FOUR

I HAVE BEEN SLEEPING on my side, but I do not look behind. I can feel Sarah there, with me, her body pressing on the bed. My head is heavy, my sinuses are still clogged. I pull the blanket closer to my neck. The parts of the dream that I can remember are vivid. The cowboys were in it and they danced around me endlessly, chanting Chassidic melodies, their arms on one another’s shoulders, hopping lightly, smiling. Their beards grew from the tops of their heads. Their chins were bare. I turned with them. You were with me, Sarah. Then we were outside the circle, watching them from the window of our apartment on Eastern Parkway as they danced over the lawns of the Botanic Gardens and made their way up the walls of the Brooklyn Museum. You told me not to worry, you stroked my cheeks, you whispered softly in my ears. You spoke to me in Spanish. It was my birthday present, you said. You had been studying at the library. You wanted to share my work with me. You promised you would never speak English again. The lights were coming on in the museum and the cowboys were dancing up the walls. Stay with me, Sarah. I am cold. You want me to speak in Spanish, but I will not. I am an American, Sarah, the accident of my father’s old age. Do you hear me? You lead me to the bed and it is warm there. I smell bacon frying. You hold me close and the flesh between your thighs is loose and warm. No me olvides, querido Harry, you say. Muy amado mío.. Do not forget me. Sarah, Sarah. I think I hear the cowboys on the sides of our building, pecking at the windows, scaling the fire escapes with ropes. You tell me not to worry and I huddle close under the covers, warming my ears at your breasts.

I do not look behind. The room is ice-cold. I am, at least, sleeping on my side. It is something. Light enters, from under the window shades. I hear a car pass below. I know it is foolish, but I am afraid to turn over, afraid I will find you there, smiling at me, brushing your gray hair. You handed the pigeon to me and I remember holding its softness as it gurgled beneath my fingertips. Your thighs are as soft. I wonder if the pigeon was in the dream. Here on West 76th Street I have no fire escape. The cowboys are singing with great strength and the auditorium at the Brooklyn Museum is crowded with members of my family. Light shines on them from the dome overhead. I cannot see Simon. They are singing the song my father hummed on the couch. I move further under the covers and Sarah wraps her legs around mine. I am an old man, Sarah. Do you hear me? I ache for you. I admit it. Above your knees, I warm my hands. The cowboys are singing in the branches of the trees that line Eastern Parkway, stroking their naked chins. Sarah tells me I should shave, and she laughs softly. I keep my hands warm. I turn over and face her, her features distinct under the covers, and I move to the point where her thighs begin. The flesh is warm. I hear giggling, then more laughter. The light goes on under the covers and where my love would enter, I see the face of Ruben’s doll, staring out between the hair of a cowboy’s beard, laughing hideously.

Pains move through my chest. My mouth goes slack. Sarah’s arms comfort me and I am a child again. It is only a doll, she tells me. I will not open my eyes again. I swear it, Sarah. I turn away and she presses against me from behind. Her body is still warm. The doll laughs. Outside, the cowboys swing in their branches. Across the street, the concert goes on. The room is black. Sarah, Sarah. It happens so soon. I am sorry. Believe me. I hear the cowboys singing my father’s song. Their voices grow louder.

I reach my right hand from under the covers and scratch on the floor beside my bed. I find my shoe and lift my watch from inside. It is almost seven. I will have to call Mrs. Davies again this morning. Today I will tell her. There will be no more calls from Harry Meyers. He has enough sick leave accumulated to last him until his retirement. He is entitled. When he wants to return he will call you. I lay the watch on my night table and pull the blanket tight around my neck. I cough and bring up phlegm, then I swallow. The radiator knocks. There are footsteps outside my door. I hear the sound of the toilet flushing. My own bladder is full. If I tell Morris that I was able to sleep on my side he will say it is because I am staying away from the cowboys. He will be here after breakfast, with a sweet roll brought from the kitchen of his home. I will not refuse it, I can assure you. And he will not press me about buying the bed next to his. He sees my situation now. He knows when words are not needed.

But I will fool him, you see. Harry Meyers will return to his monkeys and cowboys. It is merely a question of time. I will use up some of my sick leave, I will recover from my cold, I will regain my strength. I swallow and feel the glands move along my throat. If I have such dreams only to sleep on my side, I think, I have a good deal to look forward to when I reach my back. But that is all right also. Everything has its price in this world. There are rules and regulations.

The telephone rings again, but it does not bother me. I will settle that soon enough. If it rang after midnight last night Harry Meyers did not hear it. His sleep has been deep and heavy. I thank you for that, Sarah. From under the windows the radiator begins to send its heat across my room. I stay on my side now, the pillow beneath my shoulder, under my cheek. Perhaps I will shave this morning. I shift my weight and hear a mattress spring uncoil. My side of the bed goes down slightly. There is more light in the room, slipping through the window shades. I rub my eyes and laugh at myself, remembering the dream. Forget it, Harry, I say. But I do not fool myself. I was frightened. You are with me still, Sarah, and I do not forget the sensation, the feel of your warm flesh, the sight of the doll.

I close my eyes and think of the hours that lie in wait for me, until it is time to sleep again. In truth, I do not know what I will do with them. I have already read Don Quixote twice within the last ten days. I read it in Spanish, something I have not done since before the war, when I assigned it to the bright students in my honor classes. I will tell you something: here is a book. It is no accident that Cervantes died on the same day as Shakespeare, Harry Meyers would tell his classes. But you too were a fool, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, to have placed all your hopes on a post in the American colonies. What Morris says is true: a curse on Columbus that he ever discovered this land. It was not so terrible that you rested in the jails of Seville, that your government did not let you come here to redeem your failures. Still, I have had enough of your book. I will save it to give to my monkey. I will tell him that you called yourself the one-handed man —“El Manco de Lepanto.” That will please him, I know. He will stick pins in your other hand.

I open my eyes and glance at the mantel of the fireplace, where the doll rests now, smiling at me. In truth, I have grown fond of my likeness. I would not be without it. You are right, Sarah. It is only a doll. And a dream is only a dream.

I ease my feet out from under the covers and slide them along the floor until they find their slippers. They are the old Persian slippers, the birthday gift you gave me so many years ago. The radiator under the window groans, iron on iron. I let the covers fall from my back and I slip quickly into my bathrobe, pulling it tightly around me. I glance back at the bed, walk away, then look at it again. It is too narrow, of course. You sleep alone, Harry Meyers.

At the window, I raise the shade and warm my hands above the radiator. The window sash swings gently from side to side. Across from me, in the upper floors of the other brownstone buildings, shades are still down. It is all right, I think. They are entitled also. For block after block, you see, all along the west side of Manhattan island, the single rooms in the top floors of the brownstones and graystones are paid for from social security checks. Harry Meyers’ situation is not so unusual. Perhaps he will get together with others and form a union. Next year, I think. When I retire.

Already, you see, they are trying to move us out. It is difficult to grow rich from other people’s social security. Across the street, toward Amsterdam Avenue, numbers 171 and 173 have been boarded up. The wreckers have gutted the insides. The walls and floors are gone. Only the fronts and the roofs remain. I questioned the workmen one time, but they would give no information. I predict an apartment house, with no fourth or fifth floors for the members of our union. In truth, Morris’s arguments gain strength each day.

