asked.
“Thirty-nine. Had a new wife and a new job. I worked for the city then. Drove a trolley car.”
“Were you in the war?”
“Couldn’t keep me out.” He smiled at the memory.
“Did you join up then?”
“Wanted to, but they drafted me first. Covered the whole Pacific before it was over—Hawaii, Guam, Okinawa. I was out in Guam when my son was born.”
“And then you came back to the same apartment and the same job?”
“Same kinda job, I drove a bus. Nice pension, good vacation. Retired at sixty-five. Fifteen years already. Seems like yesterday.”
From the distant look in his eyes, I guessed he was seeing it all again. When he resumed eating, I asked, “When did you first meet Nathan?”
“Hard to say. You run into people in the lobby, you say hello, talk about the weather, that kinda thing. When Metropolitan took over, that’s when we all started to look each other in the eye and think of people as neighbors. That was three, four years ago. Some folks up and left right at the beginning. They got a nice little bonus for going, and they found another place, and that was the end of ’em. Most of us stayed and worried. Finally we had a tenants’ meeting, that was a long time ago, and hired on a lawyer to see if he could fix it so we could stay. It bought us a little time is all. Then things stopped working. The elevator was off more ’n it was on. Light bulbs in the halls disappeared. Strange things went on in the empty apartments, a fire here, a fire there. Every month someone else moved out. When they turned off the electricity, that’s when the rest of ’em deserted. One day there was just the three of us.”
“That was last year,” I said.
“Round about Christmas. The sweethearts thought they’d get us out by year’s end.”
“But you must have known Nathan before then.”
“Well, we’d been sittin’ on benches for a year or two,” he said with typical understatement.
“And grousing about the weather and the landlord.”
“And grousin’, yes. Sounds about right, darlin’.”
“Did you ever know the rest of his family?”
“Probably ran into ’em in the lobby from time to time, but I never knew one from another.”
“You didn’t know his wife.”
“Wouldn’t recognize her if I fell over her.”
“Did you ever go to Nathan’s apartment?”
“Not once.”
That surprised me. “With just the three of you alone in that big building, you never went up to visit him?”
“Too far up,” Gallagher said. “He was on five. He came to me. We’d be comin’ back from Broadway and hoistin’ ourselves up those stairs and I’d say, ‘Herskovitz, stop in and rest a minute,’ and he’d say, ‘Good idea.’ I was halfway between the lobby and his place, good for stoppin’ over.”
“Did you ever eat together?”
“Nah. We ate all different. He took his tea this way, I took mine that way. You can’t eat outside the family, darlin’. You should know that.”
I started to understand how difficult it might be to form cross-cultural friendships among these old people so set in their ways. “Ian, a lot of people came to his funeral. Did he visit with people? Did he have friends?”
“Oh, sure he did. I saw him take a taxi sometimes when he got an invite to dinner.”
“Did he have enemies?” I had taken my time getting around to it, but I was glad, because now it paid off.
“Every man has enemies,” Gallagher said in a low voice.
“Tell me about Nathan’s.”
He had finished his sandwich and was sipping a cup of hot chocolate to which he had added some cream. “There was something.” He sipped the chocolate again.
“It could be important, Ian.”
He shrugged. “He didn’t say much.”
“Tell me what he did say.”
“It was a phone call now and again. He’d sit down on the bench and mumble something.”
“What kind of something?”
“That they were bothering him. He called them something in another language. Herskovitz did that when
“Thirty-nine. Had a new wife and a new job. I worked for the city then. Drove a trolley car.”
“Were you in the war?”
“Couldn’t keep me out.” He smiled at the memory.
“Did you join up then?”
“Wanted to, but they drafted me first. Covered the whole Pacific before it was over—Hawaii, Guam, Okinawa. I was out in Guam when my son was born.”
“And then you came back to the same apartment and the same job?”
“Same kinda job, I drove a bus. Nice pension, good vacation. Retired at sixty-five. Fifteen years already. Seems like yesterday.”
From the distant look in his eyes, I guessed he was seeing it all again. When he resumed eating, I asked, “When did you first meet Nathan?”
“Hard to say. You run into people in the lobby, you say hello, talk about the weather, that kinda thing. When Metropolitan took over, that’s when we all started to look each other in the eye and think of people as neighbors. That was three, four years ago. Some folks up and left right at the beginning. They got a nice little bonus for going, and they found another place, and that was the end of ’em. Most of us stayed and worried. Finally we had a tenants’ meeting, that was a long time ago, and hired on a lawyer to see if he could fix it so we could stay. It bought us a little time is all. Then things stopped working. The elevator was off more ’n it was on. Light bulbs in the halls disappeared. Strange things went on in the empty apartments, a fire here, a fire there. Every month someone else moved out. When they turned off the electricity, that’s when the rest of ’em deserted. One day there was just the three of us.”
“That was last year,” I said.
“Round about Christmas. The sweethearts thought they’d get us out by year’s end.”
“But you must have known Nathan before then.”
“Well, we’d been sittin’ on benches for a year or two,” he said with typical understatement.
“And grousing about the weather and the landlord.”
“And grousin’, yes. Sounds about right, darlin’.”
“Did you ever know the rest of his family?”
“Probably ran into ’em in the lobby from time to time, but I never knew one from another.”
“You didn’t know his wife.”
“Wouldn’t recognize her if I fell over her.”
“Did you ever go to Nathan’s apartment?”
“Not once.”
That surprised me. “With just the three of you alone in that big building, you never went up to visit him?”
“Too far up,” Gallagher said. “He was on five. He came to me. We’d be comin’ back from Broadway and hoistin’ ourselves up those stairs and I’d say, ‘Herskovitz, stop in and rest a minute,’ and he’d say, ‘Good idea.’ I was halfway between the lobby and his place, good for stoppin’ over.”
“Did you ever eat together?”
“Nah. We ate all different. He took his tea this way, I took mine that way. You can’t eat outside the family, darlin’. You should know that.”
I started to understand how difficult it might be to form cross-cultural friendships among these old people so set in their ways. “Ian, a lot of people came to his funeral. Did he visit with people? Did he have friends?”
“Oh, sure he did. I saw him take a taxi sometimes when he got an invite to dinner.”
“Did he have enemies?” I had taken my time getting around to it, but I was glad, because now it paid off.
“Every man has enemies,” Gallagher said in a low voice.
“Tell me about Nathan’s.”
He had finished his sandwich and was sipping a cup of hot chocolate to which he had added some cream. “There was something.” He sipped the chocolate again.
“It could be important, Ian.”
He shrugged. “He didn’t say much.”
“Tell me what he did say.”
“It was a phone call now and again. He’d sit down on the bench and mumble something.”
“What kind of something?”
“That they were bothering him. He called them something in another language. Herskovitz did that when
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