“Well,” the cashier said dubiously, “all right.” She took the bill and pushed some buttons on her machine, and his change came clattering down the chute, a dime, a nickel, two quarters. She opened the cash drawer and handed him three dollar bills. He pocketed the entire amount, smiled at her again, and then walked out into the street. He had three dollars and sixty-five cents; he was still rich. He began walking.
The feeling of dread started almost immediately, and he did not know what caused it until he realized he was on 92nd Street and Broadway, and that the grocery store he had worked in when he was sixteen was on the next corner. He wanted to turn back, run to Schwartz’s cafeteria, tell the cashier it was all right for Schwartz to pick up the tab, and then seek out Schwartz and talk to him some more, tell him he did not mind about him and Gloria, after all Gloria was a woman more Schwartz’s age, he understood, it was all right. But his legs kept moving him toward 91st Street, and the feeling of dread mounted. All he had to do, he knew, was walk into the grocery store and ask the owner who he was, I worked for you when I was sixteen, don’t you remember? I dropped a carton of eggs. You made me pay for them. Remember me? And the owner would look at him over the rims of his glasses, and he would nod vaguely, and then smile dimly, and then say, Why sure, I remember you. You’re
I don’t want to know, he thought. I don’t want to know, you hear me? I don’t want to know!
He walked toward 91st Street.
He knew he would go into the grocery store and ask his questions.
4
It seemed not to have changed at all.
It was on the same corner, the windows stacked high with canned goods, the two grocery wagons on the sidewalk, the bicycle with its basket parked in the rack. The doors to the basement were open wide, and a seventeen-year-old boy in a white grocer’s apron was on the sidewalk, sweeping. Buddwing supposed it was eight o’clock or a little after, and then remembered that his long-ago working day had begun at eight and ended at six. He walked into the store.
There were no customers. He supposed it was too early in the morning for that. He looked toward the rear of the store and immediately saw the refrigerator, and remembered again the time he had dropped the eggs, and then a voice on his right said, “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
He did not want to turn for a moment. He kept staring at the glass-fronted refrigerator case and remembering the broken eggs, and then he sighed, and turned, and walked toward the counter. The man behind the counter was perhaps Buddwing’s age, with black hair and deep brown eyes. Buddwing knew at once he was not the owner of the store, and this strengthened his desire to get out of here. If the owner wasn’t around, well then, the hell with it. He had tried, hadn’t he?
“I’d like to talk to the owner,” he heard himself saying.
“I’m the owner,” the man behind the counter said.
Buddwing looked him over carefully. “I used to work here,” he said. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe twenty years ago.”
“Yes?” the man said, waiting.
“The owner wore eyeglasses. He was an older man.”
“Mr. Di Palermo, yes,” the man said.
“Yes. Yes, that was his name.” Buddwing paused. “Where is he?”
“He’s dead,” the man behind the counter said. “He’s been dead, oh, five, six years.”
His first reaction was one of soaring joy; the old man was dead, good! And then he felt immediate guilt, as though he were somehow responsible for Di Palermo’s death, having wished it so often and so fervently in the past. He was sure both his joy and his guilt were showing on his face. He cleared his throat.
“And you own the store now?” he asked.
“Yes. I bought it from his widow.”
“I see.”
“Yes.” The owner hesitated. “Was there anything I could do for you?”
“I don’t think so. I wanted to see Mr. Di Palermo, but I guess that’s impossible now.”
“Yes, that would be impossible,” the owner agreed.
“You wouldn’t have his records or anything, would you?”
“His what?”
“Records. You know, maybe his Social Security records or something. You wouldn’t have them filed anywhere, would you? The names of people who worked for him? Anything like that?”
“Do you mean from twenty years ago?”
“Well, yes,” Buddwing said.
“No, I wouldn’t have any of his records,” the owner said mildly.
“I see. Well, then...” Buddwing shrugged. “I guess that’s that.” He smiled and looked around. “The place hasn’t changed much.” He paused. “How much do you pay your delivery boy?”
“What?” the owner said.
“Your del—”
“Well, I... I really don’t think that’s any of your concern.”
“I guess not. Well, thank you,” Buddwing said cheerfully, and he waved at the man and walked outside. The seventeen-year-old kid was still sweeping the sidewalk. Buddwing watched him for several moments, remembering himself in the same white apron, sweeping the same damn sidewalk, and then he walked over to the boy.
“Hi,” he said.
The boy looked up, startled. “Hi,” he said cautiously.
“Are you the delivery boy?”
“Why?” the boy asked.
“I used to deliver groceries here,” Buddwing said, smiling. “When I was your age, more or less.”
“Yeah?” the boy said.
“Yes.” Buddwing kept smiling. “I used to get twenty-two dollars a week.” He paused. “How much do you get?”
The boy kept studying him suspiciously. “I pay my taxes,” he said at last. “Both Federal and state.”
“No, no,” Buddwing said, “listen, I’m sure you pay your taxes. Why wouldn’t you pay your taxes?”
“Well, a lot of kids with odd jobs, they figure nobody’s going to know the difference,” the boy said.
“You think I’m an internal revenue agent, is that it?” Buddwing asked, amused.
“I don’t know what you are.”
“Neither do I,” Buddwing said cheerfully. “How much do you get a week?”
“Anyway, it’s deducted. I mean, the boss deducts it even before I get my check.”
“Certainly,” Buddwing said. “That would seem to be the proper procedure.”
“It is,” the boy said firmly.
“So how much do you get?”
“Before taxes, you mean?”
“Yes, before taxes.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I think the man I used to work for was cheating me. There used to be a different owner here. I think twenty-two dollars a week was very little for the job. Don’t you?”
“Well, the dollar isn’t worth as much today, you know.”
“That’s true. I still think twenty-two dollars was pretty cheap. For the amount of work involved.”
“I get fifty,” the boy said. “That’s before taxes.”
“That’s very good,” Buddwing said. “Fifty.”
“Which makes it about right, doesn’t it? The dollar’s worth about half now, isn’t it? I mean, you must be forty or so, so if you worked here when you were my age...” The boy did some mental arithmetic. “Hell, that was even before the war!” he said, astonished.
“Yes, it was,” Buddwing answered. Forty, he thought. He says I must be about forty. The man in the mirror had not looked that old. “Well, thanks a lot,” he said. “I appreciate your telling me.”
“I got to admit,” the boy said.
“Yes?”
“Twenty-two bucks does sound a bit cheap.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought. Well...” He shrugged. “So long.”
He walked away from the boy and the store, filled with a righteous anger that was very satisfying. He seemed content to learn that he had indeed been cheated those many years ago, and he wondered why he had never come back to the store before this to discover the exact extent of Di Palermo’s thievery. He felt vindicated now for his own petty thefts, the drinking of all that soda pop, the stealing of the cigarettes. He had simply been taking, in merchandise, what he should have been receiving in cash. And he was glad Di Palermo was dead. Glad because the old man had been a rotten thieving crook, and also glad because now Di Palermo could not tell him who