The 1st Deadly Sin

6

Bernard Gilbert took life seriously-and he had a right to be mournful. Orphaned at an early age he had been schlepped around from uncle to aunt, cousin to cousin, six months at each, and always assured that the food he was eating, his bed, his clothes-all this came from the labor of his benefactors, at their expense.

At the age of eight he was shining shoes on the street, then delivering for a delly, then waiting on table, then selling little pieces of cloth, then bookkeeper in a third-rate novelty store.

And all the time going to school, studying, reading books. All joylessly. Sometimes, when he had saved enough money, he went to a woman. That, too, was joyless. What could he do?

Through high school, two miserable years in the army, City College, always working, sleeping four or five hours a night, studying, reading, making loans and paying them back, not really thinking of why? but obeying an instinct he could not deny. And suddenly, there he was, Bernard Gilbert, C.P.A., in a new black suit, a hard worker who was good with numbers. This was a life?

There was a spine in him. Hard work didn’t daunt him, and when he had to, he grovelled and shrugged it away. Much man. Not a swaggering, hairy-chested conqueror, but a survivor. A special kind of bravery; hope never died.

It came in his 32nd year when a distant cousin unexpectedly invited him for dinner. And there was Monica. “Monica, I’d like you to make the acquaintance of Bernard Gilbert. He’s a C.P.A.”

And so they were married, and his life began. Happy? You wouldn’t believe! God said, “Bernie, I’ve been shitting on you for 32 years. You can take it, and it’s time you deserve a break. Enjoy, kid, enjoy!”

First of all, there was Monica. Not beautiful, but handsome and strong. Another hard worker. They laughed in bed. Then came the two children, Mary and Sylvia. Beautiful girls! And healthy, thank God. The apartment wasn’t much, but it was home. Home! His home, with wife and children. They all laughed.

The bad memories faded. It all went away: the cruelties, the hand-me-down clothes, the insults and crawling. He began, just began, to understand joy. It was a gift, and he cherished it. Bernard Gilbert: a melancholy man with sunken cheeks always in need of a shave, stooped shoulders, puzzled eyes, thinning hair, a scrawny frame: a man who, if he had his life to live over again, would have been a violinist. Well…

He had a good job with a large firm of accountants where his worth was recognized. In the last few years he had started to moon-light, doing the tax returns of self-employed people like doctors, dentists, architects, artists, writers. He made certain his employers knew about it; they didn’t object, since he was doing it on his own time and it didn’t conflict with their own commercial accounts.

His private business grew. It was hard, putting in an eight-hour day and then coming home for another two- to four-hours’ work. But he talked it over with Monica-he talked everything over with Monica-and they agreed that if he stuck to it, maybe within five to ten years he might be able to cut loose and start his own business. It was possible. So Monica took a course in accounting, studied at home, and after awhile she could help him at night, in addition to cooking and cleaning and taking care of Mary and Sylvia. They were both hard workers, but they never thought of it, would have been surprised if someone had told them they worked hard. What else?

So there they were in a third-floor walk-up on East 84th Street. It wasn’t a fancy apartment, but Monica had painted it nice, and there were two bedrooms and a big kitchen where Monica made matzoh brie like he couldn’t believe, it was so good, and a record player with all of Isaac Stern’s recordings, and a card table where he could work. It wasn’t luxury, he acknowledged, but he wasn’t ashamed of it, and sometimes they had friends or neighbors in and laughed. Sometimes they even went out to eat, with the children, at an expensive restaurant, and were very solemn, giggling inside.

But the best times were when he and Monica would finish their night’s work, and would sit on the couch, after midnight, the children asleep, and they just were there, listening to Vivaldi turned down low, just together. He would have worked his ass off for the rest of his life for moments like that. And when Monica brushed her lips across his sunken cheek…Oh!

He was thinking of moments like that when he got off the First Avenue bus. It wasn’t even midnight. Well, maybe a little later. He had been downtown, working on the books of a medical clinic. It was a possible new account, a good one and a big one. The meeting with the doctors had taken longer than he had expected. Patiently he explained to them what the tax laws said they could do and what they could not do. He felt he had impressed them. They said they’d discuss it and let him know within a week. He felt good about it, but resolved not to be too optimistic when he discussed it with Monica. In case…

He turned into his own block. It had not yet been equipped with the new street lights, and far ahead, in the gloom, he saw a man walking toward him. Naturally, he was alerted-at that hour, in this city. But as they drew closer he saw the other man was about his age, well-dressed, coat flapping wide. He was striding along jauntily, left hand in his pocket, right arm swinging free.

They came close. Bernard Gilbert saw the other man was staring at him. But he was smiling. Gilbert smiled in return. Obviously the man lived in the neighborhood and wanted to be friendly. Gilbert decided he would say, “Good-evening.”

They were two steps apart, and he had said, “Good-” when the man’s right hand darted beneath the open flap of his coat and came out with something with a handle, something with a point, something that gleamed even in the dull street light.

Bernard Gilbert never did say, “-evening.” He knew he halted and drew back. But the thing was in the air, swinging down. He tried to lift a defending arm, but it was too heavy. He saw the man’s face, handsome and tender, and there was no hate there, nor madness, but a kind of ardor. Something struck high on Bernard Gilbert’s forehead, slamming him down, and he knew he was falling, felt the crash of sidewalk against his back, wondered what had happened to his newfound joy, and heard God say, “Okay, Bernie, enough’s enough.”