The Wisdom of Perversity (16 page)

In the dark of her loneliness she thought about the arrangement. Convincing Gary wouldn't be a problem, sadly. So it was all neat and tidy, stowed in the bottom drawer again. Only one messy item left to dispose of, the memo paper in her hand with Brian's phone number, the dark-haired boy of long ago. He was only a phone call and sixty streets away.

First Cause

April 1966

BRIAN SEARCHED FOR
Jeff at Zolly's Deli. Catching him there, he might be able to wave for his best friend to come out and discreetly make sure Richard Klein wasn't going to stay all evening. And if Jeff insisted Brian join them, at least he could have a hot dog. Mom's grilled cheese was great, but a kosher frank with sauerkraut and slathered with spicy deli mustard was a treat beyond equal.

Brian hurried to Alderton Street, slowing as he approached Zolly's one window, dominated by a yellow neon
HEBREW NATIONAL
sign. Between the
N
and the
A,
Brian saw Richard Klein on a metal chair that was usually placed at one of two freestanding tables. He had moved it to the open end of a red vinyl booth to serve as a fifth seat. Presumably Sam, Julie, Jeff, and little Noah were inside the high wood walls of the booth; they weren't visible.

Brian was grateful to be able to watch Klein from another environment through a pane of glass, a television-like perspective that allowed Brian to satisfy his curiosity from a safe vantage. He scrutinized every detail of this puzzling and disturbing man, settling on Klein's pudgy hands, ceaselessly punctuating his talk. When Klein paused to listen to the booth of children respond to his animated conversation, it was with an expression of pure delight, at one point throwing his head back to laugh openmouthed at something one of them said. While Brian wondered at how happy Klein seemed to be, the executive turned his head toward the window casually. Then his eyes found Brian.

Brian ran to the corner, heart pounding. A wood-paneled station wagon braked hard a few feet from Brian, car lurching to a stop. The woman driver stared at him angrily, although he was on the sidewalk and in no danger of being under her wheels. Maybe she thought he was about to cross, since Brian kept turning his head to check on whether he was being pursued.

At that point he did see the deli door being opened from the inside. He bolted again, back to Sixty-third Street. He thought he heard his name called repeatedly, but the wind and traffic made it impossible for him to be sure.

He decided to head back to Jeff's while waiting for them to return from Zolly's. Harriet's interrogation would be terrible, but that would be better than sitting with Richard without other adults around. He had already been with Klein in a place not drawn on the map of his day-to-day world; he wouldn't make that mistake again.

Brian was in no hurry to face Harriet. He stayed on the far side of Sixty-third, went past his building, and decided to climb up the low part of a concrete wall that rose until it joined at a right angle to an overpass above a forbidden place to horse around, the perilous elevated Long Island Railroad tracks. At the wall's base, Brian placed one Keds' heel flush to its mate's toe, imagining that he was walking a tightrope as it gradually rose from two to over six feet off the pavement. Farther along, on the overpass, it would rise even higher and to fall off there meant you would tumble onto the deadly tracks. Some of the older boys made that climb and, in a feat of daring, leapt down immediately after the last car of a train passed, madly climbing back up using struts, garbage, and their strength, racing to see who could be first. Every mother had warned the boys against that stunt and Brian had never attempted it, although tempted. He chose not to again, especially after a chilly gust had him wobbling for a few seconds to maintain balance. He sat down on the wall, putting his legs over the sidewalk side, and was about to slowly slide down when an amused voice asked, “How's the view?”

It was Sam. He looked much younger out of his NBC page outfit. He had no sign of a beard, not even a wispy blond mustache. He was just another teenager in a beige windbreaker, Levi's and Converse sneaks; one of the slightly older boys who sometimes let you play stickball with them.

“Hi.” Brian started shimmying down.

“Don't get down 'cause of me,” Sam said.

“I was coming down.” Brian let go. Sam moved fast to the spot, catching Brian by the waist. While suspended at eye level, Sam put his lips on Brian's and kissed gently. They smelled of smoke.

Brian averted his face and shouted, “Leggo! Leggo of me!” He kicked his legs.

Sam eased him to the pavement and stepped back, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Just trying to help,” he said.

It had happened so fast, Brian immediately doubted whether it had.

