In reflection, He goes to take His from the shelf, the smallest of them all at rest upon the highest. Just about to reach, there’s again that announcing flurry, a ring of fingers many and funning: dingdong the knockknock of a little fisty joke.
Ben makes His way from the kitchen, past the dishwasher running bum chug and warm, the dryingracks, then the toaster and the breadbin; ignoring the workers as they’re ignoring Him, as they’ve been ordered, not to speak, avert their eyes and mouth — how they’re behind schedule, everything took longer than expected, the plumbing, the wiring, you’re not the only one with problems. Him to stop, too, alongside the pantry, which is having its door hinged on screws gone stripped to nails: with Him old enough already to have favorites, they’re all already stocked, cereal flakes sogproofed, puffed rice and sugared wheat boxed nicely neat, nutritious; a worker’s hauling in the fridge, the upstairs unit, with another following him with two troughs of what was in it, should be still; photographs depicting their arrangements on the shelves mounted due diligence in an album lying open on the stovetop. Milk went bad. And so to mother another carton one percent. He makes His way around the recessed table: salt, pepper, then the holder which sister — Isa, Asa — had made for napkins, baked from the clay from which we all are formed: a worker walks over, around Him, and unobtrusively grabs a handful from a bag, arranges them white and fanned as Ben turns into the hall to the front, finally opens the door unlocked.
The alarm’s been reinstalled but not yet set.
And there beyond the mat that says Shalom, streaming down the stoop and out into the lawn’s snow disturbed only by their shuffling, waiting nervously after their sure troop up the path as if they’re nearly adjusted already, they’re having to be — to the Island, their new boots just broken in and the weather that’s flogging, the death and its memory’s enslavement — there’s a cluster of boys, the oldest of the group of 12-&-unders, about to become barmitzvah, sons of the commandments, give them time. They’ve been woken only to be rescheduled, assembled, then remanded this morning to welcome — they’re dressed appropriately, be sure of that; each of them holds a metal glint, a shovel or a spade.
One of them, he’s the smallest, the littlest of them all with it makes sense the largest, roundest head: he heads the group, his hands in mittens in his pockets, that head a conceit beaked freakishly high…you haven’t been introduced yet, my apologies — then the rest still massing impatiently behind him, so many now, it seems that they’re thousands and more seething from slat to slate up through His frontyard from the fence and its tiny sidewalk strip, the slabs poured only yesterday and already frozen dry: boys uniformed in thick down coats and woolen hats, mittens, gloves, and scarves — they’re here to pay a courtesy call, we were just in the neighborhood.
From them that smallest one steps forward onto the mat, wipes his feet, shakes from himself the fallen snow.
He offers out his mitten with a smile — and Ben, He can’t help it, grips and pumps.
Shalom, he says.
What I mean is, good morning.
Behind him, the boys jape quietly to themselves but together it’s a roar, an avalanche. And soon, they’re heeling up the snow and hissing smoke…yelling Over here louder, each time more willful, dropping flies and pants and pissing from their snips their names and other cursive curses into the whiteness underfoot: the culprits are soon smacked down with shovels to collapse, to make their angels in the day’s light, young and yellow; others, they’re tossing balls and sledding on their shovels back down toward the fence, through its opened gate and further sloping over asphalt toward the Great Halclass="underline" a few snowballs hit the siding, spangle windows, around the opened door, and the kid still standing there turns from Ben, glares back at his friends with a yarny finger to his lips, shrieks for quiet, silence; almost immediately, they all turn whispering and sullen mulling: their faces redden, nip blushed, though that might only be the cold. Another moment stilled, and one taller, skinnier kid, him more mature than the others, or only more obeying, respectful of authority, it’s said, or only open to suggestion, he sighs and with its coughing end kicks his shovel down. At this, they all fall in, arrange themselves and with only scattered moans and demonstrative grunts stoop to their first load, tossing the snow to the lawn’s edges, over the picketfence the length of half a block and off the curb, begin their disordered clearing.
I’m Adam, the kid begins again, turning and straining up to face His lean against the scrollmarked jamb, Adam Steinstein…your name I already know, who doesn’t — Israelien, it’s nice to meet you.
Ben waves him come in, come in, what else to do…it’s the birthright of Hanna’s hospitality, an apology for the mess inherited — He leads him inside, asking feel like a bite of brunch?
Thoughtful but no.
