79 Park Avenue (7 page)

The strong arms released him. Ross didn't look up. He turned and walked toward the door. At the cashier's desk he stopped and dropped a bill on the counter. "That will pay for the mess I made," he said.

The white-faced old man sitting there didn't speak. Ross went out the door. He got into his car and sat there waiting.

A few seconds later he heard footsteps coming toward the car. They stopped outside the door. "Drive me home,

will you please, Mike?" he asked without looking up. "I'm very tired."

The footsteps went around the car. The door on the opposite side opened and his friend got in. A match flared, and a second later he felt a cigarette shoved into his hand. He dragged on it deeply, leaning his head back against the cushion and closing his eyes.

"Good thing I came by just then," he heard his friend's voice say. "I had a hunch I'd better go lookin' for yuh."

A faint smile traced Ross's lips. "Still running interference for me, Mike?" he asked. When they played football together, Mike did the blocking while he carried the ball.

There was a chuckle in Mike's voice. "Why th' hell not? We're buddies, ain't we?" He leaned forward and started the motor. He raced it a moment. "What happened, anyway? Yuh would've killed him if I didn't grab yuh."

"There was this girl—" Ross started to explain.

'That blonde you were creamin' over this afternoon?" Mike interrupted.

"Yes," Ross answered. "She—'*

Again Mike's voice cut in. There was a chiding tone m it. "I gave yuh credit for more sense 'n that, Ross."

Ross turned his head. "What do you mean?"

Mike struck a match and held it to his cigarette. The flame flared golden in his eyes. "I don't understand you at all, Ross. No girl's worth gettin' in trouble over."

Ross stared at his friend. Mike was right about one thing—he didn't understand. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. He felt the car start as Mike put it into gear.

Mike didn't understand. It wasn't Marja at all. A faint

doubt came into him. Or was it? He turned and looked at

Mike.

Mike was driving carefully, concentrating on the street ahead. But, then, Mike did everything carefully. He allowed no margin for error. That was the trouble with Mike. That was why he ran interference instead of carrying the ball. He didn't Uke to take chances. It wasn't that he was afraid, it was just the way he was.

Mike didn't understand. How could he? He didn't know Marja.

Chapter 6

SHE could hear the thin wail of the baby as she entered the downstairs hall and began to climb the stairs. It grew louder as she neared her door. A light came from beneath it. She hesitated a moment before opening it.

She blinked as the ugly white light hit her eyes. The baby's cries tore at her ears. She stepped into the room quickly and closed the door behind her. Footsteps came from the hallway on her left. She turned toward them.

Her stepfather was standing there, his trousers hanging loosely over his wide hips. He wore no shirt; the white tops of his B.V.D.'s hung on the mat of coarse black hair that framed his barrel chest. He didn't speak, but his coal-black eyes stared meanly at her.

"What's he cryin' for?" she asked, gesturing toward the bedroom.

"Where yuh been?" he asked in a heavy voice, ignoring her question.

She began moving toward the bedroom. ''Swimmin'," she answered succinctly.

"Till ten thirty at night?" he asked, looking at the kitchen clock.

"It's a long way back from Coney Island," she answered, opening the bedroom door.

His hand caught her arm and spun her around. She stared at him, her eyes cold and bleak. "Why didn't you stop an' tell yer mother?" he shot at her angrily. "She was worried about you. An' you know she ain't feelin' too good."

"She'd be a lot better if you got a job so's she wouldn't have to work nights," she replied nastily.

He raised his hands as if to strike her.

"Go ahead, I dare you!" she taunted, her lips bared over her teeth.

He swore at her in Polish. ''Coorva! Whore!"

A contempt came into her eyes. "Beer-guzzlin' bum!" she snapped. "Yuh wouldn't dare. Yuh know my mother would throw yuh out if yuh did!"

Slowly his hand fell to his side. "If I wasn't such a good friend of your father's when he was alive, I would have no care for you," he muttered.

"Leave him out of this!" she said quickly. "At least he was a man. He took care of his family. He didn't lay aroun' drinktn' beer all day."

