Cave Under the City (3 page)

“Is this Holtz the painter?” the other man said. “Is your father working? I don't see him around. Where is he?”

“Baltimore.”

“Is he working?”

“Who?”

“Am I talking about Rockefeller? I asked you, is your father working?”

“Mmmm.”

“You see,” the other man said. “That's what I'm telling you, Horowitz. You want to work? A little ambition, that's all that's needed. There's no depression. It's a word the newspapers made up. It's in your head. That's where the fight has to be won. What did President Roosevelt say? We only have to fear—” He turned to me. “What's the rest of it?”

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

“Very good, Holtz. A smart boy. A plus. You see, the schools are doing their part. Now if we all did our parts … if everyone believed, had confidence, spent their money. Money, buying, spending, that's what makes work.”

“Nothing's going to help,” Irv's father said. “Roosevelt is sticking plasters on a sinking ship. Capitalism is on its last legs.” Irv's father talked with both his hands. He was always arguing. “Once the workers in this country unite—”

George grabbed me from behind and dragged me back.

“Hey, you big ape, let go. It's interesting.”

He yanked my ear. I gave him an elbow in the gut. Chick, George, and I started to spar around. George had a couple of Baby Ruths. One he ate in front of us. He was a pig. Last summer, Irv and I stopped talking to him completely. We agreed he was a self-centered, egotistical, selfish, ignorant jerk, but when school started we were friends again.

“Who wants some?” George peeled the second candy bar.

Chick took a piece and so did Irv, but I refused. “Eat it yourself, you fat cow.”

“Thanks.” He stuffed his mouth. “When are you going to treat, Tolley, or are you too cheap? You guys want to go over to Woolworth's and get some jelly beans? Of course, nothing for Tolley.”

“If I want anything, I'll get it for myself.”

“What are you going to pay for it with? You don't have any money. I heard your family's on relief.”

“Hey! You want something, big mouth? You working for a fat lip?”

“You want your head handed to you?”

“How'd you like my fist down your throat?”

“How'd you like a pocket full of teeth?” He grinned at me. “So, when are you treating, Holtz? Where's the do-re-mi?” He pushed me. I pushed him back.

Mrs. Russo tapped on the window of the candy store. “Get away from the front of the store! And, you, put the paper down.” She slid the small glass window open wider and pointed to the
Daily News
Irv was reading. “Pay for it or put it back. This is not the public library.”

“Excuse me, lady.” Irv folded the paper, neatly tapping it together, then put it back on top of the pile.

“Two cents and the paper is yours.”

“No, thanks,” Irv said. “I only read
The New York Times
.”

“Nate!” Mrs. Russo bawled for her son. “I've got a few big mouths out here that need to be shut up.”

George pawed the ground. “Come on, Nate. Nate! Nate! Come and get us.”

We were looking for Nate to come out the door, but instead he came charging around the corner and took us by surprise.

“Chickeeee!” We scattered. But then Chick lost his glasses and he turned back. Nate took a swipe at him. Chick went flat to the sidewalk, then jumped straight back between two parked cars.

“Look out!” A Coca-Cola truck slid up and double-parked behind Chick. “Behind you, Chick!”

He was trapped. It looked like there was only one way out, straight into Nate's hairy arms. Chick didn't hesitate. He dove under the truck and slid out the other side.

Nobody was in our apartment when I got home. Bubber should have been waiting by the stairs. I looked for him downstairs in the hall. “Bubber?” I ran out into the court. “Bubber!” My voice climbed up and down the walls.

“Is that you, Tolman Holtz?” Mrs. Chrissman looked out the window of her apartment. Bubber was with her; Murray, too. “There you are. Come up here.” She was waiting for me on the landing. “Where have you been? Your little brother has been sitting here for an hour. The door is locked. He doesn't have a key. He doesn't have a place to go to the toilet. Who's supposed to take care of him? Your poor mother is in the hospital and you're out having a good time.”

“My mother is in the hospital?”

“That's right, Mr. Unconscious, a lot you care. She's been walking around with pneumonia. The hospital called me. I had to go down three flights of stairs to the phone. I almost had a heart attack. They took your mother from work in an ambulance. It's in her chest.”

