what you can find out.”
Michael finished his cocoa.
“Let me think about it,” he said.
7
O n New Year’s Eve, horns blew and church bells rang and pots were banged on fire escapes, but it wasn’t like the year before,
the first New Year’s after the war. There was too much snow, muffling the sound, and there were too many men and women who
had lost their jobs in the war plants. As 1947 arrived, Michael stayed at home. His mother went downstairs to a party in Mrs.
Griffin’s flat on the second floor, and he was alone when Guy Lombardo played “Auld Lang Syne” on the radio at midnight. He
wondered what the words meant.
Auld
was easy: old. But what did
lang
mean? Or
syne
? He couldn’t find them in the dictionary and hoped he would remember to ask his mother about them in the morning. He read
The Three Musketeers
in bed, thinking that he and Sonny and Jimmy Kabinsky were like Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and that they needed one more
guy to be D’Artagnan. The title of the book wasn’t really accurate because there were actually four musketeers, but in the
end, that didn’t matter. What mattered wastheir slogan, their motto: All for one, and one for all. That’s the way he and Sonny and Jimmy were. Even when they disagreed
on some things, they were together. Friends. Musketeers. Forever. He was thinking about that when he fell asleep.
On the following Saturday, on the last weekend of vacation, Michael was assigned to serve the seven o’clock mass at Sacred
Heart. The snow had ended. But cars were still frozen in reefs of black ice, and on Kelly Street the icicles were even more
menacing as they aimed their frozen snouts from the burst copper drains of the armory. The giant toppled elm had been shoved
to the side by a snowplow, but the smashed fence and the ruined car were still there, encrusted with ice. Michael saw them
as he turned past the Venus, shoved along by the hard wind off the harbor.
When he reached the synagogue, the door was closed. He heard no voice saying
please
from the dark interior, and he felt a certain relief. All week long, Sonny had pushed him to go back to the synagogue as
a spy. To befriend the rabbi. To locate the secret treasure. In short, to betray the man with the sad voice and the frayed
cuffs and the story Michael wanted to know. For a moment, Michael hesitated, thinking he should knock and ask the rabbi if
he was needed to turn on the lights. He did not knock. He kept walking, all the way to the church on the hill.
But for the entire mass, as Father Heaney raced through the liturgy, Michael thought about the rabbi. He knew he should be
meditating on the Passion of Christ, giving personal meaning to the memorized Latin phrases. But Michael couldn’t get the
rabbi out of his head. Not only because of the treasure. Maybe there was a treasure and maybe there wasn’t, but Michael still
could not see himself entering the synagogue at night to carry it away. And besides, if Jews were bad becausethey were sneaky and treacherous, wouldn’t he be just as bad if he was sneaky and treacherous too? For a moment during the
offertory, he heard his own voice arguing with Sonny, telling him he couldn’t do what Sonny wanted him to do. Sonny, it’s
wrong. Sonny, we can’t even think about doing this because it is just goddamned well wrong. He heard Sonny laugh. He saw Sonny
shrug. He heard Sonny remind him that their motto was all for one and one for all.
Then it was time for Communion, and the old ladies came up from the pews, and some young women too, and two older men, and
he held the paten and then imagined the rabbi’s face. Maybe he was still sleeping, he thought. After all, last week I served
the eight, not the seven, so maybe he’ll be waiting for me at ten to eight. But then maybe he’s sick. Or maybe he heard about
what Frankie McCarthy did to Mister G and he’s afraid to open the door. Michael brooded, while Father Heaney
Michael finished his cocoa.
“Let me think about it,” he said.
7
O n New Year’s Eve, horns blew and church bells rang and pots were banged on fire escapes, but it wasn’t like the year before,
the first New Year’s after the war. There was too much snow, muffling the sound, and there were too many men and women who
had lost their jobs in the war plants. As 1947 arrived, Michael stayed at home. His mother went downstairs to a party in Mrs.
Griffin’s flat on the second floor, and he was alone when Guy Lombardo played “Auld Lang Syne” on the radio at midnight. He
wondered what the words meant.
Auld
was easy: old. But what did
lang
mean? Or
syne
? He couldn’t find them in the dictionary and hoped he would remember to ask his mother about them in the morning. He read
The Three Musketeers
in bed, thinking that he and Sonny and Jimmy Kabinsky were like Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and that they needed one more
guy to be D’Artagnan. The title of the book wasn’t really accurate because there were actually four musketeers, but in the
end, that didn’t matter. What mattered wastheir slogan, their motto: All for one, and one for all. That’s the way he and Sonny and Jimmy were. Even when they disagreed
on some things, they were together. Friends. Musketeers. Forever. He was thinking about that when he fell asleep.
On the following Saturday, on the last weekend of vacation, Michael was assigned to serve the seven o’clock mass at Sacred
Heart. The snow had ended. But cars were still frozen in reefs of black ice, and on Kelly Street the icicles were even more
menacing as they aimed their frozen snouts from the burst copper drains of the armory. The giant toppled elm had been shoved
to the side by a snowplow, but the smashed fence and the ruined car were still there, encrusted with ice. Michael saw them
as he turned past the Venus, shoved along by the hard wind off the harbor.
When he reached the synagogue, the door was closed. He heard no voice saying
please
from the dark interior, and he felt a certain relief. All week long, Sonny had pushed him to go back to the synagogue as
a spy. To befriend the rabbi. To locate the secret treasure. In short, to betray the man with the sad voice and the frayed
cuffs and the story Michael wanted to know. For a moment, Michael hesitated, thinking he should knock and ask the rabbi if
he was needed to turn on the lights. He did not knock. He kept walking, all the way to the church on the hill.
But for the entire mass, as Father Heaney raced through the liturgy, Michael thought about the rabbi. He knew he should be
meditating on the Passion of Christ, giving personal meaning to the memorized Latin phrases. But Michael couldn’t get the
rabbi out of his head. Not only because of the treasure. Maybe there was a treasure and maybe there wasn’t, but Michael still
could not see himself entering the synagogue at night to carry it away. And besides, if Jews were bad becausethey were sneaky and treacherous, wouldn’t he be just as bad if he was sneaky and treacherous too? For a moment during the
offertory, he heard his own voice arguing with Sonny, telling him he couldn’t do what Sonny wanted him to do. Sonny, it’s
wrong. Sonny, we can’t even think about doing this because it is just goddamned well wrong. He heard Sonny laugh. He saw Sonny
shrug. He heard Sonny remind him that their motto was all for one and one for all.
Then it was time for Communion, and the old ladies came up from the pews, and some young women too, and two older men, and
he held the paten and then imagined the rabbi’s face. Maybe he was still sleeping, he thought. After all, last week I served
the eight, not the seven, so maybe he’ll be waiting for me at ten to eight. But then maybe he’s sick. Or maybe he heard about
what Frankie McCarthy did to Mister G and he’s afraid to open the door. Michael brooded, while Father Heaney
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