And I filched: a veritable gamut of dainties: a small can of fancy salmon in the pocket of my mackinaw, foil-coated wedges of Gruyère cheese, prudently distributed about my person. Eggs. During the era when the “Great Engineer,” Herbert Hoover, administered the program of economic relief for Europe, and the “high cost of living” was on everyone’s tongue, eggs were $1.20 per dozen. I brought an egg home in each pocket whenever I chose, at reasonable intervals. “Oy gevald, goniff, you’ll be caught!” was Mom’s permissive remonstrance. And sugar: The staple had become so scarce that Park & Tilford allowed only a half pound per order per customer. Not only did I purloin half-pound bags for domestic consumption, but I even made a deal with the Jewish ticket agent on the downtown side of the Lenox Avenue and 125th Street IRT subway station (which I used several times a week, and was given ten cents’ carfare to do so): a half-pound of sugar in exchange for free admission to the subway platform. It’s a wonder I wasn’t caught. But I wasn’t.
Luck held up marvelously until one afternoon when I suffered so painful an experience, it seemed to warn me of worse to come if I didn’t mend my ways (I didn’t; I just modified them slightly in the direction of greater caution). With Mr. Klein on the sidewalk, tallying incoming freight, and Harvey, the porter upstairs, attending to his duties, I sneaked over to the unlocked dairy icebox, where I had spotted earlier a freshly breached wheel of Swiss cheese. Beside it rested the broad cheese-knife. Stealthily, with eyes fixed on the stairs, ears cocked for an approaching tread, I proceeded to widen slightly the angle already cut out of the cheese. Unfortunately, I failed to notice which edge of the knife was against the cheese and which edge against my thumb, the thumb I was pressing so impetuously against the knife.
A moment later I knew only too acutely which edge was where. Blood was spurting profusely from the semisevered thumb. It was as if the cheese had reversed roles and sliced me! In panic, I dropped the knife and fled the scene — and then realized I had left the icebox shelf sprinkled with blood. And the Swiss cheese as well! And the knife too! I dashed back, dabbed frantically at the incriminating evidence but only succeeded in smearing it around. I rushed to the toilet, unreeled yards of toilet paper, and with handkerchief wrapped around my thumb to absorb if not staunch the bleeding, I soaked the toilet paper to a pulpy sponge under the faucet of the utility sink, wiped, mopped, wiped, got fresh sheets, wiped and blotted, expecting any second Mr. Klein or Harvey might come down, or worse still, Mr. MacAlaney, the assistant manager, to assemble a steamer basket. No one came down. Somehow I managed to remove all traces of telltale gore from everything, and doing all this with one hand, because the thumb of the other still dripped. I would bear the scar across my thumb for the rest of my life.
I rewound the handkerchief over sheets of toilet paper, tried to expose only the least bloody area, with not too much success, and secured the bulge of bandage with a dozen or more loops of twine from the big reel of twine on the zinc shipping table. The whole thing looked and felt like an idiot’s prosthesis, about as inconspicuous as a small bedroll.
Mr. Klein and Harvey came down together, Harvey with a dustpan full of broken glass embedded in mayonnaise.
“What’s with your hand?” Mr. Klein asked.
“I caught it on a broken — I mean a broken piece of glass.”
“Where?”
“In the trashcan. I went to stuff some wrapping paper in it.”
Harvey regarded me narrowly and walked off.
“You look like you got a hemorrhage,” said Mr. Klein. “You better go upstairs to Mr. Stiles. He’s got all that stuff for cuts in the cabinet. Maybe you need a couple of stitches. Maybe you should go to a doctor. Let’s see it.”
“Nah, it’s nothing.”
“Let’s see it. It could be something you could get blood-poisoning from.”
“Nah.”
“The store’ll pay for it. They’re insured. What’s the matter with you? They got doctors for that.”
“Nah. I’m all right.”
“Don’t blame nobody but yourself then. Boy, bist dee a yold—you know what a yold is? How’re you gonna peck a big besket of groceries with a hend like thet?”
“I can do it. I still got my other hand.”
“If you start to bleed on the peckeges from groceries, I’m sending you up to Mr. Stiles. You’re goin’ home.”
So. . the old man writing. . too imbued with literary irony to allow of self-pity, literary irony he loved so well; the old man scrivening to ward off time, while his wife in her turquoise bathrobe stands at the kitchen sink doing dishes. Recollections formed so long ago become discreet, immutable.
XII
I sit in Murphy’s truck, parked in front of a drab six-story walkup in the Bronx. An hour passes, an hour and a half. A shy young boy comes out of the doorway bearing a big wedge of coconut cream pie — for me. The boy goes back into the house; I gobble up the pie. After another interval, Murphy appears — curiously content in manner, curiously amiable. After the day’s deliveries have all been done, my full day’s work on Saturday is over. Murphy drives back to the garage, letting me off at West 119th Street. Sunday the store is closed. When I report for work the following Monday afternoon, I am interrogated by Mr. Klein: “Murphy keep you waiting outside that apartment house?” And at my vacant nod, he grins — so does Harvey; so does everyone else within hearing.
Why do Quinn and his helper, Tommy, watch me with such amusement when I sop up all the gravy around my roast beef sandwich with fresh slices of bread? They eat only one slice of bread throughout a meal; they use it as a backstop; their plates are piled high with corned beef and cabbage or baked Virginia ham and boiled potato. And the burly Irish waiter in his white apron, his shoes planted in the thick sawdust on the floor, smiles too. It is my first meal in a diner, my first conscious acceptance of a nonkosher meal. .
And now I stand emptying a burlap sack of fragrant coffee beans into the black, lacquered bin with the gold lettering that spells MOCHA; while on the other side of the counter, the well-bred lady and gentleman, seated there on the revolving stools, watch me. And in a self-conscious moment, my grip on the sack slackens; it slips from my grasp: Coffee beans patter on the floor. “Well, I got most of ’em in anyway,” I remark extenuatingly. How merry and spontaneous their laughter.
And now with a steamer basket under my arm, I walk uncertainly on the deck of an ocean liner moored to her pier on the North River, a Cunarder, engines slowly, distantly throbbing, the deck agog with passengers, their friends and well-wishers. All are bundled in wool and fur against the cold, brisk wind blowing off the river. White jacketed stewards dart in and out of the doorways of lounge and salon. Directed by a crewman, I find my way to the Purser’s Office and wait there, trying to make up my mind to knock on the door but hoping someone will come out and obviate the necessity of my doing so. Ship personnel pass me, entering and leaving. And finally, in his navy-blue uniform, the Purser (I am sure) charges out of the door with harried countenance and voice raised in irritation: “Who is this man? Where is he?” He speaks a different kind of English from that I’m accustomed to.