II
Question in his mind at the moment was whether to interlard his narrative with events of strong personal interest, or reserve the information for another, a separate vehicle (his handwriting, incidentally, was now reduced to near illegibility). Events of strong personal or immediate interest in one vehicle, and the autobiographic narrative in another, or both together, that was the question. It would simply be easier to do them together, or both on the same document. As a matter of fact, he had already begun to do so, or rather had already done so without preliminary statement, without preface. So. . even if not of greatest literary style, but more or less spontaneously, why not continue? It was more convenient.
He had called Jane over the weekend to find out her condition, mood and circumstances since her return to Toronto. He found her, according to her report, in fluctuating mood, and he again brought up the subject of the feasibility of her coming to Albuquerque. M protested that he wasn’t giving due consideration to the responsibility his apparent magnanimity incurred — and she had called to him sharply to terminate the long-distance conversation. He had answered that he had an ulterior motive in having Jane here, one that he thought could be of profit both to Jane and himself. In short, he thought he could guide her, with very little expenditure of time and effort since she was an experienced journalist, in the writing of something that, to put it bluntly, would sell. He saw a story with an unusual twist. And this, this hunch, if nothing else, because she was so intent on getting a copy of the one tape of their conversation that he had decided to retain (he promised to send it, and did).
Of further interest was her stating that listening to the other tapes made it clear to her that she had been repeating the same thing over again and been unable to understand what a rational solution of her plight required (something that M and Ira had also concluded).
So matters in barest outline ended, with Ira promising to find out more about immigration laws and chances of her obtaining residency here, and also — key question — what her own inclinations in this direction were. She still sounded uncertain.
In the meantime, two other matters of moment cropped up: one with his computer, old friend, Ecclesias, aggravatingly replicating the old saw: Abort. Ignore. Repeat. So that for the entire weekend he was without means of communicating — while the computer was being subject to diagnostic tests at Entre, the purchase place and, exasperation of exasperations, nought was found wrong with it or the software. Returning and reinstalling the device in his study, he changed surge suppressor, removed fluorescent lamp, tape recorder adapter, changed location of cordless phone — and, perhaps sole source of the malfunction perhaps not, closed the little gate before the drive port less gingerly, more aggressively. Fortunately (!), he was able to coerce his unwelcome idleness into filling out his income tax return, at least to within sight of completion.
In the meantime, on Tuesday, came a musician friend of M’s and freelance writer for the Albuquerque Journal, an oboist, Leslie H, together with her escort, John O, a tuba player, for the purpose of obtaining an autograph of Ira’s youthful novel (Leslie H having been discouraged from seeking an interview because of exaggerated rumors of Ira’s reclusiveness). Ira used the occasion of their visit to inquire about rooms, locations and rents — with Jane in mind — likely places to advertise for roommates, such as the UNM bulletin board; and in addition, to enlist Leslie H in assisting in Jane’s settling in Albuquerque, if so inclined. .
III
With graduation assured, with discipline relaxed, Ira’s class was left to its own devices, the individuals free to move around the classroom if they wished, free to talk. More than ever, the classroom seemed snug, sheltering them for a last time from the vicissitudes of a new stage in their lives, only hours away from beginning, the pragmatic and demanding outside world. Snow on the windowsills sealed up the cozy interiors of rows of wooden desks and slate blackboards, as if they were old dispensations, while the wooden clock above the blackboard ticked away the last minutes it would be in their view. No one misbehaved; misbehavior no longer seemed fitting, all but purposeless, when most of class would soon be on a par with the teacher in earning their own livelihood. Some read: reading material of their own choosing, books, magazines. As the genial homeroom teacher, Mr. Conway, suggested, some were engaged in writing a farewell letter of appreciation to Mr. O’Reilly; others sat in a circle around Mr. Conway discussing job opportunities and their ambitions. For some reason, when looking around the room, Ira’s throat became choked with unshed tears. Was it because he sensed the imminent, irreversible parting, not only of ways but of mind — of mind, of outlook? They were going to work, most of them; they were going to be shaped by concerns, by all kinds of aims and cares and activities from which he would be excluded, just as he was going to be shaped by those that would exclude them. Even though they and he might live on the same street, as some did right now, and see one another often, still they would be disparate forever. If they were different now, it was still only latent; they would differ soon, irrevocably. He made up his mind then and there not to attend the graduation exercises.
“Not even for me, for my sake?” Mom beseeched that evening. “That little crumb of comfort, my reward for these eight years of nurturing you, you would deny me? Why?”
“I don’t wanna go,” he said sullenly.
“You’re ashamed of your Jewish parents, is that the reason?”
He blustered: “Don’t bother me! There’s lots of other Jewish kids gonna be there.” (And yet he recognized that that, too, might be an unadmitted element of his refusal.) “I wanna go to work. Everybody else is going to work. Nearly everybody. They got jobs already.”
“Noo, wouldn’t that be better?” Pop looked up from Der Tag. “I ask you. The father may be a worker. The son not. Many and many a Jewish boy goes to work. How would it harm him? He could go nights to high school if he chose. That would be an upstanding son. He’d bring in his share of his keep. It would be easier for everyone. And you not? You’re beginning to snuffle about a Persian lamb coat. A great deal sooner you could save for it; how your hoard would grow if he went to work, no?”
“Go deep under the sod, both of you!” Mom bridled. “Whether I want a Persian lamb coat or not, he goes to high school!”
“Shoyn,” Pop baited. “She glowers.”
“And why shouldn’t I, when a father connives to have his son become a toiler, a turf-layer?” Mom retorted. And to Ira: “Becoming it would be, too, God forbid, that the earth close over you also for whom I wept and strove all these years.”
“I’ll get my diploma anyway!” Ira yelled. “I’m going back there next week to junior high.”
“Go. True son of mine you are, indeed.”
Cajoled by principal and teachers alike to enroll in the newly instituted commercial junior high school, those few of the class who did not go to work remained in P.S. 24, although the very few who insisted on attending a senior high school did so of their own choice. Graduates of other “grammar” schools in Harlem and its vicinity, lured by the prospect of learning shorthand, typing, bookkeeping by attending school only one more year, swelled the roster of the junior high. (For the first time, Ira saw black students in the classroom — subdued, self-effacing, but black!) He had always despised commercial courses, at least since becoming conscious, being made conscious by Gentiles and fellow Jews alike, that all Jews thought about was business: beezness.