Perhaps if we get more students to move onto the floors with us, we will be able to organize more effectively, to protest. On top of me, I know, is an Oriental, a graduate student at Columbia. But he never says hello to me. He carries brown grocery bags in and out of his room and lets wonderful odors trail through the stairwell. Well. If he does not wish to greet me, that is his business. Below me, I see the men walking to the synagogue, their prayer bags under their arms. It amazes me, to tell the truth, that they do not get bored, repeating their journeys every day, reciting the same prayers. I assure you, Simon, I would not have lasted more than two months, even if I had tried. Believe me.

I do not think about what I will do next year. What I will do for the next fourteen or fifteen hours seems more important. I have my two telephone calls to make. Morris will be here. Nydia will come upstairs with the baby and some food. I will watch the street below. I will cook meals over my gas burner. And I will consider: the first thirty years of my life as compared to the years sixty through ninety. When one makes such a comparison, it becomes clear that Harry Meyers may not, after all, be such a fool. One day past sixty-nine is all he asks for.

Ahead of me, at an equal distance from the window, I see my reflection, suspended over West 76th Street. Even Danny would not be able to say to me that I am looking good. These past ten days have not been easy. So. I will rest for the remainder of this week. There is Thursday and Friday. Then the weekend. Perhaps I will return to school on Monday. But we will see. It is not such a bad thing that I try my room for a while. This year can be next year.

Directly under the window Carlos exits and, as he crosses the street, he drums on the hood of a black car with his fingertips. He passes the old garbage-can woman and says good morning. She ignores him and I watch as she works her way up the street, from garbage can to garbage can, filling the shopping bags that sag from both her arms. One of the men on his way to the synagogue tries to give her some money, but she pushes him away. It does not surprise me. What good is a piece of green paper, after all, when you are searching for lost treasure.

I raise the shade of my other window and then move back into my room. I smooth down the sheets on my bed, and over the blankets I arrange the blue chenille bedspread. Sarah looks at me from the dresser, the two of us framed in silver, leaning toward one another, standing under the willow tree in the Botanic Gardens. Behind us is a brook and in the distance you can see the hothouses. My walls are without pictures. Perhaps when the year ends, I think, I will take the contents of the glass-enclosed bulletin board with me. You cannot fool yourself for long, Harry Meyers. You have been leaving your walls bare for a good reason. Soon. Soon they will receive their proper covering. Danny will be pleased. He and Jean can come to dinner then.

It is something to consider, I tell myself, as I run the water from the faucet into my teapot. The school may protest, but when Harry Meyers can no longer stand in front of a class, there will be nothing of him in a school building, I promise you that. If they have copies made, that is their business. I cannot stop them. The original, though, will stay with me.

On my gas burner the water boils and I drop tea leaves to the bottom of the pot, then turn the flame off. I leave the room and go to the bathroom in the hall. There is a slight burning sensation as I relieve myself. I credit this to my swollen glands. I wonder what my cowboys are doing without me, or if they have hired a teacher to take my place. There is a pattering of feet and as I exit a door closes at the rear of the landing. One day I will corner you also, Mrs. Wenger, and make you tell me your story. I will get Morris to put you on his list. At your age, you would be a fine investment for his home.

I open the door to my room, then close it without going inside. I wait. Mrs. Wenger steps from her room and when she sees me standing opposite her, no more than twenty feet away, her toothless mouth opens in surprise. I try to see into her room, behind her. Her bathrobe is made of black silk, and she pulls it tightly around her withered body. But she does not move forward or backward. I start to smile, but my lips quiver. In the lines of her face I sense only one thing: she will not move. We have been neighbors for eight years, Mrs. Wenger, ever since that dark night your young couple deposited you here with much whispering. I nod good morning. We should speak to one another, Mrs. Wenger. She does not move. I try to smile again. Her knuckles are white where she clutches her robe. All right. Enough. I turn and open the door to my own room. I hear her take a step. I look back and she stops. I shrug, my hands up, my palms exposed. “I am an old man,” I say.

In my room I chew on a piece of rye bread and drink tea. The tea warms my chest. I go to the window and, in the bottom of the boarded-up buildings across the street I see what looks like a small fire. Shadows move swiftly across the rubble. I rub my eyes and look again. I see nothing. It is only the early morning sun playing tricks, I tell myself.

Below me the prayers are ended and the men return from the synagogue. At number 171, between the fourth and fifth floors, tucked in the corner, where the buildings join, I see that your face is still there, Sarah. Do not worry, my wife. The wreckers will not get you. Amid the baroque stone carvings, you gaze at me, your cheek sandblasted, soot in your hair. I had lived here for five years before I noticed you, among the shadows and stained glass. My eyes wander over the buildings to either side of you, up and down their faces, tracing the outlines of useless ornaments, of cupids and lions’ heads and medallions. They will not get you. Believe me, Sarah.

I telephone Mrs. Davies and tell her that I am still sick. She starts to tell me that all the teachers are concerned about my health, but I cut her off. I tell her that she will get no more telephone messages from Harry Meyers. I do not care about regulations. When I am ready to return I will be in touch. If there are emergencies, I have a mailbox.

It is past eight o’clock. I dial the business office of the telephone company and tell them what to do. I am pleased with my decision. It is a start, at least. I feel my throat, gently, and find that my glands, under my jawbone, are not as enlarged as they have been. The lumps wiggle under my fingers. My buzzer startles me. I ring back, but I am puzzled. It is too early for Morris, and Nydia does not need to ring from outside. I rub my unshaven cheek with my fingertips. If it is Jackson’s brother, I realize, I am not ready for him yet. Even these ten days have not been enough. I would like more time. That is not so much to ask, after all.

I go to the door and double-lock it, then press my ear to the wood. Someone is taking the stairs two at a time. The footsteps are light and there is more than one person, I am certain of it. The steps reach my landing and stop. They approach my door and there is a rapping of knuckles on wood. I do not answer. I hear the shuffling of feet. They whisper. The knocking comes again, louder. “It’s me—” I recognize the voice at once. I should not be surprised. “Open up quick, Mister Meyers. You got to. Please—”

I step away from the door and I tie the belt of my robe more tightly. The knocking comes again. “Please, Mister Meyers, you got to let me in quick. I telling you the truth—”

I will not touch the doorknob. I can see the cowboys swinging in the trees, humming to each other. I look at the window, but there are no branches there, no leaves. Only the faces of other brownstones. I remember the way the pigeon felt in my palms. “Go away,” I say. “Go away, Ruben Fontanez.” But I am not certain, after, that I have spoken the words aloud. I move backwards into my room. I lift my teacup and drink, but the tea is already cool. I shiver. Morris is right. The knocking is more insistent. The doll on the fireplace smiles. It is all too ridiculous. The light from the window flashes from the pins as if they are made of silver. A dream is only a dream, Harry.