Just dropping by to check in, Steinstein begins babbling, how you’re getting along…as if he’s trying to remember how he is himself — that’s wonderful, everything to your liking, and my what a beautiful robe…from down the block, you know, I’m new in town and yadda; it’s painful, this kid trying so hard, and why. Help me out, Ben, I’m supposed to be your friend. He follows Him in through the hall past the coatcloset, then to the kitchen’s nook, the table where Hanna had always received her guests informal, though today more like sloppy, slobby, filthing; them taking their seats opposite each other, across the round — the kid’s still in his coat and boots, has tracked in dirty snow over the mat without wiping, then over the tile to melt the frozen mud in tiny prints, where’s Wanda?
Your friend, Steinstein says again, yours: they asked me to be, last night, then they told me to be, I admit it, damn it…I can’t keep secrets, especially from you — we can’t have any secrets from each other, we’re supposed to be too close. They said: make nice, find out what He likes, baseball, chess, what have you…and as Steinstein talks he takes from a pocket of his pants a fold of shredded white, then removes the lick of paper inside, lays it on the table. Ben scratches Himself in the crotch. Says Steinstein, I’m no good at this, no good…they slipped me an envelope, under my pillow while I was out yesterday at meals. And then a note atop the pillow. It said, check under your pillow. Thanks, I thought, I did. I found this and opened it, no choice. Neither do you, while I’m at it. And I’m curious, no aveyra. I’m no expert at opening envelopes…I don’t unseal, I rip, I tear. Excitable, I guess. I’m not proud. It’s a check. For services rendered. Pay to the order of, it says, zero zero over a hundred and signed…but what I want to know is, how the hell am I supposed to cash it?
Steinstein is small and smart and healthily pale, with a ready receptivity and openness as if the whole world’s his for the having.
Tell me, what are you into, what’s your thing, relevant hobbies, interests, sports and girls, your shteyger…he’s innocent, inexperienced, all that recommends if you’re into it, the openfaced, the openpalmed, have mercy. Quick and happy to be in a house again after a week or so spent bunked. How old are you, and what grade are you in…what’s on teevee, have you recently taken any vacations whether alone or with the family? I’m lonely myself, I miss my mother. Steinstein, where He’d heard that name before He can’t recall…almost impossible that He could’ve, He thinks, as he’s Texas, Steinstein says, and as to exactly where within that enormity he says to everyone from Houston by which everyone should understand a exurb thereof, safe and removed and he knows it, too. Faroff, ranging. In his eyes, which are full plate round, as if headlights, or like those of the wildlife his father’s truck would hit and run and kilclass="underline" the guileless, alienlike eyes of a boy who’s been allowed to develop an interest in anything, who’s been always encouraged, supported with hugs, kisses, and creditcard, clubbed silver, gold, sky’s limit. His mouth and ears are open only to the speaking and hearing of his own. And his skin, the skin of a boy who’s spent his entire short life inside. Amid the airconditioned. Here, the heating’s pulsing, coming steaming up from baseboard. They sit close to one another with the napkins in the middle and the salt and pepper shakers and the check. Their intimacy the immediate brotherhood bond of the fortunate, that of those bred to be mutually understood, understandable to one another and, also, to their God. It’s obvious, pitifully, that nothing’s ever been denied him, not even his dissatisfaction, not even the forthcoming brag: I’ve never wanted, how I’ve been totally without need until now. Nothing denied him, that is, with the exception of the darkness: the community of those who hate even their own conspiracies of hating, with their Development plans sixmillionpointed, both bulleted and less violently conspired — from lynch murder on down to forbidding you the favor of their sisters. All mostly memory, though, a telling: how my grandfather had found it difficult to find a house, a store; they’d burn crosses on his lawn and pinch his wife. As Steinstein talks, Ben less listens than stares at his teeth, it’s impossible not to: those white perfect drops of bone, like mints to sweeten the tongue and breath. And with his hair perfectly styled, slicked. His nails, pared round, refined. It’s envy, a jealousy they both understand, an animal covet: as Ben’s so obviously special, to Steinstein then to others more powerful than him what with their governments and money. Despite their mutual birthright, because for however short the kid had had a life. What’s it been, thirteen years. And Ben, born only weeks ago. A family loving, or if not that then living, even if Steinstein’s parents had been divorced and his sister she’d married Baptist. Possessions he could break. Relationships and shtum. Steinstein had had other friends before.