Tunes for Bears to Dance To (8 page)

His mother, who always slept lightly, a part of her always awake it seemed, called from the next room. “Is that you, Henry? Is something wrong?”

He realized he must have cried out in his sleep. “I had a bad dream, Ma.”

She appeared at the doorway, ghostlike, a wraith.

“Want some cocoa?”

“No, I’m all right.”

But he was not all right. He dreaded going back to sleep, afraid that the dream would resume and he would go on demolishing the village all night long. While the old man ran from the hammer.

“Ma,” he said tentatively, thinking that perhaps now in the hush of nighttime he could talk to her about Mr. Hairston’s plan.

“What, Henry? What’s the matter?”

He did not answer but slipped reluctantly under the sheet. He still could not put into words what Mr. Hairston had suggested.

“Want to tell me about the dream?” she said, advancing into the room, her face pale in the moonlight, her dark eyes like two small black caves in her face. “They say if you tell your dream, it won’t come back again.”

How he longed to tell her his dream. And tell
her, too, of his dilemma, the decision he had to make. Instead, he drew the sheet up to his eyes, trying to make himself small in the bed.

“I can barely remember it,” he lied, because the sight of the old man scurrying from his house in horror still raced across his mind.

She stroked his head, bent and kissed his forehead. “I’ll be awake awhile.”

He thought of the empty bed without his father in it awaiting his return. “I’m sorry, Ma,” he said. Sorry about so many things he could do nothing about. And now this terrible thing Mr. Hairston wanted him to do.

“Try to think nice thoughts,” his mother said, smoothing the sheet as if her hand was treading water.

He tried to think nice thoughts as he huddled in bed, waiting for sleep to come, but could think only of Mr. Hairston and the store. He had often wondered why Mr. Hairston had hired him to work in the store, why he had kept his job open for him when he hurt his leg. Now he knew. When Henry applied for the job, Mr. Hairston had asked, “Can you follow orders? Whether you like them or not?” Henry had answered with a resounding “Yes.” “I’ll remember that,” the grocer had said, his eyes boring into Henry’s. He had been looking for someone like Henry and had found him.

Just before he fell off to sleep, Henry thought for the first time: But why? Why did Mr. Hairston want
the old man’s village destroyed? Weariness plucked at him with gentle fingers, however, and he drifted off gratefully, giving himself over to the merciful blankness of sleep.

M
r. Hairston’s calendar on the wall next to the cigarette case was a one-day-at-a-time calendar, showing in big black numbers the date and, in smaller type, the day of the week. Henry’s eyes went automatically to the calendar whenever he entered the store, and today was no exception except for the small shock of the number
28
and the bigger shock of
Thursday.

The grocer looked up as Henry entered, then went back to adding up a customer’s order. But as Henry made his way toward the rear of the store, he felt the grocer’s eyes following him. Or was this his imagination? How can you feel someone’s eyes upon you? Mr. Hairston’s eyes were not like anyone else’s, however.

Henry fled to the cellar, glad now for his chore of putting up potatoes, listening to the footsteps
above, grateful for the customers who kept the grocer busy. Finally, the potatoes were all packed in the bags and Henry reluctantly went back upstairs.

Later, as he rearranged the fruit at the back of the store, he became aware of the silence that meant the absence of customers. He heard Mr. Hairston’s footsteps as he left the register and began to walk toward the back of the store. Finally the grocer’s shadow fell across the ascending pyramid of oranges.

“Two things,” Mr. Hairston said, while Henry continued to work at the fruit.

“Look at me, boy” he ordered.

Henry turned around but avoided the grocer’s eyes, concentrating on the buttons of his white coat.

“First, your mother.”

The words chilled Henry, caused him to shudder even in the dust and heat of the store.

“She works at the Miss Wickburg Diner,” the grocer said, surprise in his voice as if he had just discovered the fact.

“The owner’s a friend of mine,” the grocer said. “I’m not talking about the manager, who’s a softie, who treats help like family. I mean the owner, who doesn’t put up with nonsense. …”

Henry waited, taking his eyes away from the buttons, afraid he could be hypnotized by concentrating on them.

“A while ago the owner was in trouble, needed money, a loan. He came to me and I helped him out.
That’s what people should do, help each other out. Don’t you agree, Henry?”

Henry did not reply, looked briefly into the grocer’s dark eyes and then went back to the buttons, noticing for the first time one cracked button, second from the top.

“So I helped him out. And he said, ‘If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know.’ Do you see?” Without waiting for a reply he continued. “So, with your mother, if I tell the owner to give her a raise, give her better hours, make her a hostess, even, so she doesn’t have to wait on tables anymore, he’ll do it.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

Henry braced himself, knew what was coming, had known what was coming all the time, of course.

“On the other hand, if things don’t go right, then a word to the owner can have the opposite effect. If I say, ‘Fire this woman or that woman,’ then he’ll do it. Of course, I would not want to do that. The owner says your mother is a very nice woman. A good waitress. She deserves a raise. And a promotion. Why not—right, Henry? You love your mother, don’t you? It’s in your hands….” The grocer sighed.

“Such a small thing I’m asking you to do. Look at all the rewards for doing it.”

If it’s such a small thing, why is it so important to you?
Henry asked, but silently. Afraid of the answer, afraid of what the grocer might say.

“Now, the second thing,” the grocer said, glancing anxiously at the door—but no one entered.

