Tunes for Bears to Dance To (7 page)

“His village is going on display at City Hall,” the giant said. “Under glass. Decorated with a blue ribbon. A big ceremony. The mayor and city council will be on hand. Reporters, too, and maybe TV coverage …”

“Congratulations,” Henry said to the old man. Tears appeared in Mr. Levine’s eyes, but not the tears of that first day, because his eyes were merry.

“You’re a good boy,” Mr. Levine said, pronouncing the words slowly but distinctly.

“You see?” the giant said. “He’s been rehearsing, wants to speak better to you.”

“Invite … invite,” the old man said, looking appealingly at the giant.

“Oh, he wants to invite you to the ceremony. Saturday afternoon. We’re all going. At two O’clock.”

“You come?” the old man asked Henry.

Henry nodded, then looked at the village, the tiny figures that he recognized now like old friends.

“This village,” the giant said, “will be a reminder to everybody about what happened during the war. But also about survival. And how good can overcome evil. That’s what this village symbolizes.” Then the giant looked abashed, and actually blushed. “Speech over … let’s celebrate,” he said.

At that moment, as if on cue, the ladies of the center appeared with a big white cake, easily two feet high, topped by a flaming candle.

Mr. Levine came forward, his eyes dancing with delight, and Henry forgot for a few moments about being fired and his father receiving therapy in the hospital.

W
hen he arrived at the store, Mr. Hairston was waiting on Mrs. Lumpke, who wore her flowerpot hat as usual. Today she was stocking up on Campbell’s tomato soup. A dozen cans. Henry carried her order out to the sidewalk, where he placed the two heavy bags in a wicker baby carriage. Mrs. Lumpke did not have a baby but used the carriage to do her shopping. “You’re the best worker Mr. Hairston ever had,” she said, smiling at him. Which only made Henry feel sadder than ever.

In the store Mr. Hairston grunted as Henry said, “Good afternoon.” The grocer busied himself with paperwork at the cash register and did not look up.

Henry went to the cellar and began to put up the potatoes. He worked listlessly, taking no pride in the job, filling the bags automatically, weighing them
without interest, adding a few potatoes or taking some interest, adding a few potatoes or taking some away until the scale registered fifteen pounds. He did not even keep his eye out for rats.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, spilling light down on the steps. Henry looked up and saw the figure of Mr. Hairston silhouetted in the door way.

“You want to keep your job?” The grocer’s voice boomed down as if he were shouting in a tunnel.

Henry nodded, staring up into the shadow that was Mr. Hairston’s body.

“Say yes or no,” the voice commanded.

Henry swallowed, cleared his throat, said, “Yes.” Then again: “yes.” Not waiting the grocer to misunderstand.

“Good,” Mr. Hairston said. “Work hard this afternoon. Before you leave, I’ll tell you how you can keep your job.”

Customers streamed in and out of the store that afternoon, the cash register constantly ringing. Mr. Hairston waited on them eagerly, exchanging pleasantries about the weather, making small jokes, laughing now and then. Henry had never seen him so cheerful. He did not make his usual rude remarks after the customers left. Hummed as he worked at his figures.

Finally, at the end of the day, Mr. Hairston closed the front door and lowered the shade that said closed on the outside. Henry waited by the cash register Mr. Hairston went to the counter and
pulled out the drawer. He reached in and withdrew the sketch, held it up for Henry to see. The terrible
X
had been removed; only smudges remained as a reminder of its existence.

“Do you see the
X
mark has been removed?”

Henry nodded, perplexed.

“You peeked at it, right? I knew you would be sneaky and peek at it. That’s why I put the
X
on it. You only appreciate something when you think you have lost it. I wanted you to appreciate it.”

But I did appreciate it
, Henry thought, wondering why Mr. Hairston would do a thing like that.

Mr. Hairston placed the sketch on the counter, looking down at Henry with those merciless eyes.

“You don’t want to lose your job, do you?” he asked.

Henry shook his head, swallowing hard as if something was stuck in his throat.

“You also want a monument—this beautiful monument here”—indicating the sketch—“for your brother’s grave.”

Henry nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Fine,” the grocer said. “You can keep your job.”

The late afternoon sun blazed through the window, exposing dust motes in the air, dust that would later settle on the shelves.

“The monument for your brother? I spoke to my friend who drew the sketch. He will make that mon
ument. With the best stone from a quarry in Vermont. It will be my gift to you.”

Astounded, Henry thought,
But for what?

The question echoed in Henry’s mind before he asked it. “But for what?”

“A simple thing.”

What simple thing?

“What do I have to do?”

“What you have to do is easy,” Mr. Hairston said, leaning back against the wall, eyes half closed, as if envisioning what Henry had to do. “It requires no skill at all, just a bit of effort. Maybe a bit of cunning. I know that Canucks are not famous for cunning, a bit stupid in fact, not cunning like the kikes. But everybody has a bit of it….”

Henry waited, blinking away the insults, not sure what
cunning
meant, “What I want you to do is this,” Mr. Hairston said, looking directly at Henry. “I want you to go to that craft center one day next week. On any day you choose. In the afternoon.”

“But I work for you in the afternoon.”

“That day you won’t. But I’ll pay you just the same.”

“Okay,” Henry said, puzzled, frowning, a bit uneasy.

“When the center closes for the day—you said it closes at six o’clock you stay behind, without being seen.”

“But how can I do that? They’ll see me if I don’t leave.”