He was on the defensive now. She could sense it, and a triumph rose in her. "Your mother doesn't want me to work the buildings any more," he said uncertainly. "She made me promise when we got married. She said losing one man to them was enough."

"You saw him fall," she said coldly. "Was it your promise or your fear that keeps you home?"

The baby's cries grew louder and more urgent. He stood there a moment breathing heavily, then turned away from her. "Go see what Peter wants," he said.

The bedroom door closed behind her. He lumbered over to the icebox and took out a can of beer. Expertly he punctured the top and tilted it over his Ups. Some of the beer ran down his cheeks, spilling onto his undershirt. He drank long and thirstily and threw the empty can into a paper bag on the sink.

He looked at the closed bedroom door. The baby's cries had stopped. He stared at the door. She was a bitch, there was no other word for her. He wiped his mouth with the side of his arm. Nobody could do anything with her. It had been Uke that since the time her mother told her they were to be married.

He closed his eyes with the effort of remembering. It was only three years ago. A month after her father had stepped from a steel girder twenty-three stories in the skies.

He could still see the look of surprise on Henry's face when he realized the scaffold that should have been there, wasn't. It was a moment of paralysis of action. His lips started to form the word "Peter!" His hand reached anxiously for his friend.

Then he spun suddenly toward the earth. Looking down, Peter could see Henry's cap saiHng gently away from him, his friend's blond hair sparkling iridescently in the sun as he tumbled over and over.

The beer came up in him at the remembered nausea. He held his breath a moment, then belched. The nausea went away. He could see his friend every time he looked at Marja. The same white-blond hair, high Polack cheekbones, and sensual mouth. And the way she walked, too,

reminded him of her father. They both had the same surefooted, catlike step.

He had first noticed it the night he came to propose to Katti. A month after Marja's father had died. He had put on his best suit, the one he wore to church on Sundays, and bought a two-dollar box of candy at the drugstore. The druggist had assured him it was the best he had, and fresh, too. He had climbed the stairs to the apartment and stood outside in the hall, sweating from the exertion and nervousness. He hesitated a moment, then knocked cautiously at the door.

A moment later he heard her mother's voice. "Who is it?" Katti asked,

"Me, Peter," he answered.

A mumbled hurrying sound came from behind the closed door, then it opened. Marja stood there, looking up at him. Her eyes were wide. "Hello, Uncle Peter," she said.

He smiled down at her, his eyes searching the room for her mother. She was nowhere in sight. The kitchen table was covered with pins and pieces of white material. "Hello, Marja," he answered foolishly. "Is your mother in?"

Marja nodded. "She's putting on a dress." She stepped back from the door. "Come in, Uncle Peter.'*

He shuffled into the room clumsily and held the box of candy toward her. "I brought candy."

She took it gravely. "Thank you," she said, putting it on the kitchen table. "Mama says for me to take you into the parlor."

He took his hat off and stood there awkwardly. ^Tfou don't have to bother," he said formally. "I can stay in the kitchen."

She shook her head commandingly. "Mama says I should take you into the parlor."

Without looking back, she led him mto the long, narrow hallway that led to the front room. She was a white shadow dancing in front of him. He stumbled in the sudden dimness. He felt her hand touch his.

"Take my hand. Uncle Peter," she said quiedy. "I know the hall. You'll trip in the dark."

Her hand was warm in his big fist. She stopped suddenly and he stumbled into her. "I'm sorry," he said, aware of his clumsiness.

"It's okay," she said, taking her hand away. "I'll turn on the light."

He heard her walk away in the dark, then a click, and light flooded the room. She was standing in front of the lamp, and the light poured through her white dress. He stared at her. She seemed to have nothing underneath it.

She saw him looking, and a slight smile came to her Ups. "Like my new graduation dress. Uncle Peter?" she asked archly. "Mama just finished it before you came."

He nodded, his eyes still on the shadow of her. "Very pretty."

She didn't move away from the lamp. "I'm graduating this term, you know."

"I know," he answered. "Your father told me. He was very proud."

A shadow came into her eyes. For a moment he thought she was about to cry, but it vanished quickly. She came away from the lamp. "Next term I'll be going to high school," she said.

"So soon?" he asked in simulated surprise. "I still think of you as a baby."