“If you are going to do this thing, then do it today, tonight. You said the display will be moved Saturday morning, but they might change their minds and do it tomorrow. You can never tell about people. So, I don’t want you to wait.” He looked at his watch. “It’s now almost three. You can leave in a few minutes.”

Henry remained silent, listening to his heartbeat. “Whether you do it or not, I want you to leave now, this minute. If you do this thing, then come back after. I’ll be waiting here in the store, you’ll see the light on. If you don’t, then never come back.” He reached into his coat pocket, took out some folded dollar bills. “Here’s your pay for the week.” He tucked the money into Henry’s shirt pocket. “I never want to see you again if you fail to do what I ask.”

The customer bell finally rang and Henry, gratefully, saw Mrs. Karminski entering, her small dog sniffing and yipping as usual. A few minutes later, as Henry headed toward the door, the grocer called his name. Henry paused, his hand on the doorknob. He heard the grocer’s approaching footsteps.

“Do it,” the grocer whispered in his ear. “Destroy the old man’s village.”

Henry turned, stepped aside, curious to see the expression on the grocer’s face after issuing such a terrible order. He was surprised to see, not some
thing ugly or repulsive, but the bland everyday face of Mr. Hairston. But he shuddered, opening the door, as if he had just touched the glistening skin of a snake.

I
’
m going to the craft center but I won’t smash the village. I will go there and watch the old man at work and talk to George Graham but I won’t do what Mr. Hairston wants me to do.

Glad to be free of the grocer and the store, Henry raced through the twisted streets, waiting for the pain that always came when he ran too fast or too far. Pushing himself to the limit, he invited the pain, breathless, sweating, the sweat blurring his vision. Finally he paused near a telephone pole, gasping, his breath sounding like a piece of cloth being torn in two.

Leaning against the pole, oblivious to anyone who might be watching, he heard the grocer’s voice: “Such a little thing I’m asking you to do, and think of all the rewards.” The monument for Eddie, his
mother’s raise and promotion, his own job saved. The old man’s village only a toy village, really.

When he arrived at the center, he paused again to catch his breath. Looking down the street, he saw the same wise guys in front of the saloon, not gambling with coins now but merely lounging about lazily. Henry envied them for doing nothing, no orders to follow, no terrible deeds to carry out.

The center bustled with activity and excitement; somebody sweeping, somebody else washing the walls, while others worked at their benches as usual.

The old man was not in sight but George Graham greeted him, turning away from the woman with blue hair who was molding another child’s face from clay. She plucked delicately at the eyes.

The old man’s village was not covered with the sheet. The figures and the buildings globed brilliantly beneath the shaded light. “Mr. Levine polished everything with a secret mixture,” the giant said. “He didn’t come today, resting up, waiting for his big day.” He gestured with his hand. “We’re sprucing up the place. Big doings, Henry, big doings …”

He rushed off in answer to a workman calling for assistance and Henry began to search the place with his eyes. Searching for what? A hammer, just in case. He was convinced that he would not find a hammer suitable for the job, and thus would have
no chance to do what Mr. Hairston wanted him to do. He avoided looking at the old man’s village.

Everyone was too busy to pay any attention to him and he wandered through the center unnoticed, invisible. He spotted a wooden mallet leaning against the wall near the door to the storeroom. like a croquet mallet but bigger and heavier, as big as a sledgehammer but made of wood. Henry glanced away, not wanting to acknowledge its presence.

“Watch out,” a workman called, carrying a ladder with which to reach a burned-out bulb on the ceiling.

Henry ducked out of the way and found himself in front of the storeroom door. The storeroom was a place he seldom entered, windowless, cluttered with the paraphernalia of the center. Glancing around, he was glad to see that he was still being ignored. He opened the door and slipped inside. He turned on the light, saw a haphazard collection of old boxes, discarded tools, paint cans, rubbish barrels.

A perfect place to hide.

The mallet out there and this place to hide in. He wondered if he was destined to carry out his mission after all. Was it such a bad mission? A few smashed figures that the old man could make again balanced against all the good things that might happen. His mother a hostess instead of a waitress …

He snapped off the light and stood still, his eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness. When he
could make out shapes and forms, he walked slowly, gingerly, to a spot where cardboard boxes were plied up. Kicked something, and heard it thud against the wall. Paused, not moving, then slipped into a corner. He piled some boxes on top of one another, then crept behind them and sat down, certain that he could not be seen if someone entered.

He calculated that he had two hours to wait.

Through the closed door he could hear the sounds of activity in the center, muffled voices, footsteps, chairs scraping the floor.

Drawing up his knees, he embraced them with his arms, rested his forehead on them. Pictured his mother in a white lace apron leading customers to their tables, handing them menus, earning a salary, no longer depending on tips. And pictured, too, the monument on Eddie’s grave, the ball and bat signifying his prowess at the plate so that anyone visiting the cemetery would be reminded of how great a ballplayer he had been.

He did not realize he had fallen asleep until he awoke, like being shot out of a cannon. Into nothingness, blankness, grayness, and then the workroom, the boxes piled in front of him. Blinking, he listened. Something had awakened him—what? Listened again, tilting his head. Then heard it: a soft scratching nearby, then the rustle of small feet, scurrying. He shivered, realizing there was a rat in the storeroom. He remembered now the stories George Graham had told of rats coming out at night, gnawing
at the brushes and the canvases.
I’ve got to get out of here.