The Best Revenge (9 page)

When Ben needs seed money for a production he finds a rich man with temporary insanity. He hurries home to tell Jane he's found a savior. What he's found is a stalking horse to bring other investors in. He forgets that when he was a
pisher
of twelve I took him over to the mirror in the bathroom and said, “Ben, look, there is your savior. Are you listening to me?”

“Pop,” he said, “lend me your razor.”

A twelve-year-old boy doesn't listen. You're driving, you see a stop sign, you stop. Life is full of signs that Ben ignores. Except once.

When Ben was sixteen, I came into his room and saw him with a whole bunch of pages.

“That's a long letter you're writing,” I said.

“It's not a letter, Pop.”

“Oh?” I said.

“It's, uh, a play,” he said.

“Like on Broadway?”

“Just one act, Pop.”

I moved closer so I could see the pages on the desk.

“In poetry?” I asked.

“In verse.”

“I shouldn't have disturbed you.”

“It's okay, Pop,” he said. “I was just about finished for tonight.”

At the door I stopped to look back at him. My voice came out hoarse. “I'm so proud,” I said.

*

I let too much time go by before I asked him, “How's the play coming?”

“It's coming,” he lied.

“Who have you shown it to?”

“Ezra.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘It ain't Shakespeare.'”

“Not everything has to be Shakespeare. Did he say it was good?”

Ben turned to face me. “He said you can always show it to Louie, he'll think it's good.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Didn't what?”

“Show it to me.”

“Because Ezra thinks he's a born critic. I told him to tell me the faults and I'll rewrite it. You know what he said, Pop? He said, ‘You've got the mind of a salesman, Benny boy. Why don't you write something commercial?'”

“Boys are mean.”

“That's right.”

“You should have been deaf better than to listen. Ezra has too much influence over you.”

“You always say he's terrific this, terrific that.”

“Doesn't matter. For you he shouldn't be a stop sign.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Pop.”

“Yes, you do.”

To my dying day Ben never showed me what he wrote. Instead he became a producer of other people's plays.

*

One Saturday night, before going out on a date, Ben said, “Pop, how about you and me going for a walk tomorrow morning?”

“Sure,” I said as he's running out the door. “What time by you is morning?”

“How about noon?” he shouts.

*

God knows what time he got home. At noon I peeked into Ben's room. He didn't look like someone ready to wake up.

“Hello!” I said.

I waited. Ben forced one eye half open. “Is it morning?”

“How about afternoon?” I said. “A pessimist shortens his life by sleeping late because he doesn't expect life to be much good.”

His half-open eye looked around for the alarm clock. He yawned like a young hippopotamus, untangled himself from the top sheet, stood swaying, said, “Okay,” and like a blind man staggered past me to the bathroom. I could hear the firefighter's stream, the flush, and then the shower full force.

When he came into the kitchen, both eyes open, I was still digesting my newspaper. “I give the war one more year,” I said.

“Yes, General.”

The bagel, cut in half two hours ago, now went half on my plate, half on his. I shoved over the cream cheese and poured some of my cocoa into his cup. Ten minutes later we headed for Van Cortlandt Park.

They say I walk fast for a short man. The truth is I have never been able to make myself walk slow.

I put my arm through Ben's. “I think you should stop growing,” I said with a laugh. “You're ten inches taller than me.”

“I think I've stopped, Pop.”

“Thank you.” I could see he was embarrassed having my arm through his, so I took it away. I said, “I want to congratulate you for not persecuting your fingernails anymore. You have nice hands now.”

“Mom says they're like yours.”

I could feel color in my face.

“You know,” I said, “when I hear other parents, you think their kids are enemies. You think maybe we're different?”

No reaction.

“I'll bet one thing,” I said.

“What?”

“Hitler's father never went for a walk in the park with his son.”

I'm not sure Ben heard me. He was fumbling in his pocket. Out came a foil-wrapped package smaller than a box of cough drops. Ben put out his hand with the package on it as if he hoped that I would take it instead of his actually handing it to me, as if that would be less embarrassing.

“What is that?” I said.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

“Is that what it is?”

We sat on a park bench for the ritual of package opening.

“You shouldn't have done it,” I said.

“How do you know what I shouldn't before you know what it is?” Ben said.

“Only jewelry comes in a box like that. You shouldn't bring jewelry to a jeweler.”

“It isn't that kind.”

Inside the snap-top box were round cuff links with black onyx insets.

“They're not real gold,” Ben said quickly, “just gold filled.”

“I'll use them as paperweights. For small pieces of paper.” Ben didn't laugh. I said, “I don't have any shirts with French cuffs.”

Ben's cheeks flushed. “Mom's getting you a going-out shirt.”

“Your face is red. Are you feeling okay?”

“I wasn't supposed to say anything.”

“I won't tell.”

How could Ben know that I didn't want shirts with French cuffs because that was what the professor in Chicago always wore, the one who was after Zipporah.

“It doesn't matter,” I said. “I appreciate the present.” I slid the box into my pocket.

“I thought maybe we'd go bowling this afternoon,” Ben said.

“Your mother thinks bowling is for blue-collar types.”

“Tell her we're going to play golf.”

I smiled. “I tried bowling once in Chicago and kept getting the ball into the gutter. Besides, Aldo Manucci is expecting me.”

How was I to know that even then Manucci was for Ben the worst word in the world? Did he invite me to go bowling so that I wouldn't think of going to Manucci's on my birthday?

“Hey, Pop,” he said, “no business on your birthday, okay?”

“I go to pay my respect, not for business.”

“Respect?”

“Respect.”

“He's a shylock, Pop.”

My brain couldn't keep my mouth from talking. “Don't you call him that. Not in front of me. Never.”

