21

In the gray light I guessed it was six o’clock. I crept past Bubber and King. I was hungry. I was starved. I wanted food. I went to Allerton Avenue and down the steps to Lazinski’s grocery store. The smell of fresh rolls dug a hole in my belly. Mr. Lazinski, in a clean white apron, was waiting on a customer. He cut the round of Muenster cheese with a long knife. The cheese was orange on the outside and pale yellow inside. “A little over, all right? Anything else, my lady?”

I was so hungry I wanted everything. The yellow Muenster cheese, the white farmer cheese, the rows of white eggs in the crate, the fat brown rolls, the sugared donuts.

The woman looked at me, looked me up and down and up again. What was she looking at? I didn’t know her. I picked out a half dozen fresh rolls from the bin and waited my turn. It was all I could do not to tear off a piece of roll and eat it right there.

“Where have you been sleeping?” Mr. Lazinski said. “In a coal bin?”

I brushed my face. “I’ve been looking for deposit bottles. I guess I got a little dirty.”

“A little dirty. I guess you did.” Mr. Lazinski and the woman laughed. I put the rolls on the counter. “What else?” Mr. Lazinski said to me. I pointed to a box of Cream of Wheat high on the shelves and he nudged it down with a catcher on a long pole.

“Eggs.”

“How many?”

“Six.” I ordered bacon and sweet butter and a quart of milk. I watched him cut out a chunk of butter, then stick the knife back into the wooden tub.

“What else, my dirty prince?”

I added two jelly donuts. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from ordering more. “That’s all. Charge it,” I said.

Mr. Lazinski frowned. I watched his broad red hands as he studied the book. “You don’t have anything to give me, Holtz?”

“My mother said she’d pay you soon.”

“You don’t have any money with you?”

I shook my head.

“I told you last time. I can’t keep giving you credit.”

“My mother—we’re a little short …”

Mr. Lazinski had his arms around my order.

“She said definitely Friday.”

“Today is Friday.”

My hands were on the edge of the counter. Dirty fingernails, dirty fingers, dirty hands. I put my hands in my pockets. Empty pockets. I wished I had a dollar so I could put it on the counter. I prayed for a dollar. I looked at the food. Just one dollar.

“Well, you want me to hold it?”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t say yes. I couldn’t say no. I grabbed the two doughnuts and ran out of the store.

I ate one doughnut and then I felt sick. I was still hungry, but it was worse than hunger. I was ashamed. Ashamed to be on the street. Ashamed to be seen. I saw people looking at me. Look at that boy. Look at the dirt on him. He’s a thief.

I kept my eyes down and searched for money in the street, so I could go back and pay Mr. Lazinski. I wanted to find a quarter, a dime, even a nickel. I was always finding money. I was lucky that way. I had quick eyes. You needed quick eyes in the city. My eyes were everywhere. I always found money—once I’d found five dollars and given it to my mother. But now all I wanted was a dime.

Pop. In my head, I wrote my father another letter. Dear Pop, where are you? Send me some money. We’re all right. Bubber is hungry all the time and I am, too. If you don’t come soon, maybe I should let him go to the orphan home and let somebody take care of him.

Behind some stores I found a couple of deposit bottles. A man and a woman rummaged through the garbage. They were collecting bottles and rags in a baby carriage. They stopped when they saw me, saw the bottles in my hand. I got out of there fast, then handed in the bottles at a candy store on Burke Avenue. There was a telephone booth in back. I shut the door and dropped in the nickel. The phone rang in our section. It was on the wall on the second floor. Next to it there was a row of buttons for each apartment. I imagined the door of our apartment opening on the fourth floor and my mother running down … or my father.

“Hello?” A man answered the phone. “Who do you wish to speak to?”

My tongue was stuck in my throat.

“Hello? What apartment, please?”

“Holtz,” I said.

“One minute.”

I heard the phone drop and hit the wall. Now he must be pushing the buzzer. It was ringing in our apartment. He wouldn’t go up and knock on our door. He’d wait till he heard our door open. He’d call up, “Holtz—telephone,” and then he’d go back to his apartment. I listened, strained as hard as I could. Did I hear steps? Was Momma coming down the stairs?

“Hello.” The man came on the phone again. “Nobody answers. Nobody’s home.”

“Try once more,” I said. “Push it harder. Maybe they didn’t hear.”

“I pushed it enough. They don’t answer. Goodbye.” And he hung up.

I went outside. I walked right into traffic.

Dear Pop, Do you see what I’m doing? Are you listening? Sometimes I don’t care what happens to me. You’d better come home. Bubber has a dog now and we’re living in a pretty good place. Momma’s waiting for you to come back. We are, too. Your son, Tolley.

In our lot I pushed through the bushes, then slid through the hole into the cellar. I smelled damp earth and burned wood and the dog smell.

King came out to investigate, then Bubber. “Tolley. What did you bring us?”

I took the doughnut out of my pocket. I gave it to Bubber and licked the jelly from my fingers.