Tunes for Bears to Dance To (6 page)

Henry had been about to turn away when Mr. Hairston’s response struck him like a lightning bolt.
Struck
was exactly the word. There was no thunder and no storm, only
maybe we can work something out.

Then, regarding Henry with that same soft expression the boy could not identify, Mr. Hairston said, “We’ll see.”

Magic words,
we’ll see.
What his mother and father said when they did not want to say
yes
right away.
We’ll
see, meaning not
no.
Not
yes,
either, of course, but in the country of maybe and
perhaps,
where everything was possible.
We’ll see,
words of hope a breath away from yes.

Henry managed to remain still, rooted to the spot, resisting the urge to shout or dance. He was about to ask Mr. Hairston if he could show the sketch to his mother when the grocer said, “All right, off with you.” Reverting to his usual gruffness. “My supper’s getting cold upstairs. She’s a terrible
cook, my wife, but the food doesn’t taste too bad if it’s hot at least …”

On the way home Henry decided not to mention the sketch to his mother, not until
we’ll see
became
yes,
so as not to disappoint her if it didn’t.

A
t home he found his mother sitting in the parlor, in her best blue dress, white high heels on her feet and a white straw hat on her head. His father was also dressed up, in his gray Sunday suit, a red tie flowing like blood on his white shirt. This was not Sunday but Thursday, and Henry felt as though the earth had suddenly spun out of orbit.

“Are we going someplace?” he asked, apprehensive, because his mother’s lips were set in a grim line, her lipstick harsh against her pale skin.

“Your father is going to the hospital,” she said.

To the crazy house?
he wanted to ask, remembering Jackie Antonelli’s taunts. But instead asked, “Will they make him better there?”

“I hope so” she said. “Please don’t be upset, Henry. It’s the best thing to him.”

“What kind of hospital?” Henry said, lowering his voice, yet knowing his father could hear him because he was sitting at the table only a few feet away. But he had to know.

“Not like next door,” she said, sensing his fear. “A regular hospital, but they have a section for people like your father who need special help.”

“It will be all right, Henry,” his father said. “Listen to your mother.”

“What you must remember, Henry, is what I told you,” his mother went on. “His sadness is a disease and they have medicine to treat diseases.”

“Can’t he take the medicine at home?” Henry asked, hating the thought of his father in a special section of a hospital.

“Well, it’s more than medicine, more than just pills he needs,” his mother said, uncomfortable now, clasping and unclasping her white purse.

“What does he need?” Henry asked, intent on knowing the whole truth, afraid of secrets, yet afraid to know, afraid to even look at his father at this moment.

“Therapy.”

An ominous word, with rumblings, mysterious, threatening. “What’s therapy?” he asked.

“Something to bring your father out of his sadness,” she said. Then, her voice softer: “Don’t worry about it, Henry. It’s for his own good.”
His own good.
These were also ominous words, words his mother spoke when he had to take bitter medicine
for a cold or do something unpleasant.
For your own good.

“Will it cost a lot of money?”

“We’ll manage,” she said. “I’m going to see if I can work double shifts for a while. …”

A horn sounded outside.

“The taxi,” his father said.

“Where is this hospital?” Henry asked, almost in a panic. “Can we visit you there?”

His father looked at his mother.

“It’s here in Wickburg, on the south side,” she said. “We can take a bus to visit, but a taxi’s best to take him there.”

His father came to Henry and kissed his forehead. His lips were cold. “Be good to your mother,” he murmured.

When they were gone, Henry pounded the top of the sofa with his fist. It was better than crying. Then he cried anyway.

T
he next afternoon Mr. Hairston did not acknowledge Henry when he showed up for work. Henry greeted him with his usual “Hello, Mr. Hairston, how are you?” but the grocer merely grunted as he stared out the window.

Henry began his chores without having to be told what to do: sweeping the floors, rearranging the fruit and vegetables that had been disturbed by morning customers, unpacking six boxes of Campbell’s soup that had been deposited on the back platform. Between trips with the boxes into the store he kept a lookout for Doris, but the girl did not appear.

Henry tried not to think about his father in the hospital.
Think about the sketch,
he told himself,
and whether Mr. Hairston will show it to you again.
As he carried out his chores, Henry glanced at Mr. Hairston occasionally but the grocer, between customers,
kept his vigil at the window, muttering his usual sour comments about the people passing by.

Every afternoon when business dropped off and customers were few, Mr. Hairston disappeared into the meat locker, where he would slice sides of beef into steaks and grind up scraps of meat for hamburg. Henry knew that would be his chance to slide open the drawer in the counter and look at the sketch. The grocer stubbornly remained at the window, however, as the afternoon went on.