She was standing m front of him now. She looked up at him. "I'm going on thirteen," she said, "I'm not a baby any more.'*

He didn't argue with her. He had seen that much.

"But Fm not too old to kiss you for the nice candy you brought us, Uncle Peter," she said, smiling.

He felt an embarrassed flush creep into his face. He shifted awkwardly, not speaking.

"Bend down, Uncle Peter," she said imperiously. "I can't reach you."

He bent forward, holding his cheek toward her. Her action took him by surprise. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. It was not the kiss of a child, but the kiss of a woman who had been born for kissing. He felt her young body pressing against his jacket.

Clumsily he put out his hands to push her away, but accidentally they touched her breasts. He dropped his hands to his sides as if they had been in a flaming oven.

She stepped back and looked up at him, a smile in her eyes. 'Thanks for the candy. Uncle Peter."

"You're welcome," he answered.

"Sit down," she said, walking past him to the hallway. She paused in the entrance and looked back at him. "I'm not such a baby any more, am I, Uncle Peter?"

"No, you're not," he admitted.

She smiled at him proudly, then turned and ran down the hall. "Mama!" she called out. "Uncle Peter brought us a box of candy!"

He sank into a chair, remembering what her father had said to him a few days before the accident. "Another year, Peter," he had said, "and the boys will be after her like dogs after a bitch in heat."

He shook his head, his fingers still tingling where they had touched her, a strange excitement in him. Henry must have been blind. Surely the boys were after her already.

He heard Katti's footsteps in the hall and got to his feet.

He was standing there, his face flushed, when she csime into the room.

She held out her hand, and they shook hands, man fashion. "Peter," she said, "you're too good to us. You shouldn't have brought the candy. It's so expensive.'*

He still held her hand. "I want to be good to you, Katti," he said huskily.

She withdrew her hand. "Sit down, Peter," she said, seating herself in a chair opposite him.

He studied her. She was a good-looking woman. Big and generously proportioned. An Old Country woman, not like these American women who dieted themselves into match-sticks. And a wonderful cook, too. He remembered the envy he had felt every time Henry opened his lunchbox. The delicious sandwiches she had made for him. All Peter's landlady ever packed was dried-out wurst.

He had always told Henry the reason he never married was that there weren't any more women around like Katti. Henry had laughed at him. Said he was too set in his ways to try to please any woman.

But it wasn't so. It was just that any woman wouldn*t please him. Katti was the kind of woman that could make him happy.

"I'm making some fresh coffee for you," she said.

"You shouldn't bother," he said awkwardly. "I don't want you should trouble for me."

"It's no bother," she answered.

They sat there silently for a few minutes, then she slipped into Polish. "You like Marja's new dress?"

He nodded, unconsciously answering her in the same tongue. "She's a big girl now."

Katti agreed. "Yes. She graduates on Friday."

"I know," he said quickly. "Henry had told me.'*

Tears sprang into her eyes, and she averted her face.

"I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "I didn't mean— *^

She waved her hand. "I know." The tears continued to run down her cheeks. 'Things get too much for me sometimes, and I can*t get used to it I don't know what to do. Henry always knew."

He was on his feet looking down at her. That was what he meant by an Old Country woman. They knew their place, and that it was a man's place to make decisions. A thought cgune to him. "Yes," he said solemnly. "He always used to say to me: 'Peter, if an>lhing happens, look after Katti and the baby for me.' "

The tears stopped as quickly as they had come. Katti looked at him with wide eyes. "He did?" she breathed in a voice filled with wonder.

He nodded silendy.

"Is that why you come to see us twice a week?" she asked.

"At first it was, Katti," he said, a sudden daring in him. "But not now."

She dropped her eyes to the floor. "Now why do you come?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"To see you, Katti," he said, feeling bolder than he ever had in his life. "I want to make a home for you and Marja."

A long moment passed before she spoke. Then her hand sought his. "Peter, you're so good to us."

Later, when the coffee was ready, they went into the kitchen. The pins and material had been cleared from the table, and Marja, who had changed her dress, was seated there doing her homework. The open box of candy was in front of her, and chocolate was smeared on her mouth.