The following day there was a headline in the newspaper to the effect that our friend Creighton had set fire to the house he lived in and had been burned to death. No ‘explanation for his gruesome behavior was offered.
Well, that was one little sum we would never have to return. It was my custom to keep a little notebook in which I recorded the sums we had borrowed. That is, those I knew about. To ascertain what Mona owed her cavaliers was practically impossible. However, I had firm intentions of paying the debts I had contracted. Compared to hers, mine were trifling. Even so, it made a staggering list. Many of the items were for five dollars or less. These little sums, however, were the important ones, in my eyes. They had been given me by people who could ill afford to part with a dime. For example, that measly three and a half which had been lent me by Savardekar, one of my ex-night messengers. Such a frail, delicate creature. Used to live on a handful of rice per day. He was undoubtedly back in India now, preparing for sainthood. Most likely he no longer had need of that three-fifty. Just the same, it would have done me good, infinite good, to be able to send it to him. Even a saint has need of money occasionally.
As I sat there ruminating, it occurred to me that at one time or another almost every Hindu I had known had lent me money. Always touching little sums extracted from battered-looking purses. There was one item, I noticed, for four dollars and seventy-five cents. Due Ali Khan, a Parsee, who had the habit of writing me extraordinary letters, giving his observations of conditions in the telegraph business as well as his impressions of the municipality in general. He had a beautiful hand and used a pompous language. If it was not Christ’s teachings, or the sayings of the Buddha, which he quoted (for my edification), it was a matter of fact suggestion that I write the Mayor and order him to have the street numbers on all houses illuminated at night. It would make it easier for night messengers to find street addresses, he thought.
To the credit of one, Al Jolson, as we called him, there was a total of sixteen dollars. I had fallen into the bad habit of touching him for a buck every time I ran into him on the street. I did it primarily because it made him so intensely happy to accommodate me with this little offering each time we met. The penalty I had to pay was to stand and listen to him while he hummed a new tune he had composed. Over a hundred of his ditties were floating around among the publishers of Tin Pan Alley. Now and then, on amateur nights, he appeared before the footlights in some neighborhood theatre. His favorite song was Avalon, which he would sing straight or in falsetto, as you wished. Once, when I was entertaining a friend of mine—in Little Hungary—I had to call for a messenger to bring me some cash.
It was Al Jolson who brought it. Thoughtlessly I invited him to sit down and have a drink with us. After a few words he asked if he might try out one of his songs. I thought he meant that he would hum it to us, but no, before I could stop him he was on his feet in the center of the floor, his cap in one hand and a glass in the other, singing at the top of his lungs. The patrons of course were highly amused. The song over, he went from table to table with cap in hand soliciting coins. Then he sat down and offered to buy us drinks. Finding this impossible, he slyly slipped me a couple of bills under the table. Your percentage, he whispered.
The man I already owed a considerable sum to was my Uncle Dave. Several hundred dollars it was, to be augmented as time went on. This Dave Leonard had married my father’s sister. He had been a baker for years and then, after losing two fingers, had decided to try something else. Though a born American, a Yankee to boot, he had had no education whatever. He couldn’t even write his own name. But what a man! What a heart! I used to lie in wait for Dave outside the Ziegfeld Follies Theatre. He had become a ticket speculator, a racket that netted him several hundred a week—and without much fuss or bother. If he wasn’t at the Follies he was at the Hippodrome or at the Met. As I say, I used to hang around outside these places, waiting to catch him during a lull. Dave had only to see me coming and his hand would be in his pocket, ready to flash the roll. It was an enormous wad he carried on him. He’d peel off fifty for me just as easily as ten. Never batted an eye. never asked me what I needed the money for. See me any time, he’d say, you know where to find me. Or else: Stick around a while and we’ll have a bite to eat.
Or—Would you like to see the show to-night? I’ll have a ticket up front for you, it’s an off night.
A regal guy, Dave. I used to bless his soul every time I parted from him … When I told him one day that I was writing he became thoroughly excited. To Dave it was like saying—I’m going to become a magician! His reverence for language was typical of the illiterate man. But there was more than this behind his enthusiasm. Dave understood me, understood that I was different from the rest of the family, and he approved of it. He reminded me touchingly of how I used to play the piano, what an artist I was. His daughter whom I had given lessons to, was now an accomplished pianist. He was stunned to learn that I no longer played. If I wanted a piano he would get me one—he knew where to pick one up cheap. Just say the word, Henry! And then he would cross-examine me about the art of writing. Did one have to think it all out beforehand or did one just make it up as one went along? Of course, one had to be a good speller, he supposed. And one had to keep up with newspapers, eh?
It was his idea that a writer had to be thoroughly informed—about everything under the sun. But the thought he loved to dwell on most was that one day he would see my name in print, either in a newspaper, a magazine, or on a book cover. I suppose it’s hard to write a book, he would muse. It must be hard to remember what you wrote a week ago, no? And all those characters! What do you do, keep a list of them in front of you? And then he would ask my opinion of certain writers he had heard about. Or of some famous columnist who was rolling in money. That’s the thing, Henry … if you could only be a columnist, or a correspondent. Anyway, he was wishing me well. He was sure I’d make the grade. I had a lot on the ball, and so forth. You’re sure now that that’s enough? (Referring to the bill he had handed me.) Well, if you run short come back to-morrow. I’m not worrying about it, you know. And then, as an afterthought—Listen, can you spare a moment? I want you to meet one of my pals. He’s dying to shake hands with you. He used to work on a newspaper once.
Thinking about Dave and his utter goodness it came to me that I hadn’t seen my cousin Gene for a long long time. All I knew about him was that he had moved from Yorkville some years ago and was now living on Long Island with his two sons who were growing up.
I wrote him a post-card, saying I’d like to see him again, and asked where we might meet. He wrote back immediately, suggesting an elevated station near the end of the line.
I had fully intended to take with me a good package of groceries and some wine, but the best I could do on setting out to meet him was to rake up a little change, just about enough to get there and back. If he’s working, thought I to myself, he can’t be so terribly hard up. At the last minute I tried to borrow a dollar from the blind newspaperman at Borough Hall, but in vain.
It was something of a shock I experienced when I saw Gene standing on the platform with his little lunch box in his hand. His hair had already turned gray. He wore a pair of patched trousers, a thick sweater, and a peak cap. His smile, however, was radiant, his handclasp warm. In greeting me his voice trembled. It was still that deep, warm voice which he had even as a boy.
We stood there gazing into each other’s eyes for a minute or two. Then he said, in that old Yorkville accent: You look fine. Henry.
You look good yourself, said I, only a