“Hide,” Mr. Hairston said, impatient suddenly. “There must be a place to hide. You’re a small boy. Maybe in the bathroom. Or there must be a back room in the place.”

“There’s a storeroom,” Henry said, and immediately regretted mentioning the storeroom because he was not certain that he wanted to hide anywhere at all at the center.

“Fine. The important thing is to stay behind, out of sight when the others leave.”

Henry looked at the window; saw Mr. Selsky in his three-piece blue serge suit sweeping the sidewalk in front of his store across the street.

“You wait awhile. To make sure everyone’s gone. Then you come out. …”

Henry pictured himself in the evening shadows of the center. It would be spooky, he thought.

“Then you find a hammer. There must be a hammer there, right? You said they have tools of all kinds there. All right, find a hammer. Or even an ax. Something like that …”

Has he gone mad?
Henry thought.

“What do I do with the hammer?”

“I want you to take the hammer and smash the old man’s village. Smash it, break it….”

Henry recoiled as if Mr. Hairston had struck him in the stomach, taking his breath away.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Hairston asked, eyes
like slits, eyebrows touching each other over the bridge of his nose.

Henry could not speak, wincing as he pictured the old man’s beloved village smashed and broken by a hammer.

“All right, all right,” Mr. Hairston said. “It sounded terrible when I said it like that. But we’re not talking about a real village here. It’s a fake village.”

“I can’t do that,” Henry managed to utter.

“Sure you can. It’s not like you were destroying real property. The village is a toy. The figures the old man made are toy figures. All toys get broken after a while.”

“But this is like the old man’s own village. Where he grew up. Where his family lived. It means the whole world to him….”

“Listen, it will do him good,” Mr. Hairston said. “You told me he was just about finished, didn’t you? What will he do now? He’ll be unhappy with nothing to do. This way he can rebuild the village, do it all over again, find more pleasure in it. Remember how you said he loses himself in his work? That he’s happy when he uses his tools? Well, he’ll have a chance to use them again. You see?”

Henry didn’t see. But he saw in his mind the destruction of the village and it was a terrible vision, the buildings shattered, the figures broken.

Then jubilantly he saw a way out.

“The village won’t be there anymore,” he said.
“Mr. Levine won first prize in a contest the city held.” Excitement growing in him: “The village is going on display at City Hall.”

“When’s this happening?” the grocer asked suspiciously, as if Henry was merely making excuses.

“Saturday,” he replied. “There’s going to be a big ceremony. The mayor will be there.”

Surely Mr. Hairston could not deny the old man his moment of glory.

“We have time,” the grocer said. “Today is Wednesday. You can do it tomorrow night. Or Friday, at the latest.”

“No,” Henry cried out, louder than he had intended, the word hanging in the air, echoing in his ears.

Mr. Hairston’s eyes flashed at him. For a moment Henry feared that the grocer would actually hit him. Instead he sighed, and when he spoke his voice was calm, almost gentle.

“Don’t make a decision now, Henry. Think about it awhile. Think about it tonight. And think about this: If I can’t trust you to do this little thing for me, how can I trust you anymore here in the store?” Full of regret. “Don’t you see? I will have to let you go. No more paychecks to help at home. No monument for your brother.” Tenderly, softly: “Know what else, Henry? I will have to spread the word about you to other merchants. That you are not to be trusted. No one will ever hire you again. Or even let you enter their store.” Almost whispering:
“The principal of your school? A friend of mine. I will have to tell him to keep his eye on you. Who knows? Maybe you cheat at school. Someone who can’t be trusted often cheats.”

Henry listened, dumbfounded, to the grocer’s horrible words, made all the more horrible by his tender, gentle voice. He knew without any doubt that Mr. Hairston was capable of doing exactly what he had said he would do.

The grocer cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, as if he had just concluded a satisfying piece of business with a customer, “that’s the way things stand, Henry. Of course, none of it has to happen. And it would be too bad to do all those things. All I want you to do is break a little toy village. Is that so much to ask for all that I’ll do for you?”

Before Henry could speak—and he was not sure that he
could
speak—the grocer held up his hand, like a teacher calling for silence. “No, don’t say anything. Think about it, Henry, as I said. Think of all the good things and then the bad things. If you speak now, you might say something you’ll regret later. Think it over tonight. At home. In bed. Give me your answer tomorrow.”

Henry nodded in agreement, wanting only to get out of this place, away from Mr. Hairston and his suggestions, far far away from his awful plan.

“Don’t say anything to anybody,” the grocer cautioned as Henry made for the door. “Whether you do this thing for me or not, if you open your
mouth to anyone, all those bad things will happen. Maybe worse …”

The grocer kept on speaking, but Henry was already out the door.

H
e lifted the sledgehammer above his head the huge tool so heavy that it almost threw him backward. Gathering his strength, he slammed the hammer down on the village smashing two houses and a barn, sending splinters of wood through the air. The sound was enormous, like a bomb foiling and exploding. He paused to inspect the damage before lifting the hammer again and saw a figure coming out of the farmhouse. The figure was Mr. Levine, his cap flying from his head, running frantically, looking up in horror as Henry raised the hammer.

A moan of pity and dread came from his mouth as he prepared to smash more of the village, but this time the heavy sledgehammer
did
throw him backward, to the floor, and he woke up in bed, heart racing, the damp sheet clinging to his body, pressed
across his mouth suffocatingly. He leapt from the dream, found himself sitting up, moonlight like a white shroud on the floor, his entire body moist. His fingers trembled as he ran them through his hair.