Buddwing

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

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

Well, I really must find out who I am, he thought.

He tried to tell himself that the relief he now felt was simply caused by the absence of Di Palermo, admitting that he had always been somewhat frightened of the old man. The relief had nothing to do with the fact that Di Palermo, now dead and gone, could not possibly identify him. And anyway, he reasoned, even if he were alive, would he really know who I am? He knew a skinny sixteen-year-old kid who came to work bleary-eyed each morning, who shoved that broom around the sidewalk until it was time to begin deliveries, Apartment 4A, 2117 Riverside Drive, a shudder went up his spine.

I don’t know that apartment, he thought.

I’m glad you’re dead, he thought.

I’m glad I broke your lousy

The boy on roller skates came down the sidewalk at a furious rate of speed. Buddwing heard the familiar grating sound of worn wheels against pavement, and looked up just as the boy approached him. He tried to sidestep, but the boy swerved at about the same moment, so that the two came together in a curiously clumsy embrace, each trying to support the other, losing the battle and clattering to the sidewalk in a scramble of arms and legs and flying skates. There was a brief silence, and then Buddwing sat up and looked at the boy. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” the boy said. He was about nine years old, a blond kid with blue eyes. He was wearing short pants and a striped T shirt. One skate had come loose from his foot, dangling there from the strap. He did not examine himself for cuts or bruises — his knees were scabby and scraped and black-and-blue from previous accidents — but instead immediately looked at the dangling skate, and said, “Oh, hell, it opened again.”

“Your skate?” Buddwing asked.

“Yeah.” The boy got to his feet and, on the one skate still operative, skated over to the curb. He promptly sat again, removed the dangling skate from his right foot, and reached into his pocket for a skate key. Buddwing walked over to the curb and sat beside the boy.

“You know how to fix it?” he asked.

“Sure,” the boy said. “Only thing is the nut is stuck.”

“You want some help?”

“I can do it myself,” the boy said. He shoved both parts of the skate back to the proper size, and then fitted the skate key to the nut on the underside. “The thing keeps opening,” he said. “That’s pretty dangerous, you know. You could hurt yourself if you’re going very fast and your skate opens.”

“How fast do you go?” Buddwing asked.

“Oh, I guess about twenty m.p.h.,” the boy answered. “You see what I mean? The nut is stuck, that’s why I can’t tighten it. I think it’s rusty or something.”

“Do you want me to try it?” Buddwing said.

“Well, you can if you want to, but it’s rusty, all right. Here.” He handed Buddwing the skate and the skate key. “You live in this neighborhood?” he asked.

“No,” Buddwing said.

“I didn’t think I saw you around.” He watched as Buddwing struggled with the nut on the bottom of the skate. “It’s rusty, ain’t it?” he said.

“It sure is.”

“Yeah, I told you. Where do you live?”

“Oh, another part of the city,” Buddwing said.

“Pretty nice there?”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Buddwing said.

“You got a playground there?”

“Yes.”

“We got one here, too,” the boy said. “You busy or anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Pete is sick, he’s my best friend. I thought maybe if you weren’t doing anything, we could take a walk over to the playground. It’s only a few blocks.” The boy shrugged.

“Sure, I’d like to,” Buddwing said.

“I mean, with that lousy rusty nut, I can’t skate any more, anyway. That ever happen to your skates?”

“It used to,” Buddwing answered.

“Yeah? How’d you fix it?”

“Well, I mean it used to happen when I had skates.”

“Did you lose them or something?”

“No. I just outgrew them.”

“Oh.” The boy nodded. “You ought to get a new pair.” He took the skate from his left foot, and said, “I just want to put these in the hallway,” rose immediately, and ran into a building two doors up. Buddwing waited on the sidewalk. In a few moments, the boy returned. “Okay,” he said, and began walking. Buddwing fell in beside him.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked.

“Sam Buddwing.”

“I’m Eric Michael Knowles,” the boy said.

“Glad to know you, Eric.”

“Have you got a middle name?”

