be a full-fledged merchant tailor. All that nonsense about writing … I’d get over it sooner or later. And this bizarre new wife … she’d fade away too, in time. Eventually I would come to my senses. Every one does, sooner or later. They weren’t worried that, like dear old Uncle Paul, I would do myself in. I wasn’t the sort. Besides, I had a head on me. Sound at bottom, so to say. Wild and wayward, nothing more. Read too much … had too many worthless friends. They would take care not to mention the name but soon, I knew, would come the question, always furtively, always in smothered tones, eyes right, eyes left—And how is the little one? Meaning my daughter. And I who hadn’t the slightest idea, who wasn’t even sure that she was still alive, would reply in a calm, matter of fact way: Oh, she’s fine, yes. Yes? my mother would say, a And have you heard from them? Them was by way of including my ex-wife. Indirectly, I would reply. Stanley tells me about them now and then. And how is he, Stanley? Just fine … How I wish I might talk to them about Johnny Paul. But that they would think strange, very strange. Why, I hadn’t seen Johnny Paul since I vas seven or eight. True enough. But what they never suspected, particularly you, my dear mother, was that all these years I had kept his memory alive. Yes, as the years roll on, Johnny Paul stands out brighter and brighter. Sometimes, and this is beyond all your imagining, sometimes I think of him as a little god. One of the very few I have ever known. You don’t remember, I suppose, that Johnny Paul had the softest, gentlest voice a man could have? You don’t know that, though I was only a tike at the time, I saw through his eyes what no one else ever revealed to me? He was just the coal man’s son to you: an immigrant boy, a dirty little Italian who didn’t speak English too well but who tipped his hat politely whenever you passed. How could you possibly dream that such a specimen should be as a god to your darling son? Did you ever know anything that passed through the mind of your wayward son? You approved neither of the books he read, nor the companions he chose, nor the girls he fell in love with, nor the games he played, nor the things he wanted to be. You always knew better, didn’t you? But you didn’t press down too hard. Your way was to pretend not to hear, not to see. I would get over all this foolishness in due time. But I didn’t! I got worse each year. So you pretended that at twelve the clock had stopped. You simply couldn’t recognize your son for what he was. You chose the me which suited you. The twelve year old. After that the deluge…

 And next year, at this same ungodly season of the year, you will probably ask me all over again if I am still writing and I will say yes and you will ignore it or treat it like a drop of wine that was accidentally spilled on your best tablecloth. You don’t want to know why I write, nor would you care if I told you why. You want to nail me to the chair, make me listen to the shit-mouthed radio. You want me to sit and listen to your inane gossip about neighbors and relatives. You would continue to do this to me even if I were rash enough, or bold enough, to inform you in the most definite terms that everything you talk about is so much horse shit to me. Here I sit and already I’m in it up to the neck, this shit. Maybe I’ll try a new tack—pretend that I’m all agog, all a-twitter. What’s the name of that operetta? Beautiful voice. Just beautiful! Ask them to sing it again … and again … and again! Or I may sneak upstairs and fish out those old Caruso records. He had such a lovely voice, didn’t he now? (Yes, thank you, I will have a cigar.) But don’t offer me another drink, please. My eyes are gathering sand; it’s only age old rebellion that keeps me awake at all. What I wouldn’t give to steal upstairs to that tiny, dingy hall bedroom without a chair, a rug or a picture, and sleep the sleep of the dead! How many, many times, when I threw myself on that bed, I prayed that I would never more open my eyes! Once, do you remember, my dear mother, you threw a pail of cold water over me because I was a lazy, good for nothing bum. It’s true, I had been lying there for forty-eight hours. But was it laziness that kept me pinned to the mattress? What you didn’t know, mother, was that it was heartbreak. You would have laughed that off, too, had I been fool enough to confide in you. That horrible, horrible little bedroom! I must have died a thousand deaths there. But I also had dreams and visions there. Yes, I even prayed in that bed, with huge wet tears rolling down my cheeks. (How I wanted her, and only her!) And when that failed, when at long last I was ready and able to rise and face the world again, there was only one dear companion I could turn to: my bike. Those long, seemingly endless spins, just me and myself, driving the bitter thoughts into my arms and legs, pushing, plugging away, slithering over the smooth graveled paths like the wind, but to no avail. Every time I dismounted her image was there, and with it the backwash of pain, doubt, fear. But to be in the saddle, and not at work, that was indeed a boon. The bike was part of me, it responded to my wishes. Nothing else ever did. No, my dear blind heartless parents, nothing you ever said to me, nothing you did for me, ever gave me the joy and the comfort which that racing machine did. If only I could take you apart, as I did my bike, and oil and grease you lovingly!

 Wouldn’t you like to take a walk with father?

 It was my mother’s voice which roused me from my reverie. How I had drifted to the arm-chair I couldn’t remember. Maybe I had snoozed a bit without knowing it. Anyway, at the sound of her voice I jumped.

 Rubbing my eyes, I observed that she was proffering me a cane. It was my grandfather’s. Solid ebony with a silver handle in the form of a fox—or perhaps it was a marmoset.

 In a jiffy I was on my feet and bundling into my overcoat. My father stood ready, flourishing his ivory-knobbed walking stick. The air will brace you up, he said.

 Instinctively we headed for the cemetery. He liked to walk through the cemetery, not that he was so fond of the dead but because of the trees and flowers, the birds, and the memories which the peace of the dead always evoked. The paths were dotted with benches where one could sit and commune with Nature, or the god of the underworld, if one liked. I didn’t have to strain myself to keep up conversation with my father; he was used to my evasive, laconic replies, my weak subterfuges. He never tried to pump me. That he had some one beside him was enough. On the way back we passed the school I had attended as a boy. Opposite the school was a row of mangy-looking flats, all fitted out with shop-fronts as alluring as a row of decayed teeth. Tony Marella had been reared in one of these flats. For some reason my father always expected me to become enthusiastic at the mention of Tony Marella’s name. He never failed to inform me, when mentioning the name, of each new rise on the ladder of fame which this dago’s son was making. Tony had a big job now in some branch of the Civil Service; he was also running for office, as a Congressman or something. Hadn’t I read about it? It would be a good thing, he thought, if I were to look Tony up some time … never could tell what it might lead to.

 Still nearer home we passed the house belonging to the Gross family. The two Gross boys were also doing well, he said. One was a captain in the army, the other a commodore. Little did I dream, as I listened to him ramble on, that one of them would one day become a general. (The idea of a general born to that neighborhood, that street, was unthinkable.)

 What ever became of the crazy guy who lived up the street? I asked. You know, where the stables were.

 He had a hand bitten off by a horse and gangrene set in.

 You mean he’s dead?

 A long time, said my father. In fact, they’re all dead, all the brothers. One was struck by lightning, another slipped on the ice and broke his skull … Oh yes, and the other had to be put in a strait-jacket … died of a haemorrhage soon after. The father lived the longest. He was blind, you remember. Toward the end he became a bit dotty. Did nothing but make mouse-traps.

 Why, I asked myself, had I never thought of going from house to house, up and down this