The Roy Stories (11 page)

 

The Wedding

When my mother married her third husband, I, at the age of eleven, was given the duty, or privilege, of proposing a toast at the banquet following the wedding. My uncle Buck coached me—“Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,” I was to begin.

I kept going over it in my head. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking . . .” until the moment arrived and I found myself standing with a glass in my hand saying, “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking—” I stopped. I couldn't remember what else my uncle had told me to say, so I said, “I want to propose a toast to my new father”—I paused—“and my old mother.”

Everybody laughed and applauded. I could hear my uncle's high-pitched twitter. It wasn't what I was supposed to have said, that last part. My mother wasn't old, she was about thirty, and that wasn't what I'd meant by “old.” I'd meant she was my same mother, that hadn't changed. No matter how often the father changed the mother did not.

I was afraid I'd insulted her. Everybody laughing was no insurance against that. I didn't want this new father, and a few months later, neither did my mother.

 

The Pitcher

One night when I was eleven I was playing baseball in the alley behind my house. I was batting left-handed when I hit a tremendous home run that rolled all the way to the end of the alley and would have gone into the street but an old man turning the corner picked it up. The old man came walking up the alley toward me and my friends, flipping the baseball up in the air and catching it. When he got to where we stood, the old man asked us who'd hit that ball.

“I did,” I said.

“It was sure a wallop,” said the old man, and he stood there, grinning. “I used to play ball,” he said, and my friends and I looked at each other. “With the Cardinals, and the Cubs.”

My friends and I looked at the ground or down the alley where the cars went by on Rosemont Avenue.

“You don't believe me,” said the old man. “Well, look here.” And he held out a gold ring in the palm of his hand. “Go on, look at it,” he said. I took it. “Read it,” said the old man.

“World Series, 1931,” I said.

“I was with the Cardinals then,” the old guy said, smiling now. “Was a pitcher. These days I'm just an old bird dog, a scout.”

I looked up at the old man. “What's your name?” I asked.

“Tony Kaufmann,” he said. I gave him his ring back. “You just keep hitting 'em like that, young fella, and you'll be a big leaguer.” The old man tossed my friend Billy the ball. “So long,” he said, and walked on up to the end of the alley, where he went in the back door of Beebs and Glen's Tavern.

“Think he was tellin' the truth or is he a nut?” one of the kids asked me.

“I don't know,” I said, “let's go ask my grandfather. He'd remember him if he really played.”

Billy and I ran into my house and found Pops watching TV in his room.

“Do you remember a guy named Tony Kaufmann?” I asked him. “An old guy in the alley just told us he pitched in the World Series.”

“He showed us his ring,” said Billy.

My grandfather raised his eyebrows. “Tony Kaufmann? In the alley? I remember him. Sure, he used to pitch for the Cubs.”

Billy and I looked at each other.

“Where's he now?” asked my grandfather.

“We saw him go into Beebs and Glen's,” said Billy.

“Well,” said Pops, getting out of his chair, “let's go see what the old-timer has to say.”

“You mean you'll take us in the tavern with you?” I asked.

“Come on,” said Pops, not even bothering to put on his hat, “never knew a pitcher who could hold his liquor.”

 

A Place in the Sun

The final memory I have of my dad is the time we attended a Chicago Bears football game at Wrigley Field about a month before he died. It was in November of 1958, a cold day, cold even for November on the shore of Lake Michigan. I don't remember what team the Bears were playing that afternoon; mostly I recall the overcast sky, the freezing temperature and visible breath of the players curling out from beneath their helmets like smoke from dragons' nostrils.

My dad was in good spirits despite the fact that the colostomy he'd undergone that previous summer had measurably curtailed his physical activities. He ate heartily at the game, the way he always had: two or three hot dogs, coffee, beer, a few shots of Bushmill's from a flask he kept in an overcoat pocket. He shook hands with a number of men on our way to our seats and again on our way out of the stadium, talking briefly with each of them, laughing and patting them on the back or arm.

Later, however, on our way home, he had to stop the car and get out to vomit on the side of the road. After he'd finished it took him several minutes to compose himself, leaning back against the door until he felt well enough to climb back in behind the wheel. “Don't worry, son,” he said to me. “Just a bad stomach, that's all.”

During the summer, after my dad got out of the hospital, we'd gone to Florida, where we stayed for a few weeks in a house on Key Biscayne. I had a good time there, swimming in the pool in the yard and watching the boats navigate the narrow canal that ran behind the fence at the rear of the property. I liked waving to and being waved at by the skippers as they guided their sleek white powerboats carefully through the inlet. One afternoon, though, I went into my dad's bedroom to ask him something and I saw him in the bathroom holding the rubber pouch by the hole in his side through which he was forced to evacuate his bowels. He grimaced as he performed the necessary machinations and told me to wait for him outside. He closed the bathroom door and I went back to the pool.

I sat in a beach chair looking out across the inland waterway in the direction of the Atlantic Ocean. I didn't like seeing my dad look so uncomfortable, but I knew there was nothing I could do for him. I tried to remember his stomach the way it was before, before there was a red hole in the side of it, but I couldn't. I could only picture him as he stood in the bathroom moments before with the pain showing in his face.

