FIVE

I HEAR a swishing sound. My body is in a sweat, the covers are heavy, my pajamas stick to me. Underneath, the sheets are warm and damp. Someone has laid another blanket on top of me. I do not move. I cannot remember the last time my sleep was so black and dreamless. I do not mind, though. I have had enough cowboys in trees, enough dolls, enough even of you, Sarah. You never did answer my question about your extra years, you know.

I breathe in. My sinuses are clear. Sarah, Sarah. It is all right. I don’t hold it against you, believe me. The swishing continues. I lie half on my side, half on my stomach, my arms locked around the pillow. I can hear the Rebbe singing. My eyes are terribly thick. It seems a shame to open them. Perhaps my monkeys have returned. Morris should have been here long ago, unless my sleep has been more brief than I can realize. There is no way of knowing, after all. I reach my hand across and touch the juice glass, then my eyeglasses.

The room is still dark. The window shades are drawn, but I can see my likeness smiling at me. In a corner of the room the swishing persists. I swallow and feel the lumps slide along the underside of my jaw. A shape moves. I pull the chain of my lamp and the sound stops. The shape is that of a woman, I see. She moves silently across the room and I watch her dark outline. She carries a long pole.

“Sarah—”

“It only me, Mister Meyers,” she says. “Nydia—”

I nod. “It is all right, child,” I say. On the farm, the girls would have lived separately. There would have been useful work for them. I had plans.

“Here,” she says, and pours juice into my glass. “The boy say to give it to you when you wake up.” The mop rests against the railing at the foot of my bed. There is a white pill next to the juice glass and I put it on my tongue. Nydia sits across from me now, by the fireplace. I drink and the liquid soothes my throat. I slip a finger behind my glasses and wipe the sleep from the inner edge of my eye. The light from my lamp makes a circle on the floor and leaves Nydia’s face in shadows. I see only her legs, her sandals, the gray wool skirt that falls across her knees.

“I clean your kitchen for you,” she offers.

“The baby?”

“I leave him downstairs. My mother come to watch him while Carlos at work—”

I drink more juice. Nydia gets up. Her body moves smoothly across the room. She raises the window shades and I see that it is already dark outside. I look for Marty on the rooftops but I see only television antennas.

“I talk with my mother about what I gone to ask you. She know that you a teacher.” I see her face now. She looks at the floor. “If Carlos find out I want to go to night school he get angry and—” She stops. “—and do things.”

She hesitates. On my night table my doll is smiling at me. “Did you want to ask me something?” I say.

She is surprised by my response. “I thought—” she begins. I sit up and find that I am somewhat dizzy. I can hear the sound of my voice and I know why Nydia takes a step backwards. “I think maybe you could help me get ready,” she says. “I not been in school since—”

I nod, cutting her off, but I do not say anything. Beyond the edge of my rug, under the windows, I can see the linoleum drying where Nydia has been working. I picture her mother, rocking the baby in her arms by the window, watching the street. “If you don’t got the time—”

“What about Carlos?” I ask.

She shrugs. “My mother says she come to watch the baby. And Carlos be working nights soon, to make the extra money.” I watch her fingers turn slowly in her lap, and my mind turns with them. “My mother say she give you the money, and I come to clean and cook for you when—”

“Stop,” I say. “Enough. I will think about it. Stop now. All right?”

She nods. My head does not clear. “A man was here,” she says.

“A man?”

“While you sleep.” She is uncomfortable. I can see my monkey walking around her, surveying her young body. “A big man—he say he be back.”

“A colored man?”

“No.”

“It was Morris,” I say. “We were boys together.”

“I guess I go now.” She moves to the door. “I sorry to bother you—”

Above the brownstones the sky is a deep blue. I lift the covers and put on my slippers, then my robe. I will look at your eyes later, my monkey. “I would like to meet your mother sometime,” I say.

Nydia smiles. “You like her,” she says. “You like Carlos also,” she adds quickly. She steps toward me. Between her skirt and sweater I see a narrow strip of brown skin. “When you know him sometime. You see—”

“I am sure,” I say.

“I worry about him sometime, but I afraid to tell my mother. She say she gone to call the police on him next time—” I wander away from her and see that she has cleaned the grease from my gas burners.

“Would you like some juice?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I like to talk to you sometime, Mister Meyers,” she says. “I got to tell somebody about what he do when he get crazy in the head—”

“I am an old man,” I say, and I smile at her.

“Your boys from the school, they look up to you.” I drink more juice and wonder when my monkeys will return. “Carlos, when he not happy, he do things—”

“What?” I ask. The question is out, abruptly, and I am not unhappy about it. It is the least I can do in return for her services. “What does he do?”

She moves her shoulders. Her neck is lovely. The shadow from the mop handle rises on the wall. “To the cat we used to have—he—he do a bad thing.”

“Yes?”

She shivers and crosses her arms upon her bosom, holding herself. “I tell my mother the cat run away, but—”

“And you would like me to help you with your studies?”

She is confused momentarily. She nods. She comes toward me and I move away so that she cannot touch me with her young fingers. I know these games. “Sometimes Carlos, he come home late at night from drinking with his friends and he say things to me—in El Barrio he say he see me with other men—he call the baby ugly—! I—”

The buzzer sounds. I smile. It is on time, I think. Marty has scheduled things perfectly. Nydia moves to the kitchen table and puts her cleaning rags in a paper bag. “I—I sorry,” she says.

“Sorry?”

