Read Online The Assistant by Bernard Malamud - Free Book Online Page B

anybody.
    In the morning he told Ida what was going on and she, calling him big fool, telephoned the police. A stocky, red-faced detective came, Mr. Minogue, from a nearby precinct, who was in charge of investigating Morris’s holdup. He was a soft-spoken, unsmiling man, bald, a widower who had once lived in this neighborhood. He had a son Ward, who had gone to Helen’s junior high school, a wild boy, always in trouble for manhandling girls. When he saw one he knew playing in front of her house, or on the stoop, he would come swooping down and chase her into the hall. There, no matter how desperately the girl struggled, or tenderly begged him to stop, Ward forced his hand down her dress and squeezed her breast till she screamed. Then by the time her mother came running down the stairs he had ducked out of the hall, leaving the girl sobbing. The detective, when he heard of these happenings, regularly beat up his son, but it didn’t do much good. Then one day, about eight years ago, Ward was canned from his job for stealing from the company. His father beat him sick and bloody with his billy and drove him out of the neighborhood. After that, Ward disappeared
and nobody knew where he had gone. People felt sorry for the detective, for he was a strict man and they knew what it meant to him to have such a son.
    Mr. Minogue seated himself at the table in the rear and listened to Ida’s complaint. He slipped on his glasses and wrote in a little black notebook. The detective said he would have a cop watch the store mornings after the milk was delivered, and if there was any more trouble to let him know.
    As he was leaving, he said, “Morris, would you recognize Ward Minogue if you happened to see him again? I hear he’s been seen around but whereabouts I don’t know.”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Morris. “Maybe yes or maybe no. I didn’t see him for years.”
    â€œIf I ever meet up with him,” said the detective, “I might bring him in to you for identification.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œI don’t know myself—just for possible identification.”
    Ida said afterward that if Morris had called the police in the first place, he might have saved himself a few bottles of milk that they could hardly afford to lose.
    That night, on an impulse, the grocer closed the store an hour later than usual. He snapped on the cellar light and cautiously descended the stairs, gripping his hatchet. Near the bottom he uttered a cry and the hatchet fell from his hands. A man’s drawn and haggard face stared up at him in dismay. It was Frank Alpine, gray and unshaven. He had been asleep with his hat and coat on, sitting on a box against the wall. The light had awakened him.
    â€œWhat do you want here?” Morris cried out.
    â€œNothing,” Frank said dully. “I have just been sleeping in the cellar. No harm done.”
    â€œDid you steal from me my milk and rolls?”
    â€œYes,” he confessed. “On account of I was hungry.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you ask me?”
    Frank got up. “Nobody has any responsibility to take care of me but myself. I couldn’t find any job. I used up every last cent I had. My coat is too thin for this cold and lousy
climate. The snow and the rain get in my shoes so I am always shivering. Also, I had no place to sleep. That’s why I came down here.”
    â€œDon’t you stay any more with your sister?”
    â€œI have no sister. That was a lie I told you. I am alone by myself.”
    â€œWhy you told me you had a sister?”
    â€œI didn’t want you to think I was a bum.”
    Morris regarded the man silently. “Were you ever in prison sometimes?”
    â€œNever, I swear to Christ.”
    â€œHow you came to me in my cellar?”
    â€œBy accident. One night I was walking around in the snow so I tried the cellar door and found out you left it unlocked, then I started coming