I’m getting old, said Gene, and he removed his cap to show me how bald he was getting.
Nonsense, I said, you’re only in your thirties. Why, you’re still a youngster.
No, he replied, I’ve lost my pep. I’ve had a hard time of it, Henry.
That’s how it began. I realized at once that he was telling me the truth. He was always candid, frank, sincere.
We marched down the elevated stairs into the middle of nowhere. Such a God-forsaken spot it was; something told me it would become more so as we journeyed onward.
I got it slowly, piecemeal, more and more heartrending as the story progressed. To begin with, he was only working two or three days a week. Nobody wanted beautiful pipe cases any more. It was his father who had found a place for him in the factory. (Ages ago, it seemed.) His father hadn’t believed in wasting time getting an education. I didn’t need to be reminded of what a boor his father was: always sitting around in his red flannel undershirt, winter or summer, with a can of beer in front of him. One of those thick Germans who would never change.
Gene had married, two children had been born, and then, while the kids were still little tots, his wife had died of cancer, a painful, lingering death. He had used up all his savings and gone deep into debt. They had only been in the country, as he called it, a few months when his wife died. It was just at this time that they laid him off at the factory. He had tried raising tropical fish but it was no go. The trouble was that he had to find work he could do at home because there was no one to look after the kids. He did the cooking, the washing, the mending, the ironing, everything. He was alone, terribly alone. He never got over the loss of his wife whom he had loved dearly.
All this as we wended our way to his house. He hadn’t yet asked me a thing about myself, so absorbed was he in the narration of his miseries. When we got off the bus, finally, there was a long walk through dingy suburban streets to what looked like a vacant lot, at the very end of which stood his little shack, shabby, woebegone, exactly like the dwellings of the poor white in the deep South. A few flowers were struggling desperately to maintain life outside the front door. They looked pathetic. We walked in and were greeted by his sons, two good-looking youngsters who seemed somewhat undernourished. Quiet, grave lads, strangely sombre and reserved. I had never seen them before.
I felt more than ever ashamed of myself for not bringing something.
I felt I had to say something to clear myself.
You don’t have to tell me, said Gene. I know what it’s like.
But we’re not always broke I said. Listen, I’m going to come soon again, very soon, I promise you. And I’ll bring my wife along next time.
Don’t talk about it, said Gene. I’m so glad you came. We have some lentil soup on the stove, and we have some bread. We won’t go hungry.
He began again—about the days when they didn’t have a crumb to eat, when he had grown so desperate that he had gone to his neighbors and begged for a little food—just for the children.
But Dave would have helped you, I’m sure, I said. Why didn’t you ask him for money?
He looked pained. You know how it is. You don’t like to borrow from your relatives.
But Dave isn’t just a relative.
I know, Henry, but I don’t like to ask for help. I’d rather starve. If it weren’t for the kids I guess I would have starved.
While we were talking the kids had slipped out, to return in a few minutes with some cabbage leaves, celery and radishes.
You shouldn’t have done that, said Gene, admonishing them gently.
What did they do? I asked.
Oh, they filched those things from a neighbor of ours who’s away.
Good for them! I said. Damn it, Gene, they’ve got the right idea. Listen, you’re too modest, or too proud, I don’t know which. I apologized at once. How could I berate him for his simple virtues? He was the essence of kindness, gentleness, true humility. Every word he uttered had a golden ring. He never blamed anybody, nor life either. He spoke as if it were all an accident, part of his private destiny, and not to be questioned.
Maybe they could dig up a little wine too, ‘I said, half in joke, half in earnest.
I forgot all about that, said Gene blushingly. We’ve got a little wine in the cellar. It’s home made wine … elderberry … can you drink it? I’ve been saving it for just such an occasion.
The boys had already slipped downstairs. They were becoming more expansive with each sally. They’re fine boys, Gene, I said. What are they going to do when they grow up?
They won’t go into the factory, that’s one thing I know. I’m going to try to send them to college. I think it’s important to have a good education. Little Arthur, the youngest one, he wants to become a doctor. The big fellow is a wild one; he wants to go West and become a cow-boy. But he’ll get over that soon, I guess. They read these silly Westerns, you know.
Suddenly it occurred to him to ask if I didn’t have a child.
That was by my other wife, I said. A girl.
He was amazed to learn that I had re-married. Divorce, apparently, was something which never entered his head.
Does your wife work too? he asked.
In a way, I said. I didn’t know quite how to explain the complexities of our life in a few words.
I suppose, he said next, you’re still in the cement company.
The cement company! I nearly fell off the chair.
Why no, Gene, I said, I’m a writer now. Didn’t you know that?
A writer? It was his turn to be astonished. His face lit up with pleasure. It doesn’t really surprise me, though, he said. I remember how you used to read to us kids in the old days. We always fell asleep on you, remember? He paused to reflect, his head bowed, then looked up and remarked: Of course you had a good education too, didn’t you? He said it as if he had been an immigrant boy who had been denied the usual privileges of an American.
I tried to explain that I hadn’t gone very far in school, that we were practically in the same boat. In the middle of it I suddenly asked if he ever read any more.
Oh yes, he answered brightly. I read quite a little. Nothing much else to do, you know. He pointed to the shelf in back of me where his books were lodged. I turned round to glance at the titles: Dickens, Scott, Thackeray, the Bronte sisters, George Eliot, Balzac, Zola…
I don’t read any of the modern trash, he said, answering my unvoiced question.
We sat down to eat. The boys were ravenously hungry. Again I felt a pang of remorse. I realized that had I not been there they would have eaten twice as much. As soon as the soup was finished we tackled the greens. They had no oil, no dressing of any kind, not even mustard. The bread had given out too. I fished in my pocket and dug up a dime, all I had besides the carfare home. Let them go and get a loaf of bread, I said.
It’s not necessary, said Gene. They can go without. They’re used to it by now.
Come on! I could stand a bit more myself, couldn’t you?
But there’s no butter or jam!
What’s the difference? We’ll eat it plain. I’ve done that before.
The kids ducked out to get the bread.
Jesus, I said, you really are down to nothing, aren’t you?
This isn’t bad, Henry, he said. For a time, you know, we lived on weeds.
No, don’t tell me that! It’s preposterous. I was almost angry with him. Don’t you know, I said, that you don’t have to starve? This country is lousy with food. Gene, I’d go out and beg before I’d eat weeds. Damn it, I never heard of such a thing.
It’s different with you, said Gene. You’ve knocked around. You’ve been out in the world. I haven’t. I’ve lived like a squirrel in a cage … Except for that time I worked on the garbage scow.
What? The garbage scow? What do you mean by that?
I mean just that, said Gene calmly. Hauling garbage to Barren Island. It was when my kids were living with my wife’s parents for a time. I had the chance to do something different for a change … You remember Mr. Kiesling, the alderman, don’t you? He got me the job. I enjoyed it too—while it lasted. Of course the smell was frightful, but you can get used to anything after a while. It paid eighty dollars a month, about twice what I earned in the pipe factory. It was fun too, sailing out into the bay, around the harbor, up and down the rivers. It was the first and only chance I ever had to get out into the world. Once we got lost at sea, during a storm. We drifted around for days. The worst of it was that we ran out of food. Yeah, we were forced to eat garbage. It was quite a wonderful experience. I must say I enjoyed it. Far better than being in a pipe
