A Long Island Story Read online

  Addie didn’t like this, not one little bit. Why renew interest in a failed project just when they were going to move house, and Ben would have the stress of studying for the Bar, and setting up a practice? It was . . . what was the right word? It was regressive.

  ‘Not good enough!’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘not quite that, but almost. Not good enough as it stands. And that is because it is a first draft, and though the writing is not bad – sometimes it’s quite good, you know – the architecture is wrong. And the voice. But I think, even after all these years, that I know how to fix it. It will involve some . . .’

  That ‘will involve’ was alarming. Very alarming.

  ‘You cannot tell me that you are going back to this unpublishable stuff now, in the midst of everything. Are you mad?’

  He offered a smile that was even more alarming.

  ‘I’m quite good at doing a lot of things at the same time. I can put things into categories, give them their due when they’re due, not let one thing slop over into another. I could do it if I wanted to enough . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me, please don’t tell me, that you are seriously considering this?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I decide,’ he said. ‘You’ll be the first to know.’

  He sat down, placed the folder in both hands, located the right page and cast his eyes down. He didn’t look up again for three hours, when dinner was ready.

  At the table he ate quickly and ravenously, having had nothing since a roll and coffee at the station in DC early that morning. He seemed, to Addie’s eyes, determined to keep his mouth full; the conversation flowed round him in a desultory way, relief that the heatwave might be ending, plans for the beach the next day, but he was unable to contribute, with a mouth full of chicken, or potatoes, cucumber salad, lima beans. A beer, swilling it down, virtually gargled, another beer. It was mildly disgusting, it was reprehensible. Addie knew the signs: when Ben was writing he ceased to talk, hardly responded to questions, abjured social and family life, woke in the night to make notes or clack away at the typewriter. Entirely self-absorbed, heedless, unreachable. Selfish. She knew what writing was, and what it did. Writing made you worse. It made Ben worse, it made her life worse. Writing stank.

  And she wasn’t having it, no, not now. Not anytime really. Rather be married to a lawyer even – bunch of paper-pushers and big liars, mouths for hire – than a goddamn writer. No, like it or not, Ben was a husband, and a father, he had responsibilities, and a family to take care of. She knew about writers, what they got up to and away with. Hemingway, Fitzgerald. Drinkers and fuckers. Even that creepy D.H. Lawrence (who was neither) ripping his pretty German wife away from her children, then sitting round kvetching and writing his stupid overheated books. Well, she was no Frieda Lawrence, big fat Kraut, and Ben was sure no DHL! It was time to take things in hand.

  Over lunch on the Saturday afternoon following Ben’s arrival, Maurice announced, with something of a mysterious air, that they would be going out to dinner. The children were both thrilled and puzzled.

  ‘Why?’ said Jake, who hated mysteries.

  ‘Where?’ asked Becca, who liked them, but not as much as she liked going to a restaurant. She adored menus, the longer the better. Would peruse every item, from appetisers to desserts, consider each, whether she liked it or not, before coming to a decision, which was quickly withdrawn, interrogated and eventually replaced with something else. It drove Jake crazy. Anyway, she usually ended up wanting whatever he wanted. Because if she ordered something else she would spend the whole meal regretting it, gazing at Jake’s meatloaf enviously. With ketchup!

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ said Maurice, making his biggest wink with his right eye, and a lesser but not negligible one with his left. He could wiggle his ears, too.

  ‘Where? Say where!’ said Becca. A Chinese restaurant was a dire possibility, she hated them, would only order spare ribs and rice, though she carefully considered everything from Moo Goo Gai Pan (horrible name! yuck!) to sweet and sour pork (no way!).

  Poppa paused for a moment. The kids leant forward. Ben and Addie looked on with a degree of interest, unable to work out the occasion. Perle was forbearing: she didn’t like eating from non-kosher kitchens, but would when it came to it.

  ‘I reserved a table at Linck’s,’ he said. ‘We need to leave by five-thirty.’

  The children were exultant, the adults rather puzzled.

  ‘How come, Poppa?’