When he came out he was dressed and smiling. “What do you think, son?” he said. “Should I buy this house? Do you like it here?”

I wanted to ask him how he was feeling now, but I didn't. “Sure, Dad,” I said. “It's a great place.”

 

The Winner

My mother and I spent Christmas and New Year's of 1957 in Chicago. By this time, being ten years old and having experienced portions of the northern winter on several occasions, I was prepared for the worst. On our way to Chicago on the long drive from Florida, I excitedly anticipated playing in deep snow and skating on icy ponds. It turned out to be a mild winter, however, very unusual for Chicago in that by Christmas Day there had been no snow.

“The first snowfall is always around Thanksgiving,” said Pops, my grandfather. “This year, you didn't need a coat. It's been the longest Indian summer ever.”

I didn't mind being able to play outside with the kids who lived on Pops's street, but I couldn't hide my disappointment in not seeing snow, something we certainly did not get in Key West. The neighborhood boys and girls were friendly enough, though I felt like an outsider, even though I'd known some of them from previous visits for as many as three years.

By New Year's Eve it still had not snowed and my mother and I were due to leave on the second of January. I complained to her about this and she said, “Baby, sometimes you just can't win.”

I was invited on New Year's Day to the birthday party of a boy I didn't know very well, Jimmy Kelly, a policeman's son who lived in an apartment in a three-flat at the end of the block. Johnny and Billy Duffy, who lived next door to Pops, persuaded me to come with them. Johnny was my age, Billy one year younger; they were good pals of Kelly's and assured me Kelly and his parents wouldn't mind if I came along. Just to make sure, the Duffy brothers' mother called Jimmy Kelly's mother and she said they'd be happy to have me.

Since the invitation had come at practically the last minute and all of the toy stores were closed because of the holiday, I didn't have a proper present to bring for Jimmy Kelly. My mother put some candy in a bag, wrapped Christmas paper around it, tied on a red ribbon and handed it to me.

“This will be okay,” she said. “Just be polite to his parents and thank them for inviting you.”

“They didn't invite me,” I told her, “Johnny and Billy did. Mrs. Duffy called Kelly's mother.”

“Thank them anyway. Have a good time.”

At Kelly's house, kids of all ages were running around, screaming and yelling, playing tag, knocking over lamps and tables, driving the family's two black cocker spaniels, Mick and Mack, crazy. The dogs were running with and being trampled by the marauding children. Officer Kelly, in uniform with his gunbelt on, sat in a chair by the front door drinking beer out of a brown bottle. He was a large man, overweight, almost bald. He didn't seem to be at all disturbed by the chaos.

Mrs. Kelly took my gift and the Duffy brothers' gift for Jimmy, said, “Thanks, boys, go on in,” and disappeared into the kitchen.

Johnny and Billy and I got going with the others and after a while Mrs. Kelly appeared with a birthday cake and ice cream. The cake had twelve candles on it, eleven for Jimmy's age and one for good luck. Jimmy was a big fat kid and blew all of the candles out in one try with ease. We each ate a piece of chocolate cake with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, then Jimmy opened his gifts. He immediately swallowed most of the candy my mother had put into the bag.

Mrs. Kelly presided over the playing of several games, following each of which she presented the winner with a prize. I won most of these games, and with each successive victory I became increasingly embarrassed. Since I was essentially a stranger, not really a friend of the birthday boy's, the other kids, including Johnny and Billy Duffy, grew somewhat hostile toward me. I felt badly about this, and after winning a third or fourth game decided that was enough—even if I could win another game, I would lose on purpose so as not to further antagonize anyone else.

The next contest, however, was to be the last, and the winner was to receive the grand prize, a brand new professional model football autographed by Bobby Layne, quarterback of the champion Detroit Lions. Officer Kelly, Mrs. Kelly told us, had been given this ball personally by Bobby Layne, whom he had met while providing security for him when the Lions came to Chicago to play the Bears.

The final event was not a game but a raffle. Each child picked a small, folded piece of paper out of Officer Kelly's police hat. A number had been written on every piece of paper by Mrs. Kelly. Officer Kelly had already decided what the winning number would be and himself would announce it following the children's choices.

I took a number and waited, seated on the floor with the other kids, not even bothering to see what number I had chosen. Officer Kelly stood up, holding the football in one huge hand, and looked at the kids, each of whom, except for me, waited eagerly to hear the magic number which they were desperately hoping would be the one they had plucked out of the policeman's hat. Even Jimmy had taken a number.

“Sixteen,” said Officer Kelly.

Several of the kids groaned loudly, and they all looked at one another to see who had won the football. None of them had it. Then their heads turned in my direction. There were fifteen other children at the party and all thirty of their eyes burned into mine. Officer and Mrs. Kelly joined them. I imagined Mick and Mack, the cocker spaniels, staring at me, too, their tongues hanging out, waiting to bite me should I admit to holding the precious number sixteen.