Henry slipped into the locker to check on the supply of steaks and hamburg. He was glad to see that only a pound or two of hamburg remained. He hoped that Mrs. Carson would show up. She always bought at least three pounds for her big family. Dusting the shelves near the front door, Henry glanced expectantly at the door when customers entered, but Mrs. Carson did not appear.

Finally, Mr. Hairston touched Henry on the shoulder, “Hamburg,” he said, nodding toward the locker. “Call me.” Which meant, of course, that Henry should summon the grocer when a customer entered the store, an unnecessary order that Mr. Hairston never neglected to issue.

Henry kept busy with the duster. It was a mystery to him where dust came from day after day. He worked his way to the counter, paused, and looked toward the locker, satisfied that the grocer would not have a clear look at the counter if he came out unexpectedly.

Henry stalled, in sweet agony, wanting to glance at the sketch but filled with guilt at the prospect of acting behind the grocer’s back. What if a customer entered and Mr. Hairston emerged from the locker at the same time? He remembered that the drawer also contained the grocer’s ledger and other stuff and he would probably have to search the drawer for the sketch. Yet it drew him irresistibly.

A minute passed, two, as Henry watched the clock on the wall. No customers entered. He heard, dimly, the hamburg grinder at work. His fingers touched the handle of the drawer. The grinder lapsed into silence and he looked toward the locker. Glanced out the window. No customers in sight. He pulled the drawer out of the counter, slowly, wincing at the squeak of wood against wood. Looked down. Miraculously, he saw the sketch immediately on top of the ledger. Then moaned. Not a moan exactly but a sound of doom escaping his lips.

The reason for the sound of doom.

A terrible
X,
crisscrossed lines in heavy black crayon, slashing across the sketch, harsh lines of cancellation that also canceled Henry’s hopes for the sketch to somehow become a reality.

Later, as Henry took off his apron and prepared to leave for the day, Mr. Hairston told him that he was being fired at the end of the week.

W
hat Mr. Hairston actually said was:

“Your services will no longer be required here.”

He spoke formally, as if talking to someone standing above and some distance beyond Henry.

“Today is Wednesday. Your last day of work will be Saturday.”

At first Henry refused to accept the meaning of the words the grocer spoke. His mind became blank, like a blackboard suddenly wiped clean. Then their meaning became clear and his body sagged, as if all the air had been sucked out

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked his mind scurrying to remember any mistakes he had made. Had Mr. Hairston seen him peeking at the sketch? Was that cause enough to fire him?

Mr. Hairston turned away as if Henry had not spoken,
“Why am I being fired?” Henry persisted, simply angry, knowing he had done a good job in the store, had not been lazy, had performed to the best of his ability.

“You have outlived your usefulness,” the grocer declared, turning to the cash register. “I do not need you any longer.” Then, regarding Henry with eyes that held no hint of mercy: “You have the rest of the week to work. Don’t shirk your duty on those days.”

The words reverberated through his mind as he sat on the tenement steps the next morning watching his mother going off to work, her steps slower than usual. He had heard her tossing and turning alone in her bed last night. He had decided not to tell her about being fired. Not until it actually happened. She did not need more bad news these days. Although Henry’s pay at the store was small, his mother always accepted the money with gratitude on payday. “Every bit of money helps,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Henry.” And now the job was lost.

His mother turned the corner and gave a last wave. From this distance she looked pretty enough to be a movie star. He was glad that she was too far away for him to see the blue shadows under her eyes, the strands of gray that had begun to show up in her black hair.

He lingered on the steps for a while, watching the neighborhood activity as people went off to work. Before eight o’clock arrived, he sauntered
down the street, not wanting to see the old man coming out of the crazy house.

He spent the next few hours listlessy wandering the streets, sighing often, kicking at stones on the sidewalk. Killing time. Paused now and then watch the lobsters in the window of the fish market, walked on the steel rails of the B & M tracks, sat on the bridge over the Quinsig River, dangling his legs as he watched, a man painting a boat.

He was tempted to visit his father at the hospital, although his mother had said that visits were forbidden during his first week of therapy. He realized dismally that he did not know the location of the hospital, which made his father seem even more distant from him.

Finally he headed for the craft center, a better place to be than the tenement at home, where a tasteless cheese sandwich awaited him for lunch. Worse than dry sandwich were the empty rooms.

The clapping of hands and shouts of celebration greeted Henry as he opened the door. Astonished, he thought at first the applause, impossibly, was for him. Stepping inside, he saw the people in the center focused on Mr. Levine, surrounding him at his bench.

George Graham spotted Henry at the door and beckoned him forward. “Big news, Henry,” he called. “Mr. Levine has won first prize from the city for creating the best work of art.”

The old man inclined his head modestly, his
hand reaching out to touch one of the small figures in the village. With his other hand he tipped his hat, while people regarded him with pride and pleasure.