Billy Straight

59

I just got out of the bathroom. That's where I ran after I stopped crying. When I came out, I almost hoped Sam wasn't there, but he was shining the silver charity bottle with a corner of his jacket. My eyes were dry. I felt I was walking through a bad dream.

“You got a few hours till they show up to pray tonight,” he said, still polishing.

I sat down again and thought. No ideas came. The walkway, all those people, now it seemed like a haunted place.

I couldn't see any other way out, so I agreed to go to Sam's house. “But not during the day, I don't want anyone to see me.”

“That's a little difficult, Bill. People start showing up before dark. And I have to be here to run things.”

The way we finally work it out is: At six o'clock, he'll come back with some dinner and sneak me into his car. I'll hide there while the Jews are praying, in the backseat, covered by the blankets.

“How long do you pray?”

“An hour, give or take. I stay late to clean up. When the coast is clear, I'll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it,” he says. “Just take care of yourself.” Then he laughs. “Who am I to tell you that? You been taking care of yourself fine.”