Before My Life Began (24 page)

High school kids shoved by, telling me what a great game I'd played, telling me we'd do better next year. Sure. Someone asked me what college I was going to play for. I pushed him aside and entered the locker room. I was the first one there. There had been lots of scouts and coaches at the game, I knew, but none of them introduced themselves to me and none would be talking to me now. That was for sure. They were all scared because of the scandals. The hope that I'd nurtured for a few years, the one dream I shared with my father, of being able to get out of Brooklyn, to a good out-of-town college—that dream was now dead.

What college would give Abe Litvinov's nephew a scholarship? Even if Abe was never convicted or named by the D.A., I knew I didn't have a chance. Sure. They were all cowards and liars. Abe was right about that too. The only difference between men in his business and men in so-called legitimate businesses, he said, was that the men in his business were honest with themselves. They were free of illusion, of self-deception, of hypocrisy.

The 50th Street platform was jammed, the Jefferson students celebrating as if it were New Year's Eve. Some of them were necking in the middle of the crowd to show how free and happy they were. I wedged my gym bag tighter between my feet, closed my eyes, let my head rest against a steel girder.

“You won't hurt yourself, will you?”

I opened my eyes.

“What?”

She smiled up at me. She had large hazel eyes and soft, wavy brown hair that spilled out along one side of her forehead from under a black beret.

“Hi,” she said. “I hope you don't mind, but I've been watching you ever since the game ended—I've been watching your eyes—and I have the distinct impression that if somebody says the wrong thing to you, you might do something you'd be sorry for later.” She seemed to speak without taking breaths. “Not to them, but to yourself.”

She stared at me intently, her lips pressed tight, her eyebrows furrowed, as if, I realized, she were imitating the way I glared at the world when I was angry. I recognized her. Her name was Gail Kogan and she was a senior at Erasmus—a girl with a reputation for being brilliant and Bohemian, for hanging around with the brainy kids and going out with guys from Ivy League colleges. There had been an article about her the year before in
The Dutchman
, the school newspaper, about how she was trying to organize a repertory company modeled after the All-City Chorus—a group of high school students from the five boroughs who would put on a series of plays that they did everything for: sets, lighting, directing, music, acting.

“Look. If you don't mind, could you just leave me alone?”

“No,” she said. “Of course not. I'm too worried about you. We have to go home most of the way on the same train anyway, so I'll just keep you company. That won't be so terrible, will it?”

She had a large, full mouth—no makeup—and when she smiled the right half of her mouth seemed to smile by itself, with the left side following, as if it wasn't sure of itself. She sighed. “I'm not usually like this,” she said softly. “But I figured that at a time like this…” She stopped. “What did I figure? Can you tell me?”

A downtown local came into the station—I'd already let two go by—and I picked up my gym bag. Maybe if I got on the train quickly, if I shoved myself in there would be no room for her. But as the train slowed down I saw that it was as packed as the others. I set my bag down again and looked at her. She cocked her head slightly to the side and to my surprise I found that when she smiled at me, warmly, I almost smiled back. For a brief instant I imagined that she was somebody I knew well—a sister or a cousin—and I couldn't figure out what I wanted to do more: to let all the anger and frustration I was feeling out on somebody like her, somebody who cared about me enough to take it—or simply to let her comfort me and tease me for a while, so I could get my mind off the game.

“Look,” she said. “I have an idea. How would it be if you took me out for an ice cream soda? Would you like to do that?”

I felt warm, slightly dizzy. I unzipped my team jacket. She was looking at me with such eagerness that I had the strange sensation, for a moment, that were I to say no to her she might do what she'd said I would do, something to hurt
herself
.

“I don't mean to be rude, but all I really want is to be alone, okay?”

“He vants to be alone,”
she intoned, mock-dramatically. I moved away, but she touched my hand and spoke again, quickly. “Only you really shouldn't be alone at a time like this. Listen—if you took me out for an ice cream soda, by the time we finished and came back the rush hour would be over and the trains would be empty.
Then
I'd leave you alone, all right? You must be hungry. You played so hard. I never… Just come with me, please? You won't be sorry if you do.”

“Some other time.”