  ‘What are we celebrating, Morrie?’

  He paused a little, gave a wry smile.

  ‘My semi-retirement,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to take it easy.’

  Addie and Perle looked worried, Ben bemused, the kids didn’t care.

  Linck’s! Linck’s Log Cabin! It was the best place, everyone loved it, the children for its setting by the pond and rustic feel, plus a menu that had everything on it; the grown-ups because the food was good, the ambience welcoming and the prices reasonable.

  Everything, anything you could possibly want? Jake winced, it would be intolerable waiting for his little sister to order. Maybe they ought to leave at five?

  Linck’s was not merely a local hotspot, people came from all over the Island. On the weekends there was a wait of over an hour for your table, but the cocktails were good, the waiters friendly and efficient. If you were a regular you were greeted by name and given a decent table away from the front desk, the kitchen or the toilets.

  Maurice even had a regular waiter, Angelo, who would rush over to greet him – Mr K! – as he entered, and make sure that he was well looked after. Apparently the old man went to Linck’s more than you would have supposed, or perhaps Angelo had an unusually retentive memory and found Maurice good company. They were like a party act together.

  Maurice always ordered the same thing, which wasn’t even on the menu, which made him feel special, and tickled Angelo because they had made it into a routine.

  After he had handed out the menus, and waited a very long time while the little girl agonised over her choices, he eventually put his pad in his left hand and a pencil in his right. He took the ladies’ orders first, then the children, who usually ordered the same thing, then Ben, whom he recognised with a formal nod, and finally Maurice, the climax of the whole show.

  ‘And you, Mr K?’

  ‘The usual! You know how I like it, Angelo!’

  ‘Fit for the garbage, Mr K!’

  ‘Fit for the garbage!’

  The reference was not to the calf’s liver, which was merely going to be well done, but to the accompanying onions – extra onions – which Maurice liked crispy black, calcified.

  ‘I don’t know how you can eat them, Mr K! Chef always wants to cook them normal like, and I stand over him, and every time he tries to lift up the frying pan, I ask him, “Are they fit for the garbage?” Not yet! He puts it back on! It breaks his heart!’

  Maurice never tired of the story of the grieving chef, to whom he once tried to offer his compliments, but he was apparently too busy. It was Linck’s, after all!

  Angelo was an Italian, the chef was called Mario, a few of the other waiters were Italians too. That was funny, because it wasn’t an Italian restaurant, just a normal one with normal food: turkey or chicken, and roast beef, steaks and lobsters, the best hamburgers on the Island. No garlic in sight or smell.

  Maurice looked round him and grimaced. He leant over and whispered to Ben, rubbing his nose. ‘Not long for the world, this place.’

  ‘Why? Is it in financial trouble? That would be hard to believe. It’s full all the time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Maurice, ‘lots of financial trouble, they can’t pay the vig, got to be looked after, and the owners refuse to pay up or to sell.’

  Vig? As in vigil? Vigilante? Vigilance?

  Maurice rubbed his nose again. ‘The vig? It means protection, protection money in case, God forbid, there should be an accident. I give it two years, maximum. It’ll burn down. Fit for the garba
ge!’

  Ben was both shocked and, to his dismay, rather impressed at the range of his father-in-law’s knowledge. But of what? Italians! Could it be – he searched for the appropriate Italian name, failed to find it – the Mafia?

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked quietly, but Maurice was already getting ready for yet another of his party tricks.

  ‘Who’s got a quarter?’ he asked, looking at the children.

  They didn’t, but he did.

  ‘You ready?’ he asked. ‘This one is going straight through the table!’ The kids had seen it all before, knew all his tricks and most of his routines, the onions, the quarter, the ashtray game. They never tired of any of them because Poppa Mo could make it exciting every time.

  He took the quarter in his right hand and placed his fist in the middle of the table.

  Leaning forward, he put his left arm under the table, ready to receive the miraculous transfer. He pushed his right fist, wriggled it about, made a moaning noise, pressed it again.