“I got to tell somebody.” Her eyes are wide now and they are not the eyes of a young girl. “He a very good husband sometimes, Mister Meyers. You got to believe me! That why I like to go to school again, so I can—”

She sees that I am not interested. The buzzer sounds again. I go to the door and press the button. I look at my young student and know that she will not receive her answer from Harry Meyers today. I am sorry also. But there are other things to think about, Nydia. I hear steps. She seems frightened. She does not, I realize, want to see my three guardians again today. She runs her tongue over her lips and her eyes seem tired suddenly. “What,” I ask her, “did Carlos do to your cat?”

She grabs the doorknob. A knocking comes at once from the other side and she backs away. I will not look into your eyes, my child. I hear the door open. A man is standing there, tall and broad-shouldered. As Nydia slides by him, I start to follow her. There was no need for the question, after all. “Hey, what are you doin’ out of bed?” The door closes and I let Danny push me backwards into the room. In his right hand he is carrying a large leather suitcase. A bag of groceries is cradled in the nook of his left arm. He wears a black overcoat. “C’mon, Mister Meyers, into bed with you.” I smell beer on his breath. “You ain’t lookin’ so good, you know.” He has put his suitcase down. The groceries are on the kitchen table. “Boy—cold as a witch’s tit out there tonight. They say it’s gonna snow before morning.” He takes his coat off and places it on the easy chair by the fireplace. Then he pulls the chair from my desk to the bed, and straddles it, backwards.

“So how ya been feelin’?” he asks.

“It is only a cold,” I say.

“Sure,” he says. “Sure. That’s how come ya look the way you do, huh?” He shakes his head sideways. I remember what I thought when I viewed my reflection in the window. I do not fool myself about such things, I can assure you. He is laughing to himself now, his stomach knocking against the chair. “I got to hand it to you, though—sick or not, you don’t let up, do you?”

I try to smile at him.

“I knew you had something going for you—” He nods his head a few times and I see that the hair at the front of his skull is beginning to thin. The long black strands do not deceive me. He gestures toward the door with his head. “Not bad, either, what I seen. At least she cares about you, you know what I mean? That’s something in a woman nowadays.” He bends his head closer to mine. “But don’t you think you ought to go a little easy now—I mean, your condition and all—?”

I shrug. “It is only a cold,” I say.

He slaps his knee with his right hand. “You’re really something, Mister Meyers, I gotta hand it to you.” He will not stop wagging his head. “You got some spirit. I was saying that to Jean this afternoon after I come by here. I only hope to God I got your spirit when I’m your age, Mister Meyers.” He pats his stomach. “I’ll have to get rid of this, though, if I want to keep at it, I guess—huh?” He laughs. “Like that sergeant I was tellin’ you about in the army, you remember—?” I nod. “He said he’d be getting his nooky when he was past seventy, and I believe him. He used to brag to all the younger guys that he was gonna die in the saddle, like that actor did—what was his name—?” He takes a wrinkled handkerchief from his back pocket and rubs his face with it. “Nice and warm in here,” he says. “I’ll tell you the truth, if you gotta go, that’s the way I’d like to do it.” He points a finger at me. “But no sense speeding things up, the way I see it, you know what I mean? You’re just gettin’ to where you’re gonna be able to have all the time in the world—you gotta take care of yourself, Mister Meyers.” He puts the back of his fat hand to my forehead and concentrates. “And we’re gonna see that you do, hear?”

I nod.

He stands up and paces around the room. He is not happy with the results of his examination. “You want some supper?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I am not hungry. Something to drink would be nice, though.”

“Right,” he says, and goes to the refrigerator. He is worried about me. I touch my own hand to my forehead. It is warmer than I expected. “I saw from before that you’re stocked up pretty good on juice. That’s the best thing for you when you got a bad cold.” He punctures the top of a can with an opener and rinses out a glass for me. It is grapefruit juice this time and as it goes down it burns slightly. Danny opens a can of beer he has brought for himself and drinks from it, his elbow on the fireplace mantel. “You know something—? It’s not bad here for a one-room place, but Jeannie and I were thinking a man like you, with your education, you ought to have more room for books and things—and a separate kitchen.” He tells me that he remembers the apartment on Eastern Parkway, before I moved, when the photographers took pictures of us together. He recognizes the rug in the middle of the floor as one I have brought with me from Brooklyn. It is a rectangular Persian rug and I realize that I have not actually looked at it for years. The birds and trees and flowers that run across it have faded long ago. The dull red color does not interest me. If he admires my room now, think what his feelings will be when I have put the pictures on the walls. He will not see any need for moving then. “What got us worried, see, was when Jean called this morning and found your phone had been disconnected. She called me at work to tell me and first thing I did was to call your school. They told me about you being sick for over a week, so I just said to my foreman—‘Jack, I got something important, you want to reprimand me, go ahead—I don’t give a damn—’ and I left the factory and come straight here by cab.” He wipes some beer from his chin. I drink my juice. “I told him it was on account of you, and he said he’d cover for me. All the guys at the factory know about you—”

“Of course,” I say.