“You got to let me in, Mister Meyers.” He pauses. “It’s my mother.” I do not move. “That the truth—”

I breathe in deeply. I can hear my heart. I am glad, at least, that my bed is made, my room neat. Go away. Go away, Ruben Fontanez. The cowboys stroke their beards. I wonder if I should have said what I did about Sandy Koufax. That was foolish, Harry. Someone is moving away from the door. “Okay,” Ruben says. “I tell you why so you listen to me.” I wait. “Mi madre, Mister Meyers. ¡Mi madre es muerto! That the truth. Mi madre, Mister Meyers. I telling you—”

His voice is desperate. The room seems to tilt slightly. I cannot stop myself, you see. I fumble at the lock and pull the door open. Ruben steps into the room and I lock the door behind him. He glides swiftly to the windows and looks down, then up.

“I lost him,” Ruben says. He smiles at me and his eyes are soft. “You should of seen us go in and out of the subways,” he says, shaking his head. “We too fast for them—”

I stay by the door. “I am sorry,” I begin.

Ruben nods. “Like I tell you when we eat together: she real sick.” For a second I think I see something glow in his eyes. “Real sick—” He walks around my room, observing, touching the furniture. He inspects the opening to the fireplace and taps on the black iron that has sealed it shut. He picks up the doll. “You still got this—”

I nod.

“I tell you the truth,” he says. “Of all the ones I do, this my favorite.” He fondles the head and rearranges the paper-clip eyeglasses. “It really look like you, you know? My art teacher, she say I got talent, I should be a real artist someday, for money—” He puts the doll down, crosses the room and lifts the picture from the dresser. “This your wife?” he asks, but before I can answer, the picture is back on the dresser and Ruben is at my sink, taking a glass of water for himself. “This place not so bad,” he says. “It be better if they open up the fireplace.”

He drinks the glass of water in one swallow and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “They got all the others,” he says. “That why I got to come here.” He sits down on the edge of my bed and looks at me. “I got no place to go to, Mister Meyers.” He rests his head in his hands. I am wary. I would like to see the expression in his eyes. “That why I come here. I got nobody. I been hiding out in places for three days now, and I thinking a lot about what I done to you—you know?” He does not look up. “I figure I got to take a chance and come speak with you.” The light from the window glances off his forehead. I sit down now, in my easy chair, across the room from him. In my ears there is a high-pitched ringing sound. “I remember what you say to me,” he says.

“I am sorry about your mother,” I offer.

He shrugs and glances toward the window. I follow his eyes to the rooftops across the street. “They want to put me in one of them places for guys who got no parents—”

“An orphanage,” I say.

He nods. “I tell you the truth, Mister Meyers. I kill myself before I go to one of them places. I hear stories about what they do to you there.” He shakes his head up and down, and moves from the bed. His eyes look straight at me. “I promise you one thing, Mister Meyers—someday I gone to go there and get my brothers and sisters out—”

I can feel his breath on me. “You—you cannot stay here,” I say.

He moves away from me, to the window. For an instant, he seems puzzled. Then he laughs. “You think I come here for that?” He rubs his chin and continues to laugh to himself. He stops and eyes me. “I tell you before—I just come to talk with you about what I gone to do with my life. I remember what you say to me in the restaurant. I was listening, Mister Meyers. Like I tell you—”

There is something in his voice which makes me uneasy. I see his reflection in the window. “I remember what happened, also,” I say, with more firmness. “Do not play games with me, Ruben Fontanez.”

His eyes are on me. The light at the window is too bright for me to see his face. Behind me, at the door, I hear a scratching sound. “Okay,” Ruben says. “I tell you the real truth, Mister Meyers.” He is sitting on the bed again. “I hear you not been in the school and I think maybe it because of what I did—so I want to see for myself—” He is up from the bed again. He examines my desk. He picks up the copy of Don Quixote but it does not interest him and he leaves it. “Like I tell you, we see you here, where you live. We work around here sometimes, so I figure I stop by to make sure.”

The sound at the door disturbs me, but my monkey does not seem to hear it. He tells me of the mistake he made three days ago, when they buried his mother. He should not have gone, he says. “They almost get me, but I too fast for them.” He is laughing. He stands by the fireplace, touching my likeness with his fingertips. “I guess you not supposed to think it funny, in a place like that, but they chase me all over, through the flowers and things—”

The noise at the door is more insistent. Ruben glances toward it. He asks if it is all right, but he does not wait for an answer. When he opens the door, I stand and pull at the belt of my robe. Another monkey is there, crouched low. Ruben whispers to him. The monkey enters behind Ruben, slouching, and moves silently to a corner of the room, next to the window. He squats and draws in on a cigarette so that the hollows in his cheeks show.

Ruben asks me if I know Manuel Alvarez and I nod. His body seems to be made of sticks and his eyelids hang down. “Manuel is my good friend,” Ruben says. “He work with us for the money.” He puts a hand on Manuel’s shoulder. “When they chasing me all around, he keep the stuff for me, even though it scare him.” Then Ruben is next to me, his hand in front of my eyes. He whispers. “You know what I got? Aiee—they not be able to do nothing to me when I got this!”

The room is too warm and I feel sleepy again. The smoke from Manuel’s cigarettes lingers near the ceiling. Morris will be here soon. He will know if this is happening or not. You can depend on Morris. I will have him deliver a message to Danny. Ruben’s hand is in front of my lips now. He opens it, revealing a black palm. “Mi madre, Mister Meyers,” he whispers. He curls his fingers over the dirt and his hand trembles. “¡Mi madre!” His hand opens again and the lumps of earth are under my nose. I sniff but I can smell nothing. “This from my mother’s grave, Mister Meyers.” He skips backwards and spins around. His feet move lightly. He shows the earth to Manuel and Manuel slides away. He grinds his cigarette out under his heel and lights another one, sucking on it. “¡Bruja! ¡Bruja!” Ruben breathes as he circles the room. He looks through the window at the street below and shakes his fist at it. “¡Bruja!” he sings. “¡Bruja!” He turns his head toward me, over his shoulder. “Those dolls just for fun,” he says. “With this I gone to be able to work real brujería—like Señora Rosa from our village.”

He crouches down next to Manuel and speaks with great gentleness. “You remember Señora Rosa, Manuel. From the island—” Manuel seems to nod, but I cannot be sure. Ruben turns away from him and searches the surface of my desk. He finds an envelope and asks if it is all right to use it. I nod. He pours the earth into the envelope, then licks it closed and puts it carefully into his side pocket. “They be waiting for me, Mister Meyers. They see me take the dirt. That when the man from the place come after me. I run fast. Manuel, he waiting for me behind a grave and I give it to him in his pocket.” He rubs his hand over Manuel’s head, and whispers to him in Spanish, telling him how brave he was. He assures him that there is no danger. Only the person who steals the earth has the power to summon the dead person’s spirit. He has told him this before, I can tell, but Manuel is not yet convinced.

“You will see, Mister Meyers—when the right time comes, I gone to work great brujería, like Señora Rosa—”

Manuel’s eyelids move upwards. “Only I got to wait for the right time. It only good one time—” I am thinking of Jackson again, and I can see his blue earmuffs. I would like to laugh. There should be pictures for the cowboys also, I think, to line their corridors. “You know what?” Ruben says. “I think the reason I come here really is just to show you—” He taps his side pocket. Manuel does not move. His eyes are on the roofs of the buildings across the street. “You think it just silly, I bet—”

“No,” I begin.