  ‘Let us see, Grandpa!’ said Jake, excited in spite of himself. ‘Show us!’

  Maurice lifted his left hand from under the table, opened his fingers. There was nothing in it, no quarter, nothing.

  Becca grabbed his right hand and said, ‘I bet it’s still here!’

  And it was. Maurice looked chagrined, red-faced and mortified, shook his head in disgrace.

  ‘I did my best,’ he said. ‘It won’t go . . .’

  ‘It always goes!’ shouted the kids.

  ‘Can I help, Mr K?’ Angelo had been watching, failing in his duties to the other tables. He proffered a silver dollar, heavy and impressive. The children strained to look, they’d never seen one. ‘Try this,’ he said. ‘We polished the table this morning, a light coin won’t go through . . .’

  Maurice took the coin, nodded in appreciation, put it in his right hand, pressed it to the table, made his funny sounds, strained and looked towards the ceiling as if in prayer.

  ‘I can feel something!’ he said.

  Even Ben and Addie were transfixed. So were the families on either side of them, everyone holding their breath as if at a real magic show.

  He raised and opened his right hand. No silver dollar. There was a gasp of appreciation, everyone craned forward as he raised his left hand from under the table, kept the fist shut, placed it on the table, opened it slowly.

  A silver dollar! There was a round of applause, he bowed his head in acknowledgement.

  Becca was thrilled. A silver dollar was way better than a quarter! And Poppa gave it to her! He reached into his pocket as Jake started to protest and gave him one too.

  Poppa does the best tricks with money!

  At the end of the meal Maurice reached under his chair, brought out a bulging brown paper bag and handed it to Ben.

  ‘This’ll keep you going,’ he said with a wink.

  Ben took it, it was heavier than usual. This was surely going too far: in the light of what he was beginning to understand, way too far. And now was hardly the time!

  ‘Morrie,’ he said, ‘thank you, thanks once again. But this time it is strictly a loan . . .’

  ‘Loan? What loan?’ said Maurice. ‘Open it up!’

  Ben unfolded the top, looked in. A puzzled look crossed his face as he lifted out . . . A sandwich! Examined it. It was stuffed not with cash but with roast beef. Lettuce, too. Was that a metaphor? He looked across at this father-in-law, who was chuckling at his own wit, and by the fact that only Addie and Ben could get the joke.

  ‘I’m still hungry,’ said Jake. ‘Can we have it as a midnight feast?’

  Angelo, who had slipped the wrapped sandwich under Maurice’s chair, smiled at Jake, nodded amiably to Becca: ‘You kids share it,’ he said, ‘it’s a really good one.’

  On the way to the car, Ben bearded Maurice, took his arm, slowed him down while the others walked over to the pond to feed the ducks the last of the rolls from the basket on the table. That was part of the fun of Linck’s.

  ‘Mo,’ he said, ‘stop. Slow down. What the hell is going on?’

  His father-in-law looked at him.

  ‘It’s my fault, I’m sorry. Always with the jokes. Not so funny, right?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Ben.

  Maurice looked at the ground for a moment. ‘The wise guys are all over me . . .’

  ‘Wise guys? What wise guys? You don’t mean the goddamn Mafia, do you, with all this talk about the vig and burning down buildings? What have you gotten yourself into? Is this why you always have so much cash? I never . . .’

  Mo took his arm to calm him.

  ‘No, of course not the Mafia, for goodness’ sake. Me? I’m a small man. But these days every goddamn dago acts like he’s some big-shot gangster, thinks he can lean on you and you’ll collapse . . .’

  ‘Are they leaning on you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And are you collapsing?’

  Mo paused and looked his son-in-law in the eye.

  ‘What choice do I have?’ he said. ‘They’re pushing and I haven’t the strength to stand up to them any more. I’m over sixty, I have a dicky heart. I’ve tried to provide for everybody for too long.’