He seems unsure of something. He is considering. Well. He is entitled also, I think. “You were sleeping like a baby when I come here this afternoon—the girl, she says you didn’t even budge when I rung the bell. Then when I found—” He puts his beer can down on the table and sits next to me again. In truth, though I am somewhat groggy, I do not feel sick at all. My chest is full and warm. “Well, I just took a cab straight back to Brooklyn and packed up some things. Pajamas and a shirt for tomorrow. I probably forgot something, but I can call and Mary can bring it if I need anything—”

Next year, I think, I will do translations. From Spanish to Hebrew, Hebrew to Spanish. Despite his sidelocks, Menachem Schiffenbauer will be no match for me, I promise you. My cowboys will love the Don and Sancho in Hebrew. Danny’s eyes are olive-green, I see. I picture him in a cowboy’s hat, with a beard. His nose would be appropriate. But he will have to do away with his stomach. He is right about that. “I figure I can sack out on the easy chair—you know me: give me a couple of beers, I can sleep anywhere. It’s wine that keeps me awake—funny, huh? With most people it’s the opposite—”

“There is no need,” I say. “Go home to your wife and family. It is only a cold—”

“Sure,” he says again. He takes a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “You feelin’ better—?” I nod. “Cause I want to talk to you about somethin’ serious. Okay?”

“Of course,” I say. Under the covers I clasp my hands on my chest. I slide my fingers from knuckle to knuckle, and along my forearms. Despite the winter, my skin is smooth and soft.

“I mean, I don’t like the idea of scolding you like I was your old man or something, but I feel I gotta lay it on the line with you, Mister Meyers.” He looks at the paper, then at me. He cares, truly. I will put him in charge of the others. If he does not like Marty’s schedule, he is free to revise it. “The way I figure it, you gettin’ sick now—seeing as how you’ll be well in a couple of days—it’s a lucky break. Otherwise we might never of found out.” He smiles. “We know you mean well, Mister Meyers, and you want to spare us and all that—but in the end, if something would happen to you, you’d only cause us more grief. You done enough for us already.” He sits up straight. He has finished his deliberations. He wrinkles his brow and is ready to tell me his secret. He does not look directly at me, but I can see that there is something fierce in his eyes. “You should of told me about Jackson’s son-of-a-bitch brother,” he says. He curses under his breath, in Italian. It is a language I do not know. Perhaps I will study it next year. “He must really be keeping a close tab on you—cause by the time I got here this afternoon, he knew about your phone. It said so in the note. The girl said she found it slipped under the door. She thought some kids from the neighborhood must of done it, so I didn’t tell her different.” He stops and looks at me. “You been getting a lot of these, right—?”

“I suppose,” I say.

His eyes bulge forward. He leans close to me and whispers. “Well, let him come, baby. Just let him come, Mister Meyers.” He motions to his suitcase. “He’ll have a surprise in store for him if he comes into this room.” He slams his fist into his palm. “A real surprise.”

“I suppose,” I say.

“And I’ll tell you something else—I don’t want any secrets anymore, see—maybe I shouldn’t of done it, maybe I should of put the whole thing to you first—but I found all the other notes in your desk.” He is embarrassed by this disclosure. “The guy’s a real scribbler, ain’t he?” he adds.

“People on welfare do not have telephones,” I say. “That is the way the city improves their literacy. They must send their messages through the mails, or—”

Danny bursts into laughter. “What a guy!” he says. He slaps his thigh. “I got to remember that for Jeannie.” He stops abruptly. He sets his jaw and gives his head a quick jerk. He is not angry with me, I see. My remarks touch him. His admiration for Harry Meyers only increases. “You really got some spirit, don’t you?” He is considering again. “Let me tell you something, Mister Meyers, and I hope you don’t take it the wrong way—but a lot of guys I work with at the factory, when we get into talks sometimes they say how maybe the Jews all got it from the Nazis cause they had no guts, and I tell ’em they’d think different if they knew a man like you.” He pauses. There are extra bed sheets in the bottom drawer of my dresser. He will be able to use those. But all my blankets are on my bed now and I know he will not permit me to give one of them up. “I never seen any point in tellin’ you about this before, but now it seems right, you know what I mean?” I nod. Perhaps Manuel can obtain a folding cot. We will see. Marty can take care of himself, I know. I do not worry about him. “Last year, when we were talkin’ this way I about broke a guy’s jaw for saying that maybe the Nazis had the right idea—” I look into his large face and see, from his eyes, that he is truly moved by the recounting of his own deed. He swallows and I watch his Adam’s apple slide in his throat. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know.” His eyes narrow. “You don’t hear any of that kind of talk around me anymore. They watch out for Danny Santini—”

“I am sure,” I say. Perhaps he will use the bedspread. It is at the foot of my bed now. I can wear woolen socks. He puts the note back into his shirt pocket. If it gives him pleasure to protect me in this way, I think, it is the least I can do for him.

“I’ll tell you the truth,” he says. “We don’t got to worry much till Jackson himself gets sprung. I don’t think the kid will do anything on his own, but I figure for a day or two—so long as he knows you’re laid up, we better be careful just the same, you know what I mean? We just got to be sure there’s somebody here with you all the time.” He stops. “You sure you don’t want somethin’ to eat? I brought some stuff for sandwiches. Cold cuts—or I can warm up some soup.”

“A sandwich would be nice,” I say. This pleases him. He goes to work at once, and fixes me corned beef on rye. My father, I remember, loved the end pieces of rye bread. His brother, my uncle Nathan, was a baker in the Bialy-stoker Bakery on East Broadway. When he visited us he would always bring a paper bag full of end pieces which my father would warm in the oven. “But if that bastard makes a mistake and comes again while I’m here,” Danny says, “I’ll do to him just what he promises he’s gonna do to you. You can count on it, Mister Meyers.” I sit up and rest the plate and sandwich on my lap. The rye bread is fresh. I do not doubt Danny’s word. “I got the stuff, and I been waiting a long time—” I did not realize how hungry I was. He has made a sandwich for himself, also, and we eat together while he talks of his plans for Jackson’s brother, and for Jackson himself. When I am finished I lie down again. He puts the dishes in the sink and stretches his arms above his head. “Ah, I’m talking too much, huh? I bet you want to get some shut-eye, don’t you?” He and Marty will get along, I think, if only they can agree upon who will be in charge. “You look real tired, you know.”