“What
other time?” I tried to look away, toward the tracks, but she moved into my line of vision and stood on tiptoes. “I warn you. I'm very persistent. I thought you should know that.”

“You have a sister who's blind, don't you?”

“I have a sister who's blind.” She looked bewildered, as if I'd wounded her somehow. “That's what I'm most famous for. You're famous for your basketball skills and your uncle's profession and I'm famous for my beautiful blind sister. We have a lot in common, then, don't you see?”

“No.”

“Listen. How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Me too. When's your birthday?”

“September twenty-second.”

“Mine is September nineteenth. Which means I'm older. How do you feel about that?”

“About what?”

“About being seen with an older woman? I skipped grades when I was young, that's why I'm a year ahead of you. My parents pushed me. My mother is two-and-a-half years older than my father. She helped put him through medical school by working as a teacher. My parents want me to be a doctor, like my older brother Peter. I like you.”

“What did you say?”

“I
like
you.” She smiled broadly, so that her gums showed. “Oh I knew I'd get a rise out of you if I kept at it. Persistence is my most salient quality. What I said was ‘I like you.' Do you mind?”

I don't know.” I started to smile, and when I did it was as if tiny flashlight bulbs went on behind her eyes. “Do I mind that you
like
me, or that you
said
you did?”

Her smile broadened. “Listen,” she said. “It doesn't create any obligations on your part. The truth is, I've never had the courage to approach you at school. I must feel safe talking like this in a crowd. I don't mean to be so clever or arch, but I
am
nervous—and when I saw the way you were glowering, I said to myself that it was time to act. It's only that I thought you might kill somebody, from the way you looked.” She reached towards me, and when she touched me I didn't draw back. “I thought you might break your hands.”

I said nothing. I wondered if Tony would be coming soon, with Regina. I imagined the four of us walking along the boardwalk together, Gail and Tony making jokes to cheer me up, and I thought too of how good it would be simply to have somebody holding my hand, laughing with me, being affectionate. A train roared into the station. I didn't pick up my bag. I didn't look down at my hands. I didn't want to recall the way I'd felt after the game. I saw some of the Jefferson players come through the turnstile now, holding their gym bags high. People cheered. I thought of Al Roth walking along Broadway under the arcades of movie theaters, hands in his pockets, walking and walking, all the way down to Union Square. I saw him going into a bar, sitting by himself, watching TV with a bunch of drunks. I saw him getting on the train late at night, when it was empty, and riding into Brooklyn, old newspapers under his shoes. The Jefferson players would change at 42nd Street for the New Lots Express, and I would change there for the Flatbush Express, but I didn't want to ride with them for even one stop. And if they stayed on until Nevins or Franklin before they changed? If they noticed me and said things to me? If their girlfriends tried to flirt with me?

Gail let out a long breath of air. “This is positively my last offer then. I'll take you out for an ice cream soda, all right?”

I saw the Jefferson players coming toward us. Light from the incoming train sprayed through Gail's hair, making the dark curls seem suddenly silver. Gail smiled at me, but her smile broke slightly and I could see how scared she was that I might reject her.

“All right,” I said.

“Do you
mean
it?”

“I suppose.”

“I don't believe it,” she said. “Oh Jesus.”

We pushed our way toward the back of the platform. I kept my head twisted to the right, looking away from where the Jefferson players were. Someone set off a firecracker. Gail reached back and took my hand, pulled me along through the turnstile and then up the stairs and out into the street.

“I think of your hands,” she said.

“What?”

“Your face too, but it was your hands I noticed first. I think of them a lot. You won't resent me later, will you? For pushing you so much? I'm really quite shy when you get to know me. The real me is shy and modest, is what I mean. I can be demure and domestic too, if I have to.” She shrugged, pulled her coat closer for warmth. “It's just that I've taught myself to compensate for my natural shyness and insecurity by covering them up with this way I have of being terribly forward and direct. It alarms people sometimes. My mother disapproves. Are you alarmed, David? Do I alarm you?”

“I'm just tired, I think.”

