22

“What day is it?” I asked Bubber.

“I don’t know.”

“Saturday. Don’t you know anything?” I had told Mr. Lazinski my mother would pay him on Friday. “It is Friday,” Mr. Lazinski had said, making me feel like a dirty liar and a beggar.

“When are we going out?” Bubber said.

“Never.” I looked at him the way Mr. Lazinski had looked at me. I sat on a box and fed the fire. I didn’t care what day it was. I wasn’t going back to that store. I wasn’t going out. I wasn’t doing anything.

“I’m hungry.”

“Don’t bother me.” We were going to pay Lazinski. Sometimes people were, short. It didn’t mean they weren’t going to pay. We weren’t deadbeats. I saw Mr. Lazinski’s fat round face and his fat arms holding on to his groceries.

Bubber went out. I heard him calling King.

I lay there. My mind went to my mother and my father. Was there a letter? Had my father written? Was there news from the hospital? Something flashed in my stomach and in my brain. I saw the row of mailboxes, gleaming like the sun, and then there was nothing. Then I didn’t think anymore. I was hungry.

I dug my fists into my stomach. Then I drank water, a lot of water.

I slept. Bubber was in and out. I woke up and heard him calling King again. I heard him singing, one of those crazy songs of his. “Jack and Joe went up the pole to catch a kitty cat. Jack fell down and Joe fell down and kitty cat laughed.”

The next time I woke up, he was there with an apple. “Where’d you get this?”

“You still sleeping?” His breath was hot and he smelled like rotten apples.

I pushed him away. I didn’t want to eat the apple. If I ate it, I’d start thinking about food again. But then I took a bite.

Bubber leaned on me. “Don’t stand on top of me.”

He lay down on the car seat and covered himself up. Later he woke. “Make the fire,” he said. His teeth started to click.

“Cut it out.” I thought he was faking. He sniffled and picked his nose. “Will you blow your nose.”

He sucked snot. “I don’t have a handkerchief.”

“Use newspaper.”

“Newspaper hurts.”

His head was hot. His breath smelled. “You’re sick.” Why did he have to get sick? I sat there listening to him sniffling. That green snot going in and out of his nose. It was making me sick, too.

What did my mother do when I was sick? She felt my head, she made me stick out my tongue. The doctor came and listened to my chest with the stethoscope he took from his little black satchel. He made me put out my tongue and stuck a wooden stick all the way back down my throat till I gagged. After that, he wrote a prescription on a little pad and told my mother to keep me in bed and give me lots of liquids.

I made the fire and covered Bubber with my blanket. I gave him water. He tossed around. He was talking in his sleep. “King ran away. He was hungry. Let’s go look for him … look for him, Tolley.”

“Tomorrow. When you feel better.”

His eyelids fluttered. Then he sat up and said, “The butcher’s giving him a bone. Give him the bone!”

That night he had a fever again. I felt his forehead. I told him I wanted him to be better in the morning. He said he would be. By the light of the fire, I could see his big dark eyes and his soft baby mouth.

The next day all he wanted to do was drink. The sniffles were gone. He kept throwing off the blankets and complaining about the heat, then a minute later he’d tell me he was cold.

“I’m going out,” I said. “I’m going to get you some medicine.”

In the window of the drugstore on Burke Avenue, there was a pharmacist’s balance scale and a mortar and pestle. Over the door it said Ex-Lax in blue letters. A doorbell jingled as I entered. The druggist came around to the back of the counter, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Yes, young man, what can I do for you?”

I smelled salami. It smelled so good it made me dizzy. “What’s good for a cold?”

“Do you have a prescription?”

“It’s for my brother.”

“Best thing is to stay in bed.” He showed me cough medicine and throat lozenges and nosedrops. “Vicks is good for the chest, just rub it right in.”

“Could I do some work for you? I’m strong.”

The druggist sighed. “No money?”

“I can sweep, or wash the window.”

“Sorry, I can’t afford to hire anyone. The best thing for your brother is rest and lots of liquids. Orange juice, chicken broth, tea. He can have toast, too.”

I went to the door. Orange juice, chicken broth, tea, and toast. Orange juice, chicken broth, tea, and toast.

“Young man.” The druggist called me back. “Here.” He handed me aspirin powder in a white paper. “Have your mother give this to your brother mixed with a little juice or milk.” I took the aspirin. “Well, go on,” he said. “That’s all.”

Outside, a milk wagon stood at the curb, dripping water from the block of ice inside. The horse had the feed bag on. He looked at me. What do you want? The milkman took a rack of bottles and ran into a building. In the back of the wagon were cases and cases of milk in long-necked bottles. I reached in and took one. The horse stamped his feet.

Back in the cellar, I fed Bubber the cream off the top of the milk. Then I gave him the aspirin and more milk. He took long gulps.

I drank, then lay down. I’d stolen a bottle of milk. Was it wrong? It was stealing, but was it wrong? I did it for Bubber. And me, too. We were hungry. I didn’t feel guilty. When I took the jelly doughnuts, I was ashamed. Not now. When you’re hungry enough and sick, too, you can take things. Was that true?

“I took it,” I said.

“What?” Bubber’s lips looked thick and swollen.

“I didn’t pay for the milk. I swiped it.”

“What?”

“I took it,” I said. “Swiped it. I stole it. You drank it. You think it’s wrong? Okay. Next time, I’ll drink it all myself.”