“There are sheets in the bottom drawer of the dresser—” I begin, but he interrupts me and says he has a woolen bathrobe which will do. He will prop his feet up on my desk chair. The easy chair, he has discovered, is soft. He can sleep anywhere when he has had some beer, he reminds me. He begins to undress. He remembers something and laughs.

“Hey,” he says. “That girl that was up here before—”

“Nydia,” I say.

“Yeah.” He sucks on his lower lip. “Marón!” he says, wagging his hand. “What a piece. You got to hand it to those spies—their young girls are real lookers—”

“She is fifteen years old,” I say. “But they will not let her go to school because of the baby.”

“Serves her right,” he says. “Getting knocked up like—”

“She is married,” I say. “If she were not, despite the child, she would be allowed to go to school.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I mean. These people got no sense about things.” He stops then. Something in my tone of voice has disturbed him. “I didn’t mean nothing bad about her, using that language—” he says.

“It is all right,” I say. “I will visit her when I am better. She wants to speak with me about going to night school.”

“Yeah?” He sets his suitcase across the arms of the easy chair and opens it. His pajamas are striped, blue and white. “I give her credit then,” he says. He loosens his belt and lets his pants fall to the floor. He wears jockey-style underpants. His thighs are larger than I had imagined. Everywhere, he is full of hair. He chuckles to himself. “I got to hand it to you, though—”

In the hallway I hear the toilet and it reminds me of my own needs. I wonder if, like my students, I will be required to take a pass with me when I leave the room. The thought amuses me. I wonder too if my monkeys miss me. Well. It is not something I have ever given much thought to, but, in truth, I think the answer is that I do not enjoy teaching. I will be glad when it is over. Next year I will do translations. If my monkeys and cowboys miss me, that is their problem. Within three years there will be a new generation of monkeys in Junior High School Number 50 who will never have heard of Mad-Man Meyers. There will be no pictures to tell your story, Harry. But that is as it should be, after all. Danny is right. Mrs. Wenger’s door closes. It is not even difficult to admit, you see: teaching has never given Harry Meyers any real pleasure. I deny nothing by saying so. My brothers did not know so much, after all. I was not so different. I held a job, I married, I saved some money. There is a good chance I will make it past sixty-nine. That is all.

Danny rinses his face in the kitchen sink. I sit up, with my feet on the floor, and I notice how much space there is between my pajama top and my body. “I am going to the bathroom. In the hall,” I say. It is easier this way, to announce it. He nods and says he will go when I come back. We are roommates. I put my bathrobe and slippers on and as I walk from my room I hear Carlos’ voice, rising through the stairwell, cursing his young wife. “¡Puta! ¡Puta!” Objects knock against walls. Under me, on the third floor, Mrs. Wright looks out. She asks me how I am feeling and then yells in an opposite direction for quiet. When Carlos’ door opens, I move away from the wood bannister. I close the bathroom door behind me, and sit. Mrs. Wenger has warmed the seat for me and I am grateful to her. I bring up some phlegm and lean to the left, spitting it into the sink. Simon and I shared a bed on Howard Street. Simon, Simon, you knew no shame. You candled eggs until your death. Well. The earth lies above all of you now, my brothers. The same is true for your wives, for aunts, for uncles, for cousins. But it is all right. As you can see, Harry Meyers has enough visitors. There must be some nephews and nieces left somewhere, but they do not matter. You had your arm around my shoulder on the trip, didn’t you, Simon? First in the train, and then in the wagon, we sat next to our father. Down the left side of my body, from under the armpits, there is some pain. Nothing is easy anymore. I trace the shapes on the tiled floor, endless rows of six-sided marble pieces. I wonder if they were laid out in straight rows or if a single tile was the original center, and all the others were attached from there, in a widening circle. On Howard Street the bathroom floor was the same. There is something to be said for a brownstone. Perhaps I will rescue you after all, Sarah. I told you about that trip, I remember. We visited the chicken farms which sent us our eggs. It is the first time I can remember going beyond New York. I could not have been more than five years old and Simon and I wore our good suits. I had never seen such farms before. By comparison, the ones in Brooklyn were gardens. I will tell you something: it was a real adventure to journey over dirt roads and have my father make transactions. Simon and I were allowed to play with the baby chickens. And I think I understood the connection between these distant New Jersey farms and my father’s butter and egg warehouse. I was not a simple child, after all. It seems strange now to think that some of those men, dressed like true cowboys, but without beards, were Jews as we were Jews. I must have thought all the Jews in America lived in New York City. You loved my father, Sarah, didn’t you, though you knew him less than a year. Well, I am entitled to a few memories. The visiting hours are not yet over. I hear steps. I am interested in what Jackson’s brother had to say this time, but I can wait to see the note. Let Danny have some pleasure. I will be better soon. We will evaluate my situation. His original suggestion may be worth considering. Another trip does not sound so terrible to Harry Meyers. The room, as Danny suggests, is not adequate, and I do not fool myself really, about what the pictures will add.

Outside, it is totally silent, and then, suddenly, a high-pitched shriek splits the air. It is followed by the sounds of bodies struggling. I have been finished for some time. I take care of myself, then put my robe back on. I pull the chain but even the rush of water does not drown out the sound. Perhaps the tiles were laid out in diagonal rows, beginning in a corner.