“It’s okay,” Ruben says. He is silent suddenly. He sits on the bed, leaning forward. He speaks again and his voice has changed. “How you been feeling?” he asks. “I sorry I forget to ask—”

“It is only a cold,” I say.

“If you need something, that the reason we here,” he says. “To get you what you need.” Manuel stops puffing on his cigarette. Across the street, he has seen something. I go to the telephone and lift the receiver. Ruben stands and moves toward me, then freezes. There is no mistaking the look in his eyes. Well. Mad-Man Meyers has a few weapons left. Manuel moves deeper into his corner, his chin at his chest. “I am just checking,” I explain, and I hold the receiver toward Ruben. There is no sound. “Listen—it has been disconnected.”

Ruben relaxes. “You got any kids?” he asks. Manuel’s eyes return to the window.

“No,” I say.

“That not so good.” My monkey shakes his head. “When you get old you won’t have nobody to take care of you. They put you away, like they did my grandmother—” He taps on the desk with his knuckles. “When they get her, I know what coming—”

“No,” I say. “I was married late, you see. I was past thirty. And my wife, she—”

“You don’t got to say nothing,” Ruben says, interrupting me. “If they don’t get me, me and Manuel, we take care of you till you get back to work. We get you any stuff you need—” Manuel keeps his cigarette at the center of his mouth. “You just give us a list.”

“I can manage,” I say. I am feeling stronger. It is my turn now. “But what will you do, Ruben Fontanez—? Where will you stay—?”

“In places,” he says. “You gone to see a lot of me, the places I got picked out.”

“You cannot hide forever, Ruben.”

“I know that, man,” he says. He is annoyed. I am reaching him, I know. “I got plans—you don’t got to worry. I think it all out.” He goes to Manuel and takes the cigarette from him, roughly. He draws in on it once, then returns it. He rubs his hand against the side of his trousers. “Anyway, after a while they stop looking for me—one more spic kid don’t mean nothing to them.” He points a finger at me. “You be surprised how many guys like me making it in this city—”

I do not mind his finger. I think of Mary Santini, of snow. I see my cowboys in their schoolyard. “But what of school?” I ask. “You said you were listening.”

He goes to the window and looks at the rooftops of the buildings across the street. “You don’t got to worry. Like I tell you, I got that planned too. I not so stupid—” I hear someone coming up the stairs. Under my bathrobe I am perspiring. I should eat something solid, I know. I will definitely return to school next week. It is a promise. Manuel sucks on his cigarette. I empty the contents of my teapot and fill it with fresh water. Ruben does not stir. His eyes do not move. His mind is somewhere else.

He does not, I realize, hear the steps. Ah, Ruben, Ruben, you will have to be more careful than this. You cannot dream, Ruben Fontanez. Don’t you know that? I turn the flame on high. There is knocking on my door.

Ruben starts. He looks at me and for an instant his eyes are wild with fright. Manuel scans the room, looking for a hiding place. He waits for Ruben’s decision. “Say who it is—” Ruben whispers.

“Who is it?” I ask, and I smile, for I know already, from the footsteps.

“It is only me—Nydia. I bring the baby.”

I explain to Ruben that Nydia lives in the building. “We can’t take no chances,” he says. “You tell her we students from your school. We come to see how you getting along—”

I open the door. “But you are—” I say, over my shoulder, and I smile.

Nydia enters, holding the baby in her arms, wrapped in a blue blanket. “This is for you,” she says, and puts a pot down on my kitchen table. “I got to make for myself anyway—” She stops when she sees my two monkeys. Her eyes go to the floor. She shuffles backwards. “I sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know you got people—”

I laugh and explain to her that the two boys are students of mine from the school. She smiles, shyly, but does not look up. “I come get the pot later, when you not busy.”

“That your baby?” Ruben asks.

Nydia nods, embarrassed. Ruben whistles. “Man, you pretty young to be having kids—”

“Ruben,” I say. “There is no—”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and comes toward us. He is not as tall as Nydia, and he too, I realize, is suddenly shy. He tickles the baby under the chin. “Hey, muchacho, I got a brother like you—only I not going to see him no more—” He looks at Nydia, briefly. “It’s okay if you got a baby.”

“I am married,” Nydia says. Her eyes are defiant.

“Man, I know that—” Ruben says, and walks away. “What you think—every guy want to make it with you?”

“Ruben—!” I say, and move toward him. Manuel gets up from his crouch. He eyes me carefully.

“Okay, okay,” Ruben says. “Lo siento, lo siento. You not so beautiful anyway,” he adds. “Manuel’s sister more beautiful than you—”

Nydia’s baby begins to cry and she soothes it. “I see you later, Mister Meyers,” she says. “You feeling better?”

“Yes, child,” I say. I lift the lid from the pot and steam escapes. Nydia tries to apologize for not giving me something better, but I tell her that I am fond of oatmeal. It is one of my favorites. Ruben comes closer, conscious, I can tell, of every move he makes. Nydia watches him from under her eyelids.

“Your husband got a job?” Ruben asks.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Ruben says. “It’s okay then.”

Manuel’s eyes are away from us. We do not concern him any longer. “I like to speak to you when you get some time,” Nydia says to me. “About—you know—school.”

I tell her that I will ask the others to leave, but she says no. I promise that I will come down to her apartment later, but she does not like this idea either. She is afraid Carlos will come home, I know, though she says it is because I should not leave my room while I am ill. Ruben says that he will not be staying much longer. He has to go to work also. He looks out the window. He is waiting, he tells us. Soon he will be able to leave.

“Where you live?” he asks.

Nydia looks at me and when I nod, she tells Ruben. “Okay,” he says. “I knock on your door when we on our way out—three times, quick—so you know it’s okay to come up.”

The water for the tea is boiling now and I put leaves in. I ask Nydia if she would like some and she says no. She must clean her apartment. Ruben says he will have some tea. He will need it because of the day he has ahead of him. Nydia’s baby is asleep now. She looks at him and her face glows. I touch her elbow and walk her to the door. I thank her for thinking of me. “I think I know what you want to talk to me about,” I say. I pat her arm. “I am glad, Nydia.” She smiles and leaves, holding her child close to her.

“You got to see Manuel’s sister sometime,” Ruben says when Nydia is gone.

“You were not very nice,” I say to him. “You did not even—”

“I bet you I older than she is,” he says. He looks out the window. His face is troubled. There are no trees out there, my monkey. You will see no cowboys. I fix the tea for us and I hum to myself. Perhaps I will sit in the park with Morris this weekend. We will see. I am happy about Nydia’s decision.

“That the truth about going to work,” Ruben says when I give him his tea. He nods toward Manuel. “That the reason he smoke so much—” Ruben taps Manuel on the head with his knuckles, lightly. “You got to see us in action sometime. You be surprised what we do—”

“I am listening,” I say.