I got out my key and opened our door.

“What are you going to do now?” Mrs. Chrissman said. “Wait a minute, I'm still talking to you. Who's going to take care of you?”

“We'll go to my grandmother,” I said.

“Good. I was waiting to hear you say it. That's what they said from the hospital. Your mother said you should go to your grandmother. Are you listening to me? I don't want any monkey business. I have enough of my own to think about.” She went back to her apartment and shut the door.

6

We climbed the stairs to the train. I had two cents in my pocket, not even enough for one fare. People were coming off the train and the gate was open. I glanced at the man in the change booth. When he wasn't looking we slipped through.

I stood on the platform and watched for the train. Bubber walked around. A woman stopped to talk to him; she opened her purse, and he came back smiling, with a nickel in his hand.

“What did you say to that woman?” I took the nickel from him. “Did you ask her for money?”

“She just gave it to me.”

“We don't take money from strangers. How many times did Momma tell you?”

“I didn't take it. The lady gave it to me.”

The train came into the station. It made the platform shake. I held on to Bubber's hand. We moved up to the first car, where we stood next to the motorman's booth and watched the tracks merging and dividing, the lights turning from red to green. We rolled past Pelham Parkway station, Bronx Park East, East 180th Street, and then the long, wide, screechy turn by the Coliseum.

We saw the river below, the water spilling out around the icehouse. It was like being on the top of a roller coaster. At Jackson Street the train went down to ground level, past the place where men were loading beef carcasses into trucks. Then the street came up on both sides of us and we were underground. The noise was so bad Bubber put his hands over his ears.

A man sat nearby, wearing a long overcoat. Under his feet there was a heavy metal toolbox. A mechanic, like my father, only my father's tools were paintbrushes and cans of paint and linseed oil.

The train went faster under the ground. The lights flashed by. I thought about being rich and coming home with my pockets full of quarters, taking them out, one at a time, and piling them in front of my mother.

Bubber nudged me. 86th Street. Grandma's station.

The entrance to Grandma's building was like a castle, with heavy wooden doors and long stained-glass windows. Inside, it was dark, and there were big chairs where nobody ever sat, and flags on the walls, and a shield and spears. Bubber stood in the empty fireplace.

We went up three marble steps, then down a narrow corridor. Bubber ran ahead to push the buzzer. We could hear it ring inside. We waited, but my grandmother didn't come.

“Maybe she's asleep. Ring it again.”

Bubber gave the bell another jab. She was always here. My grandmother never went out. She always dressed the same way, a kerchief and a wide apron that smelled like cookies. I never saw my grandmother with a coat on. I pushed the buzzer again. Maybe she was getting deaf. I leaned on the door and it swung open.

My grandma's door was never left open. Bubber ran past me. “Buba?” he called. It was dark inside, and there was a smell like something stale. Then Bubber came running out of my grandmother's bedroom.

“Buba's dead.”

I went slowly to the room. There was a screeching in my head. I was afraid to look.

My grandmother was lying on her bed. Her mouth was soft and sunken and her nose was like the beak of a bird. Without her kerchief she looked like an old man. Her hands were folded on her breast the way I'd seen dead saints and kings in pictures.

I'd never seen a dead person. I'd seen dead cats and dead dogs. Dead animals stank and they got bloated. Once I'd seen a dead horse lying on its side in the street. It still had on the straps and harness, and its feet stuck in the air.

“Buba?” Her hand jerked. I jumped back. Sweat popped out all over me. She snorted a couple of times. Bubber was behind me in the hall, breathing like a dog. “Buba's not dead,” I said. “She's sleeping.”

Her eyes rolled up in her head. “Chillun,” she mumbled. She held my hand. Her hand was hot and dry. Bubber climbed up on the bed. She moaned. Her eyes kept closing. “Yuh muddah … tell yuh muddah …”

“Buba, I thought you were dead,” Bubber said.

“Shhh,” I said.

My grandmother motioned to her lips. “Wet my lips, child.” I ran for a glass of water. She drank it with her hand covering her mouth. She didn't have her teeth in.

