Lieberman's Day (16 page)

First, he still clung to the bag. That felt right. Second, he reached up and felt for his fur hat. It was gone. This sent him into a fury of reaching back, groping, feeling hard, cold dirt and stones and finally, finally, finding the fur with the tips of his electric-pained fingers.

George sighed and closed his eyes in relief.

Then he remembered. Raymond had shot at him, chased him, tried to kill him. Where was Raymond? Why wasn't George dead? Why hadn't Raymond taken the money? What other reason would he have for shooting George? Since George had been planning to shoot Raymond when the opportunity arose, he was not angry, only puzzled. He knew Raymond was smarter than he was, but George had counted on being more crafty. Obviously, he had been wrong.

It was when he tried to sit up that George knew he had been shot. Since his hands were both almost frozen, it took him a second or two longer to discover that he had lost a finger. He looked at the stump, which was bleeding only slightly thanks to the winter cold, and then felt his side. It was bloody, but it was not bleeding heavily. Maybe the winter again. It would be strange, thought George, forcing himself to his knees, to be saved by the very weather that he hated. But he wasn't saved yet, and getting up from his knees almost turned his temporary survival into irony.

Moving was difficult. What was equally difficult, considering that he was probably in shock, was that he seemed to be in the bed of a small river with a bank at the height of his neck. Were he not shot George knew he could scramble up the embankment, but he was shot and having trouble keeping his eyes open.

He began stumbling to his right in the direction he thought might be south, toward Florida, toward the Gulf. Even in his pain and confusion he did not think he could walk very far, but he might as well head in the direction he wanted to go. No sense turning back to Chicago.

And so he staggered, clinging to the bag, hat pulled over his head, the hand with the missing finger plunged into his coat pocket, throbbing.

Someone was singing. It wasn't just the wind. Someone was singing and George recognized the voice. He almost called out and then realized that it might be Raymond. It might be some trick. Then he knew that the voice was his own and this frightened George very much. He had been singing without knowing it.

He clamped his mouth closed, biting his lower lip, and staggered on, trying to move faster.

“W
E'RE HOME
.”

Barry's voice came through the sound of Lieberman snoring. Lieberman opened his eyes as a rush of frigid air slapped him in the face and ran down his body.

“Close the door,” he said.

Barry closed the door and he and Melisa stood looking across the room at their grandfather, who sat dazed in his living room chair.

“Fell asleep,” said Lieberman.

Barry and Melisa dropped their books and began to take off their coats. Then Barry paused with one sleeve out of his coat and looked at the two suitcases standing next to the closet.

“Leave the boots on,” Lieberman said, checking his watch and trying to come fully awake. “Your father's coming for you. You'll stay with him a few days.”

“Grandma Bess doesn't like us to walk in the house with boots,” said Melisa, looking at him.

“Then take them off,” said Lieberman, making an effort to stand.

“They're hard to put on,” she answered.

“Then leave them on and stand at the door. I'll bring you provisions to keep you from starving for the next four or five minutes.”

“But you don't understand,” Melisa whined.

“Listen,” he said, taking a few steps toward the girl. “I went through this with your mother. I'm too old to go through another generation of damned-if-you-do. You understand?”

“I understand,” said Barry.

“Good,” said Lieberman, looking at the boy. “Explain it to your sister over a pastrami sandwich. I made some.”

Lieberman padded toward the kitchen with both children following him, both wearing boots.

“I don't want a sandwich,” said Barry.

“We'll stick it in a sack and you can take it with you. What about you, little bird?”

“Put mine in a bag too,” said Melisa.

“Fine,” said Lieberman, pushing open the kitchen door. “You can both watch me eat.”

Lieberman went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of some off-brand pineapple juice. The sandwiches were on the table, encased in Handi-Wrap.

“I'll have some juice,” said Melisa, sitting.

“Me, too,” said Barry.

“Got it,” said Lieberman, plucking three paper Dixie cups from the holder over the sink.

Back at the table, Lieberman dropped three sandwiches into a brown paper bag.