“Aiee—!” A body crashes against my door. It is my fault. I should have said something before. I did not think. “¡Ahora, Manuel! ¡Asesino!” Mrs. Wright is on the landing again. She promises to move from the building tomorrow morning. Carlos no longer needs to curse his wife. He sends his abuse in my direction. Mrs. Wenger’s door does not move.

In my room, the action is almost completed. Marty’s head is jammed in the opening of the fireplace, against the black, metal. His beret lies on the floor next to him. Danny’s hand is locked at his throat. Manuel crawls along Danny’s striped pajamas, his fingers clawing at his back. My other monkey is dancing and singing, his fist clenched above his head. He asks Marty if it is time to use it, but Marty does not give him the signal. He gags and continues to struggle. Ruben takes the pins from my doll and begins sticking them into Danny’s legs. “Now, Manny boy—” Marty says. Manuel opens his mouth as wide as he can, then clamps his monkey’s teeth into the back of Danny’s neck. Danny howls and as he reaches behind him to get at Manuel, Marty gives him a vicious chop with the side of his hand. My guardian rolls onto his side, away from the fireplace. Ruben dances with delight. “Ahora, Manuel,” he chants. “¡Ahora!” Something shines in Manuel’s hand. He yanks at Danny’s hair, but the greasy strands slip through his fingers. “The scalp,” Marty says. His forearm is pressed across Danny’s neck, Manuel’s legs surround his stomach, and now my own monkey sits astride his thighs, backwards, working at his feet. I think of Gulliver, tied down by his own monkeys and I wonder if there has ever been a Spanish-Hebrew version of that. Ruben’s hands move up and down. Danny is choking. I move forward to separate my visitors. They have not noticed me.

“The scalp,” Marty whispers. “The scalp—”

“Enough,” I say. “Stop—”

Marty turns toward me. A gurgling sound comes from Danny’s throat. He can neither move nor speak. In the middle of the floor, on my rug, he seems to fill the entire room. “Is this joker—?” Marty stops to catch his breath. “Is he a friend of yours, Meyers?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Easy then, Manny boy,” Marty says. His breathing is difficult. “Easy.” He lifts his forearm. “And don’t you try any smart stuff, mister,” he says to Danny. “We’re taking Meyers’ word, you understand?”

Ruben stands and places the pins back in my doll. Danny sits up. He rubs at his neck where Marty has been applying pressure. “Put the blade away,” Marty says, his arm around Manuel. He speaks softly. “Some other time—right?”

Manuel retreats to a corner of the room. He squats, and, in the shadows, I see only the red glow of his cigarette.

Danny is in a daze. He holds a handkerchief where Manuel has done his work. “They are boys from my school,” I explain to him. “It is all right—”

“Yeah,” he says, and turns away from me. He feels he has let me down, I know. He is embarrassed. There is nothing I can do. It would be useless to tell him that it was three against one, for they were only boys.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Marty is saying. He is close to me, his beret perched once again on the side of his head. “A born killer. If you hadn’t stopped us—”

“I am sorry,” I say to Danny. “I should have told you I was expecting them to return. They were here earlier today. They were the ones who brought me the cans of juice.”

Danny has put his bathrobe on. He opens a can of beer and his hand is trembling. “How much do I owe you kids?” he asks Marty.

“Forget it,” Marty says.

“C’mon,” Danny says. His voice is stronger. “What’s fair is fair—we don’t want no charity—”

“Make it two bucks,” Marty says, and he winks at Ruben. My monkey’s eyes are shining.

“You sure?” Danny says, and, from his pants, which hang over the easy chair, he takes his wallet. Marty says that he is sure and Danny hands him two single dollar bills.

My monkey has discovered something, I see. He moves closer to Danny. Suddenly his eyes open wide and he is smiling. “I know you!” he exclaims. He twists his lopsided head toward Danny. “You the father,” he says. “Mi madre, I am sorry. Oh man—if I see your face at the beginning we not jump you like that—”

“Jump me?” Danny waves a hand at him. “C’mon, kid, don’t tell me no stories—you walked in here and I got you before—”

Ruben ignores Danny’s protest and turns to his leader. “He is the father in the pictures!” he says. Marty looks at Danny carefully now, and nods his head. Everything will be all right, I know. Ruben’s eyes move downward. “We sorry about your boy,” he says.

“Sure,” Danny says. He looks at me. He has regained some of his composure. Ruben seems sad. He does not have anything else to say. He too is thinking about the pictures. Manuel sits silently in the corner. Marty is at my desk, waiting. Danny is at my side. “Listen—do they know about—” His voice is low. He hesitates. “You know—the notes—?”

“No,” I say. “There is no need—”

“You mean Jackson’s brother?” Marty says. He comes to us. Danny is surprised at first. Marty laughs and pats him on the back. “Take it easy,” he says. “We know, right?” Danny leaves me. He is puzzled, but he looks at me in a way which makes me certain that he and Marty understand one another. I knew it would happen, you see. Danny rubs his chin. He seems almost ready to assert himself and, in truth, I am happy for him.

“That’s why I come here, see,” Danny explains to them. They are quiet. He has their attention. He begins to recount the tale of what he will do to Jackson’s brother if he should visit us. Manuel rises from his corner and listens with the others. They sit in a semicircle around Danny, on the rug, and they look with envy at his suitcase. “If I’d of known you kids were keepin’ an eye on Mister Meyers I never would of jumped you like I did—”

“It’s okay,” Marty says, and reaches out with his right hand. Danny takes it and then he shakes the paws of each of my monkeys. They have an alliance, you see. Harry Meyers has nothing to fear any longer. “We got our plans too,” Marty says.