“This tea pretty good,” he says. He is enjoying himself, I can tell, and that is all right also. His nose in the cup, his eyes laugh at me. “We take you with us sometime—to show you what we do.” He licks the edge of his lower lip. His tongue reaches almost to his chin. “When you get better. It be a real treat for you—I give you my promise.” He helps himself to a spoonful of sugar and sits down. “Without the money from the welfare I gone to need more for food and things—” Manuel shakes his head. “My good friend Manuel, he want to get me everything I need.” Ruben comes closer to me. “I tell you what I think, Mister Meyers. If you got a good friend in this world, you don’t need nothing else. That what I think. Manuel, he do anything for me—” He stops and laughs. “Except to die.” Manuel smiles. I am certain of it. “That the reason he a true friend. When we first come on the boat together, I think he ready to die for me if I ask him to, but he learn things since then. Like I tell you, he not so C.R.M.D.—” Manuel blows smoke toward the ceiling.

“But we taking enough chances already,” he goes on. “And we got to get you the things from your list.”

“I can manage,” I say. “I have told you. I have friends also, Ruben.”

“We get you what you need,” he says.

I remind him of Morris. “We have been friends since we were boys,” I say. “He brings what I need.” I drink my tea and I am watching Morris again, that first time we waited outside the cowboys’ Yeshiva. His green wool cap was pulled down over his ears. He was no more than twelve years old then. I laugh because I suddenly remember something: he was smoking. I watch Manuel and continue to laugh. “Since we were boys,” I say again. You walked alongside the cowboys, Morris, and I walked behind you. You flaunted them by blowing your smoke into the air around their heads. They were ashamed. Well. Times change, Morris. It is all right. Harry Meyers does not think less of you because you have come to fear them. You are entitled also. Your life has not been easy. I did not know what went on behind the doors of your house in those days. We never know, after all. I wonder what goes on behind the doors of monkeys. All right. Now is not the time to ask such things. When the door is closed, it is closed. Ah, Ruben, Ruben, even if you would try to tell me all, you could not, could you. It is all right. Save your money, my monkey. As for Harry Meyers, in this instance, he can set a good example. The cowboys and the Board of Education have secured his old age for him. What they did to your grandmother will not happen to Harry Meyers, I can assure you. “He brings what I need,” I say. “Save your money.”

Manuel is tapping on the window with his fingernails. His eyes are wide open. My monkeys have their arms around one another’s shoulders. I look to the window. From my angle I can see the top stories of the Hotel Manhattan Towers, on Broadway. The tenements are in front of it, their walls crashed in, their floors used as parking lots. Well. It will not happen on this block. Five-story brownstones do not make good garages. They are too narrow. You are safe from that, Sarah. Ruben is telling Manuel that he was not worried. He knew he would come. I move toward my monkeys. Morris had his arm around my shoulder also. I lift my arms slightly, toward Ruben and Manuel, but I am not ready for such things. The impulse is a momentary one and I restrain it. They are monkeys, after all. “It is Marty!” Ruben says to me. His eyes are bright. He is happy. “There—!”

I follow the direction of his finger and, on the roof of the boarded-up brownstone, number 173, I see the figure of a boy standing at the front edge of the building, his hands on his hips. My eyes move forward. I press my glasses backwards to sharpen the picture. The fronts of his feet are half off the building, his head is bent forward, and he gazes at the street below. I reach toward the window, but Ruben laughs and I lower my hand. “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t got to be scared for him. He loves it when he goes up high.”

Manuel is smoking furiously, his neck craned forward. The boy looks our way and his expression does not seem to change. He points toward the street and our eyes follow. A policeman twirls his nightstick as he walks along. The boy walks from roof to roof. Between numbers 165 and 163 there is a wide space. “¡Mira!” Ruben whispers. “¡Mira!” He is excited. Marty walks backwards and disappears from view. A moment later he is back. Under his arm he carries a long plank of wood. He lays it across the open space, tests it by bouncing on the end, and then, without even looking our way, he walks across. I clutch the back of Ruben’s shirt. “He is our leader,” Ruben says. “You gone to like him, Mister Meyers.” The boy is directly across from us now. I let go of Ruben’s flannel shirt. My palm is wet. The boy is wearing sneakers and his toes curl over the front edge of the building. Something is slung over his shoulder. He watches the policeman and he makes a gesture with his middle finger that causes my monkeys to laugh.

“He gets the guys who build the buildings to let him walk around up high,” Ruben says to me. “When you better, we take you around with us, you get to watch Marty work with the steel men.” He lifts his head, then waves to Marty. He is very proud. “He the smartest guy I know, Mister Meyers. That the truth.” I watch the boy’s face, but it is difficult to see him clearly from this distance. My eyes are not focusing well. He wears dungarees and a denim jacket. His head is covered with something black. He seems to be my monkey’s age. Fourteen, perhaps fifteen. “Even where I live, they give him respect, Mister Meyers. He know a lot of things.” His face is animated. “He lives near here by the river, in a place for the rich people. Me and Manuel, we been working with him since after school starts.”

Marty spits toward the street and turns away. My monkey asks if it is all right to have told him where Harry Meyers lives. I say it is and I step back. When I turn, I see that the brightness outside has imposed a ghostly reflection on the inside of my room. I see the rectangle of my window, the shape of the boy on the edge of the roof silhouetted in its frame. They linger above my rug. I hear a hissing sound inside my skull, behind my nose. My eyes tear, my head is heavy. I stumble and catch hold of the back of a wooden chair. Ruben is beside me at once. I breathe quickly and he leads me to the bed. Manuel brings a glass of water.

“It is all right,” I say. I drink and the water is cold. “The sun has made me dizzy. That is all.”

Manuel blows his smoke away from me. “Marty be here in a minute,” Ruben says. “He know what medicine to get. We run down for you.”

“It was the sun,” I say. “I am all right.”

“Maybe you gone to lie down for a while,” Ruben says. He takes my pillow out from under the spread.

I grab at his shoulder and spin him away. “Stop it!” I command. “I said I am all right.” The shouting irritates my throat. I cough and Ruben moves toward me again. “Go away,” I say. “Go away, Ruben Fontanez.” Manuel is poised behind him, his eyelids drooping. “Go,” I say. “Leave me.”

I sit down on the bed. The room turns slowly. I will have Morris lower the heat. Enough, Harry. Enough. The buzzer sounds. “Go,” I say. “Leave me, Ruben Fontanez.”

“But you got to meet Marty,” Ruben says. He is holding the doll now and his body before me is misshapen and blurred. His forehead is huge. He plays with the pins, but there are no pains in my chest. The cold has settled in my head. “I tell him all about you.” Ruben puts the doll back on the mantel. “He says he heard about you anyway. He says people know you because of what you did on the bulletin board.” I lift my head. “He says he seen you in the neighborhood before. People know you, Mister Meyers. That the truth—”

It is not so bad to be sick, I think. I can understand why people go to hospitals. All right, all right, Ruben. The visiting hour is not yet over. If we are lucky, Morris will come before Marty leaves. We can share the sweet roll. I will invite Mrs. Wenger to join us, and the Oriental from upstairs, the two young men who occupy the garden apartment on the ground floor. The garbage-can woman also, if you like. Soon the entire neighborhood will surround my bed, Ruben. Soon. Miss Teitlebaum and Mrs. Davies and Mr. Greenfeld will come also. Danny and Jean and Mary and the policeman. They will read to me of my heroism. I will post a notice at the foot of the staircase with the hours listed. We will have rules and regulations, you see. Carlos will bring his friends. Menachem Schiffenbauer will lead a pilgrimage. The Rebbe will dance around my bed. Morris can invite the men who share his room and we will see if the builders can arrange something for you also, Sarah.