“One for your father,” he said, reaching for one of the two remaining sandwiches and starting to unwrap it.

“Grandpa,” Barry said slowly.

“Yes.”

“Are you supposed to be eating pastrami sandwiches?”

“No,” said Lieberman, taking a bite, his teeth going through the fresh pumpernickel and sinking into tender meat. “Nor am I supposed to drink, not even a glass of wine on
Shavot.
In fact, if the dreary truth be known, I'm not supposed to eat anything with fat or cholesterol or calories or alcohol.”

He took another bite of sandwich, savoring the sharp tang of mustard on his tongue.

“I see,” said Barry, soberly.

Melisa drank her pineapple juice and remained silent.

“That leaves me a lifetime of carrot and cucumber salads,” said Lieberman. “Which are not bad things. You know George and Ira Gershwin?”

Melisa shook her head no.

“I think so,” said Barry. “They make records.”

“‘Methuselah lived nine hundred years,'” said Lieberman. “‘Methuselah lived nine hundred years, but who calls that livin' if no gal will give in to no man what's lived nine hundred years.'”

“That's dirty talk, Grandpa,” Melisa said.

“No, it's not,” said Lieberman, returning to his sandwich. “It's common sense. Sometimes you've got to eat a pastrami sandwich. Now, what is it you want to talk about?”

“How did you know we wanted to talk?” asked Barry, looking up at Abe with Todd Creswell's eyes.

“I'm a policeman,” Lieberman said.

“Can we talk about David?” asked Barry, looking down.

“We can talk,” said Lieberman.

“We called him our cousin, but is our mother's cousin our cousin?” asked Melisa, pushing her empty paper cup away from her.

“Yes,” said Lieberman. “That's it? That's the question?”

“No,” said Barry. “Cousin Carol's still got the baby, right?”

“Right.”

“Is Uncle Maish going to die?” asked Melisa. “And Aunt Yetta?”

“Of grief?” asked Lieberman, slowing down on the sandwich to savor the last few bites. “Or natural causes? Of natural causes, yes, but I couldn't tell you when. Of grief, no, but I can't tell you for sure what it will do to them.”

“What are you going to do when you find the person who killed David?” asked Melisa. “Are you going to shoot him?”

“Should I?”

“You're answering a question with a question. You said we shouldn't do that,” said Barry, who had not touched his juice but was playing with the cup, scraping off wax with his fingernails.

“I don't know what I'll do when I find him,” Lieberman admitted.

“I say shoot him,” said Barry.

“I think you should put him in jail in a cell all by himself,” said Melisa. “Forever, with no one to talk to and no television. Only books that are good for you and food that's good for you but tastes bad so he'll live a long time and be sorry.”

Lieberman, finished with his sandwich and drink, leaned back in his chair and looked at his granddaughter. It sounded like a good plan to him.

The doorbell rang but no one moved.

“We should go to the funeral,” said Barry. “The services. I should go. I'm almost thirteen.”

The doorbell rang again.

“You'll have plenty of them. This is one you can skip. You wanna let your father in?”

Melisa slid off her chair and left the kitchen while Lieberman got up, scooped up the crumpled plastic and a few crumbs, and dropped them in the plastic garbage container in the corner.

The doorbell rang once more and then Barry and Lieberman could hear the outer door open and the voice of Todd Cresswell.

Lieberman handed Barry the brown bag, touched his cheek, smiled wearily, and guided the boy through the kitchen door into the dining room.

Todd, a slender man with a handsome, slightly lopsided face, straight cornstalk hair, and rimless glasses, stood at the front door, his arm around Melisa's shoulder. Todd was wearing a furlined denim jacket and a blue knit cap. He looked like an ad for All Spice.

“Abe,” he said. “I'm sorry about David.”

“Thank you,” said Lieberman, guiding his grandson toward his father.

Todd smiled sadly and touched the boy's cheek in much the same way that Abe had done.

“How are Maish and Yetta taking it?”

“Not too bad,” said Lieberman.

“‘Death of manhood cut down before its prime I forbid,'” said Todd, picking up one of the suitcases. “Sorry.”