Sam certainly showed no sign of embarrassment. He was at ease, smiling ingratiatingly as he asked, “That was you sneaking a peek through the deli window, right?”

“What?” Brian stalled, looking away.

“Why didn't you come in?” he continued, as if Brian had confessed.

“It wasn't me.” Brian moved quickly to the corner to cross to his building's side of the street.

Sam appeared by his side, hands in his pockets, head bowed. In a low voice, he commented, “I'm just like you.”

“What?”

“I know Richard likes you. He likes me too.”

His heart raced. The light turned green. Brian hustled across onto Sixty-third. During winter, especially during a snowfall, on his level street Brian and Jeff liked to imagine they were scaling Mount Everest. When coming home after a really fun day of playing Slug or Running Bases, he and Jeff paused midway, shielding themselves from the wind by crouching low next to parked cars. They peered out at the swirls of flakes and told each other that they were starving climbers pressing on against hopeless odds to become the first boys in history to conquer the world's highest peak.

But that day, trudging in the feeble sunlight and chilling breeze of April, he had Sam, not Jeff, for company.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Sam caught up. He nudged Brian with his hip.

Brian nodded reluctantly. Brian was ashamed to be talking with Sam about “It” but didn't want to discourage him. For one thing, he was very curious and relieved that It had happened with someone else besides him. At least he hoped that was what Sam was implying.

“Promise to keep it a secret?” Sam tapped Brian on his head.

Brian tried to avoid the contact. Jumping back, he lost his balance, toppling against a car.

“Whoa.” Sam snagged his arm to steady him. “Take it easy.”

“I'm all right.” He jerked away, heart pounding so wildly it felt like it was coming out through his chest.

“I'm not gonna hurt you,” Sam said. “I like you.”

Brian was humiliated he was spooked by the contact. Why was he afraid of Sam, who was almost a kid like him? Brian tried to make amends: “I'll keep your secret.”

“I went out for a smoke. Dick doesn't like me to smoke. That's how I saw you peeking in the deli. I was across the avenue having a dromedary.”

“A what?”

Sam grinned. He pulled a pack of Camels out of the right pocket of his pants. “Dromedary,” he said. “That's another name for camel. I've been building up my vocabulary. Dick says that will help me get into a good college.”

“I thought you were already going to college.”

“Nah.” He looked down, embarrassed. “Dick tells people that so they'll think I'm older. You're not supposed to be an NBC page unless you're already in college. Saying I was seventeen and about to start was stretching it anyway, but I'm fifteen, not seventeen. I am a junior, though, 'cause I skipped a grade! 'Cause I'm pretty smart. One of the smartest in my class.”

He's stupid, Brian decided. Smart people didn't tell you they were smart. Concluding that Sam wasn't bright made Brian no longer fearful of him. Many years would pass before Brian learned the folly of believing superior intelligence could protect him. “He really doesn't know you smoke?” Brian asked.

“Dick thinks I quit. He hates the smell on my breath. That's why I suck on these.” Sam stuck his tongue way out—cradled in its center groove was a half-melted Life Saver. The long pink snake retracted. “Dick says smoking causes cancer. He says everybody, you know, like scientists and newsmen, knows that. The tobacco companies know it, Dick says. I don't know how he knows what the tobacco companies secretly think.”

“Yeah,” Brian said, bringing in a true authority. “My mom says it's bad. And Dad knows it's bad for him, but he says it's an addiction.”

“What?” Sam stopped their climb to lodge a protest. “An addiction? You mean, a
habit.
It's a habit, right?”

“No. Dad said it was an addiction, not a habit,” Brian said, stopping and turning to argue this point.

“Your dad's wrong. You get addicted to stuff like heroin. Smoking is just a habit.”

“No, he's not wrong.” Brian was deeply offended that Sam dared to contradict his father. “He explained the difference to me. He meant addiction.”

“Oh yeah? So what's the difference, smarty-pants?” Sam put his hands on his hips, like a little kid. He really wasn't very smart.

Brian resumed walking, bored by Sam, eager to reach Jeff's. “An addiction is something you gotta keep getting more and more of, like being a drunk, Dad says. You keep wanting more even if it makes you sick. Same thing with cigarettes. No matter how long you stop yourself from smoking you still want to.”

“So?” Sam, catching up, tapped him on the shoulder. “How is that different from a habit?”

