Finally we heard the door close and Mona scurrying back.
The stupid fools! she said.
They always come when I blow the whistle, said Sheldon in a matter of fact tone.
I only hope the landlord doesn’t come down, I remarked.
They’re away for the week-end, said Mona.
Are you sure those cops are not standing outside? said O’Mara.
They’ve gone, said Mona, I’m sure of it. God, there’s nothing worse than a thick mick, unless it’s two thick micks. I thought I’d never convince them.
Why didn’t you invite them in? asked Osiecki. That’s always the best way.
Yes, said Louella, we always do that.
It was a good stunt, grinned Osiecki. Do you always play games like that? He’s fun, this Sheldon. He got up leisurely and dumped the loot on the table, he went over to Sheldon and said: Could I have a look at that whistle?
O’Mara was instantly on his feet, ready to fling both arms around Sheldon. Gripes! Don’t start that again! he begged.
Sheldon put his two hands out, palms forward, as if to ward us off. Quiet! he whispered, reaching with his right hand for the back pocket of his trousers. With one hand thus extended and the other on his hip, but concealed by his coat, he said quietly and grimly: If I lose the whistle I always have this. So saying, he whipped out a revolver and levelled it at us. He pointed it at each of us in turn, no one daring to make a move or utter a sound for fear his hand would automatically press the trigger. Convinced that we were properly impressed, Sheldon slowly returned the revolver to his hip pocket.
Mona made a bee-line for the bathroom. In a moment she was calling me to join her. I excused myself to see what she wanted. She almost dragged me in, then closed and locked the door. Please, she whispered, get them out of here, all of them, I’m afraid something will happen.
Is that what you wanted? All right, I said, but half-heartedly.
No, please she begged, do it right away. They’re crazy, all of them.
I left her locked in the bathroom and returned to the group. Sheldon was now showing Osiecki a murderous-looking pocket knife which he also carried with him. Osiecki was testing the blade with his thumb.
I explained that Mona was feeling ill, thought it best we break up.
Sheldon was for running out and telephoning a doctor. Finally we succeeded in ousting them, Osiecki promising to take good care of Sheldon, and Sheldon protesting that he could take care of himself. I expected to hear the whistle blow in a few minutes. I wondered what the cops would say when they emptied Sheldon’s pockets. But no sound broke the silence.
As I undressed for bed my eye fell on the little brass ash tray, from India supposedly, which I was especially fond of. It was one of the little objects which I had selected the day I bought the furniture; it was something I hoped to keep forever. As I held it in my hand, examining it anew, I suddenly realized that not a thing in the place belonged to the past, my own past. Everything was brand new.
It was then I thought of the little Chinese nut which I had kept since childhood in a little iron bank on the mantelpiece at home. How I had come by this nut I no longer remember; it had probably been given me by some relative returning from the South Seas. At intervals I used to open the little bank, which never had more than a few pennies in it, get out the nut and fondle it. It was as smooth as suede, the color of light siena, and had a black band running lengthwise through the center. I have never seen another nut like it. Sometimes I would take it out and carry it about with me for days or weeks, not for good luck, but because I liked the feel of it. It was a completely mysterious object to me, and I was content to leave it a mystery. That it had an ancient history, that it had passed through many hands, that it had traveled far and wide, I was certain. It was that which endeared it to me. One day, after I had been married to Maude for some time, I had such a longing for this little fetish that I made a special trip to my parents’ home to recover it. To my amazement and disappointment I was informed that my mother had given it to some little boy in the neighborhood who had expressed a liking for it. What boy? I wanted to know. But she could no longer remember. She thought it silly of me to be so concerned about a trifle. We talked of this and that, waiting for my father to arrive and have dinner together.
What about my theatre, I suddenly demanded. Did you get rid of that too?
Long ago, said my mother. You remember little Arthur who lived in the flats across the way? He was crazy about it.
So you gave it to him? I had never cared much for little Arthur. He was a born sissy. But my mother thought he was a grand little fellow, had such lovely manners, and so on.
Do you suppose he still has it? I asked.
Oh no, of course not! He’s a big fellow now, he wouldn’t want to play with that any more.
You can’t tell, I said. Maybe I’ll run over there and see.
They’ve moved.
And you don’t know where to, I suppose?
She didn’t, of course, or most likely she did but wouldn’t tell me. It was so foolish of me to want these old things back, she repeated.
I know it, I said, but I would give anything to see them again.
Wait till you have children of your own, then you can buy them new ones, better ones.
There couldn’t be a better theatre than that one, I protested vehemently. I gave her a long spiel about my Uncle Ed Martini who had spent months and months making it for me. As I talked I could see it again standing under the Christmas tree. I could see my little friends, who always dropped in during the holidays, sitting in a circle on the floor, watching me manipulate the paraphernalia which went with the theatre.
My Uncle had thought of everything, not only changes of scene and a variety of cast but footlights, pulleys, wings, backdrops, everything imaginable. Every Christmas I brought out this theatre, up until I was sixteen or seventeen years of age. I could play with it to-day even more passionately than when I was a child, so beautiful, so perfect, so intricate it was. But it was gone and I would never see it again. Most certainly I would never find another one like it, for this one had been made with love and with a patience which no one to-day seems to possess. It was strange, too, I reflected, because Ed Martini had always been regarded as a good for nothing, a man who wasted his time, who drank too much and talked too much. But he knew what would make a child happy!
Nothing from my boyhood had been preserved. The tool chest had been given to the Good Will Society, my story books to another little urchin whom I detested. What he had done with my beautiful books I could well imagine. The exasperating part of it all was that my mother would make not the slightest effort to help me recover these belongings. About the books, for instance, she averred that I had read them over so many times I must know the contents by heart. She simply could not, or would not, understand that I wanted to possess them physically. Perhaps she was unconsciously punishing me for the light-hearted way I used to accept gifts.
(The desire to strengthen the ties which bound me to the past, to my wonderful childhood, was becoming ever stronger. The more insipid and distasteful the everyday world became, the more I glorified the golden days of childhood. I could see more and more clearly as time went on that my childhood had been one long holiday—a carnival of youth. It wasn’t that I felt myself growing old, it was simply that I realized I had lost something precious.)
This theme became even more poignant when my father, thinking to revive pleasant memories, would tell me of the doings of my old playmate, Tony Marella. I just read something about him last week in The Chat, he would begin. First it used to be about Tony Marella’s athletic exploits, how, for example, he had won the Marathon and almost dropped dead. Then it was about the Club Tony Marella had organized, and how he was going to improve the lot of the poor boys in the neighborhood. There was always a photo of him accompanying the article. From The Chat, which was just a local weekly, he soon began to be talked about in the Brooklyn dailies. He was a figure to be reckoned with, he would be heard from one of these days. Yes, it wouldn’t be surprising if he were to run for Alderman soon.
