Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale Part 3

"What're you looking at?" she asked.

"Nothing really, just this store here."

From the corner of his eye he noticed a woman in a tight black dress and dirty blond wig approach Bones. The woman moved clumsily. Her dress was scanty, revealing plenty of cleavage and leg, and hung from one shoulder.

Joshua signaled Celeste to be quiet. She sensed something was wrong and stood still. He took her hand, and held it tight as he watched the woman hand something to Bones. Bones, in turn, placed something in the woman's hand, and looked around to make sure no one was watching.

Joshua understood that the woman was one of Big Bob's working girls, a drug addicted hooker delivering money to her pimp and supplier. It was hard for him to imagine that he had once, not so long ago, been a part of all this. He stood frozen, afraid to move, grasping Celeste's hand. He needed to think quickly, and the only idea he could come up with seemed a bad one.

The woman walked off, but it wasn't a few seconds before another woman approached. A similar transaction. Bones was having a profitable day.

"I'm real thirsty," Joshua said softly. It was the truth. He and Celeste had walked over a mile, and the heat was unbearable. He was also trying to get her into the store, figuring that once inside, they would have some time to come up with a plan. The only problem was that the store had its own dangers.

The man behind the counter was attending to another customer and didn't notice them. It was a small store with only three aisles of goods and a cooler in the back. Joshua led Celeste down the last aisle to the cooler.

"You been in here before?" she asked.

"I've been lots of places."

"I bet you have. I bet you been places and done things I ain't never dreamed of."

"Here," he said, handing her a Pepsi. He took another for himself. "Come on, lets go," he continued, gesturing towards the counter in the front of the store. He was desperately trying to devise a plan to get them home.

Celeste followed him to the counter as the front door to the store opened and Bones walked in. Joshua could have kicked himself a thousand times. He knew it was a bad idea to have entered the store to begin with; at least on the street there were places to run. And how could he have been so stupid, choosing one of Big Bob's fronts as a place to hide? He grabbed Celeste, turned around, and hid his face as Bones sauntered in their direction. Celeste stood stiffly by his side. Bones came closer, and pa.s.sed by, ignoring them, continuing on toward a metal door in the rear of the store. He pressed a buzzer, and a slot opened in the top of the door. A pair of eyes appeared, and a voice asked, "That you Bones?"

"No, it's the f.u.c.king tooth fairy," Bones replied, his voice deep and raspy. The door opened just enough to let him slip in, then closed behind him.

"What was that all about?" Celeste whispered.

"Nothing you wanna know," Joshua said. They needed to get outside and make a run for it, but there was still one more obstacle: the old man behind the counter. Joshua's only hope was that the old man, who had a famously feeble mind, wouldn't remember him.

The old man was alone. He looked at Joshua and Celeste as they approached. A smile came to his face.

"Well, well, well," the old man roared, "look what we have here." His eyes fixed on Joshua. "It's been a long time, Peanut. A lo-ng time."

"Yes, Mr. Powell, it has," Joshua responded, his voice trembling. He knew about the buzzer under the counter, but the old man's hands were still in sight.

Powell was tall, well built, and had a full head of frizzy gray hair. Bloodshot eyes. Slurred speech. And a twitch on the left side of his face. The way Joshua had heard it, he was in a drunken brawl over some woman back in the forties and had gotten hit in the head one time too many. Now, he managed this store, and served as a look-out for the boys in the back.

"Where you been hiding?" Powell asked as Joshua handed him a quarter for the sodas.

"Here and there," Joshua answered, trying to appear undaunted. Powell was always a little slow, and Joshua was banking on that.

"Big Bob know you back?"

"Big Bob knows everything that goes on, don't he?"

"He know what folks tell him." Doubting.

"Well then, I guess someone best tell him. I suppose maybe that someone's gonna be you." Powell's hands were still visible. "If you give me a pen and paper, I'll write down where Big Bob can find me, in case he's gotta job for me." Joshua was hoping to distract Powell into looking for something to write with, so Celeste and he could dash out. It worked. The instant Powell turned around to find a pad, Joshua grabbed Celeste and bolted out the door.

