Snow in August

12

Michael ran through the winter darkness down Kelly Street. His head was full of Prague and the Golem and the spires of distant cathedrals. Men moved through fog. Rats scurried in tunnels. Stones turned into roses. Love caused rage. He wondered who was wandering the streets of Prague at that very moment, and who was in the Old-New Synagogue, and whether the remains of the Golem were safe in their small, ancient coffin. He wondered about the magic words of the Kabbalah and the secret name of God.

And then, as he reached the dark alley that ran behind the Venus movie house, something hit him in the back and he was grabbed and spun and slammed against a wall.

Frankie McCarthy was an inch from his face in the darkness. He was so close that Michael could smell sour beer.

“Hello, Mr. altar boy,” Frankie said. “How’s the little Kike-lover?”

Michael shuddered and said nothing.

“You were wit’ that beard a long time, weren’t you? What’s that all about?”

“I’m helping him learn English,” Michael murmured.

“Oh, you’re a teacher now? I’m freezin’ my ass off waitin’ to talk to you, and you’re a fuckin’ teacher?”

Frankie lit a cigarette, grinning in the glow of the match. Then he stepped to the side, whirled suddenly, and slapped Michael hard in the face. The boy’s ears rang. His face burned.

“You wouldn’t teach that Yid anything he shouldn’t know, would you, boy? I mean, you wouldn’t, like, teach him about what happened to Mister G, would you?”

“No.”

“But I hear you had some visitors, up your house,” Frankie said. “I hear the bulls came to see you and stood there a long time. You didn’t happen to teach them anything, did you, teacher?”

“No.”

“How come I don’t believe you, teach? How come I think you could be a perfect fuckin’ canary?”

“The cops came to the house. My mother made them leave. I didn’t say anything to them about anything.”

Suddenly Frankie’s hand came up and a four-inch blade snapped out at the touch of a button.

“You better not, boy. You better not say nothin’ to nobody. Not to that old Hebe up the block. Not to no priest. Not to your mother. Definitely not to the fuckin’ cops. You do? Something bad happens to me? I pay back. That’s what Frankie McCarthy does. Frankie McCarthy pays back. I know where you live. So does every one of the Falcons. I know where your mother works.”

Leave her out of this, prick, Michael thought, but said nothing. Frankie smiled in a mirthless way. Then he closed the knife.

“You remember that, teach,” he said. “You remember what could happen, you teach the wrong shit.”

He flipped his cigarette butt into the alley, then turned and walked slowly to the corner. Michael reached for the wall and steadied himself. His heart was thumping. He watched Frankie McCarthy cross Ellison Avenue and push through the steamed-over glass door of the Star Pool Room.

“You prick,” Michael said out loud, using all those words he’d heard on the streets and almost never used. “You fucking shithead. You cocksucker.”

All the way home, he wished he could summon the Golem.