“It’s not just that. I told you, my father’s sick. I can’t just leave him.”
“And what will you do for him here? Start begging to pay for his hooch?”
“Watch your mouth, Walter! I won’t allow you to insult my family!” Jack’s voice turned threatening. He left twenty cents on the table and turned around to leave, but Walter held him by the arm.
“It’s common knowledge. That drunk’s sucking you dry, and you just let him do—”
A fist stopped Walter midsentence, making him crash into a table. Jack froze. He realized how out of proportion his reaction had been. He tried to help Walter up, but his friend refused the gesture.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Walter said, acting as if it were nothing as he tried to reassemble the spectacles that Jack had just broken. “I don’t believe it, Jack. At school you protected me from the bullies, and now you’ve turned into one of them.”
Jack couldn’t find it in himself to apologize. He just put on his hat and left. As soon as he was out on the street, the rain whipped his face. He regretted punching his friend, but Walter had asked for it. His problems with his father were his own, and no one, not even Walter, had the right to rub salt in the wound.
2
Back in Williamsburg, Jack noticed two squat figures sitting on the steps at the entrance to his father’s apartment block. They were cloaked in the smoke from their cigarettes, but as he approached, he recognized one of the figures as his landlord, Lukas Kowalski. The other man was one of his goons. When the landlord spotted Jack, he stood with a snort.
“Hey, kid, nice of you to make an appearance. You Jews have been playing hard to get lately,” he said.
“Good evening, Mr. Kowalski. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Oh, you don’t? Well, let me explain it, then.”
Kowalski made a gesture, and before Jack could do anything, the thug grabbed his arm and twisted it. Jack let out a groan as he fought to free himself.
“Relax, kid,” Kowalski whispered in his ear. “I ain’t stupid enough to leave you crippled, not just yet. I just wanted you to know that I’m done waiting, so tell your pop to stop hiding away like a cockroach and pay me what he owes, or I’ll smash the door down and drag him out myself.”
Jack couldn’t understand Kowalski’s rage over a couple of electricity bills. When he pointed it out, the landlord turned red.
“To hell with the bills. I want the money he owes me for the rent and the whiskey I’ve given him. And this ain’t a request!” he yelled. “Make sure your father understands. Tell him I don’t care if he doesn’t open the door. If I don’t have my hundred dollars in my office by tomorrow, I’ll come for the two of you and break some bones.”
Kowalski signaled the goon again, who shoved Jack toward the door. Then they turned and disappeared into the rain.
Jack straightened his torn raincoat. He’d have liked to have told the landlord just what he thought of him and his family, but everyone in the neighborhood knew that Kowalski’s men were always packing heat. He brushed the dust from his hat and climbed the stairs to the apartment. The steps creaked. When he arrived, he went to speak to his father to find out what was going on. Seeing him, Solomon grumbled. “You’re making a face. What, they didn’t pay you today?”
Solomon always asked the same question. Jack ignored him.
“I bumped into the landlord downstairs.”
“You did? The bastard tried to come in here, but I didn’t open the door. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that lowlife in.”
“Why does he swear that we owe him a hundred bucks?”
“What? How should I know? You know that bigmouth, always talking garbage.” He looked away. Then he headed toward the kitchen and grabbed a bourbon bottle.
“Father!” Jack persisted.
“He swears . . . He swears . . . I’ll pay him! Haven’t I spent my whole life paying my way?”
“What do you mean you’ll pay him? What happened to the money I’ve been giving you for the rent?”
Solomon, gripping the whiskey, fell silent. Slowly, he put the bottle down on the table and lowered his head. Jack couldn’t believe what his father was confessing with his silence.
“You’ve g-g-got to be kidding me. Tell me it’s not true,” he stammered.
“Didn’t you hear me, damn it? I told you I’ll pay him!”
Suddenly, Jack felt a stab of terror. He turned and ran to the sideboard in the kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out a small cigar box, praying to God that he was wrong. But when he lifted the lid, his suspicions were confirmed. He waved the empty box in front of his father’s face.
“Where’s Mother’s bracelet? What have you done with it?”
“Do you not have eyes in that head? It’s not there,” he muttered. Then he slumped into a chair.
Jack threw the box to the floor. He had an unstoppable desire to punch the person who’d pissed away their last flicker of hope. For a moment, he felt sorry for his father, but the prospect of finding himself out on the street hardened his heart. He looked around the apartment in desperation.
“All right. We’ll sell the menorah. It’s solid bronze; perhaps the shylock who bought our other belongings will give us enough for it to keep Kowalski off our backs until—”
“Never! I’ll sooner sell my soul!” Solomon roared, standing between Jack and the candelabrum.
He said it with such feeling that Jack was certain that he’d make good on his threat. Even so, he tried to make his father reconsider.
“Those men aren’t joking. If we don’t pay them, they’ll throw us on the street with our legs busted into more pieces than we can count.”
“I said no! Do you hear me? Sell whatever you want. The tables. The chairs. The shoes. But don’t even think about touching my menorah, or I swear on your mother’s memory I’ll make you regret it.”
Jack clenched his teeth. He wouldn’t even get three dollars for all the junk his father mentioned. He tried to reassure him, promising him that hocking the menorah would only be a temporary measure, and that they’d get it back when he’d found a decent job.
“And when will that happen?” Solomon replied, beside himself. “Since you got back from Detroit with your tail between your legs, you’ve been talking big about finding a job, but the best you’ve come up with is changing a few tires at some dump of a repair shop.”
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d used up all of his savings to look after his father, and this was the thanks he got for it. Even so, he tried to keep his cool.
“Let’s leave it for now. We can talk later, when you’re sober.”
“No, we’ll talk now! I don’t need a clear head to know who’s to blame for all of this,” Solomon went on. “You and your delusions of grandeur! If you’d stayed at the shoe store, none of this would’ve happened.”