“Momma's sick,” Bubber began.

I put my hand over his mouth.

“Tell Momma … tell yuh muddah …” Her eyes closed again.

We went out of the room. Bubber was breathing hard again. “Are we going home now? When's Momma going to be there?”

“I don't know. Leave me alone.” How sick was my grandmother? How sick was my mother? How was I going to find my father? I didn't have enough carfare to get home. And I was hungry. I was expecting to eat here. I looked in the icebox and all the cupboards. A lot of pots and empty jars. In a bag I found some old potatoes with skinny white sprouts growing out of them like dead men's fingers. Even the glass cookie jar that always held my grandmother's famous raisin cookies was empty.

In a drawer I found a pencil and paper. “Are you going to write Daddy and tell him Momma is sick?” Bubber said.

“What are you worrying about? Momma is coming home tomorrow and Buba is just tired.”

I jabbed black dots across the paper, then joined two dots in the middle. “Your turn.” The idea was to keep joining lines and not give the other side a chance to make a box.

“When are we going to eat?” Bubber said.

“When Buba wakes up.”

Bubber sniffed. “I smell potatoes.” I smelled them, too. Potatoes and onions. My stomach growled.

In the other room I heard my grandmother stirring. I handed Bubber the pencil. “Your turn.” I went to see my grandmother. Bubber followed me.

My grandmother was standing by the bed, holding on to the post. Her feet were bare. When she saw me, she covered her mouth and said something that I couldn't understand. “You want me to get you something, Buba?”

She shook her head and went to the bathroom. When she came out she had her teeth in.

“Go home, go home. I told you children to go home. I don't want you to get sick. I have a cold.”

“Buba, I'll go shopping for you.”

“For what? I don't want anything. I'm not hungry. I just need to rest. Tell Momma I'm just a little tired. I don't want her to come, she has enough. Tell her my neighbor looks in on me. Now, go home. Go home.”

I hesitated. I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to tell her my mother was in the hospital. I was afraid I'd make her sicker.

“Go, go,” my grandmother said, “what are you waiting for? I'm all right. I told you, take the little one out before he gets sick.”

We left. On the way home, I bought two penny candy bars. When we got to the station, I put Bubber's nickel in the slot and pushed him ahead of me under the turnstile.

7

We stayed home from school the next day, ate crackers and cheese, and listened to the radio. I started to write to my father but stopped, because what if my mother came home today, or tomorrow? What if I wrote and he came all the way home from Baltimore and my mother was home already?

The ice had melted and the hamburger that had been sitting on top of it turned brown. It didn't smell too good, but I dumped it into a pan and broke an egg on top of it. Bubber had his nose under my elbow. “Get me salt and pepper. Get the bread.”

“The meat is stinky.”

“Get the ketchup.”

“I won't eat it.”

“This is special. Mother Tolley's Deluxe Hash.” I stirred the meat grandly with a fork, shook in pepper and salt. My stomach was growling. The pan was too hot and the meat began to smoke. I turned down the fire, then, without thinking, I grabbed the hot handle. I dropped the pan and meat scattered on the floor.

“It's dirty.”

“Is it my fault!” My fingers stung like fire. I smeared butter on them. “Go ahead,” I yelled, “eat anything you want.”

I ran to the bathroom and stuck my hand under the cold water. There was a white line across the palm. I smeared zinc ointment on it, then wrapped a bandage around it. I saw my face in the mirror. I felt mean and ugly. My hair was falling into my mean, squinty eyes. I was sick of being in charge and taking care of Bubber.

Bubber was still by the stove, standing there like I'd whipped him. He was picking at the meat in the sink. I tasted a piece. It had a nice charred taste, like mickies right out of the fire. I spooned everything together in the pan and put it on the table with bread and ketchup. “Okay, let's eat.”

Bubber stared at the wall.

“Come on,” I said. “Nobody ever yelled at you before? You don't take some, I'll eat it all myself.”

He slapped me. “That tickles,” I said. He punched me a couple of times hard before he sat down to eat.