“That's kind of obvious. You can change a habit.” Brian vividly remembered how much he missed sucking his thumb for the first week he stopped. The wanting ached like a deep bruise, then got weaker day by day and finally faded altogether. “You may miss it for a while, but the missing goes away.” While he explained Brian half-turned to Sam. He awkwardly tripped over his Keds. He tried to right himself by putting his arms out. He listed one way then the other.

While Brian recovered his footing, Sam said, “I just can't believe they would do that.”

“Who?” Brian said, resuming the climb, Sam tagging along a step behind.

“The tobacco companies. I don't believe they would make cigarettes if they knew they would make you sick.”

Brian shrugged. “Why not?” he said. His father and mother had told him all advertising was a lie. “They're lovely lies, don't ya know,” Danny Moran had said, imitating Grandma's Irish lilt.

“It's . . .” Sam hesitated, then said helplessly, “I just can't believe they'd do that.”

Brian was puzzled. That bad guys will do anything for money was a principle widely accepted in comics, TV, movies, and the handful of novels he'd read. “Why not?” he insisted. “They got no choice. Even if cigarettes make people sick they can't stop making 'em, right? They'd go bankrupt.” He finished as they reached his apartment building. He opened the door and held it for Sam, who was gaping at him, astonished. He didn't move, so Brian, in the style of his exchanges with Jeff, encouraged him. “Come on, stupid. Don't just stand there.”

Sam hit him. Later Brian tried to figure out whether Sam used a fist or an open hand or maybe he just pushed Brian's face with the flat of his palm. It happened too fast to be sure. Abruptly he was on his ass on New York pavement. His nose stung. It didn't hurt.

“Jesus,” Sam said. He bent over Brian. “You okay? I barely touched you . . .”

Brian jumped to his feet and in one motion—a feat he had mastered dodging bullies in the playground—scampered around Sam, jerked the door open, ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time up to the sixth floor. Years later, obliged to analyze every detail of this day, it occurred to Brian his dashing upstairs probably implied that Brian was planning to tattle on Sam. He had no such intention. He hoped getting inside would forever erase his mistake of calling Sam stupid and the disgrace of Sam's knocking him over so easily.

He reached Jeff's, breathless, and leaned hard on the doorbell. It opened to reveal a delighted Richard Klein. “Brian! There you are!” Brian was shocked but still in running mode, so he scurried around Klein, down the long hall, past the invalid's door—“Brian!” Harriet croaked as he got an impression of a crowd around her—and banged into Jeff's door, crashing into his friend's room. What he saw shoved aside all thoughts of Sam and Klein.

Jeff was sitting on a low stool whose original use (now forgotten) came from when he was a toddler and needed extra height for the toilet. His back was to the door, face in his hands, shoulders trembling. Without looking, he said, “Go away,” his voice breaking with tears.

Brian shut the door. “It's me,” he said. “What's wrong, Mr. Jeff?” he asked, using his nickname for his friend, inspired by the talking horse on
Mister Ed.

There was a silence. Jeff's shoulders quieted. “You know,” he mumbled.

It took Brian a second to remember. “Oh! I gotta tell you something. I got good news.” He was very pleased that this time, unlike any other occasion he could remember, he was sure he could make someone feel better. “Your mom's not sick. She made it up.”

Jeff raised his tearful face, hope dawning. From the hall Klein called, “Boys? You in there?”

“Lock it,” Jeff whispered.

Brian hurried, fingers fumbling at the task. Klein's voice came close and loud: “Boys?” Brian slid hook into eye a split second before Klein pushed from the other side. Klein whispered through a slight crack the hook and eye allowed, “Brian, don't be upset. Sam's sorry. He says he's very sorry.”

Brian moved across the room, next to Jeff.

He mouthed,
What is Sam sorry for?

Brian stuck to his good news, whispering, “I heard your mom talking to your dad on the phone while you were at Zolly's. She didn't realize I was here. She said—”

“Boys?” Klein rattled the door.

“
ONE SECOND
,” Jeff shouted, so near Brian's ear Brian winced. “Go on,” Jeff said.

While Klein said something about locking doors and called out an answer to a query from Harriet, who could be heard shouting from her bed, Brian whispered, “Your mom called your dad to warn him not to say anything to your uncle about her not having breast cancer.”