BEN
The night after the snowstorm, Ben couldn’t sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Morty’s bruised face, his swollen lip. Joey Simpson’s father, Big Al Simpson, had beaten up his son, and Ben would not defend him. Somehow, he had to let Morty know that Big Al Simpson and his son Joey were people to stay away from. His head was swimming. There were so many people to avoid in the poverty-stricken tenements of Brooklyn.
The next morning, Ben got up after a sleepless night. Golda, too, he thought, had been tossing and turning, and she was up and sitting in the kitchen long before her accustomed six thirty waking time. She had boiled the water for tea and was sipping a cup.
“You didn’t sleep good?” Ben asked.
She shook her head. “I’m scared, Ben. Who is this man who beats up boys?”
“He’s a mobster. He’s called Big Al. He runs alcohol, and he’s a loan shark.”
“What if he comes after Morty again?”
“He won’t,” Ben said. “Why would he? He already beat him.”
Golda seemed to shiver. “Don’t they sometimes just kill you if they are mad? How could Morty get mixed up with that? I thought he was such a good boy.”
“He is, he is. It was a mistake. He didn’t know who the kid was.”
Golda looked at Ben and appeared to hesitate. “Maybe you should go talk to him? To Big Al? Find out if everything is okay?”
Ben shook his head. “Better leave it be. If I go to him, I’ll only be opening the wound again, and maybe he’ll make me do something bad. Or beat me up or worse . . . Better leave it be.” Ben looked at Golda. She had turned her face away, and he recognized a look of disappointment. He had seen it many times on her face when she saw someone do something she didn’t approve of. “What?” he asked. “Do you think I’m a coward?”
Golda didn’t move.
“I’m not. I’m being practical. This is the best way to protect us. These gangs are all over—everywhere. You pay them to let you stay in business, you pay them to get you a job, you pay them if you’re in a union, you pay, you pay, you pay.” Ben’s voice rose. He was part pleading and part angry with Golda. “Doesn’t your tailor boss, Mr. Cohen, pay protection?”
“Maybe.” Golda got up, poured a cup of tea, and put it in front of Ben. “I never saw him do it. And I don’t think Morty will agree.”
“I’ll talk to him. I’ll explain.”
When Morty awoke, he sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. If it were possible, Ben thought when he saw him, Morty looked worse today than he had the day before. His eye was swollen shut and turning purple; his lip was so puffed he could barely open it. He had a gash on the side of his cheek.
Ben sat beside his son. “Does it hurt much?” he asked.
Morty couldn’t answer. He just nodded.
Ben took a breath. “Do you want something? Some tea?”
Morty shook his head. He breathed hard.
“Do you know who he is? Joey Simpson’s father?”
Morty shook his head again. He evidently couldn’t speak, Ben thought. He was looking at his father through his one good eye.
“He’s Big Al Simpson, and he’s got his own gang here. Not as big as Kid Reles’s, but maybe as brutal. He smuggles alcohol, he loans money.” Ben waited. “You know what I’m saying, Morty? I can’t cross him.”
Morty nodded. He mumbled, trying to talk without moving his mouth too much because it hurt him. “I didn’t know that. I never saw Joey before.” He glanced at his father.
Ben could barely understand Morty. He patted his son on the back. “It’s hard to talk?”
Morty nodded. Ben felt ashamed. He wished he were brave. If he were a brave man, he would go face Al Simpson and at least make a protest. But he was afraid.
Ben never did complain to Joey Simpson’s father. Morty’s eye turned black and purple and yellow, and eventually the color faded, and he looked normal again, but Ben thought Morty would never feel confident in him again. He had deserted his son because of his fear, and it made Ben ashamed. Afraid and ashamed. A bad combination.