I unfolded my piece of paper and there it was: 16. I looked up directly into the empty pale green and yellow eyes of Officer Kelly. I handed him the little piece of paper and he scrutinized it, as if inspecting it for forgery. The kids looked at him, hoping against hope that there had been a mistake, that somehow nobody, especially me, had chosen the winning number.

Officer Kelly raised his eyes from the piece of paper and stared again at me.

“Your father is a Jew, isn't he?” Officer Kelly said.

I didn't answer. Officer Kelly turned to his wife and asked, “Didn't you tell me his old man is a Jew?”

“His mother's a Catholic,” said Mrs. Kelly. “Her people are from County Kerry.”

“I don't want the football,” I said, and stood up. “Jimmy should have it, it's his birthday.”

Jimmy got up and grabbed the ball out of his father's hand.

“Let's go play!” he shouted, and ran out the door.

The kids all ran out after him.

I looked at Mrs. Kelly. “Thanks,” I said, and started to walk out of the apartment.

“You're forgetting your prizes,” said Mrs. Kelly, “the toys you won.”

“It's okay,” I said.

“Happy New Year!” Mrs. Kelly shouted after me.

When I got home my mother asked if it had been a good party.

“I guess,” I said.

She could tell there was something wrong but she didn't push me. That was one good thing about my mother, she knew when to leave me alone. It was getting dark and she went to draw the drapes.

“Oh, baby,” she said, “come look out the window. It's snowing.”

 

The God of Birds

While he was waiting to get a haircut at Duke's Barber Shop, Roy was reading an article in a hunting and fishing magazine about a man in Northern Asia who hunted wolves with only a golden eagle as a weapon. This man rode a horse holding on one arm a four-foot long golden eagle around the shore of a mountain lake in a country next to China from November to March looking for prey. Beginning each day before dawn, the eagle master, called a berkutchi, cloaked in a black velvet robe from neck to ankle to protect him from fierce mountain winds, rode out alone with his huge bird. The berkutchi scoffed at those who practiced falconry, said the article in the magazine, deriding it as a sport for children and cowards.

“Eagles are the most magnificent of hunting beasts,” said the master. “My eagle has killed many large-horned ibex by shoving them off cliffs. He would fight a man if I commanded him to do so.”

The berkutchi's eagle, who was never given a name, had been with him for more than thirty years. He had students, the article said, whom the berkutchi instructed in the ways to capture and train eagles.

“I can only show them how it is done,” said the master, “but I would never give away the real secrets. These secrets a man must learn by himself, or he will not become a successful hunter. A man is only a man, but the eagle is the god of birds.”

“Roy!” Duke the barber shouted. “Didn't ya hear me? You're next!”

Roy closed the magazine and put it back on the card table in the waiting area.

When he was in the chair, Duke asked him, “Find somethin' interestin' inna magazine, kid?”

“Yes, an article about a guy in the mountains of Asia who hunts wolves on horseback with an eagle.”

“How old are you now, Roy?”

“Almost twelve.”

“Think you could do that?” Duke asked, as he clipped. “Learn how to hunt with a bird?”

Duke was in his mid-forties, mostly bald, with a three day beard. Roy had never seen Duke clean shaven, even though he was a barber. His shop had three chairs but only one other man worked with him, a Puerto Rican named Alfredito. Alfredito was missing the last three fingers of his right hand, the one in which he held the scissors. When Roy asked him how he'd lost them, Alfredito said a donkey had bitten them off when he was a boy back in Bayamon. Roy never allowed Alfredito to cut his hair anymore because Alfredito always nicked him. He got his hair cut on Thursdays now, which was Alfredito's day off. Duke told Roy that Alfredito worked Thursdays for his brother, Ramon, who had a tailor shop over by Logan Square. Roy wondered if Alfredito could sew better than he could cut hair with only one finger on his right hand.

“I don't know,” Roy answered. “Maybe if I grew up there and had a good berkutchi.”

“Berkutchi? What's that?”

“An eagle master. The one in the magazine said the eagle is the god of birds.”

The door to the shop opened and an old man wearing a gray fedora came in.

“Mr. Majewski, hello,” said Duke. “Have a seat, I'll be right with you.”

Mr. Majewski stared at Alfredito's empty chair and said, “So where is the Puerto Rican boy?”

“It's Thursday, Mr. Majewski. Alfredito don't work for me on Thursdays.”

“He works tomorrow?” asked Mr. Majewski.

“Yeah, he'll be here.”

“I'll come tomorrow,” Majewski said, and walked out.

“You want it short today, Roy?”

“Leave it long in the back, Duke. I don't like my neck to feel scratchy.”

“I used to shoot birds when I was a boy,” said Duke, “up in Waukegan.”

As he was walking home from the barber shop, a sudden brisk wind caused Roy to put up the collar of his leather jacket. Then it began to rain. Roy walked faster, imagining how terrible the weather could get during the winter months in the mountains of rural Asia. Even a four-foot long golden eagle must sometimes have a difficult time flying against a cold, hard wind hurtling out of the Caucasus, Roy thought, when he saw a gray hat being blown past him down the middle of Blackhawk Avenue. He did not stop to see if it was Mr. Majewski's fedora.