  Could it be? Ben looked at him again, as he turned his back. Tears were forming in his eyes, he’d lost control of his voice, breathed a couple of times slowly, paused to light a cigarette. Took a deep draw, exhaled, took in more smoke.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but that sandwich is almost the last of the Mohicans. I have enough cash just about to fill one more bag, then I can take out a mortgage on the bungalow while you pass the Bar. You can pay me back once you start your practice. I can find the money.’

  ‘I’ll find the money,’ said Ben. ‘Plenty of other things to worry about.’

  As Ben was packing his bag the next morning, getting ready to catch a midday train back to DC, Addie came in to remind him to take his painkillers for his shoulder.

  ‘You left them in the bathroom,’ she said. ‘You should be more careful.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He was sorry he’d given her so little over the weekend – all of them so little – hunkered down with his manuscript, reading diligently, lost. Even now, with the offending folder safely packed away, he could see new promise in it, knew where it had to go, where he had to go. He finished his packing – he folded his clothes obsessively, they never emerged with creases – looking intently into the small leather valise.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘What have you got on this week? Busy? Any trips or big meetings?’

  It was kind of her to offer a subject so everyday, she usually didn’t give a damn what he did at work, if anything unusual happened she could count on him to tell her about it.

  ‘Nope, dull as dishwater. I have to tidy up some paperwork on outstanding cases, don’t want to leave them in a mess. Otherwise, just the same old, and counting the days . . .’

  ‘Will you promise me one thing?’ she said, taking his arm, perhaps a little firmly.

  He disengaged himself with a sideward step.

  ‘Anything. What?’

  ‘Enough with getting soused. It’s dangerous, you already drink too much, and if you get into a habit of—’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ he answered. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Sally, more animated by the forthcoming drama than was seemly, prurient almost.

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Why? Surely he didn’t admit it?’

  ‘Of course not! It was the way he acted, all weekend. He wasn’t at all loving, even with Becca: first he’d be all over her, and she wrapped round him like ivy, then he’d disentangle her and withdraw. And then you could hardly get a word out of him. He just sat outside in a corner on the porch, reading that crappy novel that he wrote fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wants to go back to it! It’s crazy! Something’s up. There’s a woman involved, sure as shooting.’


  Sally looked puzzled.

  ‘What would a woman have to do with some old novel of his?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I will soon enough.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sally, pretending a sophistication entirely foreign to her, ‘he’s a man . . .’

  ‘No! The point is that he’s not. Never has been, when he finds a woman he sticks like glue, even when they treat him as badly as I do.’

  ‘Addie!’

  ‘Well, as I sometimes do . . . My point is that he’s not dick-driven. If either of us is, it’s me!’

  Sally laughed.

  ‘But don’t you see that’s worse! He’s not on the make. So she will have made him! Whoever she is, she’s there, she’s cunning, and she’s available. Local!’

  ‘What else is there? You can’t fall in love with someone you don’t see regularly.’

  ‘Well, we don’t know the neighbours except the old bag next door, who’s not exactly a strawberry gumdrop. It’ll be someone in the office.’

  ‘Probable enough . . .’

  ‘But here’s the bad thing, the thing I can’t quite get my mind round: what is she offering?’

  ‘Oh, come on! It’s sex, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. No way. He’s not that easy, or that interested. There’s something else going on, and only one way to find out.’

  Sally thought for a while. ‘We’re talking more than letters or phone calls here . . .’

  ‘Yup! I’m going tomorrow. Spin the kids and my folks some cockamamie bullshit about leases and agents, moving men, all that.’

  ‘I’ll bet your mother’ll give you one of her piercing looks!’

  ‘Two! She knows something’s up, but would never ask. But I’m off first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re not exactly going to catch him on the job, you know. It ain’t that simple.’

  Addie grinned like a wolf looking forward to encountering a sheep.

  ‘Oh, he’ll talk!’

  ‘You sharpened the knife, right?’

  If she caught a train at about ten, she could spend a couple of hours in the city before changing for a train to DC and catching a cab – why the hell not! – to Alexandria. Leave from Penn Station at two and she’d be in the apartment by six, plenty of time before he got home for his lonely (she hoped) supper.