Snow in August

33

After an early dinner, Michael went to his room, the window open to the humid August evening. He could wait no longer. Now he must do something. To save the life of Rabbi Hirsch. To make somebody pay for all the blood. He watched from the fire escape as his mother moved quickly along Ellison Avenue to the Grandview; from that height, she looked small and vulnerable. Before she left, he had heard her voice, bright and charged with hope, as she described the apartment she’d found in Sunset Park, a place with a garden, where she could grow geraniums and roses. He had heard her say that she’d already talked to the manager at the Grandview, explaining some of what had happened, and he understood why she wanted to move and would try to help her transfer to an RKO theater in Bay Ridge. He’d heard all that; heard her say she was sure she could borrow the money from the Dime Savings Bank to pay for the moving expenses.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” she had said. “There’s a sickness here and we have to escape it.”

But he kept thinking of Rabbi Hirsch in the gutter, and the Falcons grabbing them in the street that night, and his crutches being smashed and Skids tearing her blouse and Tippy reaching under her skirt. She spoke of packing dishes and hiring movers, and Michael saw Frankie McCarthy raising the cash register in the air over the fallen Mister G. She talked about leaving in ten days, so he’d be eligible for the Catholic school in Bay Ridge; he flashed on Frankie McCarthy’s knife in the chilly darkness of the alley behind the Venus. He thought about the lost summer too, and his lost friends, while Kate tried to put the best face on moving.

“You’ve never lived anywhere else,” she said, “and maybe that’s not such a good thing.”

Not true, he thought. I’ve lived in Prague. I’ve moved through fog-bound streets and secret tunnels, seen two-headed alligators and unicorns, watched angels carry palaces from distant cities. I’ve seen cathedral spires rise in the air like rockets. I’ve seen rocks turn into roses.

Then she asked him who, after all, he would really miss in the parish, and he said: “Rabbi Hirsch. He’s my only friend.”

“Well, we’re not going to California,” she said. “You can visit him. He can visit us.”

And he thought: Not if Frankie McCarthy takes over the parish. Not if Rabbi Hirsch dies.

He waited until it was dark and then locked the door behind him. He went up to the roof and crossed the length of the block on the rooftops to the open door of 290 Pearse Street. Then, silent in his sneakers, he tiptoed down the stairs of that building to the vestibule. When he was sure nobody was watching, he darted into the street. His leg felt stronger now. Hugging the walls, ducking into doorways, trying to remember 13 Rue Madeleine, he moved along Ellison Avenue to the hospital. When he passed bars, he turned his head away, afraid of being spotted by friends of the Falcons. His body felt as clenched as a fist. I’m a spy, he thought. A spy in my own country.

The bright, clean lobby of Brooklyn Wesleyan was crowded with visitors. About a dozen waited on line at a desk for passes, but he didn’t bother trying to get one; they’d just say no. Then he saw the janitor from the parkside. His black face was shiny with sweat or fever, and he was standing in his striped overalls at the door marked Admissions. Nobody bothered talking to him. One nurse came out and beckoned a woman who was standing behind the janitor. It was as if he were invisible, and Michael remembered the way Jackie Robinson stood by himself on the dugout steps on that glorious day at Ebbets Field.

When a crowd of visitors started into an elevator, he joined them. They were carrying flowers or ice cream or books. Most looked concerned, but one beefy man acted like a department store elevator operator: “Fifth floor, ladies lingerie, household goods, rubber ducks…” He broke the tension. Three older women laughed. Michael wished he could laugh too, as he got off with a few others on the seventh floor.

He found Rabbi Hirsch in room 709.

He was lying in a murky darkness, and Michael could barely recognize him. There were heavy bandages around his skull. His face was swollen and distorted. His lower lip was split, and there was a blackness where his teeth used to be. One of his arms was encased in plaster from fingers to shoulder. There were tubes dripping fluid into his other arm. His eyes were swollen and shut. He had taken a terrible beating.

Michael thought: Never again.

He leaned close to the man’s right ear.

“Rabbi Hirsch,” he whispered, “it’s me. Michael Devlin.”

The rabbi’s eyes fluttered and then opened slightly.

“Michael,” he said. He breathed heavily and tried to smile. “Boychik.”

The eyelids closed, as if exhausted by the effort. Michael held the rabbi’s cold hand.

“Go away,” the rabbi croaked. “It’s not safe.”

“I know,” Michael said. “But we have to do something. We can’t let them win.”

He told the rabbi what he knew and what had happened to him and his mother and what was coming. He told him about the gun. He told him what Frankie McCarthy was planning for the synagogue. He told him that Father Heaney was gone to South America and Charlie Senator had moved away. He told the rabbi all this without knowing if the rabbi heard him. The man’s eyes remained closed, his battered face unmoving. His breathing was pained and shallow. For a moment, Michael considered calling a nurse, even if she made him leave. Then the rabbi’s eyes opened and he looked directly at Michael.

“We have to do something,” Michael said.

The rabbi’s expression said: Such as what?

Michael leaned even closer to the rabbi’s ear.

“Tell me the secret name of God,” Michael whispered.

The rabbi’s eyes widened.