Lieberman had requested on more than one occasion that his son-in-law not quote Greek tragedy. This time he simply shrugged.

“Can we go to a movie or bring home some tapes?” asked Barry, putting on his coat.

“Maybe,” said Todd.

“Come on in and have a sandwich and some coffee,” Lieberman said.

Todd adjusted his glasses and looked toward the door.

“I can't, Abe, not now.”

“Someone waiting in the car?” asked Lieberman, keeping his eyes on Todd as Barry and Melisa finished putting their coats on.

“Yes,” said Todd.

“A lady?” asked Lieberman.

Todd didn't answer.

“Who's in the car, dad?” Melisa demanded.

“A lady I work with,” said Todd. “She's going to have dinner with us. How about pizza at Barnaby's? My friend likes pizza.”

“I don't really care what your friend likes,” said Melisa. “I think I wanna stay here.”

Melisa, Barry, and Todd were all looking at Abe, who felt a strong desire to take a hot bath.

“I'll help you carry the bags out,” he said.

“You don't …” Todd began, but Abe had already moved to the closet by the front door and was plunging his stockinged feet into his boots.

“Let's go,” said Lieberman, throwing on his coat and taking the suitcase from Melisa.

The sun was trying to turn the afternoon into less than a disaster but the sky was overcast and it didn't stand a chance.

“Careful on the steps,” said Lieberman, almost slipping.

“Abe, I want to talk to you about …” Todd whispered, as the children moved cautiously toward the car whose engine purred at the curb in front of the fire hydrant. There was a woman in the front seat. She started to get out.

“Faye,” Todd said too heartily and much too loud when the woman was out of the car and facing them, “this is Abe Lieberman. And this is Melisa and Barry.”

“Nice to meet all of you,” said Faye, shivering.

She was wearing a denim jacket just like Todd's and a knit hat, but hers was bright red.

Lieberman did not have to check the faces of his grandchildren to know that Todd Cresswell was in for a few rocky days.

“I had plans for tonight,” Todd said, squinting first at Faye and then at Lieberman. Faye moved to the back of the car and opened the trunk with a key she pulled out of her pocket. “I couldn't …”

“You don't owe me an explanation,” said Lieberman.

“I just didn't want you or the kids to think …”

“Can't stop people from thinking, Todd,” Lieberman said, plunging his hands in his pockets. “Besides …”

The line didn't need finishing. It had been Lieberman's daughter, Lisa, who had left her husband. It had been Lisa who refused to get back together with him. There was no right or wrong to it as far as Lieberman was concerned. Todd didn't owe him an explanation.

Faye took the suitcases from the children, placed them in the trunk, and closed it as Todd said, “Faye's comedy. I'm tragedy. Lisa's tragedy too. I …”

Abe touched his son-in-law's arm and Todd stopped.

Faye moved to the side of the car, opened the door, and held her palm out with a smile to usher the children into the rear seat.

“We take turns sitting in the front,” said Melisa.

“Melisa, I …” Todd began, but this time Faye cut him off.

“Fine with me,” she said. “Barry, why don't you go in the front? Melisa and I can talk in the back.”

Barry hurried into the front seat and Melisa reluctantly let herself be guided into the back.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Lieberman,” Faye said, waving. “Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you,” said Lieberman as the woman closed the back door of the car.

“I know what you're thinking, Abe,” said Todd, not meeting Abe's eyes.

“What am I thinking?”

“Oedipus,” said Todd.

“I was thinking gas from pastrami, Todd,” Lieberman said. “But since you mention it, Faye is a little older than you are. Or, put another way, I'd say Faye is a little younger than I am.”

“I've got to go,” said Todd.

“I like her,” said Lieberman. “At least what I see. You tell Bess or Lisa that and I'll call you a liar. Are you happy?”

“‘Count no mortal happy till he has passed the final limit of his life secure from pain.' The last line of
Oedipus Rex.
Let's say I'm doing better than I have been.”

“This is getting awkward and I'm getting very cold,” said Lieberman. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”