We walked along Broadway, then turned up 48th Street, toward Seventh Avenue. It was raining again, a thin cool drizzle. I saw myself in a soft V-neck sweater, rust-colored, returning to Erasmus after I'd become a star for a college team. I was presenting Mr. Goldstein with an inscribed photo to put on his wall. I saw the faded brown pictures there, of men in old-fashioned uniforms, in business suits and Army uniforms and judges' robes. Mr. Goldstein was shaking my hand and introducing me to a kid sitting in his office and telling the kid about the time I'd played my heart out after my father died, and for an instant I felt wonderful, imagining the look in that young boy's eyes. Goldstein gazed at the photo and his smile vanished. He looked up, puzzled. I followed his eyes and saw that inside the black frame was a drawing, not a photo, and that it was not my own face staring up at me, but Abe's.

“Did you know that my father was blind in one eye?”

“Yes. You mentioned it the day we came to your class, when my sister showed how splendid she is at reading Braille. It's one reason I always thought I had a chance.”

“A chance?”

“With you.” She shivered. “Is my sister still blind. Sure. If she wasn't blind, who would she be? I mean, she has a large investment in being a beautiful, altruistic blind woman. Everyone admires Ellen. Ellen Kogan, fair of mien, blessed of the Gods, eyeless in Gaza….”

“You're jealous of her.”

“You're perceptive.” She tugged at her beret, poked her hair under it. “Sure I'm jealous. But sometimes I'm not above using her affliction. As I did with you. If I didn't have a beautiful blind sister, would you have remembered me?”

“Once, when I was a kid, my father scratched his good eye and was blind for a few weeks and I….”

“And you what? What were you going to say?”

I shrugged. “And I was happy. That was what I was going to say. He was too, I think. He was very proud of how much he could do without his eyes.”

“I
am
sorry about your father's death, David, only I don't know what to say, or if I should say anything at all. I used to see him on Flatbush Avenue sometimes, with his little briefcase and his hand over his good eye.” She stopped, pointed to a luncheonette. “Do you miss him yet? I've never lost anyone close to me that way. My four grandparents are still alive. My mother and father are here. My brother and sister are too much with us, late and soon.” I started to open the door, but she held back. “Only I don't really put much stock in words. Can you believe me? If I could be sure you'd know what I was thinking and feeling, I'd….” She closed her eyes and came to me suddenly, placed her head lightly upon my chest. I didn't move. I wanted to put my arms around her, but I was afraid to do anything more than let her head rest where it was. Her arms stayed at her sides, unmoving. “There,” she said, a few seconds later. “Wasn't that better? What good are words for what we truly feel, after all? Can we ever know the difference—between a feeling and the name we give to a feeling?”

We found a booth in the back and I helped her off with her coat, took off my jacket. She wore a gorgeous Scandinavian sweater, a pale peach-colored scarf at her throat. She took off her beret, leaned back, brushed her hair lightly from underneath. Her hair was dark and thick and the rain had made it frizz slightly. I thought of lamb's wool, of the Persian lamb coat my grandfather had given my mother during the war, of the stories my mother told me about watching her father work on the coats when she was a girl. Gail said that during the game the students talked about my father's death, about how brave I was to play. She said she didn't agree with them, that she figured his death had made things easier for me. Was she right?

In the bright steamy light of the luncheonette, I was surprised at the difference—at how, from a distance, her skin had seemed soft and smooth, but how, close up, you could see all the little scars and pock marks. I imagined her, at thirteen or fourteen, trying to scrub the acne away, trying to cover the pimples with makeup and Clearasil, healing the sores and scabs with creams and ointments.

When the waitress came I ordered a hot chocolate and a grilled cheese sandwich. Gail asked if I minded her staring at me, and then, before I could react, she asked if I minded being teased. She said that I looked so sad sometimes, at school, that she had the feeling I spent my life believing people were about to make fun of me or accuse me of awful things. From the way I was smiling, though—my eyes first, crinkling at the corners—she figured that I didn't mind being teased. The colors in her sweater were wonderfully soft and bright—greens, reds, ochres and browns in diamond-shaped designs that ran in a crescent across the top half. The background was beige, muted. I tried to imagine the colors on paper, in blacks and grays. Were I to draw her face, would I put in all the imperfections, all the tiny pitted marks that made her cheeks seem perforated? She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her face resting in her hands.