They ran just about all the way home. Celeste, surprisingly, followed without uttering a word, until they crossed Eastern Parkway and finally stopped to rest.

"What was that about?" she asked, catching her breath between words.

"It's a long story."

"I like long stories."

He looked at her, and decided to tell her. She listened attentively, mesmerized, her eyes aglow with interest as he shared it all, the sordid details of his past, the five hundred dollars now hidden behind the mirror in his room, everything. He went on for more than a half hour, and she was wordless the entire time. It became apparent to her how much he'd risked by taking her there, and that the only reason he'd done it was because she had wanted it. She took his hand, pulled him closer to her, and embraced him. She kissed him softly on the cheek. He felt a bit embarra.s.sed, standing there, on an open street corner, that way. But he didn't mind.

CHAPTER 6.

Paul Sims lay in bed, tossing and turning, trying desperately to fall asleep. Thoughts raced through his mind as they did every night, about home, school, and life in general. Always unhappy thoughts. He could hear some late movie blaring on the TV in the bedroom down the hall where his mother was fast asleep, alone as usual.

That d.a.m.ned, f.u.c.king television!

He always blamed her television for his insomnia. Once, he actually dared to walk into her room and turn it off, only to catch h.e.l.l the next morning. He never tried that again. Now, he just lay there, night after night, wondering how he could just make everything go away.

About twenty miles away, Alfred Sims was walking through one of his properties, a building across the street from Lincoln Terrace Park in Crown Heights. Every month he personally appeared at the doors of his tenants' homes to collect the rent. Some of the other landlords still did the same, but most had recently delegated the task to their supers. It wasn't safe anymore; the neighborhood was changing.

But Alfred wasn't changing, not as far as this particular building was concerned. He wasn't ready to give up his only excuse to drop in on the exotic Loretta Eubanks, his wife's "loyal" housekeeper.

Since moving to Crown Heights, Loretta had finally accepted his offer to take care of their son, Joshua. It was the least he could do, she reasoned, after she'd spent nine years struggling.

He always made her his last stop, thereby insuring that little Joshua was asleep. He hadn't seen Joshua since the boy was an infant, another thing he didn't want to change. Luckily, Joshua was a sound sleeper, once he hit the pillow, nothing-save an explosion of his mother's wrath-could awaken him.

Lately, however, Loretta had been snubbing Alfred. She loathed his disregard for Joshua, and frowned upon his visits to her home. She was unafraid of losing her job. In that, she knew she was secure.

Her resistance only made Alfred want her more. He continued to visit, but usually ended up leaving frustrated. Tonight, he knew, would be no different. But he still had to see her. He just couldn't help himself.

The next morning, as usual, Loretta Eubanks arrived at seven-thirty, in time to prepare breakfast for Alfred and Paul. Evelyn slept late; she never got up before ten.

Alfred typically ate alone and was out of the house by eight, before Paul came down. But today things were different. Alfred had overslept-those late nights were taking their toll-and wound up breakfasting with his son. It was quiet at the table. Loretta was accustomed to handling Alfred in one way, and Paul in another. Her discomfort was evident from her silence.

"How are those Bar Mitzvah lessons coming along?" Alfred asked, as he lifted an eye over the daily newspaper.

"Okay, I guess."

"What does 'okay' mean?"

"Everything is fine," Paul said. "Rabbi Weissman thinks I'm doing well." He found his father's sudden interest in his Bar Mitzvah perplexing, especially over a plate of bacon and eggs.

"Well, I hope he's right," Alfred responded. "Those private lessons of yours are costing me a fortune."