I have heard no steps, but suddenly there is knocking on the door. “I promise you, Mister Meyers. You not gone to be sorry—” I hear the lock move. I put the spread back over the pillow and tuck it in on the sides. Perhaps I will invest in a portable television set so that my cowboys will have something to do when they visit me. They can watch their sporting events and debate with Manuel about batting averages.

“This is my good friend Marty,” Ruben is saying. “He is our leader.”

A tiny hand is in mine. Its fingers are cold and smooth, the grip is firm. “What’s the good word, Meyers?” a voice asks. I look at the boy and his smile is set in the side of his face. Across his top row of teeth is a strip of silver. Across his forehead, around his mouth, his chin, are numberless blackheads. “I heard about you too,” he says, from the side of his face. He pumps my hand some more. “I respect a guy like you, Meyers.” He releases my hand, pats me on the shoulder, then turns to Manuel. “You got a butt for me, Manny my boy?” he asks.

Manuel gives him a cigarette. My new visitor closes his eyes when he inhales and the smoke drifts from the corners of his thin mouth. He is no taller than my two monkeys and when he opens his eyes and stares at me I must close my own. His eyes, of course, are the eyes of a cowboy. I am not surprised. It is no use. Resign yourself, Harry. Soon. They will all be here. Visiting hours will be without end. I look at him as he paces around the room. A green canvas bookbag hangs over his left shoulder. On the side of his head is a black beret. His face is round, his nose large, his movements silent and graceful despite the fact that he is heavy. Perhaps, I think, perhaps you too have been hanging in trees this morning, Marty, and dancing across lawns. Your beret is covering your beard. You cannot fool Harry Meyers.

“Sit down, sit down,” he is saying to me. “Ruben tells me you’ve been sick, so I don’t want you playing host to me, right?” He brushes his hair from his forehead and when I see him shove the ends under his beret I remember Morris in his green wool hat. He is laughing and talking to me. “He made one of you too, huh?” he says. I nod. He holds it next to my face. “Ruben baby,” he says. “I got to hand it to you—you’ve got the talent. Right, Meyers?”

I nod.

“One of your best, one of your best,” Marty says as he places my likeness back on the fireplace mantel. Ruben informs Marty that when I am better he has offered to take me to see them in action. He wonders if he has done the right thing. Marty stands in front of me, his two assistants behind him. I smile at him, but in truth, my stomach is very weak. I taste something sour. Now that there is no telephone service, perhaps it will speed the arrival of Jackson’s brother. It will be best, after all, if things are accomplished quickly. “I respect a guy like you, Meyers,” Marty says. “I want you to know that.” I see Ruben’s eyes, smiling shyly. “I mean it. The way you handle the kids in Ruben’s school—what you did in the park—” He clicks his tongue. “So what I’ve been thinking is this: if you want, when you retire at the end of the year, maybe we can find a place for you in our outfit.” His hand is on my shoulder, monkey eyes glistening behind him. “You don’t have to say yes or no. Think it over, right? Wait till you get a chance to see us operate, and if—”

I nod. There is silence. Then he is laughing at my puzzled expression. His arms are around the shoulders of his two monkeys. “Ah, I’m just putting you on, Meyers—don’t mind me.” He swings the canvas bag and it falls on the bed next to me. “What’s the good word, Ruben baby?” he asks. “You give the slip to that joker from the city yet?”

Ruben tells Marty about his escape in the cemetery and Marty praises him. Manuel edges his way between the two of them and whispers something in Marty’s ear. “It is true,” Ruben says. Marty pounds Manuel on the back. “Manny, you’re the most!” he says. They go to the window together, talking and giggling and then Marty returns. “Listen,” he says. His tone is confidential. “I don’t like to butt into anybody’s business, but you ought to do something about that guy Greenfeld at your school, Meyers.” He sits down next to me. “Put him wise, man, or one of these first days he’s not gonna look so pretty.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, points at Manuel, and laughs. His laugh is gentle, a boy’s laugh. I do not mind it. “That Manny!” he says, shaking his head. “You know what he did yesterday?” He leans against me, his hand cupped over his mouth. “What he’s been promising: he gave Greenfeld a good kick in the nuts.” He sucks on his lower lip. “Bam!” he says, socking his fist into the palm of his hand. “Right in the old bazoojies!” He moves away again. “I only wish I’d been there, Manny my boy,” he says, and Manuel shuffles at Marty’s heels, his eyes wide open, his mouth sucking on a fresh cigarette. Ruben stands by the fireplace.

“I’m telling you something, Meyers,” Marty whispers to me. “If this Greenfeld is a friend of yours, put him wise, man.” He leans close to me and for an instant my nose clears. I see his braces and smell his breath as it comes toward me. It is sweet. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me: Manny’s a born killer,” he whispers. “I’m telling you something, Meyers. Man to man and I’m not putting you on about this. I can tell.” He looks around. “A born killer.”

“Mr. Greenfeld is no friend of mine,” I say.

“Okay, okay,” Marty says, irritated. “But I’m speaking straight to you—I know Manny, what makes him tick. He’ll kill the guy one of these first days, marine or no marine. You mark my word.”

“Mr. Greenfeld is no marine.”

“That’s what I said: marine or no marine.” His grip on my shoulder tightens. “Manny’s no C.R.M.D., Meyers—I’m giving it to you straight, right? If he—”

I rip his hand from my shoulder. “Stop!” I say. “Get out! Out!” I shove against his chest and he slides from my view. My monkeys draw near. “Stop!” I cry, and I am on my feet. My fists are raised and all around me I can feel the cold and the snow. “Stop.” I am taller than my three adversaries. “Get out, get out—” I see Marty’s silhouette as he stands on top of the brownstones across the street. I will get him a longer plank of wood. Then he can cross 76th Street from one side to the other without walking up and down so many flights. It is the least I can do. “All right,” I say. Do not expect the garbage-can woman to notice you, though, my friend. All right. Have it your way. It is nothing to me. I tell them other things as well. Things that are on my mind. When I am done I let myself rest on the bed. I am entitled. There is no need to pretend about my health. I do not need to wait for the end of visiting hours. Harry Meyers can rest if he wants to. Danny will protect me.

Marty barks orders and there is water at my lips, in Manuel’s hands. Ruben is behind me on the bed, sitting on his haunches, rubbing my shoulders at either side of my neck. Marty has removed my eyeglasses and, with his thumb and forefingers, he applies pressure at the bridge of my nose, pressing against the inner edge of my eye sockets. I do not struggle. He takes his hands away and I feel an easing of the tension that is truly wonderful. He repeats the procedure. I sigh, then cough lightly, clearing my throat. “Take it easy,” Marty is saying to me. “Just relax.” I breathe deeply and the room shifts. I lean to one side but Marty straightens me. “Okay, okay,” he says and takes something from the pocket of his jacket. “Take a whiff of this—”

He passes something green in front of my nose. I sniff and my nostrils quiver. My eyes smart. “Better?” he asks.