“I gotta get rid of this beer belly if I’m gonna be any use, though,” Danny says. “I never should of let you guys get me the way you did—”

“It was three against one,” Marty says. “And we got tricks—”

“The spots,” Ruben whispers. “Show him the spots.” “Once is enough.” Marty’s voice is sharp. Ruben is quiet.

“But I don’t know what Jackson’s brother looks like, see, and in the dark, you—”

“It’s okay. You were just doing what we would have done, right?” Marty says. “We should’ve identified ourselves—”

Then Danny explains to them about living with me for a few days, until I am better, and Marty suggests that they share the assignment. He says that if Danny has to go to work in the morning, they can return and take a shift. I sit on the edge of my bed and wonder if I will be able to sleep again. Now that I have lost a day my schedule is off. Well. That is all right also. I can watch over Danny while he sleeps and make certain he does not attack other visitors. Carlos is much bigger than Ruben. I could not assure a happy ending there.

“I bring you the surprise,” Ruben says. He is sitting next to me while Marty and Danny make their arrangements.

“Of course,” I say. Manuel is in the corner again, smoking. Perhaps I will talk to Mr. Greenfeld. I cannot be responsible, after all. I wonder who else will be visiting today. Morris is late.

From under his shirt my monkey slips something. “I seen you,” he says, and puts the glossy papers in my lap. I turn the night-table lamp on, so that my likeness may look also. “This the surprise,” Ruben says. In my lap are the pictures from the bulletin board. I laugh. They are not the ones I will request when the year ends, but the others, the ones that tell of the future. “When we finish with our work, we sneak into the school and I get them for you from the wall. It give you something to read while you sick.”

“Thank you, Ruben,” I say, and not without pleasure, I look at the full-color pictures which are so familiar to me. With Danny only a few feet away I read again about the gift of life from the dead: the man’s kidney rushed into the body of Mr. Wolf Sturmer of Cleveland. If he is restless, I will let him read sections also. We should share such things. Ruben smiles. His gift, he sees, has pleased me. Wolf Sturmer’s body struggles against the tissue of an alien kidney, and, temporarily victorious, he puffs happily on a cigar. Ceramic hip joints, silicone rubber breasts, blood pressure regulators: Harry Meyers may have need of them, after all. I do not hold it against you, Sarah. How could you know. If I go beyond sixty-nine it will have to be on my own. It is best that way. “Nobody seen us,” Ruben says. “We hide in the laboratory when the janitor go by. We have fun going through the building with nobody there.” He laughs. “Manuel, he want to hide in Mr. Greenfeld’s closet to wait for him in the morning, but we get him out—“A woman’s life is prolonged by being tied up to a pig’s liver. The pig’s snout sticks out from under blue sheets and it amuses Ruben. Silently, Manuel has crept to us. He leans over Ruben’s shoulder, entranced by the pictures. He has stopped smoking. Marty and Danny continue their discussions while, with my monkeys, I consider the question put to us: will women be content with prefabricated embryos?

“We be going soon,” Ruben says to me. My eyes close momentarily, and this time I see nothing. “We just come by to check.” Manuel holds a picture in his lap: a wine-red monkey fetus is being withdrawn from its mother’s womb. Gently, the doctor’s fingers lift its veined body. Manuel’s eyelids rise.

“He thinks that one of the sewer babies,” Ruben says to me.

“Of course,” I say. Perhaps I will get copies made and give them to the old men who walk to the synagogue each morning so that they too will be prepared. It is something to consider. Manuel’s finger traces the outline of the fetus across the page. The colors are vivid. When I have removed my pictures also, there will be little in the school to interest students. Before I leave I should give my suggestion concerning mirrors to the principal. It would be something.

“In the projects lots of the girls put them down there,” Ruben is saying. “Sometimes they not born all the way.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Manuel, he think if you go crawling around the sewers and tunnels under the city, you gone to find armies of these kids that been growing up there.”

“It is a thought,” I say. I place the article on my night table. I feel the glands move along my throat. It would be nice if the fireplace had not been sealed over, I think. We could have a good talk now, the five of us. Manuel hands me the page. He goes back to his corner. “What you think?” Ruben asks. “You think it really could happen—?”

“It is a thought,” I say.

Ruben nods. “There enough garbage and small animals there for them to live on, but most of them, when they get born, the women wrap them in newspapers before they drop them down.” He is thinking.

“It could happen,” Marty says, joining us. “There’ve been kids brought up by wolves and things.”

“Indians,” Ruben says, his eyes beginning to glow. “You have told us.”

“And once there were a few packs of them roaming around, they could take care of the new ones that got dropped in—but what you have to think about is how they get past that first year or so, when they can’t cope for themselves, right?” He stops and looks at me.

“What you think, Mister Meyers?” Ruben asks.

“It is a thought,” I say.

“Okay, kids,” Danny says, and his hands actually touch the shoulders of my students. “How about taking off now so Mister Meyers can get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Marty is an expert on the American Indian,” I say. I will contribute something also, I have decided. It is not fair merely to take from my visitors, to be only an audience. “He knows a great deal.”

Ruben’s eyes shine. “That the truth, mister,” he says to Danny. “He can walk up high with the steel men and not get scared, like the Indians do in Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn—?”

“Gowanus,” Marty explains. “Where all the Mohawks live. North Gowanus, actually—you’re from Brooklyn, right?”

“Yeah, but I never—”

“If you come with us when Meyers here gets well, I’ll introduce you to some of them.”

“They are beautiful,” Ruben says. “Their hair is like coal, their skin is copper.”