“No,” Buddwing said.

“Well, that’s all right,” Eric said. “Pete’s middle name is Farley. The thing about him, though, is he always gets sick on weekends. That makes it rough, you know. He’s got a lot of toys. Sonar Sub Hunt, and Stratego, that’s a game, and a skeet shoot, and even a set of H-O tanks.”

“Of H-O what?”

“Tanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Buddwing said, and Eric laughed immediately.

“You want to hear a dirty joke?” he asked.

“Sure,” Buddwing said.

“A boy fell in the mud,” Eric said. Buddwing laughed, and Eric watched him curiously for a second, and then laughed with him. “That’s really a very old one,” he said. “Do you get it?”

“Sure,” Buddwing said.

“What is it?”

“Well, a boy fell in the mud.”

“Yeah, but what’s so funny about that?”

“Well, you asked me if I wanted to hear a dirty joke.”

“Yeah, I know.” Eric paused. “What’s a dirty joke?”

“Well...” Buddwing hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

“Then why is it funny?”

“Well, I guess a boy falling in the mud is pretty funny.” Buddwing said.

“Yeah, and pretty dirty, too.” He shrugged. He looked at Buddwing shrewdly and then said, “It’s a good thing the army’s got those things that can go through the mud, ain’t it?”

“What things?” Buddwing asked.

“You know. Those big metal things with treads on them.”

“Tanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Eric said at once, and then burst out laughing. “You’re welcome,” he repeated, almost under his breath, as though savoring the joke a second time, and storing it in his memory. “The playground is up there, near the Drive,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

“I thought you didn’t live around here.”

“I don’t. But I know where the playground is.”

“It’s a pretty corny playground,” Eric said. “You want to walk by the river instead?”

“Okay.”

“I’m not allowed to walk by the river because you have to cross the parkway, and also a kid drowned there last summer.”

“Well, I’m allowed to,” Buddwing said.

“Then I guess it’s okay, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“I always wanted to throw stones in the river. Do they arrest you if you throw stones in the river?”

“I don’t see why they should.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

“Okay.”

They walked in silence to Riverside Drive and then into the park and past the playground and over to the path bordering the Henry Hudson Parkway. An iron railing separated the path from the grassy slope that led to the road below. They climbed the railing and then waited for a break in the traffic and ran across the parkway to the grass on the river’s edge. Buddwing could see the cliffs of New Jersey on the opposite shore, and uptown the double-decked span of the Washington Bridge. A squadron of destroyers was moored mid-river. He could hear the loudspeaker on one of the destroyers calling the men to their work stations. There was no mist now. The destroyers bobbed lazily in sharp gray silhouette. The sky above the Jersey shore was clear and blue.

“What kind of boats are those?” Eric asked.

“Destroyers.”

“Wow,” Eric said, and then made a hissing sound. “I’ll bet I can hit one with a stone.”

“Go ahead. Try.”

Eric searched in the grass, found a stone, and then pulled back his arm and hurled with all his strength. The stone fell into the water some ten yards away. “A little short,” he said. He paused thoughtfully. “Do you ever wish you were really strong?” he asked. “I mean, really, really strong? The strongest man in the world?”

“Yes, I do sometimes,” Buddwing said.

“I’ll bet Superman could hit one of those boats with a stone.”

“I’ll bet he could.”

“If he threw a stone,” Eric said, “it would have so much force, it would probably put a hole in the boat, don’t you think?”

“I guess it would.”

“Well, sure, he can jump over buildings and everything.” Eric paused. “How does he do that, anyway? Jump over the buildings?”

“He gives a mighty leap.”

“I don’t know, it just seems funny to me that he can jump over buildings. And fly around in the air. I mean, even if he’s very strong, how does that make it he can fly in the air and go jumping over buildings? I don’t get that at all. Do you get that?”

“I guess he flexes his muscles or something.”

“Yeah, but he ain’t got wings, hasn’t. So I don’t see how he can fly.” Eric shook his head. “What would you do if you were the strongest man in the world?”