“It is only a cold,” I say.

“Sure, sure,” he says. His face is in front of mine and when he lowers the lid of my right eye and looks in, I do not fight him. “He’s talking straight,” Marty says to his monkeys. “It’s only a cold. But you need to rest, Meyers. Plenty of sleep, lots of fluid and you’ll be as good as new.” He goes to the refrigerator and opens it. Then he inspects my cabinet. He wets the end of a pencil with his tongue and writes on a piece of paper. The paper is given to Manuel. “Be careful,” Ruben says. The door opens and closes.

Marty tells me to get under the covers and I do what he says. The sheets are cool, but I do not forget the warmth of your thighs, Sarah. I wink at Ruben and he smiles. There is no need to tell him of the dream. Marty sits down across from me, in my easy chair, from where he can command a view of the street. I am certain he is the equal of my cowboys in cunning. He tells me to close my eyes and I do. The room is warmer now and I pull the covers tight under my chin. I apologize to them for not having shaved. Ruben tells me that Marty will never have to shave. Marty ignores him. It is nothing to me. “I telling you the truth, Mister Meyers,” Ruben says. I believe you, my monkey. I look at Marty. So, I think, it is as I thought: you are a beardless cowboy, a pale monkey. “Show him your spots,” Ruben says.

“After Manny gets back with the goods, we’re gonna have to split out,” Marty says. He exhales. “Now that he gave it to Greenfeld, all three of us are on the lam—”

“Show him your spots,” Ruben says again, but Marty continues to ignore him. He tells me that it is too bad that I do not have a hole in the septum of my nose, for if I did he could tie a twig of baywood there and within twenty-four hours my cold would be gone. It is guaranteed. I do not doubt his word. After all, Ruben claims that he will never have to shave. And he has spots. I hum to myself. Whistle while you work… I feel my mattress bend and I know that Ruben is beside me. “You got to tell him to show you the spots.” Ruben says to me. “Please, Mister Meyers—” I raise my eyelids. Ah, Ruben, Ruben. Harry Meyers does not make the same mistake twice. I will keep my hands under the covers, believe me. I breathe through my mouth. “It’s why he don’t got to shave.”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty says. “Let the guy get some shut-eye.”

“On his back,” Ruben whispers to me.

That is all. Marty yanks my monkey from the bed. I open my eyes and watch Ruben dance around Marty, feinting with his hands. There is a swishing sound, a thud, and my monkey is on the floor, his leader on top of him, twisting his arm upwards in the small of his back. Ruben winces. “Tell him, Mister Meyers. Please—the spots!” Marty applies more pressure and I fear for my monkey’s arm. “Tell him,” Ruben says. All right, I think. Enough. “All right,” I say. “The spots—”

“Ah,” Marty says, and he releases Ruben at once. “Dirty pool, Ruben baby. Dirty pool.” He steps across my monkey and sneers at him. “Su madre—” he begins, but Ruben is happy, I see. His expression is triumphant. I sit up, leaning on one elbow. Marty is talking. “Okay?” He stands in front of me, bent over, his jacket and shirt jerked up over his head. His back is pink and young. Ruben claps his hands and stands beside him. “¡Mira!” he exclaims. “¡Mira!”

“Okay?” Marty asks, again. “I can’t stay like this all day—”

I shake the sleep from my head and lean closer. “¡Mira!” Ruben whispers and he points a bony finger to the lower region of Marty’s back, where, along the right side of his spine I see what Ruben has been referring to. “¡Morado!” Ruben says, breathless. I shrug, at first, thinking they are ordinary birthmarks. “¡Morado!” I look more closely and see that my monkey is correct. The spots are not the usual brown, but a dull shade of purple.

“Yes,” I say. “All right.” Marty moves away from us and tucks his shirt in quickly. He is annoyed.

“He does not like to show them—” Ruben says. “So I got to thank you, Mister Meyers. It is not every—”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty says. “I showed the spots, right? Now just cool it—”

“But—” I begin.

“¡Morado! Ah ¡morado!” My monkey is in a trance. “Ah morado—”

Marty grabs him from behind with one hand, squeezing his neck. He knows the pressure points also. “How many times I got to tell you something?” He shoves Ruben away, but my monkey still smiles. His eyes are glazed.

“But—” I begin.

“Look,” Marty says, approaching my bed. “They’re just Mongolian spots, see? They’re not so unusual.”

“The Indians come from Mongolia,” Ruben whispers. “Marty has taught us. They crossed from Siberia. They too were hairless—”

“Cool it, Ruben,” Marty says. “I told you—”

“The spots do not lie, Mister Meyers,” Ruben says. “Señora Rosa—”

“Señora Rosa eats it,” Marty says. He raises a hand and Ruben retreats to the fireplace. He takes the packet of earth from his pocket but Marty sneers at him. All right. I will leave my Persian slippers for Manuel. It is decided. And my bedspread for Nydia. Ruben stands by the window now, fondling my likeness, playing with the pins. After all, I think, he is only a boy. I was right the first time. “Listen,” Marty is saying. He is next to me now and he speaks so that Ruben cannot hear. “Man to man, what do you think—? Just because I got the spots and I don’t have much hair yet, I think I’m an Indian?” He laughs to himself and clicks his tongue. His hand is on my knee. “I’m not that far gone, Meyers. Right? Not yet. Maybe my old man could sell those doctors a bill of goods. Sure. With all his money, you think they were gonna—”

“But I—”

He is angered by my interruption. He stands over me now and commands me to look at him. He unbuttons his shirt and pulls up his undershirt. “Okay?” he says. “You get a good look?” I nod. He rolls up his trousers and shows me his legs. Ruben’s eyes dance wildly. “¡Mira! ¡Mira!” he says, breathless. “Now I’m showing you this once and for all, Meyers, and that’s it, right? You got questions, you fire away now. It’s the only chance you’ll get, you hear?”

I shrug. “I am an old man,” I say.

Marty smiles from the side of his face. He pats me on the shoulder and speaks confidently again. “Look,” he is saying, “so I’m not straight and narrow like my older brothers, right? So I got these spots. And no hair yet, right? So what am I supposed to do, let people use it against me?” He taps the side of his head with his forefinger. “That’s what they’d like, I’ll tell you that. But you won’t get me to suck around my old man the way they do. With all his money I still showed him, you hear?” He moves his head up and down. “They won’t get me.” His grip on my knee is firm. I enjoy the sound of his voice. It has an edge to it. It comes from his throat. “They won’t get me, you understand?”

I shrug. Sarah would comfort you, my young rebel.