Paul felt ashamed of what he was eating as the image of Rabbi Isaac Weissman, his Sunday-school teacher and private Bar Mitzvah tutor, came to mind. He pictured the rabbi's gentle face, soft and deeply set blue eyes, small-almost emaciated-body, and long scraggly beard. But most of all, he pictured the dark rings under the rabbi's eyes, the reminder that Rabbi Weissman was a kindred spirit in the struggle for sleep. In fact, when Paul had confided in the rabbi about his own sleep problems, the rabbi had responded with a wide smile, suggesting, "Vhy not spend that time studying? It's quiet late at night, good for your concentration."

Paul found Rabbi Weissman easy to talk with, and always sympathetic; beyond that, he had a sense that the rabbi understood anguish in a way that few men could. During the summer, the rabbi frequently rolled up his sleeves, and Paul would glimpse the number on his left arm. Paul had learned about the concentration camps in school, and had chosen not to ask the rabbi for specifics. It was a wise choice, for this was a subject the rabbi never discussed.

The private lessons were actually the rabbi's idea. He had been Paul's teacher in Sunday School for two years, had noticed the boy's interest in Judaism, and had brought it to the attention of Alfred and Evelyn, who were both bewildered as to how their son came to care about such things. Alfred had minimal interest in Judaism and, in fact, had worked hard at putting that part of his life behind him. True, he wanted Paul to do well at his Bar Mitzvah, and had therefore agreed to the private lessons, but that had nothing to do with religion. If he and Evelyn were ever in agreement on anything, it was that they didn't want some Hasidic rabbi from Brooklyn, who comes out to the suburbs once a week for extra money, converting their son to the "old ways." After the Bar Mitzvah, the rabbi would be gone.

Paul was silent. The Bar Mitzvah was just three weeks away, and he was suspicious of his parents' plans for the rabbi once it was all done.

Alfred returned to his paper. He had spoken his piece. Loretta observed them from the corner of her eye as she busied herself with the pots and pans. She wouldn't have to fix breakfast for the lady of the house; all Evelyn ever had in the morning was a cup of coffee.

A few moments later Alfred left for work, while Paul sat there, playing with the food on his plate. Loretta watched him for a moment, then said, "He's real hard on you sometimes."

"How can you tell?" Sarcasm.

She walked over to the table and sat herself across from him. She often sat with Paul when it was just the two of them. He didn't mind; she was his friend.

"Your father always wants what he wants, and there's no stopping him once he makes up his mind. I think you can be stubborn too, you know," she said.

"I suppose."

"He just wants you to be the best, and he knows you can be."

Paul nodded, but-in truth-he couldn't see why Loretta had such a flattering perception of him.

"Seems silly, though, his worrying about your Bar Mitzvah, don't it? You're a smart boy, and you're always working hard and studying. There's no need for him to be worrying."

Paul was pensive for a moment. "I suppose I should get going," he said, eyeing the clock on the wall.

"Yes, you should."

They both stood up, and Loretta walked over to him. She put her hands on his shoulders, looked him in the eye, and added, "You know, you can always talk to me if you need."

"I know."

She wanted to hug him, but stopped herself. She used to caress him all the time when he was younger, but hadn't in many years. The same for Joshua. She missed those days, but she understood that boys do eventually have to become men, a thought that left her sad and empty.

It was just a few minutes before noon and Dr. Harold Goldman sat in his Hewlett Bay Academy office reviewing the file on his next client, Paul Sims. Remarkable, thought Goldman, a.s.sessing the boy's progress. Paul had first come to him over a year ago as a withdrawn, angry kid, refusing to talk about anything. The school had insisted on the treatment, if Paul was to remain enrolled. An embarra.s.sment for Alfred and Evelyn, but by that time they had no choice.

Paul had no choice either, and he never stopped reminding Goldman of his resentment at having been forced to see the school-shrink every week. He even resisted small talk. Goldman would say, for example, "Did you do anything interesting this weekend?" And Paul would respond, "What business is it of yours what I did this weekend?" Goldman would respond, "Just trying to make conversation," and Paul would retort, "Well, why don't you make it with someone else?" Goldman knew that Paul's anger was really meant for his father. "Transference" was the technical term.