“I’d do what Superman does. I’d use my strength for good.”

“Yeah, me too,” Eric said dubiously. He hesitated. “Though, maybe sometimes, I’d also, well, do a couple of bad things.” He hesitated again. “Would you?”

“Maybe, but not very often.”

“Oh, no, not very often. Just once in a while. What did you say your name was?”

“Sam.”

“But no middle name.”

“No.”

“Do you think Superman is real?” Eric asked.

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Well, I guess I’d think he was real if he didn’t fly in the air and go jumping over buildings. I don’t know, that makes him seem not real to me. Doesn’t it make you feel that way?”

“I guess so. I don’t really see how he can fly or jump over buildings,” Buddwing said.

“Sure, that’s impossible.”

They walked in silence for a while. The day was warm, the air was balmy, the sky was blue. Upriver, he could hear the sudden sharp blast of a tugboat’s horn.

“Do you know what I want to be someday?” Eric asked.

“No, what?”

“A garbage man.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because they get to collect all kinds of things. You know how much stuff people throw out? Boy, you’d be surprised! Also, I like the smell of garbage.”

“Do you really?”

“Yeah. I like the smell of gasoline best, but garbage I like next. It’s got a good smell. Not like gasoline, but different. Those garbage men wear uniforms like army guys, too, did you ever notice that?”

“Yes, that’s right. They do.”

“Sure. How much do garbage men make?”

“A pretty good salary,” Buddwing said.

“A hundred dollars?” Eric asked.

“A week, do you mean?”

“No, not a week,” Eric said. “A hundred a week? Oh, no. I meant, well, I don’t know, how much do you think they make?”

“I guess about a hundred a week, or maybe a little more.” Buddwing paused. “Plus all they can eat.”

“What do you mean? All they can...” and then Eric burst into delighted laughter. “Garbage, you mean?” He laughed again. “Who would want to eat garbage?” he said, and shoved out at Buddwing playfully, and laughed again.

Out on the river, the destroyers began piping the men to quarters for muster. The high shrill bosun’s whistle cut the air, traveled to the shore.

“I can whistle almost like that,” Buddwing said.

“So can I,” Eric answered.

“I mean, without a whistle.”

“So can I,” Eric said.

“I mean loud.”

“What do you mean?”

Buddwing drew his lips inward, folding them in over his teeth, placing his tongue behind them. He forced air into the cleft, and an ear-shattering, piercing whistle came from his mouth.

“Wow!” Eric said. “How do you do that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Teach me how to do it,” Eric said.

He spent the next fifteen minutes trying to teach Eric the new whistle. At the end of that time, Eric had succeeded only in producing a gravelly mixture of forced breath and saliva. Exhausted, they lay back on the grass at the river’s edge and watched the water traffic. Occasionally, one or the other of them spoke, but for the most part they were silent. Eric fidgeted a lot, moving his hands or his feet, or working his mouth, but he seemed content to sit by the river watching the tugs and the smaller craft, and an excursion boat that moved smoothly past, and a tanker that appeared from nowhere, huge and black, with strange foreign markings on its hull. A dazzling parade of clouds marched solemnly over the brow of the Jersey shore, steadily and slowly pushed across the sky by gentle winds, clean and white, gleaming with captured sunlight. The breeze was balmy. It caressed Buddwing’s cheek, gently riffled his hair. He almost dozed.

He drew himself back to the edge of consciousness. Fear suddenly crowded into his mind, and with it the same premonition of shock he had felt when leaving Gloria’s apartment. He sat up abruptly. Eric was sitting beside him, his arms clasped about his knees, looking out over the water. He turned.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Eric said.

“Almost,” Buddwing answered. He wiped his hand over his face. The fear would not leave him. “Are you ever frightened?” he asked.

“Sure,” Eric said.

“What frightens you?”

“Dracula,” Eric said. “I saw him on television. Boy, he’s a real scary guy.”

“I mean, do real things frighten you?”

“Well, he’s real, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s made up,” Buddwing said.

