anymore.”

She stepped back, looking fearfully over his shoulder, and he knew she was looking to see if her father had followed her.

“He got me to do a bad thing, Doris,” he said. “I didn’t want to do it but I did it. Then he wanted to give me rewards for doing it. But I didn’t take them.”

He could see that his words meant nothing to her and he knew he could never explain to her, or to anyone, even a priest in confession, what had really happened that night.

“The important thing is that I stood up to him,” he said. “And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing. Stand up to him, Doris.”

“He’s my father,” she said, with simple terrible truth.

He knew then what he had to do. Even though he was moving away, he had to help her. Had to come back, whenever he could, no matter the distance, to see her. He didn’t know how he could do this but knew he was pledged to do so.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “He expects me back to help in the store. He gets mad if I’m gone too long.”

“We’re moving, Doris. Back to Frenchtown,” he said.