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Authors: Stanley Elkin
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cystic fibrosis.”
“Well, we all got our cross, don’t we, or we wouldn’t be sitting here in de West bloody London Air Terminal waiting to be taken off to bleedin’ Heathrow in the bloody limos like it was already our bleedin’ funerals, would we?”
“You shouldn’t curse.”
“I’m fifteen years old.”
“I don’t think age has anything to do with it.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think age has anything to do with where a person would want to spend his dream holiday.”
“Think?”
“Pardon?”
“You didn’t say ‘fink.’ You can pronounce your th’s.”
“A diller, a dollar, a ten o’clock scholar.”
“What’s your cross?”
“Oh, my cross. My cross is the Magen David.”
“I never know what you’re talking about, Benny.”
“I’m a yid. I’ve got this yid disease. Gaucher’s, it’s called. I’ve got this big yid liver, this hulking hebe spleen. I’ve this misshapen face and this big bloated belly. It’s the chosen disease of the chosen people.”
“What does it do?”
“What does it do? It makes me beautiful and qualifies me to meet Donald Duck in person.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It’s weird,” he said. “It’s very weird. Sugar accumulates in my cells.” He lowered his voice. “See my fingers?”
“You bite your nails.”
“For a treat. I chew my thumbs. I lick my palms. I’m candy. I squeeze sweetness out of the juice of my tongue; my saliva’s better than soda pop. Look.” He unbuttoned his shirt sleeve. Indistinct crescents of teeth mark made a random, mysterious graffiti all along his arm. “I’m caramel, I’m cake, I’m syrup, I’m mead. I’m treacle and jam, I’m bonbons and honey. It’s incredible. I’m bloody fattening. But nah, it don’t hurt. Only when my bones break. I’ve got these peanut-brittle bones. Like tooth decay, only in the marrow.”
“Oh, that’s horrible,” Rena said.
“Yeah, well, we’re all ’orrible ’ere. That blue kid? The one that looks like someone’s school colors? And what’s’isname, Cloth, the one with the cancer, that they keep sawing at and carving on so that even if he lives he’ll end up looking like a joint for somebody’s Sunday dinner?”
“You’re terrible,” Rena said.
“They put me off my feed, our crowd does,” Benny Maxine said. “I don’t think I could take one contented munch off meself round this lot.”
“Oh, Benny.”
“You know what a tontine is?”
“A tontine?”
“It’s this agreement, like. Usually geezers make it? Flyers from the war, daft old boys, a particular chapter, say, of the Baker Street Irregulars—people tied up in some dotty mutual enterprise. And each puts something into the kitty, survivor take all. That’s what our bunch ought to do. Get up a tontine. We could have Mister Moorhead handicap us. Like underwriters do for the life assurance societies. We prorate what each puts in and—hey,” Benny Maxine said, “hey, don’t. Hey.”
The girl was crying, her tears melding with the clear gelatins of her runny nose.
“What’s happened?” her mother demanded, running from where she and the other parents had been talking with the staff. “Stop that, Rena! Stop! You know what crying does to you. Oh, Rena,” she said, and held the child in her arms, dabbing at her daughter’s nose with handkerchiefs from the drawstring bag, stabbing her mucus, blotting it up, stanching it as if it were some queer, devastating blood.
Bale feared they might never take off. Last-minute hitches. At this point almost a sign. Something might have been waving red flags at him, warning him off. Stand clear or be destroyed with them, his kids, his doomed collective charges. (Charges indeed. Bale’s bombs. Rigged. Set. Eddy’s timed tots. He felt like a sapper.) Ginny was there, Eddy waving and calling “Over here, over here,” like a reconciliation in pictures, the kids looking as if a ringer had been snuck in on them, the wise-guy kid, Benny Maxine, rolling his
“Well, we all got our cross, don’t we, or we wouldn’t be sitting here in de West bloody London Air Terminal waiting to be taken off to bleedin’ Heathrow in the bloody limos like it was already our bleedin’ funerals, would we?”
“You shouldn’t curse.”
“I’m fifteen years old.”
“I don’t think age has anything to do with it.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think age has anything to do with where a person would want to spend his dream holiday.”
“Think?”
“Pardon?”
“You didn’t say ‘fink.’ You can pronounce your th’s.”
“A diller, a dollar, a ten o’clock scholar.”
“What’s your cross?”
“Oh, my cross. My cross is the Magen David.”
“I never know what you’re talking about, Benny.”
“I’m a yid. I’ve got this yid disease. Gaucher’s, it’s called. I’ve got this big yid liver, this hulking hebe spleen. I’ve this misshapen face and this big bloated belly. It’s the chosen disease of the chosen people.”
“What does it do?”
“What does it do? It makes me beautiful and qualifies me to meet Donald Duck in person.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It’s weird,” he said. “It’s very weird. Sugar accumulates in my cells.” He lowered his voice. “See my fingers?”
“You bite your nails.”
“For a treat. I chew my thumbs. I lick my palms. I’m candy. I squeeze sweetness out of the juice of my tongue; my saliva’s better than soda pop. Look.” He unbuttoned his shirt sleeve. Indistinct crescents of teeth mark made a random, mysterious graffiti all along his arm. “I’m caramel, I’m cake, I’m syrup, I’m mead. I’m treacle and jam, I’m bonbons and honey. It’s incredible. I’m bloody fattening. But nah, it don’t hurt. Only when my bones break. I’ve got these peanut-brittle bones. Like tooth decay, only in the marrow.”
“Oh, that’s horrible,” Rena said.
“Yeah, well, we’re all ’orrible ’ere. That blue kid? The one that looks like someone’s school colors? And what’s’isname, Cloth, the one with the cancer, that they keep sawing at and carving on so that even if he lives he’ll end up looking like a joint for somebody’s Sunday dinner?”
“You’re terrible,” Rena said.
“They put me off my feed, our crowd does,” Benny Maxine said. “I don’t think I could take one contented munch off meself round this lot.”
“Oh, Benny.”
“You know what a tontine is?”
“A tontine?”
“It’s this agreement, like. Usually geezers make it? Flyers from the war, daft old boys, a particular chapter, say, of the Baker Street Irregulars—people tied up in some dotty mutual enterprise. And each puts something into the kitty, survivor take all. That’s what our bunch ought to do. Get up a tontine. We could have Mister Moorhead handicap us. Like underwriters do for the life assurance societies. We prorate what each puts in and—hey,” Benny Maxine said, “hey, don’t. Hey.”
The girl was crying, her tears melding with the clear gelatins of her runny nose.
“What’s happened?” her mother demanded, running from where she and the other parents had been talking with the staff. “Stop that, Rena! Stop! You know what crying does to you. Oh, Rena,” she said, and held the child in her arms, dabbing at her daughter’s nose with handkerchiefs from the drawstring bag, stabbing her mucus, blotting it up, stanching it as if it were some queer, devastating blood.
Bale feared they might never take off. Last-minute hitches. At this point almost a sign. Something might have been waving red flags at him, warning him off. Stand clear or be destroyed with them, his kids, his doomed collective charges. (Charges indeed. Bale’s bombs. Rigged. Set. Eddy’s timed tots. He felt like a sapper.) Ginny was there, Eddy waving and calling “Over here, over here,” like a reconciliation in pictures, the kids looking as if a ringer had been snuck in on them, the wise-guy kid, Benny Maxine, rolling his
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