Eric shook his head. “No, he’s real,” he insisted. “I saw him. He’s a real person. I mean it. It wasn’t a cartoon or anything, Sam. He was real.”

“But that was an actor,” Buddwing said. “Bela Lugosi.”

“No, it was Dracula. That was his name. Dracula. He was a vampire.”

“Yes, I know who you mean.”

“Then you saw him, too?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Well, was he real or wasn’t he? You saw him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I saw him.”

“Well?”

“He was real,” Buddwing admitted.

“Sure,” Eric said. He paused. “Are you scared now?” he asked.

“A little.”

“What of? Dracula?”

“No. Not Dracula.”

“I get scared just talking about him,” Eric said. He shuddered. “Well, what are you scared of, if not him?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s no ghosts, you know,” Eric said. “Mommy told me that.”

“I know there aren’t.”

“There aren’t, are there?” he asked doubtfully.

“No. No ghosts.”

“Or monsters either?”

“No. No monsters either.”

“Then what are you scared of?” Eric asked.

“Nothing,” Buddwing said, and he smiled. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He rose and extended his hand to Eric. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

“Why?”

“Well, we can’t sit here all day.”

“Why not?”

“There are things to do,” Buddwing said.

“We are doing things,” Eric replied.

“I know. I meant...”

“Don’t you like it here?” Eric asked.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Buddwing said, and there was an oddly wistful note in his voice.

“Then stay.”

“No, I...” He looked at Eric’s face, the wide-open blue eyes, the plaintive mouth, and very gently he said, “You see, I lost something, Eric. And I have to find it.”

“What did you lose?”

“Myself,” he said.

Eric studied him for a moment, the blue eyes solemn, not sure whether this was another joke or not. And then he broke into cautious laughter and began walking up toward the highway with Buddwing. “How can you lose yourself?” he asked. “That’s impossible.”

“I don’t know how,” Buddwing said, smiling, “but I seem to have managed it.”

“Well, who are you, then?” Eric asked. “If you lost yourself, then who are you, huh?”

“Well, that’s what I have to find out, you see.”

They paused at the highway’s edge, waiting for a lull in the traffic. They crossed then, and again climbed the iron railing and walked up the steep grassy bank to the path. As they climbed the white steps near the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument, Eric asked, “What do you get if you find it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Yourself, I mean. If you find yourself, what will you get? Is there a reward?”

“Oh, certainly,” Buddwing said.

“How much?”

“Three cents and a collar button.”

Eric laughed.

“And also a used peach pit,” Buddwing added.

“What can you do with a used peach pit?” Eric asked, still laughing.

“You can make a peach-pit ring out of it,” Buddwing said. “Don’t you know how to make a peach-pit ring?”

They were coming up 90th Street now, walking toward West End Avenue. The sun slanted through the canyon ahead of them, dazzling in its brilliance. They walked in deep shade, but the sun was ahead of them, a bright dagger-shaped wedge of light, capping the buildings.

“No, I don’t,” Eric said. “Will you show me how to make one?”

“Too early,” Buddwing said. “Peaches aren’t in season yet.”

“When are they in season?”

“During the summer.”

“Will you show me how to make one in the summer? If I don’t go to camp?”

“If you don’t go to camp,” Buddwing promised, “I will show you how to make a peach-pit ring in the summer.”

“You think we’ll still be friends this summer?” Eric asked.

“I hope so.”

“I do, too. You’re a nice kid,” Eric said.

He looked at Eric, and for a moment his eyes filled with tears. He blinked them back. “Thank you, Eric,” he said. “You’re a nice kid, too.”

They had reached Broadway. They stopped on the corner where they had met.

“Well, I’ll see you,” Eric said.

“You bet.”

“You won’t forget my name, now, will you? Eric Michael Knowles.”

“I won’t.”

“Or the peach-pit ring?”

“No, I won’t forget.”

“Okay, Sam,” Eric said, grinning. Then he winked and said, “I’ll see you, huh?” and went into his building.

The shock was waiting at the next corner.