Read Online Ellis Island & Other Stories by Mark Helprin - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Helprin
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a holiday, during a time when he was making so much money anyway. Of course the hotel was a gamble, but one fine morning in Manhattan, when summer’s last colors were sharpened by a blast of fall air galloping down the Hudson from Canada, they set out in their automobile for ten days at Amagansett. The air was so clear and enlivening that they wondered why they were headed into the country just as the heat was finally dying.
When Mr. Bayer and Martin had lashed canvas over the suitcases and automotive-repair apparatus, Martin’s sixteen-year-old sister, Lydia, got in the front seat with an expression of determination and dread.
“Lydia!” said Mr. Bayer. “Ride in the back with your mother.”
“That’s right,” said Martin, pompously.
“Martin, you shut up. Lydia, in the back.”
“No,” she said. “I want to ride in the front.”
“Lydia, please come in the back,” said Mrs. Bayer. “The front is for Daddy and Martin, in case of a puncture.”
“No.” Every time she said “No,” the word got shorter.
“Lydia, Daddy says you’d better get in back or—”
“Shut up, Martin. Lydia, darling, get in back or we don’t go to Amagansett.”
“I don’t want to go to Amagansett,” she said. “We’ll be the only people there. Why can’t I ride in the front?”
“Martin rides in the front. He’s a boy.”
“But he’s only ten.”
“Ten and three-fifths,” said Martin.
“Lydia, Lydia,” said Mrs. Bayer. Then she leaned forward and touched her daughter’s cheek. Lydia was extremely beautiful, with a warm, gentle face. She stood up, got out, slammed the door, got in the back, slammed the door, and stared at the second floor of their house. Her reddened face and neck and incipient tears made her even more beautiful, and her mother embraced her while Martin and Mr. Bayer, nearly chuckling over their victory, climbed in the front and began the driving.
Martin was in charge of the emergency brake, the gasoline gauge, the water temperature, and cleaning the windshield—which he thought was a “winsheel.” In a breakdown, he was the warning dummy, rag carrier, and nut holder. Even though Lydia wanted these jobs, she would not have taken them had they been offered. But Martin was extremely proud of the responsibility, just as he was proud to stand with the mannequins in his father’s store window, looking grave, as he thought a young mercantile employee should when in public view. But he hated to wash dishes or take out the garbage, and would disappear after dinner as if composed of the rarest gas—better to be beaten up by the Irish ruffians who terrorized the Jews than to take out garbage. This was mainly because the Irish ruffians never did beat up the Jews. Instead, they described it in such convincing detail that the Jews ran home overbrimming with the living English—“He smashed my face, bashed my belly, and splintered my Jew bones”—and the memory of a fight that had really never been.
They drove at 23 m.p.h. down the avenues to the Brooklyn Bridge. Martin glanced in the windows of sepia-colored tenements full of stretching people new to morning. There was still some sense of wilderness left in the city, in the brown and the dust, in the freshness of the earth overturned in excavation, in the farmlike emerald beauty of the Park. Once, his father had awakened him at four in the morning just to walk in the streets. They wound through fresh squares and down empty boulevards into the commercial district, where, at five, the markets were feverishly active. Martin was in an airless daze, though on that unusually warm March morning the air was wet and mild. The last drunk was expelled from the most riotous bar with a thunderclap and he wheeled through the doors and hit the sidewalk, rolling about like a ball bearing. Martin thought the ladies of the night were early-rising shopgirls and devoted nurses. Father and son passed countless gleaming fish on ice-covered tables, barrels of
When Mr. Bayer and Martin had lashed canvas over the suitcases and automotive-repair apparatus, Martin’s sixteen-year-old sister, Lydia, got in the front seat with an expression of determination and dread.
“Lydia!” said Mr. Bayer. “Ride in the back with your mother.”
“That’s right,” said Martin, pompously.
“Martin, you shut up. Lydia, in the back.”
“No,” she said. “I want to ride in the front.”
“Lydia, please come in the back,” said Mrs. Bayer. “The front is for Daddy and Martin, in case of a puncture.”
“No.” Every time she said “No,” the word got shorter.
“Lydia, Daddy says you’d better get in back or—”
“Shut up, Martin. Lydia, darling, get in back or we don’t go to Amagansett.”
“I don’t want to go to Amagansett,” she said. “We’ll be the only people there. Why can’t I ride in the front?”
“Martin rides in the front. He’s a boy.”
“But he’s only ten.”
“Ten and three-fifths,” said Martin.
“Lydia, Lydia,” said Mrs. Bayer. Then she leaned forward and touched her daughter’s cheek. Lydia was extremely beautiful, with a warm, gentle face. She stood up, got out, slammed the door, got in the back, slammed the door, and stared at the second floor of their house. Her reddened face and neck and incipient tears made her even more beautiful, and her mother embraced her while Martin and Mr. Bayer, nearly chuckling over their victory, climbed in the front and began the driving.
Martin was in charge of the emergency brake, the gasoline gauge, the water temperature, and cleaning the windshield—which he thought was a “winsheel.” In a breakdown, he was the warning dummy, rag carrier, and nut holder. Even though Lydia wanted these jobs, she would not have taken them had they been offered. But Martin was extremely proud of the responsibility, just as he was proud to stand with the mannequins in his father’s store window, looking grave, as he thought a young mercantile employee should when in public view. But he hated to wash dishes or take out the garbage, and would disappear after dinner as if composed of the rarest gas—better to be beaten up by the Irish ruffians who terrorized the Jews than to take out garbage. This was mainly because the Irish ruffians never did beat up the Jews. Instead, they described it in such convincing detail that the Jews ran home overbrimming with the living English—“He smashed my face, bashed my belly, and splintered my Jew bones”—and the memory of a fight that had really never been.
They drove at 23 m.p.h. down the avenues to the Brooklyn Bridge. Martin glanced in the windows of sepia-colored tenements full of stretching people new to morning. There was still some sense of wilderness left in the city, in the brown and the dust, in the freshness of the earth overturned in excavation, in the farmlike emerald beauty of the Park. Once, his father had awakened him at four in the morning just to walk in the streets. They wound through fresh squares and down empty boulevards into the commercial district, where, at five, the markets were feverishly active. Martin was in an airless daze, though on that unusually warm March morning the air was wet and mild. The last drunk was expelled from the most riotous bar with a thunderclap and he wheeled through the doors and hit the sidewalk, rolling about like a ball bearing. Martin thought the ladies of the night were early-rising shopgirls and devoted nurses. Father and son passed countless gleaming fish on ice-covered tables, barrels of
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