Sometimes, Paul was mute for an entire session. Goldman would attempt a few openers, but usually ended up staring at the walls or twiddling his thumbs. But he never gave up on Paul and never became exasperated. And in the end, his tenacity paid off.

At about the same time that Paul started his Bar Mitzvah lessons with Rabbi Weissman. his hostility began to wane, but he still took every opportunity to cancel, come late, or simply forget appointments. Then, gradually, his attendance improved and he began talking. Soon, they were exploring substantive issues, like how Paul felt about the way his parents treated him, or the way they treated one another. Goldman had felt uneasy with the summer break, but was glad that Paul would still be studying regularly with the rabbi. Not therapy, he thought, but somehow therapeutic. Now, with the start of the new school year, Paul had resumed his weekly visits to the psychologist's office, and was embarking on the most painful course of all-how he felt about himself. Their first session went overtime, and Paul had requested an additional visit for that week.

Goldman closed the file, somewhat amazed but mostly humbled. He had originally seen this young man as destined for a difficult, sad life. Now, who could tell what the cards held for Paul Sims? Such transformations were rare in Harold Goldman's business.

Paul knocked on the door at exactly noon. Goldman opened the door as Paul entered and took his usual seat.

Although the Hewlett Bay Academy was a wealthy school, counseling services were not a budgetary priority. Goldman's office was a simple, unadorned room, inst.i.tutional in character. Pale green linoleum, off-white walls, a few pictures of nature scenes, a gun-metal desk, and a single bookcase filled with psychology texts. Goldman sat in a swivel chair, and behind him were a pair of windows covered by dusty venetian blinds turned open to expose a view of the parking lot. Protruding from the bottom of one of those windows was the office's sole luxury: a rickety old air conditioner with a broken thermostat that was permanently set at high. On hot days such as this, it was either bake or freeze. Goldman chose the latter.

There was a brief silence in the room. Goldman looked at Paul curiously; he always waited for his patients to initiate.

"It's a pretty hot day out there," Paul said.

"You asked for an extra session to discuss the weather?" Goldman wasn't one to waste time on niceties.

"Well, actually... yes, in a way."

Goldman waited for more.

"It's the heat, you see. It's been bothering me a lot lately," Paul explained.

"How do you mean?"

"I'm always hot, no matter where I am. I seem to sweat all the time."

Goldman saw that Paul was indeed sweating, despite the frigid office. "Sounds to me like it's not the weather that's bothering you," he observed.

"Then what is it?"

"I would guess, from knowing you, that you're experiencing a great deal of anxiety."

"Anxiety?" There was a short silence, while Paul considered this. "Why do you think I'm having anxiety?"

"You tell me!"

"My Bar Mitzvah?"

"Possibly." Goldman pondered for a moment, and said, "Do you have any other thoughts on what you might be anxious about?"

"Well..." Paul stopped himself, without revealing what he was thinking. "No, that's not it."

"Why don't you say what just came to mind, and we'll see how irrelevant it is," Goldman suggested.

"I was just thinking about a conversation I had with my father this morning. It was nothing, really. He was complaining, as usual, about how much money he's been spending on my lessons with the rabbi, that's all."

"That's all?"

"Do you think there's something to that?"

"What do you think? The thought came into your mind, didn't it?"

Paul considered Goldman's point. He wasn't worried about the Bar Mitzvah per se, he was more than amply prepared for that. Not only had he had the advantage of private tutoring, but he'd also had extra time to prepare. His thirteenth birthday had actually been in the beginning of August and, as with many summer birthdays, his Bar Mitzvah was postponed until September so friends and family who were away for the summer wouldn't miss it. For him, it really made no difference. He had no friends and couldn't care less about his family. For his father, who was planning the most lavish bash ever seen this side of Canarsie, it made all the difference in the world.

"So it has something to do with the rabbi?" Paul asked.

"Possibly." Goldman was noncommittal, not because he didn't know what was bothering Paul, but because he wanted Paul to uncover these things himself.