“Okay, okay,” he says. My silence bothers him. “You want to hear the whole thing, don’t you? You want it spelled out, black and white, right?” He stops and his eyes rivet on mine. They are gray, I see. But what color are my monkey’s eyes, I wonder. I cannot recall. I can see him clearly—when he danced on the desk, in the street below his home—and I can see his eyes flashing. Yet I cannot recall their color. “You and me, Meyers, we understand one another, right?” I nod. “You have spots,” I say, and I try to smile. Marty winks. “Okay,” he says, so that Ruben can hear. He lowers his voice again and talks to me like a true friend. We will share his secret. “Okay,” he is saying. “So I say to myself—Marty, what are you gonna do about it? Right? And you know what the answer is—”

I look at him. “Compensate,” he says. He laughs again. “I turn it into an asset, see?” He glances toward Ruben. “Like keeping my men in line—you know what I mean? Giving them all that Indian stuff—”

“The spots do not lie,” Ruben says. He is closer to us, holding his doll, and I wonder if he has heard everything Marty has been saying. As for me, I would prefer it. There should be no secrets.

“Listen to me, Meyers,” Marty says. There is urgency in his voice. “I’m shooting straight with you. I showed my old man and I can show you—”

I smile. His threats do not disturb me. “He knows everything about the Indians,” Ruben says. “Ask him—”

“Sure, Ruben baby. Sure,” he says, and winks at me. “See what I mean? Where I want ’em. See—?”

Marty moves away from the bed without waiting for a response from me. In the middle of the room he turns and points a finger in my direction. “You want to believe it, you believe it. You don’t, don’t. It’s no skin off my ass—”

I nod. “Of course,” I say. But I know that Harry Meyers disturbs him. He looks out the window and chews on his lip. I had a scheme once also, Marty, and I spent many nights drawing up the proposal. Sarah encouraged me. “There’s Manny,” Marty says. “He’s got the goods—”

Marty turns sideways and the light from the window catches his silver brace and flashes at me. “Look,” he says. “Just cool it, both of you.” He does not look at us. “You, Meyers, I told the story once, I’m not explaining again. I don’t make a practice of repeating myself, you hear?” The buzzer sounds and I start to get up, but Ruben presses the button at the side of the door. If the Board of Education had accepted the plan, my monkey, you and your brothers would have grown up on farms. You might have qualified also, Marty. Get them away from the homes, I explained. Tear down the schools. Use the money to buy land upstate. Build work-farms. Sarah smiled. I had energy then. Like you, Marty. “Okay. Wait outside,” he says to Ruben. He is pacing now, nervous. “I got to straighten something out.”

Ruben obeys. But you did not wait long enough, Sarah. And Harry Meyers was doing it more to please you than because he cared. That seems to be the truth. I showed a draft to a school supervisor I knew. He was sympathetic, but he let me know how unoriginal my plan was. And he reminded me of the obstacles that waited at Livingston Street, the technicalities, the endurance I would need to get even a hearing. It was only a dream, Sarah. I wonder if I ever thought otherwise. From his canvas bag, Marty takes out a pair of drums. “They’re bongos.” He laughs, but his laugh is forced. “Ruben and Manny call them my tom-toms.” I do not smile. I hear whispering outside the door. Marty looks at me. “Look,” he says. “I want to settle this once and for all, Meyers, you understand?” He sits on my bed. “I mean, man to man, who knows why or when I got hooked on this Indian bit, right? But I did.” He licks his lips. “And I’ll tell you something else—I know all the theories, too, you hear?”

“I do not understand—” I say.

“C’mon, c’mon—” he says. “Sure you do. Don’t make out like you’re innocent. You don’t fool me. Ruben told you all about me already, right? About why I’m on the lam—” He does not wait for an answer. He would surely have been a leader at the farm. “But the theories don’t matter. So long as I cope, right? And I cope in this world, Meyers. I’ll tell you that. They won’t get me, you hear?”

“Of course,” I say.

The door is open and Marty’s arms are around the shoulders of his two monkeys. “Compensate, man. Compensate.” They walk before me. “Jesus,” he says. “At twenty-five smackers a session, you know how we could be living now, Ruben baby? In style, man. Style—”

“We making it,” Ruben says.

Marty takes the grocery bag from Manuel and he and Ruben empty its contents on my kitchen table. I count six large cans. “Good boy, Manny,” Marty says. “I didn’t know what your favorite was, so we got you a selection—apricot, pineapple, orange, grapefruit—two each of the apricot and orange, okay?”

“I will pay you,” I say.

Marty laughs. “Manny knows the owner,” he says. “It’s for good will, right, Manny my boy?”

Manuel takes a package of cigarettes from his side pocket, then a paper bag from under his shirt.

“And use this,” Marty says, handing me a small plastic container. I read the label. It is Triaminicin, a nasal decongestant. “Most of this junk is for the birds—and the prices are way out of line—but it relieves symptoms. You can’t get any good stuff unless you have a prescription.” I sit up straight and press the sides of the plastic bottle, spraying into each nostril. “Okay—now lie back down,” Marty says.

Manuel places a full glass of juice on my night table. I look at it. From its color I can tell that it is apricot nectar. My favorite. I will give some to Morris. He will share the oatmeal with me also. I taste the medicine as it drips down at the back of my throat.

“I gone to bring you something else,” Ruben says. “When we come back. It be a surprise—” Manuel is careful to blow the smoke away from me.

“Your head should begin to clear in about five to ten minutes,” Marty says. “You rest up now and you’ll be okay.” He pauses. “If you’re not, you don’t have to pay us, right?” He explains then to his two monkeys that the Indian custom of paying the medicine man only if he cures the patient, was, of course, derived from the Chinese custom. He winks at me. Not all the tribes practiced it, he says. Ruben says it was the same with Señora Rosa. I sit up and drink the juice. It is thick and soothing. It is all right if I doze. Morris will be buzzing me soon. Nydia will come to confer. “If you think of anything else you need, you just write it down,” Marty says. “Then leave the rest to Manny.”

Ruben leans my doll against the lamp, on my night table, beside the juice glass. I do not mind. It pleases him that I have kept it, I know. And the pains in my chest are almost gone. My glands will be down in a day or two, I am certain. Then I will return. Ruben leans close to me. “Manuel’s sister say she like me,” he says. “She waiting for us downstairs, to go to work—”

I smile. I feel very drowsy, peaceful. Ruben, you will not even need to storm the hospitals. With your charm, you will get past the policemen with ease. Marty will work from the rooftops. I reach for my eyeglasses, on the night table. I will see what color your eyes are, my monkey. “We’ll split now,” Marty is saying. “You rest up. When we get back from work, we’ll stop by. Okay?”

“I bring you a surprise,” Ruben says. The door opens. “I see you later. We gone to make our money now.”

The door locks automatically. I am not afraid to dream this time. It will be all right. My three young men are going to work. I drink some more juice and hum to myself. Already my nose has stopped dripping. I will sleep until Morris comes, then I will talk with Nydia. By next Monday I will return to school. Before then, if my health continues to improve, I will take up Ruben’s offer.

When my nose clears, I shift onto my side. Then I turn to my stomach. It is dark. The shades are pulled down and I cannot see the brownstones across the street. I will look into my monkey’s eyes when he returns. It is too late now. I hear the children singing. Their voices are pleasant and soft. Whistle while you work… Hitler is a jerk… Mussolini is a meanie…