In the Night Café Read Free

one called out to her. She could have been a stranger or a ghost or someone who was not there at all. She was just canceled out like a dead person.
    Tommy Murphy, playing ball in the middle of the street, was surprised to find his mother calling him. “Tommy, let’s walk down to the candy store, you and me, and get ice cream.” Her voice wobbled, honey-sweet the way it never was. He stopped playing and ran over to her, and she said in the same new, funny voice, “Now dear, you wheel baby.” Spots of red burned in her cheeks. His mother looked dead ahead as they walked past all the silent women, and her fingers pressed hard into the back of his neck.
    He remembered it because that was about the only time he ever thought Marie had forgiven him for coming into the world. He’d always remember pushing the baby carriage across Mapes Avenue in a daze of joy, wondering if she’d be taking him to the candy store from now on.

2
    S OONER OR LATER you’d get to a certain story.
    â€œNow listen, this is a really good one. Did I ever tell you how I sold my mother out for two ball bearings? You’ll like this. It’s got the right elements.”
    But it never did you any good to tell it.
    The boy in this story of yours was seven or eight. Not smart yet, you said. This kid would still believe anything. One day he came home from school and his stepfather Frank was waiting for him. Frank had been drinking. He said, “Come up on the roof with me. I’m going to give you a present.” The kid fell for it, though Frank had never given him a thing up to that time.
    The roof was covered with deep snow, absolutely smooth—not a single footprint in it. No one went up there in winter.
    â€œWhat do you think of these?” Frank said, and he opened up his fist. In the palm of his hand were two very small metal balls.
    He made them roll around so they clicked against each other; they had a mysterious heaviness. Frank told him what they were. Ball bearings like these were very hard to come by, he said, solemnly belching. He kept rolling them around as he leaned against the blackened bricks of a chimney.
    The ball bearings had a dull, pleasing luster. They seemed to possess infinite value. To be offered them was obviously some tremendous thing. The boy had never before imagined that he might occupy any more space in Frank’s mind than a chair that was sometimes in the way and had to be kicked aside.
    Finally he said, “Can I hold them, Frank?”
    At that Frank closed up his fist. “Not so fast. You do something for me and I’ll do something for you.”
    The kid thought maybe Frank needed help that day shoveling snow, but that wasn’t what Frank wanted. Sweat broke out on his heavy red face. He started talking about killing someone he called the Italian, choking him with his bare hands in front of all his customers. He only wanted to know if something he had reason to believe about Marie and this Italian was true, so he wouldn’t be laying down his life for nothing.
    Grabbing the boy by the collar of his jacket, Frank shouted, “You’d better tell me what you know. Don’t cover up—or I’ll leave you up here all night and lock the door!”
    The boy started crying because he didn’t know anything. How could he know what Frank wanted him to know?
    The Italian was a guy called Al who ran a butcher shop on Tremont Avenue with his brother. Marie bought all her meat from these brothers. Sometimes Marie would ask him to go to Al’s for her, and she’d give him a folded-up note telling Al what she wanted. Al had curly black hair and wore a stiff apron always smeared with blood. He whistled while he sawed up chops. After he’d wrapped them up in brown paper, he’d give the string a smart yank and bite the end off with his strong teeth. Al would unfold Marie’s note and read it carefully. Looking him in the eye, he’d say,