Marty nudges me with his elbow. “You know what I think is gonna happen?” he says to the others. The room is hushed. “I think the Indians are waiting, just waiting. And they’re gonna be here when we’re all dead and gone, and then they’re gonna go down into the sewers and rescue all the packs of wild kids.”

Manuel edges forward. His eyes are on fire. Ruben is nodding vigorously. “We are part Indian,” he says, proudly. “Marty has told us. Indian and Spanish and Negro.” He looks at Manuel. “But more Indian than Spanish and more Spanish than Negro—”

“Yeah,” Marty says. “Sure, Ruben baby. The Spanish weren’t so hot to the Indians either, you know.”

“That is why Manuel and I gone to learn to walk high,” Ruben continues, and he steps lightly across the room, one foot behind the other in a straight line. “Someday we will own the land again, Mister Meyers. You gone to see. It has been written.”

“It is a thought,” I say.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Marty says. “We gotta settle down for the night and let Meyers here rest up.”

“It has been written,” Ruben repeats. “You gone to see, Mister Meyers.”

“Cool it, Ruben—let him get some shut-eye.”

Perhaps, I think, the great Don will return to lead the packs of children. Marty would appreciate the thought, I know. The book is not on my desk. I had intended to give it to Ruben, though I do not recall doing so. I look through the three shelves of my bookcase, next to the desk, but it is not there either. I check my night table. “C’mon, c’mon,” Marty says. “Let’s split out—” He seems nervous. I ask if anybody has seen a copy of Don Quixote in the room, and my monkey exchanges glances with his leader. Manuel slides more deeply into his corner. It seems ridiculous, yet I know at once what has happened. Harry Meyers has not been a teacher all these years for nothing.

“You took the book,” I say to Marty. “This morning.”

He shrugs.

Danny moves toward him, his arm pulled back, his fist clenched. “Hey,” he says. “If you kids are stealin’ from—”

“Hold your horses, Danny boy,” Marty says. “It’s only a book.” He looks at the floor. His back is to the fireplace. “What do you think—people own books? What makes you think it belongs to you, huh? Books are books, Meyers. You’re supposed to be the teacher, you should know that, right? So explain to me: how can you own a book somebody else wrote, huh?”

Danny is about to grab my young scholar. “It is all right, Danny,” I say. “I must have left it at school. It is all right.”

“If you need it so bad, we’ll get you another copy,” Marty says. “I’ll give Manny the order, right?” He adjusts his shoulders and picks at his braces with his fingernail. “I’m surprised at you, though, Meyers, thinking that way.” He is himself again. His uneasiness is gone. “The Indians, see, most of them didn’t think things like books belonged to anybody. The same with land. That’s how come they got cheated so much.” Ruben moves his head up and down. His education continues, you see. Danny does not seem very certain of things. Well. I will reassure him later. “Private property,” Marty says. “Where’s it get you in the end is what I want to know—”

“Yeah? Well you just watch yourself,” Danny says. “Indians or no Indians. You write your reports for school—I got nothing against that, but you leave your cock-eyed theories behind if you want to be able to come here again.”

Marty laughs. “Sure,” he says. “I’m with you, Danny boy, don’t you know that?” He takes him into his confidence, apart from his two monkeys, and whispers to him what he has already told me, about keeping his assistants in line. That is the reason for the speech we have just heard. His stories, Danny admits, patting him on the back, have something to them. He predicts that Marty can be a marvelous salesman someday, if he wants. He opens the door. “It has been written,” Ruben says again. “You gone to see, Mister Meyers. Someday—”

On my night table I look at my new reading material. There was no real need to complain about the loss of my book. I should have considered more carefully. “Listen,” Marty says and once again Harry Meyers is in his confidence. “I want things to be straight between us, you understand?”

“Of course,” I say.

“About the book, I mean.” I nod. “We’re all entitled to our theories, right?”

“Of course,” I say.

Ruben is speaking to Manuel of the sewer babies and the great day on which they will all be released into the sunlight. “I mean, we understand one another, right?” His breath is sweet, though I cannot place the fragrance. I realize that I have forgotten once again to look into my monkey’s eyes, to see what color they are. He will be back in the morning, though. When I first began teaching at Public School 50 the gypsies lived in storefronts along Broadway. Their scarves were of beautiful silk, brightly colored. They wore no shoes. If you did not watch out they would come in the night and steal your children. Ruben would have loved them, I know. Perhaps Harry Meyers did find some pleasure in his teaching then. But it was not much. “I just didn’t want you thinking I was one of these guys on some kind of Give-America-Back-to-the-Indians Crusade. That’s a lot of crap, right?”

Ruben is speaking to Manuel of Señora Rosa’s prophecies. Danny is becoming impatient. “And don’t let any of the propaganda the National Indian Youth Council puts out fool you.” If visitors continue to come, perhaps I will stay indoors for a while. At least until the end of winter. The subways, the slush, the ice: there is no need for such things, after all. I am entitled. “They’re young and nationalistic, sure, but if they’ve got three thousand members they’ve got a lot, right?” I wonder what Manuel’s sister looks like. It is something I can ask Ruben tomorrow morning. It is too late now. If they are all here together when I awake, perhaps Danny will ask me to tell the story again. It would be a way for Harry Meyers to contribute something. “The way I see it, and here I’m not just telling stories, they’re not gonna have to take it back, and nobody’s gonna give it to them.” He licks his lips. I am grateful to Danny, you see. I only hope he will be able to sleep well in the easy chair. I will reassure him again about the book. Marty’s voice rises. “Like I said before, if you don’t believe in property and competition, you don’t have much chance to cope in this world, right? So they’re waiting, that’s all. Waiting, you hear me—?” His hand tugs at my bathrobe sleeve. There is urgency in his voice. “They’ll still be here when the white men are all under the ground, when—” He seems aware suddenly of his intensity, the passion with which he has been speaking, and he breaks off. “It’s just a theory,” he says, shrugging. “We’re all entitled, right?” His green bag is slung over his shoulder. “And we know all that crap about confusing our wishes with—you know—” He moves away from me. “Every joker has to have his way of coping in this world, right, Meyers?”