“You said he makes everybody pay through the nose.”

“Only once, when I was angry.”

“Please don't go there today, Pop. Please?”

I took his chin in my hand and turned his face. “Look me in the eye, Ben. Mr. Manucci is my friend, do you understand that?”

I let go of his face as if I'd made a mistake taking it from him and was now putting it back where it belonged.

“Get up. Let's walk,” I said. “I'll think better.”

After a while, I said, “Do I talk about your friends?”

“No.”

“You think that I watch your friends with my brain turned off? Larry Markowitz, a human snail growing up to be a bigger snail, what's the attraction?”

“He lives next door,” Ben said.

“Suppose the Devil lived next door, would you make friends with him because he lived next door? Your friend Linton, what's his name, Boris?”

“Morris.”

“Okay, Morris. Maybe he can't help having a face full of pimples, but does he have to dress like a pimple? Does he have to talk imitation James Cagney? Why do you spend time with him?”

“It's hard to avoid him.”

“Hard is no reason. It's hard to be honest. It's hard to make a living. It's hard to keep love going. Easy is the Devil's game. Hard belongs to God. I don't tell you to avoid Morris. I ask you why you don't and you give me the world's worst excuse. Where did you go with Frances last night?”

“We went to see a double feature,” Ben said.

“I won't ask you which, just in case you're lying. Your mother thinks that girl is bad for you.”

Am I doing this because he called Manucci a shylock?

“She's a pretty girl,” I said. “Your mother may be wrong. I'm not knocking all your friends. Ezra's a fine boy.”

“I thought he was terrific.”

“A fine, terrific boy.”

“You'd rather have him for a son.”

“Oh ho,” I said. “Like an animal you want to pee a circle around me so nobody else can come into your territory? I tell you something, Mr. Seventeen, for walking and for talking and for love, the more you share, the more you have. Anyway, look at that, a Good Humor truck. Who eats ice cream before lunch?”

And so I bought two ice cream bars. Handing one to Ben, I said, “This should be the worst sin you ever commit.”

As we circled home, Ben's eyes had the sadness of a boy who had failed in his mission. Manucci was still on my Sunday agenda. Finally Ben said, “Is Mr. Manucci a real friend?”

“I'll tell you.” I stooped to pick up a discarded Crackerjack box. Ben followed me to the nearest trash can. I dropped the box in and turned to face him. “A real friend,” I said, “is someone you can call at three o'clock in the morning and say ‘Come' and he'll come without asking why. Aldo Manucci is a friend once removed. He'd wake somebody else to come running to me. In business you can delegate, in friendship you can't. When I visit him on Sundays to pay respect, it is because we have the next best thing to a good friendship, a relationship in which he knows what I am and I know what he is, he knows what I want and I know what he wants. You know he's Italian, he has a very large family.”

“I know.”

“I am the official jeweler for that family. Whenever there's a new baby, I supply the baby ring and the cross.”

“Mom says he doesn't pay you.”

“What does she know about business? Of course he doesn't pay me for those things. They are presents. What he has done for me, there aren't enough presents in this world to make up for it. When we moved to New York from Chicago, the banks here wouldn't talk to me. Aldo Manucci asked me questions for five minutes and gave me a loan, a small one with plenty of vigorish.”

“Vigorish?”

“Interest. When I repaid it, I got better terms for the next loan. He didn't squeeze me because we had begun a relationship.”

“Pop, he didn't squeeze you because he wanted to keep the pinky rings and crosses coming.”

“That came later. You are much too cynical, Mr. Seventeen. You don't remember you went with me once?”

Ben nodded.

“The front room was full of people waiting, like for a king.”

“I hated it.”

“He took us out of turn. You remember, he took anisette out of the cupboard and offered it to you, too? When I said I'd hurry because of the people waiting, he said, ‘That's just business. They can wait.' And when it came time for me to sign the book for the money, he said, ‘Louie, you don't need to sign.' That was for your benefit. To show we were friends.”

“You pay him interest.”

“That's how he makes a living.”

“Interest plus presents.”

“Together they don't add up to half of what he charges others.”

“What makes you so special?”

I looked at Ben. At that age, they are all the same.

“When you were younger, I told you stories. When Manucci uncles and cousins get together on Sundays for spaghetti around the long dining-room table, I am the only outsider. With their ears sticking out they listen to my stories. Manucci and I both have something to give. Ours isn't a one-way street. Ben, you have to know.”

“What?”

“I made one really horrible business mistake. It looked like I was going to lose absolutely everything if I didn't get a big loan fast. Manucci had a lot of loans out at the time. He couldn't come up with enough to save my business. So he called in a bank—he hated banks—and took a mortgage on his house so that I could have the money to save the business.”

I gave it a minute.

“Ben, that mortgage was harder than a friend coming in the middle of the night.”

“Maybe I was wrong about Mr. Manucci, Pop.”

“I don't want you to get the wrong idea, Ben,” I said. “The biggest danger in life is other people's money.”

“I hear you.”

“Like a deaf man you hear me.”

“I hear you, Pop.”

After a minute, I said, “I'm sorry.” I added, “You know, Ben, despite a little difference here and there between you and me, I like who you are becoming. It's good to be ambitious. Only remember, the nearer you get to the front of the line, the more people with knives can see your back.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I hope so. I wish I could live long enough to see how you will be on your own.”

“You will, Pop.”

“That's not for you to decide.”

Out of sight of other people, I put my arm around Ben. “Mama's probably wondering where we are by now. Ben, two things make a man a
mensch.
You've got to have a good attitude to the failings of others. And you have to remember that strong people sometimes have strong problems. You must stay in touch with reality. On the ocean of life, it's the only dry land.”