AFTER A LONG time I noticed that my calves were aching and I was cold. I stood up. Gideon was looking at the sky.
“It should be raining,” he said.
“Yeah.” I knew what he meant.
“Let’s go home,” Gideon said. “Ida will worry.”
She wouldn’t, and Gideon knew it. Mrs. Stern from across the hall would be more likely to worry about us than Ida. President Coolidge would be more likely to worry about us than Ida.
When we got home, the apartment was empty. Ida wasn’t there, and Papa was gone too.
“Gideon!” I said. “Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe he woke up.”
I pictured it. Papa sits up. He groans, “What happened? I feel like a sack of potatoes.” He looks around for us. “Where are Dave and Gideon?” Ida says, “How should I know? We thought you were dead.” And Papa says, “Dead? I’m not dead.” He laughs. “I’d feel better if I was dead.”
Gideon said, “He’s dead. He broke his neck.”
Ida came in. “They took him to the funeral home. We’ll bury him tomorrow.” She went to the icebox and took out a bowl covered with a dishrag. “And then what? After the funeral, then what?”
Then what? Papa would stay dead and be dead forever.
I didn’t pay attention to the rabbi during the funeral. I counted thirty-four people—our neighbors, my aunts and uncles, and some people I didn’t know who were probably older cousins. The cousins who were around my age weren’t there. I guess they were in school.
The rabbi’s eyebrows were so bushy they stuck out an inch in front of his face. I was sitting next to Ida. Her bony hands were folded in her lap. She stared at the rabbi and never moved.
Papa must hate being up there in the coffin, I thought, not even able to wink at the relatives who came to stare at him.
The cemetery was in Queens. We followed the hearse in a Packard limousine. It was the first time I’d ever been in an automobile. I’d never been to Queens before either. It was the first time for a lot of things—my first time in a cemetery, and the first time for burying my father.
I wished I could see how fast we were going, but the driver was hunched over the speedometer.
“Do you think we’re doing forty?” I whispered to Gideon as streets and houses whooshed past us.
He just stared out the window. Ida sat looking into her lap. Unless she did it while I was asleep, she hadn’t cried for Papa.
I looked around the inside of the car. The floor was covered with a dark green carpet, and the walls were covered with dark green cloth. I reached across to the back of the chauffeur’s seat and folded out the jump seat. Ida ignored me. Gideon watched, then turned back to the window. I crossed over and sat down. I figured I might never have another chance. I liked the way Second Avenue looked, flying backwards away from me. I wondered if hearses came this way often. Up Coffin Avenue. Right turn on Corpse Street. Continue down Goner Row. Left turn to Dead Man Boulevard.
At Twenty-third Street we went under the el, and we stayed under it all the way across the Queensboro Bridge. A train thundered above us as we crossed. It shook the bridge and rattled my teeth.
Queens didn’t look like part of New York City. It had lots of empty fields and wooden houses. Hey, look at that—a yard full of tombstones. The Riley Bros. tombstone factory. Dead people were big business in Queens. I turned around to look out the front window. Ahead of us, the hearse rolled on, feeling right at home.
A few minutes later we turned and drove into the cemetery. The car stopped next to a freshly dug hole, and we got out. I stamped my feet to stay warm while the rabbi said a prayer.
After they lowered the coffin into the hole, we all had to throw dirt on it. I wouldn’t have been able to do it, except I pretended Papa wasn’t in there. The coffin held a pair of huge, long shoes. It didn’t matter, throwing dirt on shoes.
When we got home, we heard voices as we climbed the stairs. Ida opened our door, and I saw that almost everybody who’d come to the funeral was crowded into our front room. The noise was so loud—talking, laughing—that no one noticed us till Ida started pushing through the crowd.
Aunt Sarah, who was standing near the doorway, hugged Gideon and then me. She kept an arm around my shoulders while she said, “I can’t believe Abe’s dead. He should be here.”
Uncle Jack, who was visiting from Chicago where he lived, said, “He had such a brain. He could add a column of figures in his head and come out right every time.” Uncle Jack put his hand on Gideon’s head. “This genius can probably add two columns.” Uncle Jack was Gideon’s favorite relative. Gideon had been heartbroken when he had moved away last year.
I left Aunt Sarah and wandered between the clumps of people, listening. I heard about a banana-eating contest Papa had once won. I heard what an artist he was, how perfect everything he made was. They told the story about the sultan and the medal again.
Aunt Lily was telling about the time Papa had brought a goat to school. She was my mama’s sister. She and Aunt Sarah, Papa’s sister, boarded with a family a few blocks from us.
I heard a bang. Everybody stopped talking. Across the room, Ida was pounding her fist against the wall. Plaster trickled down from the ceiling onto the sofa.
“Abe’s dead,” she yelled. “Who cares what happened twenty-five years ago?” She banged the wall again. “I can’t keep these boys.” Bang. “I can’t feed them.” She stopped pounding. “Who wants them?”
She was giving us away. As if she owned us. I don’t want my hat anymore. Who’s interested? I don’t want Gideon and Dave anymore. Who’s interested?
Where was Gideon? I looked for Uncle Jack. There he was, pressing a chunk of ice to his temple for the headache he always had. Gideon stood next to him. We stared at each other.
“Don’t talk that way,” Aunt Sarah said. “You and Abe had savings. You’ll manage.”
Uncle Milt said, “Gideon and Dave will help, and you’ll find more boarders soon.”
Till last month, three brothers—Sy, Al, and Max Rubino—had slept on mats in the front room with Gideon and me. But then they had moved to their own apartment in the Bronx.
“How many boarders can I take?” Ida shouted. “The savings won’t last. You try feeding two boys on what I earn. Who wants them?”
Nobody said anything. Then Aunt Sarah said there wasn’t any room where she and Aunt Lily lived.
Cousin Melvin said he was out of work and out of money.
Uncle Milt said Aunt Fanny was too sick.
Great-Aunt Rae was too old.
Uncle Irving had seven children already.
Then Uncle Jack said, “Gideon can come home with me.”
Gideon! What about me?
“Who’ll take Dave?” Ida said.
Gideon whispered something to Uncle Jack. He shook his head.
It was quiet again. Then Aunt Lily began to whisper to Aunt Sarah. I knew it was about me, but I didn’t want to live with them and the whole Cohen family. I wanted to go with Gideon.
Aunt Lily stopped whispering and didn’t say they’d take me. Nobody wanted me. Well, I didn’t want them either. Or Ida. I walked across the room toward the kitchen. I didn’t want to stay in here with everybody.
As I left, I heard Aunt Sarah say, “If you give him up, Ida, he’ll have a hard time.”
What did she mean, give me up? If nobody wanted me, who would she give me to?