“Of course,” I say.

He winks at me. “One of these first days,” he says, and gives me a brief wave of farewell. Let me tell you something: there will never be enough policemen to guard the hospitals. I am certain of it. The picture of what will happen, though, is too much for me to contemplate now. It is enough if I think about returning to school. I laugh to myself. Harry Meyers cannot even do what he does not want to do. Well. It is something to think about.

“Tomorrow,” Danny says, and closes the door behind them. He comes into the room, shaking his head. “Nutty kids, huh—?”

I nod.

He yawns. “Boy, I’m bushed.” He shakes his head again. “Especially that Marty. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he means well and all that. But—” He nods affirmatively. His voice changes. “I got to hand it to you, Mister Meyers, the way those kids respect you. All the things they’re trying to do for you—it’s really something!”

“It is something,” I say.

“I guess you got to be real dedicated like Jean always says about being a teacher.” He laughs. “That little one is something, though, ain’t he? Just keeps puffin’ away. You know why?” I indicate that I do not. “It’s so he don’t get no bigger. Marty told me.” He scratches his head. “I didn’t think anybody believed that stuff anymore about smoking stunting your growth, but I guess there are some things that never get lost, you know what I mean?” He leans forward. “It’s for his job, from what Marty says.”

He talks a while longer, and I know it makes him feel better to share his impressions with me. He tells me that I already look one hundred per cent better than I did when he first came by this afternoon. What I need is more sleep.

“When you meet a kid face to face it’s hard to hold anything against him, you know what I mean?” he says. His feet are propped on my desk chair, and he is using the bedspread to cover himself. We will get along together, you see. “I mean, you can see that he’s just a kid like any other kid—the Puerto Rican one, I mean—”

“Yes,” I say.

“It makes you think,” Danny says. My eyes are closed. “I bet the Spanish kids you got are like him mostly—different than the colored, I mean.” He stops. “If not for the accent, I’ll tell you the truth, some of them could pass for wops!” He takes pleasure in this observation. “Ah, I’m really bushed. But it’s the truth, Mister Meyers—especially those who come from the south of Italy, you know? They could look like you and me.” I watch my guardian. He turns onto his side, but this will not do. He sits up straight, his feet forward, his hands clasped on his chest. He does not wish to keep me up, he says. His voice is gentle. “You get a good night’s sleep, Mister Meyers.” I pull the chain on my night lamp. The room is dark. I am not at all tired, though. I arrange the pillow behind me and sit up, my back against it, looking ahead. After a while my eyes adjust and I can see my guardian. His mouth is open. He has not even suggested that I recount our story. Our bonds grow deeper.

When he begins to snore I get out of bed. I put on my slippers and cross the room. I lift the side of the window shade with a finger and look down into the street. Through the windowless openings in the front of building number 171, I see light. I have my glasses on. I am certain of it this time. There is a fire burning. Well. We know where the next shift waits, don’t we.

In some upper floors of the brownstones across the street, lights are still on. I am more fortunate than most, I realize, to have so many visitors. I hear a rustling sound behind me. Danny does not stir, but a new note, I know, has just been passed under the door. I leave it. I will let Danny discover its contents in the morning. It is the least I can do for him.

I hope my other three are warm. If they had stayed here, I know, Danny would never have slept. I need not worry about them, though. They will manage. Marty will tell them stories. It was winter when we rode across New Jersey. My father’s beard was still black. He was not an old man. He hummed and talked to the horses. Simon had been with him on previous trips and he explained everything to me. I remember holding a baby chicken. I could not have been more than five years old. When we returned was the only time in my life I showed any interest in the warehouse, any pride in the sign (Meyers Butter & Eggs. They could not get me to help, even in the busy seasons. I do not blame you, Simon, if you do not forgive me. But were we to do it over again, I would not change, I assure you. Perhaps, then, it is time for another trip. Danny snores. My sinuses are still clear from Marty’s medicine. If Morris should come by I hope he will not be jealous of my arrangements. It is only temporary, believe me. Danny has his own family to go to.

The windows are frosted, yet the snow and the ice do not bother me. I fear the summer more. I wonder if I can place an order with Manuel for an air-conditioner. Let the note lie on the floor, Harry. After all these years it is silly to be afraid of dreams, and, in truth, I am not. A figure emerges from the entrance to my building and runs toward Amsterdam Avenue, diagonally, across the street. He is very fast. The fire is a small one. I will return Nydia’s pot tomorrow. I wonder if the Rebbe will come to visit me. Danny would get along with him also, I think. As for Marty, I make no predictions. We will see, Harry. Think about it. My new roommate may be right. Where we first lived, on the lower east side, there was a shop around the corner which made cigars. The odors were beautiful and the owner hired a little man with a long beard to stand on a table and read stories in Yiddish to the workers as they cut and rolled the leaves. I will have to tell Marty. It is a trade he would have been suited for. The owner would shoo us from the front, but we had our ways also. I heard many stories, I can tell you that.