for Morris?’ No, we don’t complain. Times are bad, we give credit. When times get better, they pay. That’s poor people. There’s this big fancy store on Shelton Street where the rich ladies go. They pay when they think of it, and they don’t think often. Money don’t mean anything to them.
“Maybe you got all the time there is. I don’t. I got to be back for the phone. Well, it was three days before Morris graduated, with that funny hat they put on. And Bertha’s shopping for a new dress, and this kid is driving and he runs her down, and that’s all. She says to me in the hospital, ‘Never mind, Barney. You go to the graduation like I was there. And maybe I will be too’. So, after the funeral — maybe you don’t know about this, but I’m Orthodox. We bury the dead before sunset. Morris is eight hundred miles away, and he can’t get a plane for two days. The holidays. Easter. Well. What does it matter? Bertha wasn’t there anyway. What an angel. So, we do it the way she wanted; she had a right to say, didn’t she? And I was there, and after the graduation Morris breaks down in my arms, and then we go to the temple and he says kaddish.
“Morris, he wants to be a cancer specialist. Eight more years. I work, and he works, and it’s eight years. Then I say, ‘What about a nice girl, Morris?’ And he only smiles.
He has work to do. He don’t have an office; he goes in one of them big hospitals. Intern. Another two years. Then he’s on the staff, with a nice salary.
“You should see my boy, Morris. Dedicated, like they say. Eyes like a prophet. ‘We’ll have a break-through, Papa,’ he says, all excited. ‘Then we’ll know what causes it and how to cure it. You should see the kids who come to this hospital, Papa. People think cancer’s just for old people, but do you know something? More kids die of cancer before they are fifteen than of all the other diseases put together! We need more money. There’s this cyclotron, and the isotopes. We’ll have a break-through’.
“You’d think he was doing it all by himself. He never stops working. His salary gets bigger. He gives most of it to the cancer funds. I wouldn’t take a cent, though he offers. What do I have now but Morris? And I keep hoping he’ll find a nice girl and there’ll be kids. A man needs a grandson. I keep hinting. And he just smiles and talks cyclotron and the need for money. Hospitals always need money. Why, Morris says, what people spend on popcorn every year would build big cancer hospitals! Popcorn! That’s a funny thing. Death — and popcorn. When you think of it, it seems like it was always that way, don’t it?”
He cocked his head. He thought that he had heard a murmuring, sad assent. “You say something?” he said politely.
He waited. His hands were wet, and his face, and he scrubbed them with his handkerchief.
“I don’t know why I’m wasting your time, Doctor. You hear these things every day. It’s an old story. It don’t get any better, though, does it?
“And now Morris is thirty-five. When he comes home for the holidays a year ago I notice he looks sick, but he’s smiling. Sick and thin. Like he has consumption. I get scared. They don’t feed him right in the hospital. ‘No, Papa,’ he says, I’m perfectly all right’. And he talks cancer some more. You’d think there wasn’t anything else in the world. But I think about Morris. And so I get this young fellow to be by the store and I go to Morris’ hospital. I know the old doctor there, chief of staff. I say to him, ‘My boy’s sick. Tell me. Don’t keep me in suspense’.
“The doctor’s an old friend. Loves Morris like a son. And so he tells me.”
The room was silent. Then suddenly it was broken by faint cries and the sound of weeping. They went on for a long time.
“It’s what they call occupational hazard,” stammered Barney. “Excuse me. A grown man shouldn’t cry like a
“Maybe you got all the time there is. I don’t. I got to be back for the phone. Well, it was three days before Morris graduated, with that funny hat they put on. And Bertha’s shopping for a new dress, and this kid is driving and he runs her down, and that’s all. She says to me in the hospital, ‘Never mind, Barney. You go to the graduation like I was there. And maybe I will be too’. So, after the funeral — maybe you don’t know about this, but I’m Orthodox. We bury the dead before sunset. Morris is eight hundred miles away, and he can’t get a plane for two days. The holidays. Easter. Well. What does it matter? Bertha wasn’t there anyway. What an angel. So, we do it the way she wanted; she had a right to say, didn’t she? And I was there, and after the graduation Morris breaks down in my arms, and then we go to the temple and he says kaddish.
“Morris, he wants to be a cancer specialist. Eight more years. I work, and he works, and it’s eight years. Then I say, ‘What about a nice girl, Morris?’ And he only smiles.
He has work to do. He don’t have an office; he goes in one of them big hospitals. Intern. Another two years. Then he’s on the staff, with a nice salary.
“You should see my boy, Morris. Dedicated, like they say. Eyes like a prophet. ‘We’ll have a break-through, Papa,’ he says, all excited. ‘Then we’ll know what causes it and how to cure it. You should see the kids who come to this hospital, Papa. People think cancer’s just for old people, but do you know something? More kids die of cancer before they are fifteen than of all the other diseases put together! We need more money. There’s this cyclotron, and the isotopes. We’ll have a break-through’.
“You’d think he was doing it all by himself. He never stops working. His salary gets bigger. He gives most of it to the cancer funds. I wouldn’t take a cent, though he offers. What do I have now but Morris? And I keep hoping he’ll find a nice girl and there’ll be kids. A man needs a grandson. I keep hinting. And he just smiles and talks cyclotron and the need for money. Hospitals always need money. Why, Morris says, what people spend on popcorn every year would build big cancer hospitals! Popcorn! That’s a funny thing. Death — and popcorn. When you think of it, it seems like it was always that way, don’t it?”
He cocked his head. He thought that he had heard a murmuring, sad assent. “You say something?” he said politely.
He waited. His hands were wet, and his face, and he scrubbed them with his handkerchief.
“I don’t know why I’m wasting your time, Doctor. You hear these things every day. It’s an old story. It don’t get any better, though, does it?
“And now Morris is thirty-five. When he comes home for the holidays a year ago I notice he looks sick, but he’s smiling. Sick and thin. Like he has consumption. I get scared. They don’t feed him right in the hospital. ‘No, Papa,’ he says, I’m perfectly all right’. And he talks cancer some more. You’d think there wasn’t anything else in the world. But I think about Morris. And so I get this young fellow to be by the store and I go to Morris’ hospital. I know the old doctor there, chief of staff. I say to him, ‘My boy’s sick. Tell me. Don’t keep me in suspense’.
“The doctor’s an old friend. Loves Morris like a son. And so he tells me.”
The room was silent. Then suddenly it was broken by faint cries and the sound of weeping. They went on for a long time.
“It’s what they call occupational hazard,” stammered Barney. “Excuse me. A grown man shouldn’t cry like a
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