Stern

by Bruce Jay Friedman

"He a fair man," Crib once said to Stern. "And nobody cut a pad like him. No waste." And Stern's dad, in turn, spoke with admiration of Crib's great strength. "He must be about ninety, but he's some strong guy. You ought to see what he can lift."

Crib appeared early one morning, wide nose parched with cold, slapping himself as though he had come all forty miles on foot, and Stern, who had a special feeling for all Negroes, hugged him in a show of brotherhood. He raced upstairs to rouse his wife and bring her downstairs, long-nosed and cranky, so she could fix some bacon and eggs for the Negro. To make Crib feel at home, Stern howled with laughter as his father's friend made such remarks as "It too cold for ole Crib out here."

When Crib had cleaned his plate of eggs, Stern asked if he wanted some milk to wash them down and Crib, with a wink, said, "That ain't what I want." Catching on, Stern filled up a tumbler with rye and Crib drained it, smacking his lips. "That what I want," said Crib slyly, and Stern howled with laughter once again. "Now ole Crib fix you up," said the Negro, rising and going to the tile. He rolled his sleeves back over his great wrists, and Stern felt that even though tremendous power would not be needed to lay the tiles, it was comforting to have it on tap anyway. Crib spent the morning on his knees, measuring and arranging and muttering, "Ole Crib forgot his tile cutter." Stern silently placed a variety of sandwiches and another tumblerful of rye on a loose tile near Crib, and in the evening, when the job was finished, Stern's wife had a roast ready. Later, Crib went back to inspect his work, shaking his head and saying, "Crib wish he bring his tile cutter." Stern gave him twenty-five dollars, hugged him tightly, and saw him off, thinking for a moment how wonderful it would be if he could have Crib out there with him, using his great wrists to fight Stern's enemies, police in rimless glasses and short, powerful-legged firemen. "You made too much of a fuss over him," said Stern's wife, and Stern replied, "He's a saint. We were lucky to get him." A day later, the tiles buckled, and Stern had to put books, A Treasury of the World's Great Classics, about the room to hold them down. When the Treasury was removed, great crevasses remained between the tiles and Stern's wife said, "We really needed him."

"We got him for nothing," said Stern. "It's not a bad job. Nobody gets tile exactly right."

But the crevasses made them suddenly lose interest in fixing up the house. They left the paint cans in the corner of the living room. The floors remained bare of carpeting, the windows without drapes. They took to ducking down when passing open windows in the nude, to avoid being spotted by cars. Upstairs, in Stern's bedroom, the color scheme remained Mr. Spenser's winter-green selection, and inferior artwork whipped up by the golden Spenser children still hung about the walls.

At this point, all of the sweetness seemed to drain out of Stern, a man who had once played a thousand inventive games with his son, Donald. There were no young children in the neighborhood for the boy to play with, and often, with the air clear and sun out full, the boy would sit alone on the front stoop, stroking a blanket, shaking quietly and trying to rock himself to sleep at the height of day. "Why do you need a blanket?" Stern would ask, and his son would answer, "I don't know." And Stern, in early morning, jittery and uncertain, an endless pilgrimage in front of him, would kneel at his wife's bed and say, "For Christ's sake, see that he has activities."

"What am I going to do out here?" she would answer, and at night, when Stern had gotten past the dogs, he would find his son standing in the middle of the lawn, holding his blanket as though he had been there all day, waiting for Stern to come back. So Stern, his stomach bursting with guilt, had made up games. A favorite had been "Butterfly Hand," in which Stern's quiet, fat hand would suddenly begin to flutter and wiggle. "It's turned into a butterfly," Stern would say to his son as it flew about the room. "There'll be no controlling it now." The hand would then go still and Stern would lift his son above his head, the boy's arms extended, for a bout of "Airplane," carrying him with droning sounds about the room and then bringing him in for tabletop landings in "San Diego." Top game of all was "Billy One-Foot," in which the boy would fight an all-out battle with Stern's leg, "Billy One-Foot, the toughest of all fighters."

They had endless thumb fights, too, but now Stern could no longer muster spirit to play the games. He would sit cold and heavy in an empty room, and when the boy said, "Let's play Billy One-Foot," Stern would pat him on the head and say, "Billy One-Foot is sick now." Occasionally, he would swing his boy round the room in a circle, clamping his own eyes shut in an effort to black out a vision of himself heaving the boy headfirst against a stone wall, forever ending thoughts of God and blankets and other children.

He had always found it amusing that his wife was lax about managing things. "You think you can get away with carelessness because your behind is beautiful," he would say, and clasp her surging buttocks. But a banister was loose that winter in their bare and windy house. It fell into no special category of repair—neither carpentry nor stairway work—and when his wife was slow to have it attended to, Stern took to shocking her with vivid accounts of what would happen because of her inaction: "Your son will fall, and perhaps when you see him at the bottom of the stairs with his head open, you'll realize the importance of having it fixed" or "A slight push on top and he'll be at the bottom dead." And Stern imagined such a scene, his son with cleaved skull and Stern unable to cry convincingly. Once, a childhood friend named Ruggie had gone to climb a fire escape and given Stern his dog's leash to hold. Stern purposely let go the leash, and the dachshund ran a mile before it went beneath a speeding car. Ruggie then came back carrying the dog in a dumb march, the dachshund's body staining his sleeves, to put him some place, while Stern watched, frozen to the ground. Now Stern imagined himself with his son's smashed body in his arms, going dumbly outside to put him someplace, too. He imagined a scene in which he was putting all the dead boy's toys in a box but continually finding new ones as years rolled by.